Post by David Sanchez on Oct 23, 2016 6:30:49 GMT -5
II: Dinner for Schmucks
“They just keep trying to find that silver lining.
It’s time somebody shown them it doesn’t exist.
The grass is as green over there, as it is here.
The family next door will always have a better car, a bigger garage, that state-of-the-art security system.
And nothing feels as good as it did the first time.
This is your life;
and you chose it for yourselves”
No Room at the Inn (Pt 1.5.) - Intermission
Older chests reveal themselves,
Like a crack in a wall.
Starting small, and grow in time,
and we always seem to need the help,
of someone else,
to mend that shelf.
too many books,
read me your favourite line.
Papa went to other lands,
and he found someone who understands.
The ticking, and the western man's need to cry.
He came back the other day, you know.
Some things, in life may change...
And some things,
they stay the same.
City Library, Printer's Row, Chicago, United States
22:15, Saturday, October 22nd
Literature stretches as far as the eye can see. Books, books and bookshelves in every direction engulf David as he sits in front of that familiar fireplace; the flames roaring as a steward of sorts prods at the embers to bring them back to life like a phoenix from the ashes. His glass was nearing empty, the steward to his rescue again with a crystal decanter of merlot it’s contents tipping into his large glass before the dapper gentleman departs, leaving only a satisfied customer and a suitable source of heat. Wine wasn’t usually his thing, then again neither was reading to the less gifted members of the roster. He hated velvet too, but this chair was hugging his shape perfectly, even if the red did make his black attire seem all the more grim.
“Welcome back friends, pull up a chair and come a little closer. This week we’re going to be looking in depth at some of the characters in our little fiction, and those athletes upon whom they are based. Yes, ladies and gentiles; it’s time to talk about our dear friends Thomas and Gemini who this week have the misfortune of not only being forced to revisit their own sordid love affair but also find themselves across the ring from the twin political pillars of Pantheon.”
A crackle and a pop from the fire punctuates David’s ego when referring to himself and Johnny Rabid in such positive light. The sip that follows is simply the actions of an arrogant man, enhancing his comfort in front of the camera. An aroma comes from a variety of candles scattered across the room on a plethora of different surfaces; spiced apple. Whoever said he wasn’t a spirited fellow?
“In our story so far, we have already met these men, and in real life the facts remain the same. Whether fictitious innkeepers in stories of old or star-crossed lovers fighting to keep the spark alive between the ropes; Bates and Battle are nothing short of parodies of themselves by this point. In our little tale, we’ll not be seeing Innkeeper Gemini again, similar to how he’s dancing his final steps around the grandest prize in this business - never to be seen in it’s proximity again... So I feel it’s only fitting that we start with him. Bates, being Bates after-all likes to linger around, not unlike a bad smell or a venereal disease.”
The book he had been reading from last week is closed on the arm of his lounger, a purple silk bookmark keeping his place so that he can continue reading at a time of his choosing. For now however, it looks as though he is offering an insight into the characters featured; or at least his own warped opinions of them, consider it a director’s commentary - if the shoe fits.
“Gemini Battle; it’s been ten years if it’s been a day. How’s it been going?
We kept in touch for a little while, remember? This guy remembers.
We had plans to do some stuff and things, remember? This guy remembers.
Then you chose to abandon those plans because you got a pity-shot at the strap remember? This guy remembers, and this guy laughs himself to sleep on a nightly basis because he remembers.
So how did that one play out? Just as it always does I see. It was nice of you to keep the belt warm for your master though. Waylon Cash quality title reign aside, not a lot has really changed with you has it? When I left you were drowning in the influx of guys like myself, Teddy and Tiburones. Now that I’m back… You’re still kind of drowning in that same revine; except this time it’s filled to knee-height in poor quality imitations of those characters whilst the originals just sort of look down on you from above; wondering how it all went so badly wrong for a guy who seemed like he had so much potential.
At least you got to be the biggest dog in the yard for twenty-one days though. Too bad it was just because somebody left the gate open and the pack thinned out to the point that you were the only choice to represent in Crufts. Now, as the garden fills again and the alphas return, you find yourself chained to that same old post, doomed to chase your tail while Big Daddy B gets to sleep at the foot of the marital bed.
Woof, fucking woof.
Good boy Gemini, who’s a good boy?
Now roll over and beg for a treat.
‘Attaboy.
Have another title to chew on.”
David laughs at his own seasoned joke, knocking the literary parody from the arm of the chair as he does so. The Book of Pantheon hits the ground with a heavy thud, and falls open at the bookmark; The Mayor doesn’t even acknowledge this. Instead he takes a sip from his glass and lets the merlot pollinate upon his tastebuds; there was something satisfying just sitting in here in the silence, being waited on and thinking aloud in front of the camera. Perhaps he would stop thinking of concepts for his video packages and do this every week, then again as suddenly as the thought had developed it was immediately shot down by the fact that there’s already twenty-three people in the Wrestling Championship Federation doing this on a weekly basis.
“At least you got to keep the Television title after he took your place, that’s uhh, neat. I guess, if you’re into that kind of thing. Personally I wouldn’t lower myself to depriving those absent of talent from a costume belt that keeps them amused, and away from the real treasures but there’s no job too dirty for Gemini is there. The guy used to knock boots with Doug Murdoch for fuck sake, are we remembering that? The special needs brother of the Moby Dick of fuccbois.
… Yes, Deuce, that was directed at you. Have a fucking cookie.
Did I mention Danny Anderson yet?... No?... Good.
Nor should anyone,
There’s was a couple of other sheep in this flock too though, wasn’t there? Mikey the travelling rapist and rape advocate, Spencer Adams who I think was some kind of sacrificial lamb of sorts. Possibly recruited so that Bates could harvest his white, heterosexual soul and use it to become more powerful. There might have been others, I forget but I’m digressing anyway….”
With another sip of blood-red wine he continues, swirling the Chateau Grand Faurie Reserve in his mouth once more before picking up where he had left off.
“So from what I gathered way back-when and what I’ve gathered since I got back this time, my eyes having been opened and the rose-tinted shades donated to that fucking bum Teddy Blaze in exchange for me being the everlasting thorn in his side, or piss in his cornflakes - whichever you prefer…
It seems to me as though the real purpose behind the DRG was to take the competition away from the big guy whilst he got more powerful, getting hyped as this fucking unbeatable monster.
… Seth likes the cut of his jib or something, I guess.
Gemini kind of just spends the summer being overshadowed by KL Henson, Bates loses the Television title to Howard Black one month, loses the United States championship to me the next month; still being billed as this unstoppable presence might I add…
Dune happens, like Dune always happened back then and makes him look like fucking garbage. I might be wrong, but I think he then started beating on Denise D’Evil for the fun of it or something to that effect.
So that’s where I left the story and everything gets a bit hazy for a year: Bates being Bates and hitting women for not being men, and I think Gemini was letting his hair down or some shit, being himself and such; it’s nothing worth mentioning at any rate.
I’m sure there’s a lot more to it than that but seeing as neither of you seem to be in any better or worse of a position, I’m just going to chalk the last year up as some kind of unfortunate series of events that I’ll never understand because I’ll never care enough to actually watch those tapes.”
Another sip, and a series of hand gestures to mimic flipping through a number of boring pages in a book where nothing really happens.
“So I come back at War, or rather we all pretty much come back at War and here’s these these two fucking idiots, exactly where they were one year ago. Gemini’s about to fuck up a good opportunity, and Bates is about to be served up to the World Champion on a silver platter and I’m thinking like…
Fucking freaky shit, no?
At least you guys got to hold some shiny belts for a while, and I’m sure you got some good stories to tell though, right?
No?
Drag.
Back to ‘Conversation With a Sock’ after Helloween for you Gemini.”
David pretends to swing an invisible bat at some kind of phantom flying object.
“Or before then if you don’t be careful around baseball bats, you silly goose.
‘Too bad, that guy had potential’
‘Had.’
That’s all you really are now, the guy that could have been something but stopped going to college and got in with a bad crowd; wrestling’s equivalent of a burn-out or a waster. You know: that guy who does everything half-assed and gets away with it because he knows the fucking boss? Then goes home and spends his time on the internet complaining about it. He’s like three of them rolled into one.”
Leaning a little closer to the camera, David whispers, as if talking to Gemini himself.
“That’s all you did though dude? We leave you with this company stripped, hog-tied and begging for it, and you blow your load before she even cries?
For shame Gemini, for…”
He tuts into the lens and takes another sip of the French merlot; stalling for effect.
“Shame.”
Pretending to ring a bell, his appeal to Gemini is over. He relaxes back in the chair for a few seconds, getting comfortable before the servant returns, removes a cigarette from a packet atop another silver platter. Places it between David’s lips and ignites it before disappearing from view once more. The Mayor inhales deeply and exhales a cloud of smoke, waving his finger a little in an educational manner.
“Which brings me… Once more. To you Thomas…
I know what you’re thinking:”
Then ensues an offensive and immature Thomas Uriel Bates impression.
“Whah’ was that thurr’ wetback hadda’ white slave boy!?”
He clears his throat with another drag from the cigarette.
“I don’t know man… The mind fucking boggles.
Maybe because the world changed without you Thomas and you miss her so badly that you’ll believe just about anything they tell you at that: all-white, all-male, pointy-hat wearing night-church you frequent huh?
Or maybe because while you were petitioning to build a big fucking wall to keep out the Mexicans, you left yourselves exposed to smoothe talking South Americans with massive bank accounts and little care for the views of ‘old white money.’
Fuck ‘old white money.’
I made my own way, I invested correctly. It doesn’t matter if it’s ‘old white money’ or Colombian blood money. It still spends the same below the Mason-Dixie line as it does above, and I bet that really melts your tiny mind.”
Pondering, or rather imitating the action of pondering, David lets out a thoughtful sigh and marvels at the emporium of literature which surrounds him. This was one of the many perks of the job available to David, and perhaps one of the better advantages to his holding office in the city of Chicago; once these wonderful, historical buildings were closed to the public he had the freedom to come and go as he pleased.
“So Tommy-boy, how’s life been treating you? Still fighting the battle against evolution I see, good for you! I’d ask how that’s going but as I’ve already said in regards to Gemini, you also appear to be exactly where you were when I left: hungry, hyped and hindering the rest of the roster. Well played Bates, congratulations on a record breaking stalemate. Even if this was golf or tennis it’d still be referred to as a slow run of events.
You got to pretend to be the dominating force in this industry for a little while too though I see, that must have been fun for you, but what happened? I thought you were unbeatable? I thought nobody could climb the Mountain? I guess I thought wrong because you just got your ass owned by an old guy that associates with Taylor Swift.
Much love Corey… I’m just saying.
We’ve gotta look at the positives though; at least he’s white. So you’ll still be allowed to attend the next Klan meeting. Burn a cross for me mang, I love all you backwards motherfuckers.”
David sits comfortably, more so than he had been whilst discussing Gemini; his opinions on Thomas Uriel Bates worn on his forehead in metaphorical marker for the world to see.
“Don’t worry Thomas, I’m not going to spend too much of my valuable time making slurs against your opinions on things. I’ve already wasted a week of my life preparing for a match with you, only to come out victorious and barely out of breath. All I did was call you a seven foot, flaccid penis on social media for a week and score a relatively lackluster roll-up while you made duckfaces and flexed for Dune.
I’m not here to pick apart our past though Thomas, what would be the point? It’s been a whole year and you’re no further forward, whilst I’ve got better; you’ve just got older. That stubborn self-worth of yours now measuring off the charts. I’m keeping my words on you short Thomas, because like Jared said, we don’t fuck one another’s bottom bitches in Pantheon and your date with Corey means that I’m going to have to take sodomy off the table. It’s a shame really, but it is what it is.”
Finishing the last of his wine, David brushes his hands together to symbolize washing his hands of Thomas Bates before bringing the video package to a close.
“It’s simple really,
When it comes to Thomas and Gemini; their little stint of being on the top in this company ended the night Pantheon arrived. The fairytale is over and in real life, you can’t beat us. It’s just a fact.
Sorry, not sorry.”
II: Dinner For Schmucks
Well just remember when we get there honey.
Two steps gonna handle them all.
Dance with both my shoes when they play the jelly roll blues
Tomorrow night at the darktown strutter's ball
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To: Jared Holmes, Johnny Rabid, Thursday Kerrigan
From: David d. Sanches
You are cordially invited to the fifth annual "bring the most pathetic person you can find to dinner" event in association with a variety of charities as listed in form 24b.
This event will take place:
Saturday, October 22nd, 2016 at Pantheon Headquarters (Chicago Branch) at Sanchez Estate, 12 Printers Row, Chicago.
The estimated time of dining will be 19:00.
As with tradition; the object is to find and invite a pathetic dining partner (now to be known as PDP.) With the overall competition being to prove that your choice candidate is the most pathetic dining partner (now to be known as MPDP.)
The use of retards is prohibited.
The use of Adam Young is prohibited.
The winner will be the recipient of a donation of four million dollars to a charity or charitable organisation of their choosing.
In addition to this, our friends at UnclutchableBrassRing.org are also offering to remove any one ceiling of your choosing and reconstruct it entirely out of glass.
May the most pathetic party win.
- From the desk of:
Mayor David Dominguez Sanches.
------------------------------------------------------------------
It was a colder night than the weatherman had predicted. Thursday's legs wear bare beneath her little black dress that had been made specially by Gucci for this evening, a gift from Jared who was wearing a black suit of similar stitching; strewn with tiny, grey pinstripes. Masquerade ball's had a more lenient dress-code than this, but a free meal was a free meal and neither Holmes nor Kerrigan could resist the siren's call of competition. Behind Jared, stood Gemini Battle, behind Thursday stood Psychopomp.
The invite had been clear: they each had to find the most pathetic person they could and bring them as their guest to dinner. Both felt they had excelled as Thursday studied her PDP up and down with a mild shiver of disdain. Jared’s finger fringed the doorbell and they were immediately welcomed by David himself who was most likely lurking around the door for minutes before they had arrived in order to make a grand entrance, because that’s the kind of shit he does.
“Jared, Thursday… and… guests.”
The way he said ‘guests’ was as though the word were a neglected stepchild in the eyes of a deadbeat dad. He smiled at his friends before tipping his black dress-hat to Gemini and Psychopomp.
“David, thanks so much for having us.”
“David. Did the house come with the job?”
Sanchez didn’t know if this query was a subtle jab or a genuine question, he answered nevertheless.
“Sort of, it belonged to the City Treasurer, but when I assumed the position of Mayor I dissolved that title and made it so that all of his duties were carried out by more competent and easily influenced individuals. Essentially maximum delegation for minimal loss of power. Anyway, so yeah I shit-canned the dude and moved into his house.”
“Cool story bro’.”
Jared feigned an interest; it’s not that he didn’t have an appreciation for the architecture of the stately manor, he just didn’t care because it wasn’t his.
“Anyway, if you’d all like to make your way inside, the staff will take care of your coats and lead you through to the dining hall, Rabid arrived this afternoon, he and his PDP are already having drinks. I’m sure there’s a place you can put your action figures too, little guy.”
Taking notice that Gemini was smashing two Corey Black action figures together David spoke softly to the clearly mentally impaired grown man in clown paint. He ruffled his greasy hair as they all entered the manor and gave him a sympathetic smile, whispering something to Jared as he passed.
“The rules clearly forbid the use of retards.”
“He’s not a retard he’s an alien.”
“Retard.”
“Alien.”
“Retard.”
“Whatever dude, it still counts.”
Jared rushes inside, catching up with Gemini who was licking a Salvadore Dali painting in the entrance hall and ushering him back to the group who were giving their jackets to a man in a white suit for safe-keeping.
Inside the dining hall, Johnny Rabid embraced the entrance of Holmes and Kerrigan with a hug and a handshake respectively as his guest; Thomas Uriel Bates, clad in a white sheet and pointy hat was only identifiable by the sheer mass of this thrift-store ghost costume wearer. This giant man was seated across the table from David’s own entrant; Kevin Bishop - the two deeply engrossed in a conversation about shaving, or rather the lack thereof.
“Jared, Thursday. Nice to see you, and just in time to see my entrant showcase his talents.”
Just as Rabid finishes speaking, Thomas Bates runs over to Gemini who had strolled over to the corner and began sulking quietly. Probably about his pitiful career but that would only be a guess. At any rate, Bates launches himself at Battle and wraps his arms around him in a bearhug that nearly shatters his spine before spinning around with his old friend suspended in the air.
“Well done, you brought a racist primate with the mind of a child.”
“He’s so much more than that, I’ve got this competition in the bag.”
“Bitch, please. Gemini’s a sure thing. What’s up with David’s guy?”
As Thursday takes a seat at the table, ushering her guest; Psychopomp into the chair next to her with small, manageable words and gentle praise. Jared and Rabid’s eyes are drawn to Kevin Bishop who was sitting comfortably on the chair next to the head of the table where Sanchez would eventually place himself. He didn’t seem too pathetic, David had went to the trouble of buying him a suit for the occasion and even managed to have a dog groomer tame his mane. It wasn’t until one of the waiting staff dropped a spoon and he snatched it before it even hit the ground that they understood David’s logic for choosing this man. The spoon is quickly stuffed into Kevin’s pocket, along with two fingernail clippings and a few coasters that he managed to swipe earlier. He was a kleptomaniac you see, and he loved nothing more than to collect all of David’s worn out things that he no longer used.
“Friends, if you would all like to take a seat, the chef will be with us momentarily to inform us all of this evening’s cuisine.”
David reappears in the dining hall in time to urge his guests to be seated, accompanied by Chef Atticus Rex who is on crutches after plummeting through a trapdoor in City Hollow last week. He cringes a little after seeing Thursday and Jared, paying special attention not to let his eyes linger on any part of miss Kerrigan. The chef clears his throat as the dinner guests take their seats, each of them separated by their respective PDPs.
“This evening we will be having Lamprey à la Bordelaise. This is an eel Caught in the Gironde estuary and the Dordogne between mid-December and mid-May. The lamprey, reserved for dignitaries and wealthy people, is a popular delicacy in the Bordeaux region of France. One first hangs the lamprey by the head, while still alive, before cutting the tail to collect the blood. After being placed into boiled water and cut into sections, the lamprey is put to stew with leeks, red wine, onions, shallots, garlic, cured ham and mixed herbs. Before being served with garlic bread croutons and a glass of red wine from Bordeaux, the lamprey pieces are flambéed with Armagnac and wine sauce blended with the blood of the fish.”
Even David looks a little impressed by what sounds like a very posh main course even by his standards. Jared, Johnny and Thursday seem equally excited to try this dish whilst the four plus ones look positively perplexed, having only understood a select few words from the chef’s description. Psychopomp stuffs his napkin down the front of his cheap-ass shirt to act as a bib while he licks his lips. A shit-eating grin appears on Thursday’s face as her candidate soars into the lead with this pitiful act.
After a few moments of soaking in the response to his intended meal, the chef leaves in the direction of the kitchen. The dining room now left to the conversation of Pantheon and their unknowing contestants.
“So, as with tradition - We’ll start by introducing our plus ones, I’ll start seeing as I’m hosting. This is Kevin Bishop; he’s some kind of abomination made by mixing one part Sanchez, one part Moor and one part Mikey in a blender. His hobbies include forcing his self-help mantra on the weak-willed, grasping aimlessly at the brass ring and collecting rag and bone gimmicks and monikers. He’s the People’s champion, somehow and likes to call himself the Plague. I know, I know it’s like looking in a mirror. He’s probably got some other traits too but he’s about as appealing as an enema so we’ll probably never know about those. I found him outside, rummaging around in my trash-cans; most likely looking for more discarded items clothing he can repackage and call his own. I think he might be in love with me, but that’s just an opinion.”
The others in attendance give a kind of feigned applause as Kevin Bishop stands for them to behold before bowing and returning to his seat. The thought of a warm meal keeping him motivated to be the best behaved of those in attendance.
“Well I found this waste of skin last week and reached out to him by offering to give him a better understanding of how the internet works after his absolutely horrific showing against Teddy Blaze. Naturally he took the bait and became my shadow. He’s Canadian and I think he drinks that self-help bullshit koolaid that your PDP’s pedalling Dave, so three cheers for that. Basically I think he’s pretty much a washed up guy that might have won a few times in the independent circuit but only really ever got anywhere in WCF because the talent pool was so shallow. Did I mention that he’s Canadian too, so yeah, there’s that. Oh, and he’s also suffering from some super-secretive memory lapses and occasionally orders coke instead of Pepsi when frequenting fast-food outlets and pretending to slip on wet floors so that he can sue the franchise.”
Another feigned applause as Psychopomp smiles at the rest of the table before going back to muttering some semi-coherent nonsense about cookies. Rabid clears his throat and makes to start speaking but as he does so, his towering guest removes the capirote from his head revealing his subhuman facial features for the first time this evening. The guests all gasp as the Klu Klux Klan regalia is placed on the table and Bates just sits there, sweating profusely before demanding a short glass of Jim Beam and Pepto-Bismal from the most ethnic looking waiter he can see because let’s just face the facts; he’s a big ol’ pile of backwoods trash.
“My guest is this behemoth of a man. Thomas Uriel Bates. Somebody we all know and detest, somebody who essentially is the very definition of the word pathetic. He’s lost to pretty much every member of Pantheon he’s ever faced at least once or twice but we’re not meant to talk about that because it makes him sad and then he has to run to Seth and we all get made to attend one of those redneck sensitivity seminars like he made us do last year when we went ape on Yung Adam. Bates is basically the quintessential spare part; something you like to have nearby just in case the original part breaks. He comes from money, but it’s probably cotton-field earnings and he basically believes that anybody but white, Christian males should be gassed at birth. I found him at a civil war memorial, preaching about how America has went down the toilet since they gave a black man the keys to the kingdom.”
A third burst of tentative applause follows this introduction before Jared begins to talk about his entrant as a sea of waiters deliver drinks to each of the guests seated around the table.
“Stand and let your jaw hit the floor as I introduce you to the greatest MPDP ever known to man. This sorry looking motherfucker is named Gemini Battle although he is more commonly referred to as the bumpy growth at the end of Bates’ penis. He dresses like a sad clown, has some kind of mental complex and claims to be an alien. His highlights include but are not limited to: relentless bitching online about how he’s being under-appreciated, having some kind of abomination for a son and claiming to be in control of something called the demon underworld which I can only assume is some sort of all-male nightclub under a dank bridge in Brooklyn. He’s held some gold a couple of times, but it’s a pathetic number when you compare it to the amount of time he’s been here and he recently developed a strange fascination with all things Corey Black. The action figure he had when he arrived here tonight is a sort of safety blanket to him. I think it’s just him optimistically clinging on to the one time in his life that he actually mattered.”
A final applause echoes around the grand hall as Gemini drinks a glass of salted water, making yum noises as it travels down his throat and towards his stomach. From the head of the table, David smiles at his guests and makes a mental calculation as to who is winning so far. All points tallied he takes a small sip from his glass of scotch on the rocks and turns to his own dining partner; speaking in soft, simple words.
“Kevin, why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?”
The fake Plague drinks his own Koolaid until the glass is empty and asks a waiter for more before beginning to speak. He is easily the better dressed of the four hopeless hopefuls but in hindsight David begins to fear that he has made this man look more useful than he actually is. At the end of the day though, you can put an astronaut’s helmet on a dog, it’s still a fucking dog.
“Well, my name’s Kevin and I guess you could say I’m a people’s person. Not in the sense that people like me of course, quite frankly I’m entirely insufferable as a lifeform. No, rather in the sense that I have a very basic understanding of people which I exaggerate greatly in order to get others to unite with me and adopt my moronic belief system. I kind of just recycled the same spiel that Wade was going with but I’ve got some sick ink so it seems original to unseasoned fans. I don’t actually have any ideas or insights of my own, as you can see I stole my namesake from David, but he was pretty much done with it anyway and I think he felt sorry for me. I’ve been around for a reasonable amount of time but I’ve not really done anything noteworthy. I had a pretty impressive record once upon a time if you ignore the fact that my opposition has been complete garbage.”
David speaks up once his PDP has concluded breaking the ice.
“Well done Kevin, you’re getting really good at using your indoor voice. If we can just do something about that lumberjack beard and distinctive smell of thirst I’d be thoroughly impressed with myself.”
Just as David stops speaking the chef arrives back through the door, leading a flock of waiters equipped with plates and wine glasses. Once the rabble subsides and everybody has a fragrant plate of Lamprey à la Bordelaise in front of them it is time to toast the evening; thus symbolised by David clinking his dessert spoon against the lip of his wine glass.
“Friends, tonight marks the 5th annual dining experience in partnership with each of your nominated charitable organizations. As you all know there is some friendly competition afoot here but let us not forget that while we enjoy this cuisine, there are other out there like Dion Necurat and Crazy J who are roaming the streets hungry this evening. So before we enjoy our meal I’d like to take a two minute silence to appreciate the plight of homeless juggalos across these United States.”
All eight diners bow their heads into an almost-prayer as the seconds pass-by, however only twenty or so could have expired before David himself breaks his own mute.
“That’s enough, enjoy your meal friends - and enjoy using eating utensils for a change; guests of friends.”
With the toast brought to it’s close the members of Pantheon and their pathetic dining partners begin to eat the eel-based dish in it’s rich and complex sauce as the waiting staff begin to fill each of their glasses with a Cabernet Sauvignon Fredres Reserve; only the finest food and drink was being wheeled out tonight. How often did David get the chance to give a struggling athlete a warm meal after-all, this just wasn’t in his nature.
“This lamprey is delicious, you must have the chef pass the recipe on to me before I depart.”
David chews and swallows the food in his mouth before responding to Rabid.
“I’ll see to it that he does. Poor guy’s got a sprained ankle and some bruised ribs but he does make a mean meal. If he could just stop being a creepy bastard around females I’d have him cooking my dinner every single night.”
“Can I play with my Corey Black toys? I don’t like this, it’s icky.”
Gemini speaks with a childlike inflection, as though he were communicating with his father when addressing Jared.
“You can play with them in a minute, first why don’t you tell us all a little about yourself, slugger.”
Finding himself somewhere between shy and excited, Gemini turns to face the rest of the table and gives a brief account of himself. However, just as he finally plucks up the courage to voice an opinion that isn’t drowning in teenage angst, David interjects with a question for Rabid.
“Okay no, I thought I could wait until the end of the night for this but sitting here, looking right at the two of you has peaked my curiosity. Johnny, look at this man next to you; he’s fucking huge. Would you mind sharing with the class how you somehow managed to hit the Kingdom Destroyer on this gargantuan motherfucker?”
For the first time this evening a silence falls across the entire dining party; Pantheon and pathetic dining partners alike. It was an excellent question, and as every eyeball became focused on the sheer difference in mass between Rabid and his guest.
“A true magician never reveals his secrets, Dave.”
David sighs as Jared tuts and Thursday uses a napkin to wipe some sauce away from the corner of Psychopomp’s mouth.
“I’m calling steroids, and quite frankly I’m a little upset that you went elsewhere for the hook-up.”
“I was thinking more along the lines of bungee rope and invisible wiring.”
Both Jared and David’s guesses are shot down systematically by a calm and somewhat shit-eating smile from Johnny Rabid who waves a finger at hs stablemates to symbolize the fact that they would know when the time was right and not a second sooner. With Rabid’s cards being played awfully close to his chest, the attention swerves from the Ripper and his near-seven foot Klan member of a plus one and back to Gemini Battle who now musters up all of his hormonal teenage feelings into a passive-aggressive account of himself.
“Hi, my name’s Gemini Battle, although you probably just know me as Pisces Battle’s less talented or relevant brother. I’ve been here for what seems like forever in one form or another, lurking around the midcard and making people look better than they actually are. My hobbies include constant complaining about the slightest of things, shitting good opportunities up the wall, I collect Corey Black memorabilia, in a totally non-creepy way, and I’m also an alien. I know, you finally get rid of Jay Omega’s space-travelling ass and then I come up with this, go figure right. I enjoy being assaulted with baseball bats so that I have a viable excuse for giving a shitty performance and I live three foot beneath the boot of Thomas Bates. I love Tommy, he’s my everything so when we both got invited to this dinner I knew it had to be fate. That was until the dickhead got swooped up in his uncle’s plane and I had to take the bus across three states. I have money you see but I’m not allowed to drive until I pass my test. I sat it a few years ago but I failed because the instructor wouldn’t stop yelling at me and I had a panic attack.”
Gemini’s fleeting eye contact with those in attendance ends with the last of his introduction and he returns to staring at the questionable bowl of eel’s blood and body in front of him with a look of disgust, all the while hoping this formal part would be over so that he could return to playing with his toys in a dark corner. Thursday continues to wipe the sauce away from Psychopomp’s mouth, knowing that it is now his turn to verify why he is the most pathetic person at this dinner party. At a glance, one would be forgiven for thinking this was the case anyway as most of the other diners have at least achieved a mild level of success. Appearances as they say though, can be deceiving. Pomp mouths something under his breath at Kevin Bishop who reaches under the table and pulls out several A-Four cards with writing on them; cue-cards. Pomp didn’t ever really know what to say.
“Hello fellow diners, my name is Psychopomp and I’m a member of the Brotherhood.”
A long pause follows this as Bishop drops the talking-point cards and has to re-shuffle them to find his place. Eventually, after what seems like a lifetime of awkward silences, he finds the right one and just like magic Pomp begins to talk once more.
“I used to be quite the sensation on the independent circuit, but nobody ever told me that in order to actually succeed in this business you need talent. That’s something I never really had, well not until Kevin here told me I did. He spoke and I believed. Don’t let my record fool you I’m actually quite a force to be reckoned with. I’ve been toiling around the lower-midcard for months now, not really doing much besides standing behind Bishop and making him seem like the ringleader to a traveling band of misfits and outcasts; which let’s face it - is pretty much calling a spade, a spade. I can’t work a computer, as evidenced by my pitiful effort against Teddy Blaze last week, so there’s that. I think I might have had some kind of accident at some point, maybe not though? It’s a mystery. All I know is that this man is the wind beneath my wings.”
The members of Pantheon share a look of underwhelmed malcontent as Psychopomp leaves his seat and rushes over to Bishop, sitting on his lap and nuzzling into his lord and saviour.
“Okay, that’s quite enough of these amateurs, it’s time you met my entrant.”
Rabid speaks with confidence as his contestant stands up beside him, his knees spilling every wine glass on the table as he does so.
“Well, ma’ nayum is Thomas Uriel Bates and I….”
Sanchez, Holmes and Kerrigan have heard enough.
“Winner.”
“Dammit Rabid.”
“Yep, there’s no competing with that.”
The competition is over and without even speaking more than his name Thomas Bates has won the entire evening for Johnny Rabid.
“I can dead-lift six homosexuals and a lawnmower.”
Bates needs to stroke his ego anyway, apparently. Looking very unimpressed, the members of Pantheon leave the table, their guests now communicating with one another. The scene fades to black just as the PDPs will soon fade into obscurity.
