Post by John Rabid on Oct 23, 2016 16:49:54 GMT -5
1. The Shape Of Things To Come
The Mayor's office of David Sanchez
Chicago
10/13/16
It begins in darkness. In silence. Just the rain now, creeping in, making it's presence felt as it clatters against a window, situated high above a brooding, Chicago skyline. These are the offices of the cities mayor, David Sanchez. The “True” Plague that swept up the windy city and brought it to his knees. Then, when hope seemed lost, Sanchez placed a gentle, caring hand upon it's shoulders and lifted it's people back up onto their feet. Gave them self respect, commissioned housing and hospitals; rebuilt the infrastructure from the sewers up. This is his Town now. The Plague's domain. House Sanchez: the king of the Midwest. This is how you succeed, this is how you imagine, with conviction and vision. Sanchez's kingdom towers over the glorified well-fair dreams of a hippy scrub that talks a big game but accomplishes nothing. Kevin Bishop, the people's prophet who, throughout his career at the WCF, has shown potential; but suffers with a career myopia that's managed to corral Bishop as a fringe player. All Bishop seems concerned with is his precious Brotherhood, a fire-damaged DRG that has a vague mission skittering between universal harmony and ego driven subterfuge and mind control.
A thriving city is built with strong foundations. Bishop's utopia however is cardboard and tinfoil, it crumbles beneath the man that champions it, buckling under the strain of the task at hand. In truth it was never meant to be for this false plague, this pale bearded ghost of the genuine article. His beginnings were steady, occasionally sparking with promise, a United States title run here, a strong showing at Ultimate Showdown there; and yet, for every high point, Bishop never failed to slip back into the background. He just can't seem to dig in and hold on to that top tier spot, it eludes him. Like water though crooked fingertips. The flicker of a world title flickers out as soon as Bishop reaches for the flame. So, Bishop does what all malevolent villains do when they fail, they craft a brotherhood, or a DRG or a Church of the Dark Saints; they consolidate rather than innovate; drowning their sorrows with cheap pops and heroic platitudes, to a crowd they actually don't give a shit about.
Let's look back at how it all started for Bishop. He began as the Charles Manson in waiting, a self elected pope and Seifer Black wannabe guru:
“I have no fear in this new world and new environment, because I have followers all around me… Men, women, and children, all of which place their shaking hands out longing for my other worldly offerings…”
Other worldly offerings? Children? So, not a very grounded individual this. And there's the children side. Very ugly business that. In his deluded mind this man is flying, high above reality as he looks down on common sense. He's toned it down since then of course, but for Bishop this is how he made his great debut in the WCF six months ago. He won his first match, truth be told he loses very little of his contests...so far. But for this self styled nonsensical ignoramus, the competition has been shallow and meagre. The WCF hasn't been what it was, more like a refuge for the tired and the broken. Pantheon didn't leave the WCF, the WCF simply slipped away while Sanchez and Rabid carried on, unable to drag it's old friend to rehab and get the old slag cleaned up. Too much dick they say. Something about a porno. Then there's the biker gangs, Juggalos and racists in it's life.
But now was the time to hug the cactus. Make friends with the ugly monster that loathes it's appearance. Raise it up as others like Bishop and Psychopomp desperately try to shackle it down, back in the gutter with the Tom-O-Hawks, Uriel Bates's and Gemini Battle's of this life.
That's a lack of vision, a lack of direction. Never a problem for the mayor of Chicago, though. While the six foot three, two hundred and forty-five pound Bishop has reinvented himself since that twelfth of June tepid debut, a contest he won over a nothing jobber named Miranda; his reinvention as an Everyman rather than a lunatic seems deliberate, a desperate ploy to cover up his continued failings and hang to that People's championship. Evasive action to sidestep his, “Modern day messiah to the masses and the unwanted” shtick. Sanchez however, has instead simply followed his own path, a path that lead him to Chicago, to building a power-base, owning a whole city in the process. A coup de gras that has caught the attention of the man that stands before Sanchez now, addressing him as the rain gathers pace.
“Parasites”, began the Shape, his huge, hulking form stood with his neatly dressed back to David, staring out over Sanchez's kingdom through a set of large bay windows. “They take many forms, wear many faces.”, Buddy Roman's Tom Ford armor was topped with a halo tonight, the moon's surface peeking over the top of this bald dome, granting him sainthood. “You have to crush these cunts where they stand. Otherwise they multiply and fester. ”
A quietly elegant Sanchez sat in his favourite leather chair, the one next to the fireplace that sent embers of gold fluttering into view, fireflies as helpless as the WCF that faced him. A seasoned malt whiskey remained still and untouched in his suited hand as he listened intently to his guest, Vincent “Buddy” Roman-Pantheon was in town, eager to plan and scheme.
Buddy Roman: Gemini Battle believes himself to be an alien, just another level of madness spread over an average wrestler with average skills and average accomplishments. A world title reign only counts when you have faced the world. When the world has knocked upon Gemini's door however he has ran and hid, he has dismissed it and changed his skin. Each time Gemini has come up against class he has either wriggled his way past, beaten the soft option, or simply caved in. He cannot beat the elite, the crème a la crème, the top one percent of this business simply do not consider him a percentage. He resides on a plateau forever in the shade, bouncing from one escapade to the next, searching for that elusive spark that will cover up his hopeless amount of failings. A distraction to misdirect the public away from the fact that, after all, he's only Gemini Battle.
David Sanchez: This whole alien business. He really does have a hard on for #beachkrew doesn't he?
The shape turned away from the window, the halo evaporated as a furrowed brow greeted Sanchez, Buddy seemed exasperated; searching for options. Keen to discover avenues of attack. Buddy straightened his tie, star of David cufflinks and his signet ring before speaking, his throat cleared as words flowed with icy venom.
Buddy Roman: I want you hurt him. Bates. I want you to cripple him. Ti make him suffer. To bring the mountain down. I want you to work with Rabid on this. He has the strength, you have the cunning. Together you're an untapped force no one will see coming, tactically it's the most destructive option we have on the table.
David Sanchez: Rabid is a six foot three high flyer. If you're looking for strength, surely Wade would be the more obvious--
Buddy shook his head, exhaling slowly as he wondered if the Ripper could hear him. That devil on everyone's shoulder.
Buddy Roman: Rabid is...unusual. Have you seen the footage I sent you? Hacked from the Pennsylvania archives?
Sanchez shook his head. His duties over the week had sidetracked him.
David Sanchez: I run a city, and I run it well. Downtime is a luxury I can rarely afford. Besides I've seen it all, twice. When you're in an emergency room with a metal crown of thorns buried into your skull and God shows up to discuss your plans, everything gets a little ordinary.
Buddy Roman shook his head, he moved in, the fire adding new menace to his brooding features. Licks of flames trapping hell itself in each narrowed iris.
Buddy Roman: I have known all manner of fighters; those that scheme, those that bludgeon, those that have shone, those that sulk in the shadows. Nothing shocks me. I have worked with Immortals and cyborgs and Norse Gods. I have seen sights that would blind a normal man. And then there's Jonathan Rabid. Jason Rush. The Ripper. This...man. I fear nothing. Ever. But I could learn to fear him. What I've seen, what he can do? No man should ever have that power. When next you're in a room with Seth Lerch, ask him about Johnny Rabid and watch his hands. Watch them shake. He'll say “anger”, but I know when he's lying. That little stutter upon the tongue. The bead of sweat that trickles down his slippery brow. Bates. He has size. But Rabid...Rabid has strength. And soon? He'll have the fear too.
The patter of rain rises. Sanchez can't help but wonder. This isn't a Buddy Roman he has known before.
David Sanchez: I know that Rabid's a good competitor, probably one of the best, but he didn't win WAR. He's had no one-on-one title shot, even though that was supposedly his whole reason for coming back. If he is what you say he is, then why doesn't he just conquer? Isn't that your way, the Imperium way?
Buddy smirks. Even a jibe is welcomed in this fragile atmosphere.
Buddy Roman: Because Rabid hides his skills. He is the serpent, the snake in the tall grass. He didn't survive Dune at Explosion, he matched him. Watch that match again, watch Dune's expression, then watch the footage I sent to your phone. Then you'll know what I know.
David Sanchez: Which is?
Buddy takes the dram of Whiskey from Sanchez's hand. Downs the orange glass in one swift action.
Buddy Roman: What the devil looks like.
Roman throws Sanchez's empty ornate glass into the fire, it smashes on impact with the wooden logs, traces of whiskey ignite to create a slight spark of chaos.
2. The Impossible Moment.
Slam
10/16/16
When Johnny Rabid connected with the Kingdom Destroyer on Thomas Uriel Bates, the whole ring shook. Not only did it shake, it buckled. The four poles designed to be the main absorption of impact caved under the assault. Later on, after the show went off the air, some of the ring crew quietly removed the damaged ring and sold it for scrap. You can buy a piece now for twelve hundred dollars on e-bay if you're lucky. Although by now it's probably fake.
What wasn't fake however was the move itself, Sanchez observed the motion from the back. The tuck, the rotation, the pile-driver impact. None of these components (separate or together) are possible in a world of substance and weight. Gravity isn't designed to work that way.
Sanchez is a smart man, a learned individual who understands physics. This wasn't physics however, this was something like magic. While the crowd screamed and Zach Davis sold the emotion, David was simply stunned. The footage of Rabid Choke-slamming his former tag partner Billy was startling, but this? This was another level. Even when David demolished Thomas Bates for the United States title last year, the impact was never like this. Not with such ferocity or...
Impossibility.
Jared Holmes smiled, but he too got it. The insanity of it all. The 6ix God steadied himself as the ring dipped in height. The loss of buoyancy signalled the arrival of Zero Tolerance. They had weapons and angry posturing and all the usual accompaniments you'd expect from a heroic save, all except one.
Speed.
ZT waited until Rabid left, at his own speed. They felt it too now, the fear. The terror. Like a cancer; growing. Multiplying.
4. Fear of God
David Sanchez: I didn't think you smoked pot.Johnny Rabid: It's my wife's stash, occasionally I appropriate it and ruminate over events.
After Slam, MOOSE McGillycuddy's had a quite night ahead tonight; nothing special apart from a paid for lock in that Sanchez and Rabid now occupied. They sat at the back of the smoky pub; near a beer stained billiard table that had seen a few frenetic matches earlier on. Small talk and pool however had given way to more sombre talk. The destroyer had peaked Sanchez's interest. The mayor needed to know more as they sat and watched the rain.
David Sanchez: Does it bother you, that she smokes?
Johnny Rabid: No. Not really. When I first met her, she was using.
David Sanchez: What?
Johnny Rabid: Everything. She was a lonely young woman. Trapped. Cornered. She used to be a model y'know. She only gave it up recently. I used to watch her at shows, her poise was always brilliant, like one of those ballerina's you see in magic boxes, this perfect figurine. Spinning. Always shining. I never thought that I could be enchanted by anything or anyone, but she managed it. She outshone me. That room. Those people. Camera flash lights just couldn't match her. She made so many enemies that way. Jealous moths encircling the flame.
Rabid exhales a plume of smoke. Leans back in his leather chair and admires the burning tip of the blunt as it smolders in his hand.
Johnny Rabid: One day I followed her back home. I suppose you could call it stalking.
David Sanchez: That would be the definition.
Johnny Rabid: I held her in my arms. Her skin was so cold, so pale...like milk. Just the faintest whisper of life called out to me, “Help me”, she said. Her head burrowed itself into my shoulder as my clothes ran red with her blood. It felt odd. Different. As if I had been baptised. I was drenched in something pure and that left it's mark upon me.
David Sanchez: A crown of thorns was my epiphany. Everyone has theirs I suppose.
Johnny Rabid: You know what the funny thing is? Narcotics do nothing for me. Pot. Coke. Heroin. None of it works. Just props on a stage.
David Sanchez: You have a drug though. Something. Everybody has a vice.
Johnny Rabid: Games. Games are my drug. The world equals the board. People equal pawns. That's always been my favourite equation. It sings to me. Like Opera.
David Sanchez: So, tell me. Why did you join #beachkrew? You run you're own successful promotion in England. You don't need the money. Why did you join up with pill poppers and wack jobs? You have it all already?
Rabid exhaled...the smoke formed a perfect wireframe pyramid, then dissipated as soon as it appeared.
Johnny Rabid: Like I said. Games. I play them. The second day I joined I was sitting in Seth Lerch's chair running the entire Federation. I lead it to prosperity. Because that's what I'm good at. As well as other things.
Rabid exhaled.
David Sanchez: Are you the anti-christ?
Johnny Rabid: Perhaps. It's hard to keep track sometimes.
David Sanchez: Should I be asking how?
Johnny Rabid: No, you should not.
David Sanchez: Ever met God?
Johnny Rabid: What do you think God is David? Do you think he's this omnipotent being, this thousands feet tall Zeus who sits on a throne made from clouds, who surveys his mighty creations while beckoning them forward so that they may laud over his every whim? Or is God just a middleman, a nothing computer programmer, sitting in an orange and oak office, working for another universe's Google, tinkering away at night on his virtual reality haven wondering if his zeroes and ones have realised the joke's on them? What do you think, David? Which one's more plausible?
David Sanchez: I think about what we are, about what Pantheon is, and what it's about to accomplish. Truth? I don't need to know if God exists. Not really. All I need to know is, does he know how to stay out of my way?
Johnny Rabid: It's a lesson he needs to learn every day. Just in small ways. Just enough to make him think, that maybe, just maybe, he's not everything after all. I find that works. Doubt can be a wonderful thing, if you know how to use it.
David Sanchez: Bates knows now, doesn't he? I take it they all know after tonight. You're not hiding any more, are you?
Rabid just smiled, and exhaled. He leaned back in his chair and had glorious thoughts; the building blocks for a mighty and terrible kingdom, called.
Pantheon.
3. The 13th Amendment.
Hello everyonePicture a man that should be a God. A man that has the physical dimensions of a mountain. A man that towers over all. Picture that man. Now; subtract his faith in his ability, subtract his ability to be honest. To be moral. To be anything other than a manipulator, a rat that scurries in-between the cracks of pro wrestling politics, searching for freaks and weirdos he can control and sculpt into his “boys”. Just imagine that man. Hold that thought for a second in your mind. Now, tell me, does the following word match his demeanor?
Hero.
No, it doesn't, does it. Let's take a look at his real face, shall we?
I believe this is our first time.
Nervous? Don't be, it stings at first, the pangs of loss can be quite infuriating to control. The regret, the infinite playback inside your mind as you try and figure out what you did wrong. A shift in weight at the wrong time, you stumble, your compose was off I know. You allowed me inside your mind, to get close, to stab my dagger deep. To shut you down with a kingdom destroyer as your body numbed. Sudden fear as you felt your left side lose feeling. A thousand stars in front of your eyes, is—is this a stroke? Your nostrils flair as you search for that burnt toast sensation; it doesn't arrive; just pain, agonising pain as if your brain has been inflated beyond the dimensions of your skull. But don't cry just yet Bates. I'll get you you soon enough, “Colonel”. First, lets talk abut your partner, Gemini Battle.
You have a cancer growing inside you, Battle, a Bates lymphoma that's spreading and turning you rotten. It goes way back. Back to the days of you're childhood, while you whwre hidden inside the frail, gormless body of Grayson Pierce. Remember that august day outside the hardware store. Your father spitting tobacco on the running shoes of the black teacher that passed him by. You looked up, You're one good eye squinting against the sun as your other wore the brunt of a strap attack from your father. What did he say that day again? Daddy dearest?
“Daddy? Why do we hate the niggers?”
“Because they remind us of our lost inheritance, the gift of black slavery was taken away from this land to keep the north strong”
“Daddy, why do we hate faggots?”
“Because they remind me of you, Gemini. They remind me of you.”
Gemini is like a twelve year old Hannah Montana. He has so many personalities that he can't keep a single gimmick straight. He jumps left and right. Sometimes he's a neurotic man with a monster inside, sometimes he's a Clown faced criminal genius, sometimes he's a body swapping alien. Sometimes he's a Livewire, sometimes he's a Hyena. But ALWAYS Gemini Battle. And ALWAYS he's trying, trying desperately to be that unattainable beast known as a main-eventer. He thinks with so many titles and impressive displays under his belt that the achievement has already been unlocked. That he's platinumed this business. But the fact is, he's Gemini Battle. He's the man nobody cares about, because when you're faced with an under-talented sub par try hard, you just want to smile and look the other way. Gemini battle is the awkward silence in a room. The joke that cracks a conversation. The schmuck around for dinner.
How many worlds do you live in Gemini? I killed you last month in one, smashed your skull into the mat and pined you for the one two three. Now in “Universe A” I get to do it again. But who are you here, exactly? I think when you strip it all away there's a Gemini underneath no one has seen. This quite, broken child. I can hear it in your voice and see it in that blinking gasping face of yours as you hunch you back and snarl at the crowd. The man behind the act.
The tears of the clown.
Gemini, that's what your mother called you, wasn't it? Your astrological star-sign. She was so obsessed with the future, if only she knew how little she had left. Those long, hot summer days. How you despised not having the safety of school to cower behind. But there was a haven of sorts, right Gemini? Because while your mother was fixing ladies hair in the boutique; those loud, almost drag queen looking customers, would smother you with kisses and feed you candy until your belly bust. The sounds of Liberace on the radio. A cheeky tipple of laudanum from your mother's purse. It made the strap burns your father delivered across your tiny, stooped back almost palatable. That purple and pink paradise your mother built. That haven from abuse and pain. No wonder you wear it across your face right now, those days of lost love and cheap perfume. The days of sweeping up peroxide locks and marvelling at the nattering, comical faces of your protectors. Their thick layers of make up to cover the scares and the beatings they had received that week from their Hick, red-neck husbands. Those wife beaters and abusers that you feared as much as the sugar plum faeries that surrounded you, nurtured you; those loud, gregarious women who you shared a kindred spirit with. And now, decades on, you remember them, honour them as you sit and cake your own face with make-up, branding yourself day in and out as a fat southern woman; itching for a perm.
You love to make claims, don't you, Gemini? Some of them don't even happen in a world we know. They happen in a place called O.O.C. You ever hear of that reality? That's the realm where I told you (politely) that I match with you would be pointless. I came back to fight for the world title. My target had changed, from you to Bates, for obvious reasons. You became old news, but in your delusional mind you had to invent another reason. So now you call me brushing you off as “running away”. To dull the pain. To unclench your vagina. Tell me, mong, why the fuck would I want to fight the man who doesn't have the title, when I want a fucking title match? You brain damaged fucking berk! Do you have the title now? No? Then you are of absolutely no relevance to me! You had one chance to hold my attention, then you lost it. It's gone. Over. What you are now, is nothing. You're an extra, a minor anecdote, a “what ever happened to?” You're the name that makes Joey Flash's eyes roll. You're the skinny kid in school that wants to hang with the cool kids. Skinny, boring, nerd. Your entire psychological being was designed to bore. A defence mechanism to keep the interesting people away. You're a nutjob. A transexual freak. Space sex? Bollocks, you're a repressed gay man living a lie; trying to catch Bates's eye by pretending to shag a Klingon named Invidia and calling it a relationship.
You're being dismantled and moved on, you fucking tumour.
You're nothing but a plagiaristic, talentless cunt. You're a parasite that sucks the life out of others endeavours and turns them into plastic. You're just a bloodsucking, meaningless twat that thinks stealing the hard work of actual competitors constitutes an achievement. Nothing about you has merit, you're an embarrassment to this Federation, to this business. You're an embarrassment to the fans that have to sit and watch you, week after excruciating week, attempting to be a pale, empty rip off of Scarecrow/Rabid/Logan/Joey Flash/Dune etc, over and over again. You'll never get close to me dip-shit, you're a billion miles away, you fucking retard, you mongoloid mime artist.
Do the world a favour, mine yourself under a fucking bus. Don't hold back on the tragedy.
You couldn't help but point the finger at FVP last week, could you? Frank isn't in the conversation. We're an eight man strong army already, in the immortal words of Tina Turner, “we don't need another hero”, but you can't help yourself, can you Gemini? You have to cry and accuse and ramble on and on about a loss that happened...because you lost. Blame Jared, blame the ring of the bell. Blame the officials at ringside, blame an imaginary conspiracy against you. Blame Bates while you're at at, after all, he's the man that groomed you into this fucking mess. Blame Canada, because they make great bacon. Blame Obama, because if it wasn't for a black president, your father would be alive today. Blame the man on the moon. Blame Grayson Pierce and your ridiculous backstory that makes no fucking sense. But most of all, invite yourself to that party. Cut Gemini Battle a slice of that delicious blame cake, and fucking choke on it.
Gorge on your failure, Gemini, because that's what you're best at. Every-time you cry and piss and moan about a loss or a fast count or whatever you become Thomas Urial Bates's exhibit A on why all faggots should be cremated at birth. You sir, are a traitor to your biological make up, a gay man that plays the clown so that a fat fucking odious twat like Thomas Urial Bates can point at you and say, “Here world, here look upon my evidence! This is what a gay man is...a little insipid welp, a coward and a crybaby!”, and your answer to this is what it's always been since the beginning. Since the halcyon days of the DRG, you bow, you courtesy, and you say...
“yes masta.”
The lament of a lost Teddy Bear. (As read by Liam Neeson)
My name is Lilith's Teddy Bear
I was made from stuffing and stitches and love.
I was cared for by a kind, misunderstood girl.
She was frightened.
She was alone.
As she grew, she took on many different names and personalties.
But she was always Lilith.
My Maker.
My Friend.
She hugged me and kissed me and spoke to me of her depression. Of the bad men that used to hurt her as a child.
I could not answer.
I could not tell her how much I loved her and how much I hated those that hurt her.
I wanted to tell her to be strong.
To be brilliant, in the ways I know she can be.
But I cannot speak.
And yet, she knew. She wipes tears she imagined away from my eyes, tears I had shed for her for years.
For decades.
There was one time.
I cried inside for her. Cigarette burns on her hands.
Then she did something...incredible.
She hugged me and whispered, “I know”
She could hear me then, I think.
I keep this thought strong in my mind as I lay here dying.
My head has been tripped from my body. My eyes, uncoupled from the torso I called home, can now see my arms and legs scattered across a dressing room. Amputated by an insane, large naked man.
He is muttering to himself again.
To his Confederate Flag.
To his beloved swastika.
He is my murderer.
His name is Bates.
He keeps slapping himself, “Stupid, Bates! Idiot, Bates!” as he tears me apart.
Why?
Why are you doing this, Bates?
I am helpless
As I have always been.
I am innocent.
I carry only love.
That is my purpose.
Why?
I receive no answer, he can't hear me. Nor wipe the tears away from my eyes.
He picks up his Gollywog.
After ten minutes of frantic searching, he finds his penis.
He looks at the Gollywog again. Still. As if in a trance.
He hugs it.
He kisses it.
Eventually, the Gollywog's body is wrapped around the shaft. Bates begins to masturbate.
It is painful for Bates.
He cries.
The doll is repulsed.
It wants to die as much as I want to live.
Bates punches the wall as the procedure fails him.
He reconvenes.
The Gollywog screams.
Lilith can't find me.
I am lost.
A squirt of depressed jizz hits my face.
Light, fades.
I die.
“The Thirteenth Amendment to the United States Constitution abolished slavery and involuntary servitude, except as punishment for a crime.”
Except as punishment for a crime. Read that back to yourself WCF galaxy. And tell me, Bates, exactly what did you say last week? “Honour demands that he protect the weak and defenceless?” You spin a great yarn but beneath there's that sickness that ferments and spreads and stains. You dream of being a Paladin, a shining knight of a golden realm that does not exist. You're a Don Quixote chasing windmills of your mind while trying to bludgeon us with ideas of justice and fairness, hiding the truth, but not well enough. Because I know what reflection you really see in the mirror, I know the true you that stands at the table of the king, awaiting Seth's orders to strike. The “invaders” of the land. Invaders....
Explain to me Bates how a fired man is an invader? Explain to me how Pantheon are the usurpers. Because I seem to remember Seth standing in the middle of a ring, waving my contract around and ripping it up so that Logan could avoid a rematch. You Bates, are no knight, you're the defender of a coward, a worm-tongue that pollutes the minds of the impressionable and the fragile. There's no difference between you and a predator on a register. You hound the lonely, you cajole them into doing your bidding. You bully them with your size and your agenda. Last week you spoke of a great battle, a war against tyranny. When all along, what you truly are, Bates is a fucking rent-a-cop who thinks he runs the whole damn show.
“How can one call people such as Oblivion, Adam Young, Kevin Bishop, or Tom-O-Hawk weak and defenceless?”, Well, one of them is homicidal nut-job, the other is a Self proclaimed messiah, the third is Jack London, and then there's Adam Young. Fuck knows what he's fucking in that barn of his today. All of these men have one thing in common though, they're all criminals. And what does the 13th amendment say about criminals?
They're slaves.
That's how you truly see the WCF. you see them as your slaves, your subjects. That's why you're drawn to criminals as your “men”,because they're not meant to be free in your eyes. You get to own them. Gonzo. Mikey. Danny Anderson (who does not approve by the way) They're your slaves. Owned and controlled. Your personal handmaidens. Explain to me again why did you have five men attack Scarecrow? Remember that night? Crow went after Mikey the week before because his manager (Freakshow) raped a tortured a young woman live on camera. What did you say at the time? “Insufficient evidence”, raped and tortured, LIVE ON CAMERA. Well, Freakshow was white after all, so I guess he gets a free pass, right? You never did acknowledge that you where wrong about him. In fact, you've never acknowledged that you've been wrong about anything. What you do Bates, is sidestep the issue, you paint fanciful frescos with words to cloud the vision of the fans. But not mine you 'roided up, fucking bitch! I see right through you. You're as transparent as a medical torso. I can see all the moving parts inside, the cogs turning , the machine running. Searching for stress fractures in the locker room. All the while you're planting seeds in the minds of the lessors, the under-card that can't look left for a Kevin Bishop, or a right for a Thomas Uriel Bates. The slave owner of the WCF. The Calvin Candle of the state of Pennsylvania. DRG. Team WCF. It doesn't matter what you name it, you can't change what it is.
A lynch Mob.
So we know, how you truly see the WCF, not some great warring battlefield, not a hill-billy re-enactment of a great confederacy win that never happened. No, the WCF is a Supermax, and we're all your slaves. We're the 13th Amendment, the three strike rule. Still you're probably safe this week, Bates, because you and I both Know that Psychopomp is going to eat the pin this week.
Psychopomp. He's a good kid, but he can't wrestle for shit. He's sub standard, bottom draw fare. Although in reality, that's a bit optimistic. Bottom draw implies that he has somehow managed to crawl out of that nether-space he inhabits, the underworld below the floorboards where the rats scurry and half eaten TV dinners rot and fester. That's the environment of one Mister Psychopomp. His fate is like a strange Roald Dahl story, a gentle tale where Pomp is cast as a Gollum sideshow, a freak under the bridge that befriends a shy woman, a cripple with a lisp named, Matilda; before they set off on a series of wonderful, lickerish sweet adventures involving a giant flying rhubarb and a talking insect band. Their story will be both tragic and informative. It will inspire other emotionally stunted humans to rise up out of their basements and be counted. A chorus singing as as one, opening that creaking door; following the umpa lumpa parade, unafraid of the world that detests them beyond. They'll push past the cobwebs of their exiled tragedy, escaping from their dilapidated hovels as sunlight hits them with blinding, joyous freedom. A whole new world awaits.
Twenty four hours later, they're dead in an alleyway. Beaten. Raped. Tortured. Wallet's emptied out, organs stolen for medical research. That's the fate of the trusting and the innocent. When bravery outstrips intelligence, people die. The weak should know better. They should cower and hide. But this week that Roald Dahl fable is going to worm it's way into Pomp's subconscious, “What if?”, he'll think...”What if I go for it and try and make an impression. What if I walk out into the sun?”
The same fate that hits all idiots like a truck, Psychopomp's going to plummet back down to earth because fairy tales are designed to weed out the weak, expose them to the elements, then exterminate their trusting, simple kind off the face of the planet. Pomp's an ant, scurrying around at the feet of a God. If he makes a nuisance of himself, he'll be crushed. Stood upon. Flattened.
People forget that Roald Dahl was a nasty old cunt. Mike TV, that's who you are Psychopomp, you're going to die with no justification for your demise. Just a kid who wanted more. You know what desire gets you this Sunday on Slam?
Nothing.
You ever hear of a Nathan Von Libert, Bishop? He's the man you could be, if you had testicles and a brain. If you had the guts to go along with your convictions. A sense of purpose to match that over inflated vocabulary of yours. You like to bluster and procrastinate but there's no weight to your self imposed agony. You're fluff. You're a dead pan Parks and Recreation episode of what an inspirational leader should be. A cracked reflection wearing a clown nose and riding around in circles on a busted tricycle. You think this mighty crusade of yours with the brotherhood is some noble cause but the fact is, nobody cares. When you cry out for order and justice you look like a reject from a season of Sons Of Anarchy. You're a step away from being a Phil Anselmo looking dickhead shouting white power sermons in a topless bar, high on meth and desperation. You're the sandwich board guy at the end of a disaster film, the end is always nigh for you, Bishop; only this time? You're actually right. Bishop, I swear to you, I will rape your fucking dreams come Sunday night, your utopian world will be left burning, screaming in agony as I destroy you and bury that fake pin you have over me from WAR. I'm going to leave your hopes cold before I'm done. Shattered and handicapped. Your manifesto is about to get fisted, and there's nothing you can do about it.
Beg for me, Bishop. Beg for me on your hands and knees like a dog and maybe, just maybe I'll leave you with enough cohesive thought to sow together another boring soliloquy afterwards about how you're still the future of this business and how you're going to rid the world of my kind. Only, they'll be scares, a dullness to your vision. Those puppy dog eyes of yours, clouded and distant. Monday morning I want the world to know that you're damaged. That the shinning hope of this business doesn't shine as bright as he once did. So that when you speak, that new slur you carry speaks louder than the words you choke upon. Because in that brain damaged echo chamber they'll be a message, that crossing Johnny Rabid's path has consequences. So learn to fucking beg. And beg well.
This is the easiest week I've had since returning. It's plain sailing. A calm breeze and a bright star to guide me home. The only breeze my opponents will feel come Monday is a gentle Beijing wind, glancing their cheek after I've drilled them through the earth's crust with a Kingdom destroyer. Well, will you look at that? I'm using lame Pro wrestling metaphors, I must be happy. Somebody start a luau.
