Post by 6ix God on Oct 28, 2016 10:42:16 GMT -5
After face-fucking Lilith for the past twenty minutes, it occurred to me that I was likely too high on cocaine to achieve orgasm in such a manner. Slipping my dick out of her mouth – careful to make sure it slapped her in the right eye upon removal – I placed my foot upon on base of the chair she was tied to, pushing out to rock it backward and send her tumbling to the floor. Her cunt and her asshole gaped up at me – was it hunger or fear in their eyes? The look on her face was of little use to decipher her nethers; I had doped her up on Xanax I slipped in the William Hill Unfiltered Napa Chardonnay I made her drink, and she’d spent the entire session moaning and drooling like Helen Keller in a gangbang.
My eyes drifted around the room, my head still faint and dizzy from the amount of uppers and downers I’d been shoving in my nose and mouth for the past two hours since I’d arrived at this piece of shit hotel room. Upon the completion of Slam at Stan Sheriff Center, my patsies had been waiting outside the arena. When Lilith departed, they quickly bagged her, shoved her into the hatchback trunk of a Ford Pinto owned by a filthy methhead Poi-belly that I had purchased that week for a song. I’m sure the Moke has spent all of it on ammonia for cooking. I was interested in the Pinto because I remembered that Ford Pintos were a poorly designed vehicle featuring the gas tank in the trunk; rear-end collisions – even minor ones – could crush the tank, ignite the fuel, and make the car explode. At all points of this abduction, I wanted Lilith to fear for her life. To wonder for even a moment what if something went wrong.
I had rented a room at the Polynesian Plaza, a multi-leveled hotel in a busy district of Hawaii. I chose it because it had the lowest rating on Yelp; evenings like this required a certain atmosphere of malaise to take in and wallow through. At the hotel room, the bag was removed from her head. I sliced her clothes off with a Kissing Crane stiletto with a mother of pearl handle before instructing her to the bathroom. In the bathroom, she was instructed to take a cold shower. I had already removed the curtain from the shower so she’d partake in this act completely exposed to my attention to detail and instruction. Afterward, she was dressed in an L.L. Bean terrycloth bathrobe before allowed back into the bedroom for wine. It was here that I slipped her the Xanax.
My eyes went from the chaos this ritual and its proceeding fuck session had produced. The Magnavox TV was knocked of its stand, laying on the floor with a cracked screen. A curling iron sat on the dress, plugged in but turned off. I’d inserted the Revlon curling iron into her asshole earlier, threatening to turn it on unless she begged. The remaining rope lay haphazardly winded in a heap by the bedside table where the remainder of the bottle of William Hill Unfiltered Napa Chardonnay. I looked back down at the mess of her body – her inner thighs now bruised from abuse, her breasts swollen and purple from the rope tied around them, the cigarette burns on her stomach, the smeared make-up from crying – before peeling the duct tape off her mouth. Her eyes were wide as her lip trembled, staring up at me.
Lilith: Sh-sharky… please, st-stop hurting me.
We had never established a safe word. No matter how sincere this horror had been, I was unmoved. “Sussudio” by Phil Collins had begun to play. I settled upon her cunt, which I’d beaten with a Polo Ralph Lauren braided belt. Upon penetration, I held her restrained shoulders down for redundant effect. After two minutes, I had a weak orgasm in her and pulled out, leaving her still restrained to the chair full of my cum while I had a celebratory Montecristo Espada Churchill out on the balcony.
Beneath me the city streets glowed like a rush of bioluminescent fish on a great current. It wasn’t too late – I still had things to do. I stood on the balcony naked, letting the sticky Hawaiian air cling to my skin and reinforce the layer of sweat which had developed. Later, I’d have to be sure to shower and scrub myself with a loofah to remove any oil or dirt; not here because the bathroom was filthy and I was concerned that the aftermath of Lilith’s cleaning would give me Athlete’s Foot. When I finished the cigar, I tossed the lit end off of the balcony. I smiled as I imagined it landing on the forehead of some tourist beneath. Back in the hotel room, I put on my pair of black Nike compression shorts, Theory black chinos, a blue Givenchy graphic t-shirt, a Brooks Brothers gray cashmere cardigan with a shawl neck, and a pair of black Gucci leather boots. At no point during my time in the room had I removed my Ray Ban aviator sunglasses.
Lilith remained tied to the chair, her eyes big and dilated with drugs and the sedative glow that accompanies sodomy. She tried to stutter something sentimental, but I had already put on my Beats by Dre headphones and turned on the new Chance the Rapper album. I left $200 on the bedside table – money for the abortion pill and a generous tip for the evening’s whore – and exited the room for my bodyguard and close confidant, Andre Aquarius, to untie her.
Downstairs, I stepped into the back of the #Pantheon limousine chartered to pick me up. Once inside, I lit a Camel unfiltered cigarette offered to me in silence by Zombie McMorris. Sanchez had already lined up a rail of coke on the Arthur Court silver serving tray, and after snorting his line he offered the tray to Wade Moor. Price seemed focused intently on his bottle of Dom Perignon that he’d already spilled half of down the front of his Ted Baker silk button-up shirt. After fifteen minutes, Andre Aquarius exited the front of the hotel, stepping into the limousine, and closed the door behind him.
Jayson Price: You’re disgusting.
I shrugged.
“You’re one to talk.”
Jayson Price: It wasn’t an insult.
The tray was passed my way. Gripping the razor blade, I lined up myself a rail from the mound and picked up the rolled hundred dollar bill they’d been using as a straw. I pressed it to my nostril and snorted deeply. Lifting my head, I brushed the remaining residue from my inner nose as I offered the tray to McMorris.
Wade Moor: What’s your plans for the rest of the night, kuh?
“Joey and I are taking the girls to dinner at La Mer.”
David Sanchez: I’m surprised you were able to pry her off your side this long.
He had a considerable point, but in the year we’d been together I’d developed a certain art to slipping my fiancée for hours at a time. Usually, I’d suggest that she needed to shop for new underwear on her own so I’d be surprised, but today she’d already had plans for a spa day with Alessandra so I needed no excuse. Instead, I’d be stopping by a room I’d reserved in the Embassy Suites for the explicit purpose of grooming in privacy before returning to the Halekulani where we had our shared room. Adrian Archer could take notes – this was how a real Magnificent Bastard operated. Of course, Thursday was also usually on so much Lithium I doubt she’d really notice; apathy and delusion are powerful placebos, especially when mixed with codependency.
I look around the car. I look upon each of their faces and wonder what they’re thinking. It compels me enough to speak up.
“Do any of you care?”
Headshakes all around. Wade shoved his fingers onto the tray, scooping up residual powder to rub along the line of his gums.
Jayson Price: Like I give a fuck about what a bitch thinks.
Wade Moor: This hoe already trapped you anyways.
Zombie McMorris: Honey badger don’t give a fawk.
Johnny Rabid: Your personal business is your own.
David Sanchez: Your fiancée is a cunt.
I took one of the glasses of Dom Perignon that had been poured and set in the drink rank. I tilted it to my lips, taking a moment to savor the first cold and fizzy sip. I raised my glass in mock cheers.
“Then I suppose we’ve already more cohesion than ‘Team WCF’.”
My compatriots brought their glasses up and together, giving the sort of crisp, ringing clink that real crystal ware is known for. The tray passed to Andre who took a quiet bump before passing it back to Sanchez. I looked around the car for a moment, taking in the faces of five of men I’ll be standing beside in the ring this next Sunday. These were the best wrestlers in the world. This was what a dominant team resembled.
“I think it’s only right we say this aloud: Adrian Archer has put together one of the worst teams in the history of this event.”
Wade Moor: Worse than last year’s faire?
“I’d say so. They recycled the shittiest member of the People’s Choice, but Venable and Adams pulled some sort of weight even if they were insufferable little faggots.”
Zombie McMorris: There wuz dat year da Pack got murkt by Cairo and Beckman.
“Closer, but has there ever been a clean sweep?”
It was Price’s turn to pause, the bottle of champagne falling to his lap in thought as he tapped his chin with one finger.
Jayson Price: Not to my knowledge.
“Then gentlemen, we stand on the brink of history. The teams going into Hellimination this year are laughably lopsided. This is what happens when the co-captains of another team are steeped in mediocrity themselves: there’s no push to achieve. Damian Kaine? Adrian Archer? They’re nobodies – perpetual midcarders who’ve been throwing shit at the wall since the day they walked into this company and have yet to find anything that sticks. Some would say it reeks of desperation – I disagree. I think it reeks of overinflated senses of self-importance. They have Ability Dysmorphia: they see themselves top dogs but reside in the bodies of failures. They’re fucking talent trannies.
Adrian Archer is the grossest example of the lot. Since the moment he stepped into this company, he’s stroked himself as a primetime player. Adrian Agustus Archer – the man whose parents couldn’t figure out how to spell his middle name and branded him with his first failure within minutes of popping out the bitch’s mudflaps. He went somewhere – he did some things. He fathered some kids with a frumpy old cunt. Then he rolled back into WCF well past his prime. In his first night, he was completely outshone by Chris Justice – he couldn’t have that so he beat up at 10-year-old boy. In an instant, we learned that despite being the oldest of all participants in that match, Archer was also the biggest juvenile. Even more so than the child he attacked.
This sense of childish entitlement – this attention thirsty narcissism – has been a recurring trend in Archer’s career. Archer could hitch his trailer to as many cars as he wanted, but he’d never go anywhere. He could cry glass ceiling; I’d just call him a midget demanding a step ladder and leaving with sour grapes. He thought he could make waves by joining up with the guys who one-upped him, Kaine and Justice, and make a stand against the losers. He had some success. He called for a ‘Purge’ of old talent. They failed. He threw another temper tantrum and put on a costume, and here we are now.”
I waved an arm across the vehicle.
“I’m not sure who’s stupider: Archer or Zero Tolerance for actually buying into him. There’s nothing magnificent about Adrian Archer. There’s no attention to detail – no subtlety – no nuance – no drama. He’s a fat windbag in a suit. A costumed mascot. Living in a penthouse doesn’t make you a Magnificent Bastard – he comes across as Dudley Moore’s Arthur Bach rather than David Xanatos. And for all of his biloviating? Well, I think it was Shakespeare who said it best: ‘It’s a tale of sound a fury, told by an idiot, signifying nothing.’”
The group chuckled. Some sort of banter began amongst them, but even though it pertained to Adrian Archer, I could hardly pay attention to the dialogue of my compatriots. My thoughts had turned inward. I wasn’t done with him yet, even if it wasn’t my turn to speak.
You’re a pretender, Archer. In every sense of the word I can’t see a man more out of his place than you, other than Crazy J in a board room or Oblivion in a championship lounge. Hell, I guess I have seen things more plausible than the charade you attempt to monkey. You were stupid to step to a group like us – we are who you so badly want to be. And real can smell a fake, just as I told your buddy Teddy the week I returned. I can smell other things – pussy and desperation.
There’s some sluts on your team, but none of them are as eager to bend over and spread their asses for a little attention as you. You don’t earn your attention: you force it by shoving your haggard old nose into business that doesn’t concern you. Sure, you’ll get the pity tug now and then. A loser like Kaine or Cash will offer you a hand, perhaps hoping to score a good deal on damaged but serviceable goods, but they’ll never get mileage out of you. I never buy my cars used – you can never trust a dealership to be honest with you about the condition. Not everyone can afford to make those sort of choices like me: I have wealth. All the money in the world won’t bring a group of scrubs like Zero Tolerance quality talent; they’re still shopping for the best jalopy on the lot with the points they’ve accumulated. And that’s where you come in: their new fixer upper.
Few are surprised by your acceptance of this invitation and none are impressed. In the end, Zero Tolerance will realize you’re the used car that you, and they’ll treat you accordingly. They’ll run you for the dirty jobs, they’ll never bother to wash you, they’ll resort to duct tape when they need to close the glovebox, and they’ll eventually abandon you in a parking lot when something goes wrong with your mechanics. A smart businessman like Erik Black understands the first rule of investments: buy low, sell high. Or buy cheap to trade for better. You’ll be the meat shield and the garbage tower – who knows if your membership will stand after the demolition derby this Sunday.
Not you. You’re not smart enough. You’re too self-absorbed and delusional to see the writing on the wall or read the tea leaves. You put on a suit – and an act – that’s a size too big for you, and all the training and practice in the world will never help you fill it out. Some men can; others can’t. And ‘can’t’ has defined your entire career. When Team WCF – your team – fails on Sunday, everything about you will be exposed. You’ll be stepping in the ring with the man you want to be – me – and you’ll see that you can only emulate and never achieve what I can.
I hate “men” like you. You’re too stupid and fucking incompetent to do something right while patting yourself on the back, looking in your rose-tinted mirror. You’re a failure of a father, thinking sending your kids a check is being a parent while you gallivant around. You remind me of my Father someone I know who was just as delusional in his self-assessment. The difference between you and my Father that person is he was actually a success, even if a failed human being. He made a trade-off: he didn’t do what he wasn’t good at and focused on his strengths, other obligations be damned. In some ways, you’re doing that too, but in this case your strength is getting your fucking skull caved in and looking like a pathetic little faggot in front of a live audience.
Good bye, Magnificent Bastard. Try getting a reservation when you’ve got the face of a retired boxer, you stupid fucking bastard.
David Sanchez: … corn tortillas are the proper way to eat a goddamn enchilada.
Wade Moor: I don’t care what you spics think, flour tastes better.
The limousine rolled on. Minds were elsewhere, but it didn’t completely matter. The only mind that mattered was the best in the car – my mind. Hellimination would come, and I’d survive once more. If necessary, I’d be the sole survivor once again. But if anything was certain, it was that our victory was virtually guaranteed. All that was left was to break a few eggs.
My name is Jared Holmes. I’m 24-years-old.
I believe in taking care of myself and a balanced diet and rigorous exercise routine. In the morning if my face is a little puffy I'll put on an ice pack while doing stomach crunches. I can do 1000 now.
After I remove the ice pack I use a deep pore cleanser lotion. In the shower I use a water activated gel cleanser, then a honey almond body scrub, and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub. Then I apply an herb-mint facial mask which I leave on for 10 minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine. I always use an after shave lotion with little or no alcohol, because alcohol dries your face out and makes you look older. Then moisturizer, then an anti-aging eye balm followed by a final moisturizing protective lotion.*
Hello Damian.
You don’t know me, but I probably know you better than you’re willing to even admit to yourself when you look in the mirror every morning. People like you are everywhere – in the supermarket, on the subway, stuck in rush hour traffic on the freeway – they are common easily discernable. You are everyone and you are no one. You’re an outline more than a filled-in picture. What is this archetype I’m suggesting? This basic template I’m rambling about and comparing you to? I’m talking, of course, about the everyman – the common man – the loser.
Men like you are a dime a dozen in postmodern America. You’re the Generation Xers who were alive to remember and understand the significance of Cobain’s suicide but just a bit too young to have been crushed by it. You remember the death of Rock and Roll; you rocked out to the White Stripes and sniffed at hip-hop, which was just a bit too out of your comfort zone. You now float aimlessly through a cultural malaise, caught between the greatness of past generations and the brightness of future generations with the table scraps of the borderlands being your only feast. The forgotten middle child of the American Way: you learned enough about computers to configure your parents’ wi-fi router but not enough to write a script and secure a job. You exited college with a liberal arts degree, inspired by the great artists, thinkers, and scholars of years past – you work as a waiter at an Applebee’s.
Why are you on this team, Damian?
Your team is not your own; you’ve been completely subverted and bent to the whims of Adrian Archer. Does this sound familiar – perhaps it rings true for the entirety of your career? At any rate, you’re reduced to the black sheep of a team you co-captained. You were shoved and you bent; you don’t matter. Everyone can see that, even your own teammates. You yelp from the shadows, and not an eye is moved. You simply fill contractual space that Twilight and Archer wish could’ve been filled by Blaze.
Where is your Brotherhood now? Am I being unfair – were your hands tied? Perhaps your stablemates saw the smoke and smelled the fire; they knew better than to hop aboard a burning vessel bound across the Pacific. Maybe you’re smarter than the others think – maybe you held your friends and brothers-in-arms at bay to keep them from the sickening stench of a stillborn effort.
Will you even see it out?
Why bother staying in a match you can’t win with men who see nothing in you?
Months ago, you came into this federation in the absence of some of the greatest wrestlers who’ve ever graced its rings. What you saw when you walked through the doors was a junkyard of scavengers and opportunists peeling the copper wiring from a corpse to fund their next crank fix. You, too, saw opportunity: clear the filth and establish a name. You stood by Archer and diagnosed a Purge. And despite this crippled, knock-kneed state of the company, you could still not accomplish a thing.
In actuality, Damian, we agree with you – the company needs a Purge. We’re doing what you could not.
The cancer in this body is not Pantheon – it is the people who stand on the very same side of the ring as you. You were right – your diagnosis targeted the correct people. It failed when we returned to the company and expanded it to include us. We’re not your enemies, Damian – we’re on your side. We’re here to finish your Purge and return this company to its previous state of glory.
Why would you align yourself with Adrian Archer once more? You have spent a career being mistreated and assaulted at his hands. He has held you down – abandoned you in the ring and left you to the wolves. Are you certain that the same thing won’t happen once more? That Zero Tolerance and Sarah Twilight won’t drop off the apron again and walk to the back, leaving you in a one-on-seven match? Go ahead, tell yourself that won’t be the case. Say it a few times to see how thoroughly you believe it. Then close your eyes, take a deep breath, and look at your reflection. Look at the scars you’ve received in the ring – how many of them were avoidable? How many more will you receive that you could’ve avoided?
You are not a valued member of this team. The Brotherhood is not represented. You’re a co-captain in name only; to your teammates, you’re the annoying little brother that Papa Seth forced his eldest sons and daughters to take along. So, if I may ask, what are your expectations?
You are stepping into the ring with the greatest wrestler to never hold the top belt – the architect of every major event in WCF’s history since he signed a WCF contract. When I call myself God, it’s more than braggadocio; at every point and turn, I have the entire company turning to my exact directions. You should have listened to Teddy Blaze. You should have resigned from this team and let Zero Tolerance and Twilight go down on the funeral pyre. Once more, Adrian Archer will be the cause of your misery; this time you were a willing participant.
I have no sympathy for you. Your arrogance makes me fucking sick. I’m going to send you back to Bishop in a box.
Then I’m going to send your sister and that slutty psychologist friend of yours a swatch of your funeral suit stained with my cum.
There is an idea of a Jared Holmes; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory.
And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable...
I simply am not there.*
On the twentieth floor of the Book Tower, the Oblivion Foundation maintains a large boardroom which requires passkey access to enter. This is a preventative measure to prevent corporate espionage, such as an overheard bit of chatter by a summer intern or any bugging. Today, this was the button I’d pressed on the elevator, after first placing my security key into the panel beside the button to grant the machine permission to accept this floor selection. At the twentieth floor, the doors slid open to a beige-walled waiting room with cashmere fuschia carpet and a tastefully hung gold Autumn Twilight twelve light chandelier. An assortment of leather upholstered easy chairs gathered around a Durham rectangular coffee table. This lobby was empty – I was late to the meeting.
I slipped my red Beats by Dre headphone from my ears to hang around my neck as I reached one Portolano black leather gloved hand for the keypad beside the doorknob. A few punches of buttons, followed by their cheery monotone beeps, and a magnetic humming signaled my approval for entrance. I gripped the chrome door knob, pulled down on the handle, and pushed forward to enter the room. Upon my entrance, the members of the board stood in salute.
I took my seat at the head of the table, in front of the projector screen which had been readied for my presentation. To my left sat Thursday, who had acted as interim Chairman of the Board during my absence and currently served as Board Secretary. Today, she wore a gray Altuzarra two-button peplum jacket with a belted waist over a black Lela Rosa long-sleeve full-skirt dress with stockings and black Gianvito Rossi pumps. She frowned upon my entry – not because she was displeased by my presence but because she’d dressed to match what I had previously told her I’d be wearing this morning before changing my mind. I find that in women and business and bloodspot an incredibly similar strategy works successfully: keep your stated and actual intentions blurred or ambiguous, keep people on their toes, and never allow yourself to be predictable (for those curious, I wore a light blue Tom Ford “O’Conner” base trim suit in solid silk with a double-button peak lapel jacket and side-pocket trousers, a white and black checkered Eton dress shirt, and a bold red paisley-print silk tie from Ermenegildo Zegna which Thursday had bought for me as a birthday present and was my one concession to her).To my right sat Jimophy Thuggin, my former manager and confidant since a young age. His suit is unimportant – I can rarely deduce the brands and have a suspicion his suits are custom ordered from an independent tailor. The craftsmanship never strikes me as striking.
From them, other familiar faces at the boardroom table included Stephem Bosstin, David Sanchez, Alessandra Malignaggi, and Jeromee Baller. There were two new additions to the table; I walked to the first man – a Caucasian male in a Giorgio Armani suit, probably in his mid-to-late thirties. When I approached, he offered his hand; I accepted it.
Gordon Baxter: Mr. Holmes, thank you for bringing me on board.
I smiled congenially.
“Call me Jared, Gordon. Glad to have you on board.”
Gordon Baxter is the weaseling lawyer that Demarcus Jordan had hired back in March to represent him in a potential law suit against #BeachKrew LLC and probably a closeted homosexual with an addiction to Adderall, like most Ivy League types. For this upcoming project, however, I required the best legal mind possible, and he admittedly fits the bill. I had potentially underestimated Gordon; he sang for money with little greasing. A mercenary through and through – my kind of man.
The man next to him was also in his mid-thirties, his skin and facial hair immaculately groomed, though I suspected he used an aftershave with alcohol as his complexion suggested a touch of dryness. His clothes were as garish as I would expect from any young money street nigger: a red crushed velvet Ralph Lauren blazer with a matching vest and pants over a gossamer pink pleated front Tom Ford shirt and tan leather J&M wingtip boots. He extended a hand as well, his nails long in that effete look so popular for his breed and his fingers covered in a multitude of rings. His palm was soft – he obsessively moisturized, no doubt. His name is Steve Orbit, a former wrestler for WCF and the exact man I need for this job.
Steve Orbit: A pleasure doing business with you, Six God.
“The pleasure’s mine, Steve.”
I turned from my newest guests and resumed my place at the head of the table. The lights in the room dimmed as the Panasonic projector mounted to the ceiling hummed to life and a beam of light struck the projector. It revealed the first slide of the Powerpoint I’d assembled the night before, the title reading simply: “DEALING WITH ADVERSITY: POWER PLAYS ON ZERO TOLERANCE.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen of the Board, as well as our newcomers today, I’d like to begin by identifying our biggest adversary going forth. The adversary is, of course, Zero Tolerance.”
A light murmur and chuckle ran through the room. I shook my head.
“It may seem questionable that I’d lend as much credence to a group such as this, but we cannot afford to dismiss a powerful company. Regardless of whether or not we understand their appeal, Zero Tolerance is a player in Detroit.”
The slide changed: a line graph. One line for our stock prices; one for theirs.
“Tension between our companies could create consumer conflict. Should we wish to make headroom against them, we need to know where, when, and how to undermine them. The upcoming match this Sunday allows us to deal a blow to their public image, but we need to lay ground work for future projects and expansions so we can completely subvert and destroy. The project we’ve been working on is but the first step. If you’d turn to page three in the packets before you.”
The light from the projector was in my eyes, but the rustling of papers indicated the turning pages. The slide changed: Crazy J, Jaymz, and Erik Black.
“The following three men are the core of the Zero Tolerance business operations. I am not going to wax philosophically about the improbability of their success. I am not going to question their ability. What I am going to do is state facts.”
The slide turned. Crazy J stood alone.
“Meet Crazy J, a porn-addicted, psychotic, emotionally stunted man child. Crazy J is the artistic visionary behind Zero Tolerance: he’s the creative drive in the brand’s image. I will not undercut his achievements; he turns a profit. What I will discuss is how we can ruin him.”
Another slide: Salem Shepard and Crazy J.
“The other circus clown goth in the picture beside him is Salem Shepard. Salem hails from Houston, Texas. He shares with J the crippling reality of living with mental illness, a background in poverty, and a distaste for civilized society. Salem’s personal history involves a family ruined by an addiction to heroin and exacerbated by mental illness. In J, Salem has found his pillar and post. Through success, J has acquired money and supported and endorsed Salem. In turn, Salem has entrusted J with his greatest weakness.”
A slide: Claire Shepard’s gaunt and ugly mugshot.
“Meet Claire Shepard. Drug addict. Thief. Convicted criminal, like her brother Salem. Currently, Claire is in recovery from her addiction – her sponsor is Crazy J.”
A slide: J and Claire.
“We can immediately diagnose this decision as unabashedly stupid, if understandable. Salem has no friends or true family save ZT. He turns to his mentor – he looks for strength. He has J upon a pedestal. He looks at the world and his compatriots through tinted lenses. He does not understand the inevitability of the fall.
Crazy J is a poor foundation for anyone to build upon. Erik Black and Jaymz Yaroslav did not build upon him – he build upon them. This perspective is distorted in the eyes of the young and dumb Salem Shepard. He sees his Holy Trinity and assumes that the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are indivisible. He assumes wrong. There is a reason why Crazy J still takes to the ring – why he mentors this new breed and stands as the effective face for the group. He cannot ascend. He stands on a platform beneath his former teammates. He’s the weak link in purgatory.
Crazy J’s tenure with his new era of Zero Tolerance is already littered with the mistakes and messes one would expect of a barely coherent clinical case: a booted member in Kira Izumi, a lack of confidence in his core members to work without a fourth, the alliance with Thomas Bates, and the recruitment of Adrian Archer. J’s grasp on reality perpetually walks a fine line, but his grasp on the reality of WCF itself is already broken. He’s fallible – more so than any other member of Zero Tolerance. He cannot lead. He’s weak and emotional. There’s even rumors that he was dating and fucking a manikin.
If you’re wondering why I’m bothering to detail this man’s neurosis, it’s because he’s the core of the group. If we bring down Crazy J, we tear down the whole team. If we tear down the team, we deal a blow to Zero Tolerance, the business. We plant doubt; we make them angry; we get them emotional; we make things personal. We give them enough rope to hang themselves then watch them jump off the chair in an attempt to hit us. We get in their head and let them make mistakes.”
A slide: the facility in Houston.
“The project will be the first public taunting while continuing our good work at the Oblivion Foundation. We paint them into a corner they can’t fight out from. Then when we’ve salted the wounds, we go in for the kill. I have no reason to expect they’ll react any differently; they wear their New Money status on their sleeves. They’re cheap, gaudy, and reactionary. They haven’t changed, even if they have wealth. They’re trash – gutter-dwelling white trash with a bit of creativity but not enough intellect or wisdom to not bite at the most obvious bait. We make a coordinated assault, catch them off balance, then let them fall and shatter.”
The Panasonic project shut off as the lights returned to their normal brightness. The room applauded politely. I placed the laser pointer back into my pocket before clasping my hands behind my back.
“Zero Tolerance, both the company and the team, have grown lazy and arrogant in their success. Until the rise of #Pantheon, they faced no real competition. When they look at this team – when they look at this company – they see the ceiling they’re accustomed to, unknown it extends far beyond their vision. J especially is virginal compared to the challenges we present him – I doubt his emotional and mental stability can withstand the assault it will take. We will break him in the ring; we will break his public reputation; we will destroy his brand.
What J doesn’t realize is that he’s used. Jaymz Yaroslav and Erik Black use him for his creativity; Salem uses him for guidance; Jason Cash uses him for comparable competence; Claire Shepard uses him for comparative stability; Lisa uses him for his money. This is a man whose fiancée was a hallucination until she realized he was successful as a champion. He’s a man too stupid and blinded to realize he’s got a gold digger on his hands; too easily manipulated and taken for granted. He’s Play-Doh. And from this point on, we will sculpt him.”
The applause broke once more. I made the rounds, shaking hands and making some quick conversation, but I had a dinner reservation at Selden Standard before drinks with Orbit and Sanchez at Sugar House. I left with Thursday, taking the elevator to the top floor of the Tower to my private apartment before taking a shower. I had already shampooed that morning, so I forewent this part of my routine, but I cleansed my face with a fragrance-free Neutrogena facial scrub before using a Baxter of California lime and pomegranate body wash. Then I fucked Thursday from behind, shooting my load across the small of her back and making her wash herself and my cock again.
Once out of the shower, I applied a Paco Rabanne Deodorant Stick to my armpits and chest, brushed my teeth with a whitening Arm & Hammer toothpaste, and washed with Listerine. My cologne of choice was Chrome for Men by Azzaro. I wore a gray Heart and Dagger Houndstooth three piece suit with notch lapels and a double button coat, a white Tom Ford dress shirt with a skinny black silk Gucci tie, a black leather belt, and black leather Prada Chelsea boots. Thursday wore a black velvet Antonio Berardi gown with an open laced back, black Jimmy Choo heels, and a white Michael Kors mink stole. I normally don’t care for her in gowns, as I can’t finger her under the table while deliberating with the sommelier, but I made an exception for tonight as she promised to let me cum in her hair when we retired after drinks.
As the Murcielago pulled out of the parking garage, a sight made my blood run cold and my vision red. A shaky hand reached for the stick, shifting the car into park as I unbuckled my seat belt and jumped from the vehicle. I heard Thursday scream something at me, but the sound fell on deaf ears as my vision tunneled on the figure in a dead spring from the building. He was fast – I was faster. Reaching inside my jacket, I gripped the handle of the Beretta Nano tucked into my pocket; with an aim of the barrel and the pull of the trigger, the bullet exploded forth and struck the figure in the base of the spine. He crumpled immediately.
His blood had already began to spill out of the exit wound in his abdomen and onto the pavement as I approached and stood above him. Reaching down, I took a handful of his hair and turned him over. He was young – possibly eighteen but perhaps as young as sixteen. His eyes were wide with fear and wet with tears, a trail of snot running down his nose. He screamed – no one responded. I dragged his deadweight back to the scene of his transgression, his legs now rendered useless by the bullet which severed his spinal column.
I tilted his head up to make him look at his discarded spray paint can. I gripped him under the jaw and by the cheeks to force him to look up at the words he’d written on the outside of my building. They stared tauntingly back at me:
GET OUT HIPSTER CARPETBAGGER
ZT 4 LIFE
This was the sort of people who flocked to the Zero Tolerance brand: stupid, arrogant punk kids who’d one day learn they’d bitten off more than they could chew. Who’d take a piss on the wrong yard and discover that in this neighborhood, no one would come to the aid of their screams for help. I could feel my dick quivering with excitement in beneath my Derek Rose silk boxers as I raised the Beretta to the side of his head. A puddle of urine flowed down the kid’s leg, and for a moment I remembered Eric Price but chose to take the high road and let everyone one else in #Pantheon comment on that incident.
In the car, Thursday had turned away, her eyes back on her phone. The moved the barrel to the teenager’s neck, pressing it against his jugular vein. I pulled the trigger, feeling his body spasm in agony and writhe to vainly clutch at the wound as his blood gushed onto my hands before the movements gradually weakened. When he died at last, I returned to the car and pulled back into the garage. I went back upstairs, had another shower, and changed out of my soiled clothes. Then I chose another vehicle, my black 1965 Mako Shark II Corvette. Then we left for dinner.
I have all the characteristics of a human being: blood, flesh, skin, hair; but not a single, clear, identifiable emotion, except for greed and disgust.
Something horrible is happening inside of me and I don't know why. My nightly bloodlust has overflown into my days. I feel lethal, on the verge of frenzy.
I think my mask of sanity is about to slip.*
I would like to applaud Jason Cash. There is a plethora of Southern-raised, proud-to-be-white, Confederate-sympathizing, beer swilling “good ole boys” in this federation, and yet Jason Cash is the only one who is straight forward and honest. He is the only one who disregards subtlety and nuance, tossing aside dog whistles in favor of calling it like it is. He hates “negros”. He hates “faggots”. Bravo for standing firmly and courageously by your principles, Cash. Adam Young, Thomas Bates, and Doc Henry could learn a thing or two from you, in the same way you could learn a thing or two about competence in the ring from them. Yes, that includes Adam Young.
You are everything the stereotypical wrestling fan fetishizes in a wrestler. You’re just like them – Kid Rock bumping, dip spitting, teeth missing trailer trash. Unlike all the ditch pigs who flock to this sport and NASCAR, you’ve managed to make something for yourself. You’re “High Class White Trash”, the type with a gold collar on his pit bull, gets his Yuengling imported to every state he’s in, owns the new Chevy Silverado 1500, and is probably eyeing at trading in his double-wide for a ranch. Go ahead, by yourself a house nigger while you’re at it – have fun, champ. Enjoy that gold around your waist; you won’t see it after ONE.
You’re a particular breed of stupid, Cash. The inbred meth heads like Salem’s sister who rep your brand may not see through you, but I do.
You’re a walking, talking parody. An stereotype. You’re the type of guy who bumps the “Country Boy Song” by Granger Smith unironically and owns an Earl Dibbles Jr. shirt. The type who wishes he could play guitar or sing so he could talk about getting’ drunk out the back of his truck on a dirt road with them country girls in their painted on blue jeans. That you even share a last name must have Johnny Cash spinning in his grave – it takes more than a surname and an accent to be an Outlaw. And Johnny Cash wouldn’t have ever palled around with a bunch of goth faggots from Detroit, even if he was covering Nine Inch Nails before he died. In fact, go take his advice and hurt yourself today. I hear Claire and Salem Shepard can tell you about how the needle tears a hole.
You mistake wealth for success. I don’t give a fuck what company you work for – you’ve earned none of your keep. What you are is a welfare recipient, collecting hand-outs from Erik Black. I can only imagine how deep you took him to receive that – to the balls? Yeah, I can make jokes too, hick. Call me the SucksGod all you want; it doesn’t mean you don’t blow. Outside of this Trios Title match you got gift wrapped by our absence, what have you reasonably done in your career? You’ve beaten up Zmac a few times? You have some tag wins? What are you supposed to be on your own?
What the fuck kind of competition is this? Is this what’s flourished in my absence? Wins over a team shafted with Adam Young is supposed to impress me? Beating another team whose members dropped out and walked is a statement? Bitch, you won your titles against a team with Dion Necurat on it. You’ve had the carpet rolled out for you the whole time! When was the last time you faced anyone with a winning record or pedigree?
Answer: three times, and every time was a loss. When Zero Tolerance was faced with the Brotherhood and even a mediocre talent like Gemini Battle, you choked. When you faced a laughable Tag Team Champions – who I beat upon the first week of my return – you choked. When you faced Pantheon, you choked. For as much crap as you want to level at ZMac for beating him, last week you choked. That was your first singles match, and you proved you can’t hang without your buddies to have your back. God help us, this team is fucking garbage.
Do you want to know why I screwed you at WAR, Jason? It wasn’t to help Flash; it’s because I was sick of watching a garbage wrestler like you shit up my fucking ring with the spastic flailing you call an offense. And yeah, you sure kicked my ass backstage. Wasn’t it obvious in my limping down to the ring when I helped Flash celebrate?
Except none of that happened because you didn’t kick my ass. I ducked through a maintenance door, and you sat in the hallway crying nerd tears of rage. No, that’s not canon either, but it’s my canon because this is my promo. Fuck it, say you beat me up in yours if you want lmao.
Ever since we walked back through the door of this company, it’s been a rude awakening for you. I am almost entirely convinced that you encouraged Freekshow to recruit a dipshit loser like Adrian Archer just to look good by comparison. He’s the fat friend, isn’t he? Heaven forbid you should be, so you wheel in some doofus. ZT may be a billion dollar corporation, but it’s through being shrewd businessmen. Congratulations, Erik Black, you made a great deal. You signed a meat-shield to protect your own prospect and make your originals look better for another match. Good lot that will do you when Cash eats the second pin of the night.
Us city-slickers will always be better than you, Cash. I don’t need to do construction to get strong – I can go the more efficient route at a gym. I don’t have to give a Rebel Yell or be a Howlin’ Comanche to scare my opponents – you start quaking the moment “The Ballad of Maxwell Demon” hits. And by the way, you can keep calling me gay, but I still wouldn’t fuck you – you’re not cute enough and have gum disease from all the Skoal. I’m more likely to shove my cock in Lilith’s asshole than your mush mouth.
The only South rising during this match is my fucking dick when I do push-ups on your body to pin you. I could take this match seven-to-one and still come out on top. Let this be a taste of what’s coming for ONE: I’ll embarrass you here then embarrass you for your belts. And I know how you rednecks are, so when I tell you to call me “Daddy” it shouldn’t be weird at all. I’ll have it all, your empire of dirt.
You will let your team mates down.
And I will make you hurt.
(By the way, Colin Kaepernick could beat the fuck out of you.)
When I reflect honestly, it occurs to me that I have never made a single friend; been with a single woman; known a single family member to whom I could feel any attachment.
When I look upon Thursday or Wade or even my own mother, I see not a living, breathing person with ambitions and goals and hobbies. Their chests may heave, and they may vocalize noise and put together sentences, but I am unable to personalize these statements or relate to them. At times, I wonder if I am the only conscious man on Earth and all others are simple apparitions of my imagination. I can only control myself, but through myself I can control the world around me.
Everyone else is a puppet with virgin strings or a bit of clockwork I’ve fit into place for a working machination.
At Sugar House, we were seated at a table in the far back of the bar. There’s no true privacy, but the handcrafted cocktails are too good to pass up. Andre stood by as silent bodyguard while David Sanchez, Steve Orbit, Thursday, and I sipped our beverages unmolested. I sipped a Negroni made with Monkey Shoulder gin as Thursday partook in a Moscow Mule with Grey Goose. The Valium she’d taken earlier had evidently begun to kick in – she was quiet and absorbed in a session of Flappy Bird on her iPhone 7. Sanchez drank a glass of Glenfiddich 12 Year with a single cube of ice, and Orbit nursed a Rangpur Tanqueray martini.
David Sanchez: So everything’s in place, correct? Gordon runs the front of the house to launder the money, I handle the shipping and networking, Orbit runs all grooming operations. And what exactly will you be doing, Jared?
Sanchez stared at me with bloodshot eyes behind a pair of Ray Ban sunglasses. I smiled reassuringly at him as I lifted my drink.
“I handle the overall management. We secure a network of transfer between Los Angeles and Detroit on my end, Chicago on yours, and Oakland through Steve. We use Houston as a place of diagnosis for each woman: determine which are least likely to be missed and which will be easiest to control. From there, we can begin preparation for breaking them down, transferring the best of the lot to Steve in Oakland. Steve will also maintain a schedule of regular stops at the Houston location as needed, paid for by my company. You’ll use your contacts in the Freight Division of the Chicago Teamsters to secure loyalty and silence to distribute the girls to buyers.”
David Sanchez: So you take the biggest cut while the rest of us do the work?
I scoffed at his brashness. Sanchez was a shrewd and analytic man full of personal pride and distrustful of others. I raised my hands in protest.
“I’m providing the capital to make this project a reality. Even if Gordon will be handling the Houston office, he’s my man and on my payroll. I don’t suppose you’ll be driving those trucks yourself, David?”
Sanchez shrugged in acknowledgement before finishing his drink in a gulp.
David Sanchez: You make your point. Where the hell is the ugly little gnome to get me another drink?
Sanchez turned his head toward the bar, his hand coming up to lower the sunglasses from his eyes and squint with venomous intent toward the crowd. Orbit leaned back in his chair, his hand not on the stem of his glass raising to his chin.
Steve Orbit: Y’all can do what you want, but I like getting’ my hands dirty. I’ll teach them bitches to turn tricks personally.
“Your free to operate as you please. Stay on your toes.”
It was Orbit’s turn to laugh as he raised his drink to his mouth for a sip. It occurred to me that neither he nor Sanchez had changed clothes from the board meeting.
Steve Orbit: If I could get past the FDA with coke-laced Hot Fries, I can keep a bitch quiet during training school.
Sanchez rose from his chair, his hands clenched indignantly as he growled at the passing waiter – a short, bearded hipster with generic brand glasses and a flannel shirt tucked into his jeans with suspenders.
David Sanchez: Do you people wonder why you got shived on tips? Get me another fucking drink and be happy if I toss a dime your way.
The help stared in awe at the insult, his hand coming to his mouth to cover any retort which could enrage the abusive patron and threaten his job. He turned with misty eyes back to the bar and scurried off.
David Sanchez: Another goddamn round for the table while you’re at it!
Sanchez lowered himself to his seat, his hand reached for the Collins glass of ice water that remained. Orbit cocked and eyebrow and gave him a bemused smile. Thursday’s eyes remained on Flappy Bird as she reached for the copper mug in front of her. Orbit looked between Sanchez and me.
Steve Orbit: You boys are cutting this close with Hellimination on Sunday. Not worries at all about getting in the gym?
I shrugged.
“I spend time in the gym every day. Even still, I’m not too worried about any of our opposition.”
Sanchez laughed dryly.
David Sanchez: I suppose they think the addition of Sarah Twilight and Eric Purse would shake things up, didn’t they?
Steve Orbit: Yeah, Six, haven’t you already beaten Twilight?
I smiled, the memory of planting my hands upon her chest and stomach to do a push-up on her body floating through my mind.
“In the Trilogy Cup, first round. It was the exact sort of springboard I needed to get my singles career rolling. It was the statement win I needed to establish myself aside from #BeachKrew. Lots of people didn’t think I could beat Twilight, but not only did I beat her, I crushed her. She hardly got any offense in as I beat the snot out of her in front of the live WCF audience. You could hear a pin drop when the bell rang and my arm was raised – people were in shock.”
Sanchez snorted.
David Sanchez: Well when you’re that hyped and gloated about online only for a man to kick you in the cunt and do push-ups on you, I’d imagine the audience had a rude awakening.
“That’s exactly it. There are some people who think this may be a closer match than expected, but the fact remains that I’ve got Sarah on a leash. All the hype in the world won’t change the fact I tore her apart verbally then tore her apart physically in the most lopsided victory of the tournament. And now she runs around saying she was told by Seth to take a dive.”
Orbit’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
Steve Orbit: Of course she was.
David’s eyes remained on the bar.
David Sanchez: If that fixie-riding little homo doesn’t have our drinks in the next three minutes, I’m going to pluck his beard.
“Sarah Twilight’s all about her brand. The fact is her brand’s absolutely saccharine. It’s empty calories. There’s nothing that establishes Sarah Twilight as anything remotely close to a threat since her return. She has a win against that loser Cameron Bankston, and that’s it. A few weeks ago, she got beaten up and pinned by Oblivion. I’m unwilling to look at Sarah Twilight as any better than him or Kaine or Archer in terms of success – she’s a spin doctor, not an athlete.”
Orbit nodded in consideration.
Steve Orbit: Yeah, she’s definitely not the same chick I remember her being. Lost her step. Became a parody of herself.
“The incredible thing is that she’s even in this match. I spent a month telling the other she’d never join this team – the outcome of the match is too obvious. Team WCF is laughably outclassed, and Twilight is too protective of her brand. ‘She knows this is a loss. She knows this will be a stain. She’ll laugh in ZT’s face if they ask her to join. She won’t risk it.’ And, well…”
Steve Orbit: You guessed wrong.
“I did. I was as shocked as anyone; not because I was worried but because everything I’d ever learned about Twilight suggested she was cleverer than this. Could she be delusional enough to think that her and her faggotty little butt-boy Price would make this match competitive? Was ZT stupid enough to think she was some sort of ‘X-Factor’?”
Steve Orbit: Well it is ZT, so…
“Of course ZT would; they thought Adrian-fucking-Archer was a quality addition to their brand. But none of us consider ZT to be cunning or brilliant businessmen, do we? That’s what they have those dickheads like Erik Black for. Fuck, for all I know Salem Shepard’s looking for another excuse to give Twilight a grope in the ring; maybe Price came along to get cucked again. Too bad I’m gonna cuck them both when I pin her ass again.”
Steve Orbit: I guess it wou –
David Sanchez: Where the fuck are the drinks?!
Sanchez emphasized his statement by slamming his fist on the table and rising, his water falling over and spilling onto the floor as the room went quiet and eyes fell on our table. He breathed heavily and angrily, his eyes locked on the target of his wrath: the waiter. His voice dropped low and dangerous. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his money clip, flipping hundred dollar bills in his hands.
David Sanchez: Now, do you see this? Do you see the fucking money that one member of this goddamn party alone has? I am the Mayor of Chicago, dining with the most important man to ever step foot in your crumbling wasteland of a city. Any of us could buy this bar on the spot and fire your liberal arts degree-totting ass. Now. Fuck that table with its Old Fashioneds and Gimlets. Fuck that screeching chickenhawk at the bar with her pig husband. Get. Our fucking. Drinks.
He slowly lowered himself as the waiter ran off. The room still kept their eyes on us.
David Sanchez: What the hell are you all staring at?
The crowd turned and began to chat amongst itself again. Our drinks arrived promptly. Sanchez looked up at the trembling waiter, his voice a snarl.
David Sanchez: And you may as well get me a third while you’re here.
He looked back to me, pushing his sunglasses up his nose as he smiled in faux-affability.
David Sanchez: Now. Sarah Twilight, yes? She talks a big game, doesn’t she?
Thursday Kerrigan: Bitch has shitty thin hair and big mulatto lips. She looks like a starving, albino Mammy.
Thursday’s eyes never left the screen as she interjected. She raised the Moscow Mule to her lips for a drink as her foot snaked under the table to press lightly against my crotch.
“Anyone whose best shots at me are comparing me to Drake isn’t half as smart as they fucking think they are. Of course I took my ring name from Drake; it’s not even disguised. She’s missing the point; it doesn’t matter. She took her name from a stupid phase of the day cycle. Or the TV Show. Or the book. Whatever. That’s all irrelevant. It’s more funny to poke at how she sounds like a fucking fanfiction character. Did she think Sarah Night Crystal was too subtle? Maybe Madame Pentagram Goddess Magick didn’t have the right snap and bounce? It’s not hard to pick on something stupid like a nickname; it shows she doesn’t have a thing on me. I mean, what’s she going to say?”
Orbit raised his voice to give a feminine impression.
Steve Orbit: Hey Jared, you may have beaten the shit out of me and embarrassed me in the ring, made a mockery of my stable until I quit out of embarrassment, blown your load in all the girls I like – (I made a note to see if Thursday reacted to this line from Orbit; she had her headphones in as she scrolled through Instagram) – and basically on-upped me and been my kryptonite in every way since returning, likely doing it again in a similar fashion on Sunday, but – uh – uh – um… you’re stupid like Drake.
“Know how else I’m like Drake? I’m successful. I’m an icon and a dynasty that everyone tries to write-off because it helps them get over the fact that I eclipse them in every way with minimal effort. Let me tell everyone how Eminem vs. Drake would’ve actually gone outside the circle-jerk by faggots who don’t actually get rap: Eminem is a geriatric who hasn’t put out a good album in over ten years and hasn’t verbally murdered anyone on a song since Ja Rule beefed with 50. Eminem isn’t this “rap god” he claims to be anymore – he’s tired and outdated and become a farce of himself. An Eminem impersonator could pull of Eminem better than Eminem could pull off himself these days. Drake dropped the most vicious, career-destroying track since ‘Ether’ with ‘Back to Back’. Drake versus Eminem ends one way: Drake sends Eminem’s geriatric ass back to the retirement home verbally, Eminem farts very fast in a microphone, and all the surburban white kid faggots who desperately want the best rapper to be white since rock and roll is dead will circlejerk like ‘LOL WOW XD EMINEM JUST KILLED THIS GUY FROM DEGRASSI GOAT ALERT 100’. It won’t matter objectively, the circlejerk will insulate him. That’s how publically judged competitions go.
But a fight isn’t publically judged. I’ll fucking bury Twilight once again and prove that she should’ve stayed gone. This is my yard, and I have a no Hot Topic mallcore faggots policy in place. Now go scurry from the match with your manbitch like the pussy you are and expect you to be, so I can beat up this KISS rejects in peace.”
Sanchez gave a thin, amused smile.
David Sanchez: A toast to Twilight?
He raised his glass. Orbit and I followed suit, bringing them in for a cheers.
“To Sarah Twilight. Who doesn’t matter.”
I have always been leader – I have always been the captain.
Since my days in grade school through college and onto my most recent stint in WSeaF, I have been the visionary and the general. When I played soccer, I was the team captain. In pick-up football games, I was the quarterback. I was the president of my fraternity, the homecoming king, and even the lead in the school theater productions. I was born with an innate ability to command attention and stand center stage.
The return of Pantheon is the first time in my life, save the lost months of Johnny Rabid’s abysmal leadership of #BeachKrew, when I have not been the figurehead. The role has not been as disconcerting as one would imagine – there are certain benefits and advantages to standing behind another and saddling him with all risks and costs. But on the other hand, this position has undermined my reputation in the public eye: I am seen as a pawn, a lackey, and a sycophant. The newest members of the WCF do not comprehend the monster they prod with a stick.
And this has done little but cultivate my hate.
I know almost nothing about Eric Price, but I can assume the unseasoned fan would find us fairly comparable. We’re from a roughly similar area of Southern California, though I live in the far nicer and more expensive Malibu Hills. In Pacific Palisades, he’s a thirty minute drive down the Pacific Coast Highway. I can imagine he likely lives in a mansion, but I can say with almost complete certainty that my estate is more sprawling, elaborate, and tastefully garnished than his own. I can also speculate that he has an affinity for fashion, but from a casual glance I can be almost assured that his tastes are too classical, too antiquated, and lacking in the modern flair of my usual attire. He strikes me as the sort to shop at Von Maur or Saks Fifth Avenue rather than immerse himself in European or independent designers as I do.
All in all, it is a safe assessment that Eric Price is an obsolete, inferior first draft of a man like me. When we face off in the ring, this will almost assuredly be reinforced.
Eric is best known for his fight with that gangly weasel Jeff Purse, who despite his wife and child is probably a closeted homosexual. Before his tension with Purse, Eric was directionless – dead in the water. They say that all great villains require good heroes, but it is a telling fact that Eric’s relevance came from facing an impotent loser. Perhaps the adage should be modified that a mediocre villain requires a mediocre hero. If there is any doubt about Eric’s mediocrity, feel free to replay his return last week and watch the crowd go mild.
Eric’s feud with Purse would revolve around the affection of Sarah Twilight, the manish woman whom I’ve previously pinned by doing push-ups on her prone body. In this act, I probably put my hands on Sarah with more conviction than Eric did during their entire romance. It is also telling that Purse is adamant of Sarah being a male; a hint on his grapples with his sexual deviance and an equally damning indictment of Eric’s own orientation. Considering that Eric would spend the entirety of this romance in complete subservience to Sarah, we can further reinforce this speculation of his homosexuality. Zero Tolerance ought to take notes: this is how to properly smear an opponent as a faggot.
When their relationship deteriorated, Eric would face Sarah for the WCF Championship and lose to give Twilight her only run with the top belt in the company. The internet smarks can take note: Sarah’s insufferable reputation and boring reign are the direct product of Eric’s inability to win a match that matters. The majority of Price’s title reigns and accomplishments have come at times of lethargy and apathy, such as defeating the aforementioned queer Jeff Purse for the Television Title while Jeff won WAR. It is easy to conclude that despite our similarities, the career of Eric Price resembles the career of Teddy Blaze far more than mine, simply lacking a nemesis with charisma and ability. It is fitting he returns in the waning hours (one could say twilight) of the recent WCF Dark Ages following Mexico.
Ultimately, Eric’s career as an abject failure. He is a relic – not in the sort of way that a Johnny Fly or an ICE Beckman would be. Those stars would garner reactions and applause; Eric, on the other hand, garners a mild yawn. He lacks relevance and weight. There are no stakes raised in the return of Eric Price, despite his record, other than reinforcing that this team has been subverted from the Brother and Zero Tolerance to another premature, failed coronation of Sarah Twilight as the threat she’s never proven herself to be. Eric Price is a prop – a pawn. He jumps through hoops because he owner says so.
You’d think with all of the money to his name, he’d simply hire a dominatrix like those Yale types. Less public; less messy.
For almost every achievement on his record, I have done better than Eric Price. I was a better and more memorable company owner, have made WAR record books, and lead stables legitimately successful. I also have a better haircut and complexion than him. There is no surprise; no challenge; no threat that was reveal with the reintroduction of Eric Price. He is a warm body filling this team for the sake of adding a marquee name. He’s out of his league.
We could call this the “Battle of the Billionaires”, but that would imply even sides. There’s nothing level about a confrontation between Eric Price and me – just a reminder of my status within this company. Team WCF would have been better off recruiting Jeff Purse.
Thursday and I stood on the balcony last night staring at the stars. I can see the river from our hotel, but I cannot see the ocean. This has been an unsatisfying substitute.
She asked me why I spent so much time staring at the sky or the ocean. I told her it was because it made me feel small. I meant it. The realization of my own insignificance is one of the few moments I can feel anything resembling a positive emotion.
I am and always have been a man of physical vices: the stupor of opiates, the rush of cocaine, the powerful thrill of fucking a hardbody, the sound and force of a gunshot. In my inability to feel, I have turned to cheap thrills and chemical movements which can ape joy and security and intimacy with varying degrees of success but never create lasting satisfaction. There is only one moment when the chaos inside me dulls – and it’s when I stare out at the ocean. When I am at terms with my own finality.
And when I am reassured that the world will be a better place once I’ve gone.
As the limousine wove through the streets of Houston, I allowed myself to be distracted by the sports section of the Houston Chronicle. A picture and headline stared back at me, and I could feel my head shake in mild disgust.
ADRIAN ARCHER BEATEN AND KIDNAPPED
Authorities have no leads
Our WhatsApp was already alive with discussion.
Jared: LOL WHOSE RESPONSIBLE THIS
Corey: roflmao not me promise
Sanch: Unbelievable.
Rabid: Not I.
ZMac: LOLFGT
Godnilla: KEKEKEKEKEK sorry wish I could take credit kuh but we should buy that nilla a fruitbasket
Price: It was me, Barry! It was me all along!
Price: …
Price: Sorry, couldn’t resist. Wasn’t me.
Dune: Odds his own team is behind it?
Joey: holy shit this nerd fuccin succs this match is a trainreck lmao
Godnilla: I’m on EdibleArrangements.com. How about the Bootastic Bouquet with Swizzle Bananas?
The mystery would remain unsolved. Thursday sat beside me painting her nails a shade called “Scarlet Letter”. I kept my eyes locked on the world outside which floated past as the black caterpillar crawled through the streets. Texas was a dirty state, full of sand and dust and methamphetamines – and not even the good kind like Adderall. We eventually arrived in the South Park neighborhood of Houston, and the limousine soon came to stop in front of the new building my crew had been working on since I stepped back into this company – just in case I’d need it for an event such as this. Photographers and reporters had already gathered around, their cameras firmly fixed on my limousine. Andre Aquarius, my bodyguard, pushed the door open and stepped out first to create a path of separation for Thursday and I. I wore a navy blue Dior Homme wool suit jacket with a leather collar over a bright pink Versace collared shirt with a tie and pants which matches the jacket. My shoes were Tom Ford Tuscan leather wingtips. Thursday wore a beige Eileen Fisher poncho which was long enough to conceal she was completely naked underneath – my request for the day.
I was quickly ushered to the podium. The audience was predominately blacks. The sign for the building was covered by a tweed canvas I’d selected from a local fabric shop. On stage with me sat Jim Thuggin, Alessandra Malignaggi, and Gordon Baxter; I’d made sure Sanchez and Orbit would be absent so there would be no suspicion of their connection to the real purposes of the project. When the applause died and Baxter finished announcing me, I took the podium.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the Oblivion Foundation cares. Our work in Detroit has seen a city ravaged by crime and poverty begin to blossom once more thanks to gentrification LOL. Our work in Chicago has seen women in terrible situations find the salvation they need though really, the bitches probably deserved it. But there is still work to be done. It was Jack London Jeffery Sachs who said ‘Let the future say of our generation that we sent forth mighty currents of hope and that we worked together to heal the world.’ It is by this mantra and this desire that we have driven our organization. I also see that Mr. Sachs is in the audience, today, and I thank him from taking time out of his schedule but considering you were knee-deep in the AIDS continent, I’m sure it was no skin off your back.”
Polite applause. The moment of the unveiling was drawing near, and I could feel a trembling excitement rolling through my body. My eyes scanned the crowd for any sign of anyone who may be affiliated with Zero Tolerance in the crowd – I want them to see. I want them to watch as I step boldly onto their territory and draw first blood in this war.
“The problems which plague Houston’s inner city and most impoverished communities are the same problems we have faced elsewhere in the country: violence both gang related and domestic, mental illness, a lack of good paying jobs and opportunities, and black people little access to quality education. However, we’ve come to Houston to fight a different problem; to lead a bold new experiment which we hope to pattern across the country and before you ask, no one is getting forty acres and a mule. That’s why I’m pleased to announce the opening of this new subset of the Oblivion Foundation. And without further ado, I’d like to reveal it to you now.”
I reached for the canvass, my heart now racing in my chest as I imagine the members of Zero Tolerance watching from home. I’m excited – I struggle to keep my dick at bay from springing an erection on stage as I tear away the concealment and reveal the screwdriver I’m plunging into Salem’s heart.
The crowd goes wild. I can imagine Salem’s eyes going wide, Cash and J tripping over themselves to hold him back and prevent him from kicking in the TV set as I parade his junkie sister’s name before the media. He can see what I’m doing – he knows what I’m doing. And I love it. It felt like I was cumming in my own pants right now as I imagine his rage. As I can taste the vitriol he must be spewing and the threats he must be making. He has to be blinded by it – he’s an emotional guy whose never faced someone like me; someone with my resources.
The press conference deteriorated into a ribbon cutting ceremony, where I’m presented an oversized pair of shears to cut the ribbon before the door. As I do so, I can imagine the line of strung-out H whores who I’ll be handpicking to shove into the back of a semi and transport somewhere their failed lives can be put to economic use. And maybe a few I can even just stab to death and leave in a Cleveland street to cause a moral panic. And with each face that disappears and each throat that ends up slit or dick shoved into a terrified hole, Salem can know that this is the legacy every crank addicted bitch deserves: to be fed through the shredder of life.
Of all the members of Zero Tolerance, it’s Salem who I’ve wanted to get ahold of the most. He’s young and dumb – he’s tormented and perpetually on the verge of breaking. He fancies himself a bad guy, but he has yet to experience anything close to the real evils of this world. He’s tasted them – he’s seen drug dealers take advantage of his family, gone to prison, and gotten blood on his hands. He’s heard voices in his head telling him perverse fantasies, but he’s yet to see anything horrifying outside his hallucinations. He’s yet to meet someone like me. But that will change soon.
Months ago, Salem had a dream where he fell from his balcony into the pool below and felt the water embrace him. Fill him. Choke him out and bring him to the bottom. And in that dream – in that veritable nightmare – he felt peace. How little did he know how stunning prophetic it would be. How little did he know that the waves of #BeachKrew and the Celestial Shark were lapping at his door, warping the wood and spilling in through the cracks. And now I’ll be facing against him in the ring, and he’ll be able to look into my eyes and see those stygian depths once again. With each blow I rain down upon his face – each kick I deliver to his ribs – each time my arm wraps around his throat he’ll be reminded of that nightmare. It will break him. I’m going to break him. And I can savor it.
What these loser weirdo nerds who fetishize their differences and status as “outcasts” don’t realize is that there’s a historical precedent for people like me to make their lives hell out of pure amusement. I’m the one who will fuck the girl of your dreams for a laugh. I’m the one who will get you elected homecoming royalty just to dump a bucket of pig’s blood on you. I’m the one who shoved your head into a locker over and over again until one day you snapped, brought your father’s assault rifle to school, and lashed out at the world. And even in those situations, when you felt you could nothing else but get revenge in the most gruesome way possible – to make your tormentors suffer in the way you did – you lose because I die a tragic martyr while you get a Wikipedia article branding you a psychopathic killer. I always win against people like you. It’s in my blood.
You can joke, Salem. You can call me “gay” or “Flash’s butt boy” all you want, but you do so to hide from the fact that I am everything you’re not. And if you had one chance, you’d throw everything away – your friends, your mentors, your family – for a mere hour of being me. That’s why you paint your face and do your hair up in some stupid style and act like a brash mouth-breather: it’s an act. The paint on your face prevents you from having to look in the mirror in the morning and confront the real you: a miserable failure of a person wasting oxygen who has only let people down. You’re not a juggalo, but you might as well be – you’re the ugly, stupid, untalented byproduct that society sent to the dumpster and wish would stay there. No matter who cheers for you, more people will cheer your erasure. Another eyesore gone; the property values in the whole country rise marginally.
The freaks will not inherit the Earth. You’ll never start a revolution, no matter how much money the company you works for pulls in. You are not like us. You will never be like us. And no matter how much you deny it or viciously speak against it, you wish you could just fit in and get acceptance. You just want that love and adoration, no matter how much you say the contrary. And you will never receive it.
When I finished this ceremony, I spent the rest of the night fucking a woman Salem would never have a chance with. I ingested drugs with leisure that he’d have never been able to afford without the financial backing of Zero Tolerance. Whereas he spent his days fighting his demons and vices, I’d embrace mine in a swirling miasma of sensory overdrive. And I’d win.
At Hellimination, I’d win too. I’d be the sole survivor if that’s what it took, but I would survive. And no one could stop me. Especially not a failure.
Before I left to St. Paul, I had a final stop to make. It was a renovation recently completed in my apartment, done in complete privacy by a contractor who has since disappeared under mysterious circumstances. I’d commissioned this contractor before I left for Hawaii so he’d have several weeks undisturbed to complete the project.
In my penthouse apartment in Detroit – a residence I only occupied while in town for business (I preferred my own mansion back in California, off the coast of Malibu) – there is a room which I had painted from wall to ceiling in vantablack, a substance known for absorbing over 99% of all visible radiation. From the outside, this room looks like a waking sleep. When I enter the room, I close the door behind me to plunge myself into complete darkness. Then I walk to the opposite side, place my hand on the wall, and slide away the hidden panel to step into my newly renovated second room.
Unlike the last, this room is coated with vantawhite, a substance whose development I had personally funded. Unlike vantablack, it reflected over 99% of all visible radiation. With the floor, walls, and ceiling completely coated in this substance, the angles and contours of the room blended into seamless nothingness. I stood alone.
I walked to the far end of this room, reaching into my jacket for the picture. I raised it to the wall and pushed the thumbtack I’d brought through to secure it in place. I took a moment to admire the lone decoration – there’d be many more to come.
There are no more barriers to cross.
All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it I have now surpassed. My pain is constant and sharp, and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this, there is no catharsis; my punishment continues to elude me, and I gain no deeper knowledge of myself.
No new knowledge can be extracted from my telling.
This confession has meant nothing.*
((DISCLAIMER: Several “buffer passages” in this RP are quotes from the film and novel “American Psycho” by Jack London Brett Easton Ellis modified slightly to relate to the character Jared Holmes. This is a deliberate choice; this RP is clearly an homage to the film and book. The passages were not used with any intention of plagiarism or to pass the work of the original author off as my own – for clarity, these passages are marked with an asterisk at the end))
