Post by John Rabid on Oct 30, 2016 16:41:11 GMT -5
ALL YOU JUGGALOS
ALL YOU TRAILER TRASH
ALL YOU HAS-BEENS
GATHER ROUND
NOW IS THE TIME
NO MORE DAYS TO HELLOWEEN
HELLOWEEN
HEELOWEEN
NO MORE DAYS TO
HELLOWEEN
DUB...CEE...EFF
(Dark) Prince Of Darkness
His feet were cold, that much he knew. While Jonathan Rabid waited for some semblance of eyesight to return he could hear a tap drip. The sound was metronomic, like a dream that felt disconnected from reality. Some time passed, Rabid's ears collected an anagram of sounds and smells he identified as the buzz of institution lighting, bleach, the regular (for Rabid) beep of a pulse monitor. His location was a hospital, that much he knew. What Rabid couldn't fathom was why there was a lack of chatter from Patients, or Doctors barking orders, or the shuffling of General Staff to break the unearthly silence.
He could only deduce he was alone. Except for that noise, that low hum that charged the air with electricity. The call. To rise. To get up and motion towards a time and place that would determine the cause of mankind.
Get Up.
Rise.
Heed the call.
Rabid's eyesight was returning, but slowly. Something must have happened. The barrier was broken, that much he knew. What that meant however was much more difficult to determine. Too many questions still jumbled. Not enough answers to guide him. Why was Rabid on a gurney in an empty hospital? Where was the rest of Pantheon. If he could stitch it all his memories back together though, maybe he could reknit the tapestry of the last few months and unravel the truth. Where to start? Probably Mexico. The sacking, the exodus. The Asesinato De Mayo that never was, and that meeting in a mid afternoon cantina that changed the course of the Ripper's life forever.
Exodus Is A Lie.
A blanket of heat hung heavy in the midday sky. Within the cramped conditions of the Mexican bar were a menagerie of denizens with dark ideas and dangerous plans. “Los Bravo” was an oasis for criminals and fortune seekers. The air ran heavy with the scent of weed and cheap booze. Whores manned the stairwells, guarding nights of cheap, random pleasures with AK 47's slung over their shoulders, their bodies soaked with sweat. While in a corner of this hive for debauchery sat Jonny Rabid, clean white suit, black tie. Unmoved by the drug cartel's and half crazed Los Zetas that surrounded him.
Rabid sipped his water and waited. Then the shape of his rendezvous arrived; a small, shallow man of vast means, but lumbered with a small vision. Rabid could feel a groundswell of anger rise from this man as he sat opposite. Nervous but focused. Rabid tipped the brim of his panama hat and smiled.
Johnny Rabid: Seth. Hello. I'm glad you arrived so prompt. This isn't a place to keep someone waiting.
Seth Lerch: Why am I here, in this shithole? In the middle of Mexico? There's not going to be an Asesinato De Mayo this year. Or any year. Fuck this city and fuck you for leaving me! You were my television champion. My next great champion. I was grooming you for a main title shot, yet you threw it all away. For what?
Johnny Rabid placed a strange puzzle box down on a Grime infested table between himself and Seth Lerch. Lerch leaned back in his chair, he thought about ordering a tequila but the establishment was too rancid for rats so he instead leaned forward and hunched his body over the lament configuration. The box hummed with a strange electricity that was born inside a dying star.
Seth Lerch: What is this?
Johnny Rabid: A box. It contains your most important choice. A choice that you can never resend.
Seth Lerch: What kind of choice?
Johnny Rabid: Power.
Seth Lerch: Over what? Who? How does it work? Is there a mini helicopter inside? Because that would be cool.
Johnny Rabid: No games. No flippancy. This is the lament configuration. It listens and provides. It beats like a living creature. Here, place your hand above it. Feel it's heart beat, it's lungs breath.
Seth tried to resist, but the call was too great, he reached out. He held his outstretched hand over the box as sights from a billion years of conquest and domination flooded his memory. Native Americans butchered for a Continent. India, butchered by an Empire. Europe, butchered for royalty and land. Back and back further, back until man did not speak but grunt, until man was just an animal that fought for tusks and fire. Until man was no longer man. Until he was just an idea that screamed to be real. And yet, even here, he was a bitter and crazed creation with but one word forming on a tongue that could not speak it.
Power.
Seth Lerch: P-P-
Johnny Rabid: Yes, Power.
Seth could say nothing, simply transfixed.
Johnny Rabid: Seth. You told the world that we left so you could save face, so you could hide your failures and conceal our weakness. Power, Seth. You crave it like a drug, you caress it like a mistress, it destroys you like an enemy.
Seth's eyes glowed green. His pupils almost fit to burst as he felt the world spin off it's axis. Everything was just too small now. To pitiful. The lament would show him the way. It would give him what he craved above all.
Seth Lerch: The lament. I can hear it. It wants...it wants...
Johnny Rabid: To sing. But not today.
Rabid seized the box off the table faster that Seth could possibly intercept it. Veins were almost fit to burst inside his bulging neck as Rabid calmly sat back. He drank his water and tipped what remained out onto the floor. Seth seemed strangely fixated by the procedure. The glassed dropped, as if it was previously held in mid air by a ghost. As it shattered, Seth's gaze broke, to turned and discover that Rabid was gone. And that Seth would be alone. So very alone. For six long and disastrous months. The lament, a dream, a day and date Seth did not know or understand. But one he feared, and obsessed over.
No Heart. No Chance.
Team WCF?? What a joke, no Tort, no Digger. It looks more like Team Wannabe and two WCF Fakes... as much as it pains me, #Panty-On is gonna dominate this one...
- Doc Henry
I NEVERS in a billion years thoughts I'd agrees with you of all bears... but you're 103060% right... excepts for one thing... THEIR NAME IS TEAM JOBBER BEAR!!!!!!
- Lilith
No heart. No chance.
- Adam Young
Hello, Team WCF.
So, here we are. Hellimination. Madison Square Garden. Eighteen thousand strong will attend to see Seth Lerch's now yearly meltdown as his company slips though his fingers yet again. The seven...six...five, how many little Indians are left by Sunday, need to understand that the mighty and unwavering cause they fight for is a joke. They are not standing tall for the plight of a company under attack. They're dying in a foxhole for a lie. The WCF is in free-fall because the man at the wheel is a drunk and a fool. This company has been successful in spite of Seth, not because of him. Week after week, Seth sits in his lonely sky-box, mumbling incoherent insults to himself, panging for Logan to return. Logan, the same sadist that spurns Seth with the same cigarette burns he branded Lilith with. That's your illustrious leader, your lord and master. The man who you fight for this week? Is Lilith in drag.
How does it feel? To have your campaign ended with one paragraph? It's that simple. That easy. This was never going to be a competitive match, It was always destined to be a massacre. You're not opponents, you're bland, tasteless horderves, served up on a silver platter as we wait for the months to roll by until ONE. Team WCF are cheap, plastic wastes of space that conjugate around this Federation because flies just can't ignore shit. And that is what this once great institution has become. Shit. Worthless, because Seth is a hoarder that picks up any old cunt off the street and offers them a contract. “Bring me your Juggalos and your homeless and your douche-bag Southern red-neck twats...” Seth Lerch, the Ellis island of professional wrestling. The Plymouth rock that sinks beneath the waves because he has overcrowded the fed with men like Salem Shepard and Crazy J. Women like Sarah Twotlight. It's a commonly known fact that when a wrestling company is on it's knees, it usually turns to Juggalos and crazy vampire whores to bail it out (J, you look like a Juggalo, you act like a Juggalo...quit crying you stupid fucking bitch) Anyone with a pair of eyes can see that the WCF is spiralling down that same rabbit hole. Into an abyss it may never escape from.
Unless we intervene and take the reigns.
Usually, in a situation like this, Seth would turn to Jonny Fly, or Orbit, or Logan to bail him out. Once, not so long ago, he had a Rolodex of boys that would fight the good fight for a cash injection into a hot chip venture, or a sexual harassment subpoena made to disappear, but those days are over. The panic button's either moved on, or found themselves behind bars. Either way, Seth is alone. He's never been this isolated before. This insecure. Because now, after six months of his company having been exiled into the wilderness of this business, he's finally come to realise an indelible fact about the future of this Federation.
We win. Always. Because class outweighs numbers. We're seven that act and move as one. We're not going to fragment and scatter. We're a seven man team that's focused and determined. We're a seven with one, singular goal, a goal that we will stop at nothing to achieve. To dismantle this illusion that we're the invaders, the usurpers that damaged this company, that set it ablaze as we scurried away with our imaginary tails between our legs; that was never the case. You have all been fed a toilet bowl full of lies that was impregnated into the heart of this Federation by that Southern fuckboi prick, Thomas Uriel Bates and his dickhead Charlemagne fetish. You're all gullible, and I have to wonder, is that because you're all just plain stupid? Or did you just want to believe the lie so damn much, that you consciously decided to close your eyes and turn away from the truth? Maybe in reality, it's a bit of both. On one hand, you'd have to be fucking idiotic to ignore the fact that when you're fired from a company, you can't just continue to work there. Yet, strangely, none of you seem to grasp this basic concept. You've all been struck by the same idiocy that hit Gemini Battle last week. The same mind numbing stupidity that flowed from his bloody, pasty face as I was beating the living shit out of his useless mug.
Last week's Slam tag match must have killed Zero Tolerance to watch, after all, their father figure was destroyed. Myself and Sanchez decimated ZT's former talisman, Gemini Battle, the man that once fought so bravely in ZT's corner, until Battle realised ZT were nothing more than a lost cause he grew tired of continually babysitting. Debt paid to Seth, and off he went. Leaving a broken hearted ZT to admire him from afar, a beautiful china doll, as Battle did his best to ignore them. But still, that love ZT had for him still stood. Their mentor. Their teacher. That love still burned. Until last week. Until they saw what we did to him. After the match, as myself and Sanchez left your so-called “Locker room leaders” broken and shattered at our feet, everything began to slot into place for me, the jigsaw was complete. I knew in that one all conquering moment why Team WCF fears the truth.
The truth is terrifying.
The truth is that Pantheon can destroy anyone on this roster in a heartbeat. The talent gap between Pantheon and the rest of the WCF is a gulf a thousand miles wide, it's wider than Sarah Twotlight's legs on a Vegas night down at the chicken ranch; it's a gaping chasm of horrific delights. The lie you once believed in ZT meant you had hope, hope that things would return to how they were in our absence. But now, I can see your eyes fade, that spark of hope is dying. The holiday is over. Sanity and standards are about to return. And that means only one thing. Go find the fucking door.
This whole Us verses them argument is a sham dreamt up by desperate people who need to believe in something, in order to make their nothing lives matter. They need a reason to exist. I say they...when in fact, it's you. Look at your team, Team WCF, look at the make up. What are you people if not desperate, lonely people, failures, laughing stocks who piss their pants and have their breasts used as a mat for a humiliating push-up pin.
Last week, Pantheon destroyed the best you have. Gemini Battle and Thomas Uriel Bates were supposed to show you the way. A guiding light to victory. Instead all they did was crumble before our feet. They were humbled. Humiliated. I know ZT, you still harbour feelings for Battle. But please. Stop crying, you knew this day would come. The lie that once nurtured you. The lie that was once soft and warm and comfortable. That lie is now dead. That safe world you used to cherish is a past tense now, a world that harkened back to a time months ago when you had title shots for simply exhaling and showing signs of life. Breath on a mirror could by you an Alpha Championship. It was a world that once opened doors to main events on Slams you had no business being involved with. In our absence, your status had risen in that shallow world, because the ocean had turned to a desert. Six runs of the ladder disappear for six months and suddenly you all have a shot at getting your grubby little hands around some gold and soil those titles with names like Jack London, Gemini Battle, Thomas Uriel Bates, CJ Phoenix, and some waif named, “Captain WCF: a gimmick that would've been permanently consigned to curtain jerk matches with Ultimate Destroyer and Biohazard in our presence. Yet in a Pantheon-less, anorexic environment, “Squirrel Girl” gets his name in blue somehow because there is literally no competition to speak of. None. It's like a Mad Max wasteland where talent is this precious commodity that's fought over by emaciated warrior's with leather clad ladyboy's chained up on the back of their bikes. (Purge, I'm looking at you).
For 174 days. From May until October, you placed your blind trust in the lie. In that shrinking, decaying world. You nurtured it, breathed life into it by kidding ourselves into believing that evaporating ratings and bored audiences are just lapping up your drivel. Seth paid you nothing, so when the gates went soft he was still in the black. That's how he operates. This whole, “I only need the Family” bullshit was to cover up the fact that he was paying us millions and he couldn't stand it. We were in control because he knew that creatively and financially he was now expendable. Last year at Hellimination, it was a clean sweep for #beachkrew, we took over the company. We owned it. I know the books, I've seen them and I know how much of a fuck up Seth Lerch is when it come to numbers. The only two things that man cares for is Logan's dick in his mouth and remote control helicopters. Everything that went down during “the exodus” was down to money, it's always been about money. Not loyalty. Not respect. Money. A commodity Seth knows nothing about. Now, think about this. When the ratings drop and the investors start asking questions, how long do you think it takes for a man like Seth Lerch to swallow his pride and make those begrudging U-turns?
“And Oblivion is your NEW World Champion”
You probably don't get it, but we've already won. You had a shot at bringing the Nielson ratings up, but because you were all so fucking lazy, Seth had to cave in and sign us back on with better contracts with more percentage points and more perks than ever before. Do you know how much I'm personally on now per week alone? One hundred and twenty three thousand. People ask me why I wrestle in the WCF while running a successful promotion back in Britain. I have a hundred and twenty three thousand reasons each week that empower me now to say, “fuck you, that's why.”
What does poor Dion have?
Is this match starting to feel like quicksand for you idiots yet? It should. This is your collective swansong. Seven of the best performers this Federation has ever seen, verses, what? There's not one of you that can stop us. Not you, Jason Cash; with your Waylon-lite act, and your Southern, racist hick drawl. Who is Jason Cash? Sources say he's a pussy whipped virgin, a nerd who lives out of his mom's basement while cosplaying duck dynasty each week. Cash likes to sit on a hobby horse during the ad breaks, munching on Jake's mint chew and shouting racist expletives at his pet goldfish. He also enjoys Monster Truck racing...his hot wheel collection. True story. Received the intel from Trump's inner circle. They also want to deport Cash to Mexico. Jason Cash has no Mexican heritage, however they think it's better for the country.
Jason Cash is one of those wrestlers that hangs around simply to get under your feet. He'll be a main-eventer. He'll never be a world champion. Jason Cash is what happens when Doc Henry has a car accident and misplaces his intelligence. Jason Cash is like that dumb prototype of Data they had in the last Next Generation Movie. Cash is the dumb clone, the lawnmower man without the cyberspace.
You keep blaming numbers, Cash, as if only numbers can decide the course of a match. It counts, but it's not a deciding factor. Know what is? Talent. An elimination match isn't won by numbers or odds, it's won through class and determination. It's won through cunning and fortitude. The thing I've noticed about you, Cash, is that you're real quick to drop excuses for your failings. It's like you have the same cry baby sound-bites always on standby, a flick of a hill-billy switch and it's; “Well, those Pantheon boys sure do have the numbers, don't they?” Last time I checked, this was a team match. Tell me, where was your team when you needed them? We in Pantheon can count on each other, so, can you say the same? Can you Cash, turn up on Sunday the 30th, and feel confident in a team that consists of Sarah Twilight, a Lilith cheerleader with Jared's hand-prints all over her breasts like a drunk night on L.A Ink, can you feel secure in an Old timer like Eric Price, who you've never heard of, whose big claim to fame is that Twilight (the same Twilight you're all supposed to be teaming with) turned on Eric once and made this waste of space piss his pants on live television. Feel confident about your chances, Cash? Or are you gonna follow the path of a certain Adrian Archer and turn tail and run?
Personally, I can see you running. I think you're a hick cunt but you're not dumb. You play being the trailer park stereotype but beneath the comedy ten gallon hat there's some semblance of intelligence I think. A spark of light that suggests that you probably already have a plan B on standby. You might claim to be ZT until the end, but we all know that rats don't die on sinking ships. You're a scumbag prick, Cash. Heroic last stands aren't part of your confederate DNA. Waving Salem and Crazy J bye bye might hurt you in the short run, after all, they're the only two idiotic twats on the roster that understand you. But at least you'll leave with enough teeth to chew solids. And anyway, you're not going to convince anyone that you'd honesty sacrifice yourself for a company that has already sold you down the river with an over the hill mercenary and a burnt out, broken bitch. When a soldier goes to war, they need armour and guns and bullets. What has Seth supplied? A stick, a couple of nerf guns and super soaker.
So, run you shall Cash, you'll run all the way back to that studio in Detroit that you say makes you millions somehow. And when you get there, you'll open a sud, cross those cowboy boots of yours, sit back in a lazy-boy and start humming a country tune to yourself. How does that one go, “Coward of the county?” You'll hum it with irony though. After all, when did you ever have courage?
Really though, you can't expect a Adam Young knock-off to have actual courage, he was made in Taiwan after all, his packaging says “Cowboy Dung”, don't pull at his head though, it will come off in your hand, very brittle this Cash fellow.
Tell me, Jason, just how are you related to Adam Young? Are you the secret mastermind behind FIST? Where you Psycho Dragon all along? You've clearly sprouted from Adam's hyperactive imagination. Only an Adam Young creation could boast being “dah shit” as much as you and yet display absolutely no fucking discernible talent whatsoever. And that accent of yours, clearly you attended Adam's Juilliard acting class for Southern mongoloids to perfect that Beverly Hillbillies twang. “Well yeee-ha! I gots ta be from tat south. Where my momma is my sistah too”, you're pathetic in ways only an Adam Young mind can understand. Or maybe you were a child of another monster? Thinking about it, there was that one phone call a few months ago that ended up leaked on sports TMZ. You know the one.
Vince Russo: Seth, bro. I have something for you, bro. I was digging though my garbage/memorabilia when I heard this tiny voice emanating from a plastic bag. “Sumbitch” he said. “Sumbitch, faggot.” Then he sobbed a little river of tears as he yearned for a thimble of beer. I heard him sob like a baby. I tore back the black plastic to reveal this mini-Austin. This tiny Test with an Albert belly and a skull and 8 ball demeanour. Bro, BRO! I knew I KNEW he was the one for you. Bro.
Seth Lerch: Vince, you're high. And I can't be seen with meta. People cry over meta.
Vince Russo: Bro, you need bodies out there, Bro! Your card looks like an obituary. Who are you gonna call on, Sarah Twilight? Dinosaurs only equal box office in Jurassic Park, bro. Bobby Cairo isn't retuning your calls, Jeff Purse is stranded in-between the cracks of a sidewalk, Ice Beckman is advertising DDP Yoga. Bro! BRO!
Seth Lerch: Okay...okay how much for this....
Vince Russo: Cash, bro. Cash for Jason Cash. I'll throw in a pair of Chyna's unwashed panties bro. God have mercy on her soul. BRO!
Seth Lerch: I've got some soup coupons for Lidl, and a two for one deal at Domino's on Wednesday. It's deep dish.
Vince Russo: SOLD, BRO!
Seth Lerch. Damn it. I like deep dish.
The line cuts dead, and thus begins the career of one Jason Cash. He wins a Trios belt, against a drifter and two homeless people; he cusses and drinks and nonchalantly dismisses the very company he has been tasked to defend. And now, at the dawn of his greatest match, Jason Cash has become Vincent Russo's grand attitude era failure, his Kylo Ren; a redneck who has committed one final, fateful betrayal on a fellow good ol' boy; Jason Cash, a Benedict Arnold who's turned on his own people. Turned his back on the WCF. Below is Cash's thought's on a former five time WCF Tag Team champion, Hardcore Champion and Internet champion.
“Seen you in the ring, homie. You only get respect cause you wont fucking go away. You're like the nerdy kid at the party...only get invited so the cool kids can make fun of you. And you're none the wiser for it” - Jason Cash.
And this is how you speak to a hall of famer? This is how you treat, Doc Henry on twitter? One of the mainstays of this company? You're a weird human being, Cash. You claim to be “one of the cool kids”, yet you look like a thirty five year old ex-con heroin addict, out of shape and out of time. Here's some free advice. Get a fucking hair cut, lose the gut, stop poking your dick into farmyard animals, you're absolute fucking disgrace! You're a disgrace to this company and to those you have been charged to represent, “ZT reps ZT. the only reason we're in this sumbitch is because Seth booked us in it “ your words, Cash. Your own words, the words that will hang you this Sunday night from a ring post as your body is crippled upon it. This Sunday, when I smash that rancid, unwashed beer belly straight through your chin with a Superkick, I want you to remember that you went up against Pantheon. That all your temper tantrums, all that salt, all those internet bullying sessions means nothing. That moment, that glorious moment, when you hit the mat with a Kingdom Destroyer is your last second as a competent threat in this company. I'm kicking you back down the card, you're going to rot with Sandy Cabbage and Johnny Blaze and all the other retards that will be gone through that revolving door within a week. Say hello to Maxx Payne on the way out for me, Cash, you fucking tool.
Who else has a chance? Not you; Damian Kane, with your homeless shelter for pointless lower card wrestlers like Psychopomp and Dion Necurat. Psychopomp, a ditzy fangirl who you only keep kicking around in a cat-box as a confidence booster. After all, no matter how bad things get, you'll never be as retarded as Pomp will you, Kaine? Your handicapped best friend. Your brain damaged caddy. Psychopomp, the best your ridiculous Brotherhood troop can manage to scoop out of the sewage this company has become. I was hoping that Psycho would live up to his name last week and use that glinting, beautiful knife he had at your door to carve you up, but no such luck. Unfortunately you're still kicking around, using up perfectly good oxygen on worthless promos that are as anorexic in content as they are in talent.
But yet you dauntlessly soldier on, Damian. Because you're driven to compete, to prove your worth up against Kevin Bishop, the brotherhood leader who's shadow you live perpetually in, and then there's Adrian Archer, the better half of your purge tag team who's shadow you also live in, the Same Archer that betrayed you at WAR by joining ZT. The same ZT you're supposed to now to team with as our greater shadow looms over you all. So here you are, stuck in the shade, the last line of defence. I can't imagine this is much fun for you. You're an everyman trying to work the soup kitchens and raise money for homeless wrestlers with thin skins and mighty beards; your world is a whirlwind of primadonna hobo's and failed cult leaders. You're the Malcolm in the middle . Not vicious enough to be an Archer, not charismatic enough to be a Bishop. Just this bland voice of reason that's constantly ignored because your personality and talent make you the housewife not the husband. You're the maid that asks if anyone needs a sandwich. You're the main stars best friend. The shoulder they cry on, then calmly forget. An extra in your own lifetime.
What do you expect to achieve in this match? You must know you're a lamb being fed to lions. Surrounded by enemies and competitors. When Seth pitched this match to you, did you say a prayer? Did you ask God for help, to guide you? I can see you in those quiet hours just sitting alone. Trapped. Haunted by all sides by knives sharpening and aiming at your back. Not all held by a loveable Psycho either.
This is a match about elimination. A subtraction of elements until the wall cracks and one world comes tumbling down. The solution that holds a line firm is trust, were is trust for you, Damian? Look around you, vice captain, where does trust reside? Is it in Sarah Twilight and Eric Price, two ghosts of the past that you have zero in common with, that you know next to nothing about. Does it reside in Zero Tolerance, your enemies, your rivals that you've fought constantly for months upon end? You're not a stupid man, Kaine; you're educated, if not erudite; you know that this is a ZT isolating you from the Brotherhood, do you honesty think that Crazy J, Salem Sheppard and Jason Cash are going to give up opportunity to annihilate you just for a company they don't really give a shit about. Look at their lives, Damien. They're scumbags, junkies, wastes of space that live like vermin. This swarm of mid 90's new metal nostalgia doesn't grasp the concept of loyalty or honour. Salem allows his own sister to remain a heroin junkie just so he has a fuck up puppy dog following him around that makes him feel better. I mean. How can you identity with that, that's nothing like...
Oh. I guess you do. So there is a common bond after all; your desire to live in a little pond surrounded by little, pointless personalties that inflate your worthless egos. Perfect, the perfect example of the Bates's model. Gather a landfill of scum and build a wall around you. This Sunday, Damian, that wall comes crashing down. With you with it. All of your “massive”, five foot eight frame is going to be obliterated under a wave of bigger, smarter and tougher opponents. And while you scream directions that are ignored, while you cry out instructions that are dismissed. I want you to remember this. You, Damian Kaine, are no Frankenstein. No Dracula. But you are the invisible man. And this Sunday, you just simply fade away. Or worse yet, you're Reek, and this Sunday? Your education begins.
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We live in a society that has cracks, stress fractures where the system buckles under the weight of urban decay and corporate greed; those that fall though are always the weakest and the most vulnerable. They are the socially awkward, the misfits that carry the scars of abuse from a lost generation. A generation that spawned the likes of Salem Sheppard, the poster boy for a Vice expose, an Oblivion Foundation campaign. A charity case, boxed and ready to ship out to the world as a emotional heart tug that bobs to the surface on CNN and Sixty Minutes. Come gather around as we remember the plight of young America. The lost among the cracks, a fishing hook in their mouth, a heroin needle in their arm. This is the ecosphere of one Zero Tolerance, the throwback team to an era when being a Juggalo heroin addict was cool and “real”. And while these bozo the clowns all grew up and then fat in the naughties. Zero Tolerance somehow did not. This is 2016, there really is no Juggalo movement anymore. It's dead. It's as dead as Salem and Crazy J will be after Hellimination. Just an embarrassment from a bygone time that pokes it's head up on a nostalgia clip show on E! Like a turtle head, a turd searching for light at the end of a sphincter tunnel. A dark lotus that wilted a long time ago.
Dead movements don't lead revivals of dead companies. Zero Tolerance is a perfect example of why the decks must be swept clean. You lance an infection. You flush the poison from the system. Crazy J and Salem are that poison, it almost feels like they're middle aged men with middle aged spreads living out the fantasies of their late nineties youth in a world that does not exist. The lost boys that never grew up. And yet they're in their early twenties...somehow. How they've made it this far is a miracle, how a former heroin addict with bones as brittle as paper can wrestle is insane. Salem Sheppard, I commend you. You're a HIV candidate in waiting and yet you bravely soldier on. Bravo. Just, remember to keep getting those monthly blood tests. Let's keep it safe, shall we? Nobody wants another Charlie Seen knocking around the place. Tiger blood can roar in a lonely cage.
Six months you've been though this door Salem and J, and in that time you two “extreme clowns” must have thought to yourselves that you knew this place. That it's walls and halls where yours to defend. Same truth for the Brotherhood I suppose. I imagine you even considered this battle to be an honour. The phone call, the walk to Seth's offices across that rancid green and black carpet in the hallway, the one that has Seth's urinal discharges imprinted upon it after nights of cheap drunken debauchery. Personally, I drink Middleton rare, that's a twenty grand bottle of whiskey by the way. Not the cheap forty shit your lord and master guzzles, still, must have made you guys feel at home. The place is a slum. You people come from slums. You live like trash yet claim to be rich, somehow, because a record label no one has ever heard of outside of Detroit has made you millionaires. Yet you sleep wearing face-paint around the house like an Ed Gein knock off. Picking half eaten scraps of dinner from your rotting yellow teeth because that sounds cool and edgy.
Like how it must have sounded to call yourself “schizo”, Salem. Everything about your life is carefully designed and orchestrated to be this seen it all before struggle to survive. You still break into seven and elevens and rob the cash registers, while earning pay checks and making money hand over fist. You sleep in a shithole, you pick up casual whores, you drive to dinners and no one remarks on the fact that your a fool wearing make up in the middle of the day while children are nearby playing. No one calls security, you're not moved along. Your never seemingly arrested. Then you return home to find that Claire has another needle in her arm. That burning tiger blood oozing out. You cry and shout to the heavens why. Then just allow it to continue. Because without it you wouldn't have a tragedy in your life. And tragedy is interesting to an attention whore such as yourself. A pasty faced show off tat help but “keep it real”, even if it costs him the life of his sister.
And what of you, Crazy J. What are you? You're supposed to be Salem's sponsor. Exactly what does that mean to you? Does that mean you go to the drug store and buy beer because you look twenty one and a man? Forget that second part, you're just as thin and as effeminate as your sister, Salem. Crazy J. The “man” with the crybaby soul. You just can't help but rage against the dying of the light, can you? Careful now sonny, your mascara is running and we can't have that now can we? How does it feel to be the Juggalo sister without the compelling storyline? Have you ever considered adoption? Maybe an abusive father that beats you and keeps you locked up in a dungeon, Josef Fritzl like. That might be a good look for you, abused captive. Because that's what you are really. You're the weaker Bella sister. The background. The window dressing. You're not front and centre in this snow white relationship. You're white noise. A distant calamity, a nuisance that's been boring the world since you joined MY COMPANY back on July 18th. You might be the fulcrum that helped form Zero Tolerance with Jaymz and Erik Black, but you've been the lest effectual. Everything you do just doesn't seem to register. People just don't buy into you like they do your now bigger, more soap opera friendly sister. Maybe it's because a man who “paints his face and wants to cause violence in the world” doesn't necessary sound like a logical and realist portrait of a man who a repitual 12 step programme would allow to be a sponsor for a recovering heroin addict. I mean, you can have logic gaps, but canyons are pushing it. And that's a turn off. You can't be gritty and nonsensical at the same time. And yet here you are, living in Detroit under a giant circus tent, pretending to be something special. Pretending to be feared and respected. Two words that are NEVER associated with a juggalo.
You two clowns can live under that circus tent in Detroit for all I care. Just make sure that you understand that the world that tent occupies is mine. This Sunday, when we drop you into pine-boxes with your families tears for company, I want you two to know that the circus will go on without you. Your sacrifice will mean nothing. It will be forgotten. Because you have no leaders, no direction, no cohesion and no fucking chance. If you can't even keep a kid off heroin, how the fuck can you save this company from our vision? From our plans for rebirth and renewal? You can't is the short answer, because fuck up's? Fuck up.
Hello Archer, I don't believe we've been formally introduced. Maybe, as you wallow in your self anointed magnificence, you feel we don't need to be. We fought against each other at WAR, and I have to say...very impressive. So impressive that you were apparently taken off the table by a jealous and vicious force. Sunday the 30th can have no hiccups or distractions, so this rather fortuitous deus ex machina swooping in and removing you from the board I have no problem with. Now, I will add that I have absolutely no idea who attacked you or what their motives are, but you'd have to say...very efficient work. Very tidy. Maybe in hindsight I've overestimated you. I would have thought a man as capable as yourself could have swatted away such a threat . Or maybe, maybe it was it the final two nails in the coffin that sealed the deal? Perhaps when you saw the names, Sarah Twilight and Eric Price come up as your “jokers in the pack” you decided that an exit strategy was in order? Shred the papers and take that chopper to the airport? Easy to fake an attack, isn't it? Plenty of developmental talent you can call upon to make it look good. Those bruises don't hurt so much do they in hindsight. Personally? I don't blame you, “oh magnificent one”. No one ever wins a hand with jokers.
I can't even begin to imagine what ZT and their Brotherhood tag-a-long must be thinking right now. Last week on Slam, myself and the rest of Pantheon were dining on shrimp toast and Dom Perignon backstage, enjoying the delights of our relaxed Hawaii vacation, waiting in hushed, air conditioned anticipation for Seth to play his wild cards. His grand plan. Thoughts rushed though our collective gestalt, how was the master of puppets going to repel these vicious, locust-like invaders? An alliance of the most charismatic, devious and heroic souls ever assembled under one purpose.
Surely, SURELY, Seth would have a trump card to counter our gathering, a master-stoke to derail our unrivalled dominance over this so-called new breed; this shallow, self absorbed, listless generation of inferior doppelgänger's and pussy whipped metro-sexual cunts, who drop salt like they're packing fish. We have world champions in Joey Flash, Jayson Price, Wade Moor. We have David Sanchez, the mayor of Chicago. Zombie McMorris, an immortal warrior and multiple time tag team champion, whose manager, Buddy Roman, is one of the most devious and cunning strategists in the history of this business. And then there's Jared. My rival and friend. Enemy and confidant. Unlike you Damian, and that chalkline named Adrian Archer; we know how to work together. We are #beachkrew, and last year that name mean total and utter dominance over this business. It was a name that was untouchable. Save for certain moments of weakness, brought about by a weak link in Oblivion and a strong force in the sentinels. Know you lead that team? Joey Flash. Know what team he's on at Hellimination?
Pantheon. No more cracks. No more Oblivions. No more fissures of doubt to exploit. We are perfection. We cannot be stopped. Now in contrast, what do you have? Where is your power base, your experience? Surely it must be a dark and terrible force. A mighty engine of destruction, ready to rain down terrible agony upon us all.
Nope, Just Sarah Twotlight and Eric Pisspants. That's it. That's the twist. No Jonny Fly, no Steve Orbit, no Hell's Angel. No Ric Madd flying the flag for the brand that made him. No rallying cry for the lines to be drawn, for sanity and respect to be reinstated. Know why? Because they've never been a factor. The Wrestling Championship Federation has, for the last fifteen years, been built upon the back of moments of greatness, of competitors such as Bobby Cairo and Dune; not some non existent code that Tommy Uriel Bates jerks off to while watching Birth of a Nation. He's a misogynist, a racist and his attitude just exacerbates the reason why things have to change here. By force. By our hand. Things must change, or the worms will continue to eat away at the woodwork. The rot will remain. The infection will take hold again. If only ZT knew what their aces in the hole are really like. Then they might understand why things need to change.
So, funny story, ZT went to buy a used car this week. Something expensive and luxurious. Something in gold with a pedigree. What they came back with was a sad, old jalopy with a lifeless battery, a broken drive shaft, and urine on the seats. Eric Price, the busted flush of professional wrestling. Glad to have finally made your acquaintance. How very honoured you must be to scurry and hide in my shadow. Such a legend is this man. His name is usually proceeded with “I thought you were dead”, and “ Why does Jayson Price allow a handy-capped clone of himself to run around, isn't Jay Price dead?”, lots of questions surround Eric, most of them are answered with one swift retort: overrated.
Eric Price is your prototypical one and done champion. He waltzed into this company during a time of change, of transition. He took advantage of a confused and stifled upper mid card, he sneaked past the guards that watched over the upper tier, he stealth fully crept into the main event scene. He wrapped his sweaty palms around a world title shot he did not deserve and then Eric Price, to the shock of a nonchalant world, skipped away with the title.
Slow hand claps echoed for hundreds of micro-seconds before silence evaded the ears of a nation. You could hear a pin drop across stadiums as no tickets were ever sold. Such was the magnitude of Eric's title reign. A reign that lasted four months. A title run that saw Eric win the belt from Jeff Purse at ONE 2013. So the story goes, Eric threw some dimes into the air and Purse just had to catch and stack those coins in a neat pile, thus allowing Eric to move in with the roll up. Sneaky chap that Eric.
Eric Price, the man that stole the World title from Jeff Purse. Te man that stole the title, from Pantheon circa 2013. A completely different animal than the one you face now. Still, the stories must fill your heart with a glow. Surely he's the one, to lead us out of this waking nightmare, this living hell. Eric Price, the man who fell Pantheon, he can do it again, right?
You need to know the full story, Gentlemen of paint and tears. This story doesn't really end with a vote of confidence. It's destination gets a bit, shall we say, messy?
Let's begin at the beginning. Eric is driven by one goal. To become World Champion and to destroy Jeff Purse. Eric's feud with “the future” began by taking Jeff's television title. Jeff however struck back, humiliating Eric as Price lost out to his rival, becoming the runner up to Purse at WAR. Eric now wants revenge. So he plots, and he schemes, and at ONE the unthinkable becomes reality. Eric Price: World Champion.
Yeah, yipee.
Now, some of you might consider my attitude towards Eric here as being a little flippant and dismissive. You might even think that I'm underestimating my opponent. After all, I haven't won WAR, and I am no current or former World Champion. Although we have members of our team that have and will be again. Still, you've probably picked up on the fact that I do seem somewhat...nonplussed by his reappearance. Maybe that's because of what came after. The end of the reign. The day Eric's crown slipped. And never returned.
But we're getting ahead of ourselves here.
It all began months previous at WAR, Eric seemed destined to win the competition when Jeff stole the glory in a split second decision that allowed Purse to run away with the title. The following month was Helloween, our match, the Hellimination contest. Eric had, in the interim, managed to “insert” himself into Jeff's relationship with Kari Kendall. Sources say that Eric bragged in his gold plated trailer that he could carry around poor Keri by her pussy like a set of golf clubs.. but unfortunately those tapes are no longer available on You Lube.
The situation made Jeff, our OCD hero, somewhat irate; a nightmare that compounded itself still further when Eric deviously made himself the special guest referee for the Hellimination match, Eric's fast three count to eliminate Jeff from the competition was a tipping point. A last straw that forced Jeff's hand. It was a three count that lead to Jeff taking the bait and a ONE match for the World Title was finally made. But for Eric, his master plan had a fault, a cinch in the armor. The name of that fateful imperfection? None other than a certain Sarah Twilight.
ZT, Damian Tag-a-long, do you guys need a time out? Need to go get some popcorn? Things get real interesting right about now. I can wait. Back? Good.
So, Eric and Purse fight at ONE; Eric pulls off the neat trick with the dimes and the belt is his. But the fallout from Eric's advances with Keri continue. It leads to a vehicular homicide attempt. It's not fatal, but it places Jeff Purse on the injury list, he's out of action. Maybe he'll never return. There's confusion and chaos. And just a little bit of Mischief. So in steps?
Sarah Twilight.
Twilight goads Eric. Taunts him into a corner because Twilight just knows how to push his buttons , the same way Eric knew how to orchestrate the Purse situation. Sarah Twilight. Poor Sarah. Do they realize, do they know that before you became a beaten up, dyed out hag you were an ascending light in this industry? The great Sarah Twilight that broke the hearts of Oakland Mack lovers everywhere when you bested a certain, Mister Steve Orbit. When you fought Eric Price.
Such a transformation for you, these past few years, right Sarah? From aloof dark seductress to trash-bag hoe and personal bitch to Katherine Lilith. A woman destroyed on the night of her coronation as champion by Odin Balfore. A woman who's career has been promise, but no substance. Hope, but no pay off. Just one night over her Team WCF partner. There's falls from grace and then there's full on plummets into the abyss. You've outdone all crash and burns that have proceeded you, Twilight. Oh how proud you must be. I bet you learn for the days of Logan pretending to be you. At lest when Logan was your transvestite lookalike you mange to win matches. Still, there will always be that golden night back in 2013. Aftermath. The night Sarah Twilight, a slender woman of a hundred and twenty pounds, bested a man a hundred pounds plus her weight. Humiliated him. Crushed his spirit and his legacy and rendered his four month title reign mute.
Aftermath, the match that broke this company's great white hope this Sunday. The man that had this to say as his parting gift before his EXODUS from this company. The date?
Slam: 1/13/13
Slam closes with Eric's bitter and broken face. Broken by Pantheon. Broken by the WCF. Broken by a wheel that turns and returns. Back to a time and place where Pantheon shall always rule. Tonight, in Madison square Garden. We return home. The wheel turns, and your team shall be broken upon it.
Eric Price: You see, effective 12:01 AM on Monday morning, January 14th, 2013, I am no longer an employee of the Wrestling Championship Federation. I am sick and tired of being disrespected by my peers, by these parasites you call an audience, and by you and Pantheon who have done nothing but denigrate me since I’ve started, I am not going to deal with your corruption and nonsense so if you don’t mind, I am leaving, I am done with WCF and with you. kiss my ass!
Your hero of Hellimination. Ladies and Gentlemen. Your man of the hour, is the coward of the decade. Eric Price will be forever under my boots because Eric Price is fighting in the corner of the past, I am the future, my weigh-in's generate more buzz than this fools entire flaccid world title run. My game is like my suits, crisp and bespoke. Eric is used to Primark fashion, he buys off the peg because he's rich but cheap. His blood is thin with a lack of style and taste. Just like his game is thin and malnourished. Eric has no talent, he's emaciated from a lack of ability. There's telethons each year, begging the public to donate courage to this useless man. And yet, each year, he still rises back to the surface like the turd you can't flush, just to embarrass himself once again. Like a certain holiday were children dress up as monsters, but end up begging for candy. Eric will arrive at that ring in Madison square garden, acting as if he's a man, but he'll leave this Halloween, begging for his self respect to be returned.
In some other time I would ride on horseback into Eric's compound, kill his children, rape his women and turn them out for tricks. But we live in a more enlightened time, and in a more enlightened place, so I will simply invade his mind, break his body and spirit and make do with snapping his neck on the canvass with a kingdom destroyer, laughing over his newly handicapped shell as he hears my joy through busted eardrums. That will suffice, for a start. But the night is long, and my hatred for this now corrupt company and those that worm their way though it is deep, so there's more business I must conduct.
Team WCF. You're not an army, you're a gift. You're a present wrapped with a frilly green and black bow. This Sunday we're going to rip away at that wrapping, un-box our prize and dismantle our toys.
They Gathered.
Rabid began to remember. The confusion. The panic as the skies opened and the heavens cried. Johnny was caught in a maelstrom but now he was free and clear. Eyes wide, ready to face the lament box that had been opened. Seth wanted power. And power wanted Seth. Madison square Garden was surrounded now by ghosts. Dark Princes young and old had emerged from the box of terrors and placed the building under siege. A yellow taxi cab rolled to a gentle stop so as to not catch the attention of the river of white before it. Rabid opened his passenger door and exited. He was followed by the cab's driver, a flabbergasted Andre Holmes.
Andre Holmes: Fuck! Never seen so many pasty white boys. It's burning my eyes, nigga!
Johnny Rabid: What did I tell you, put the glasses on!
Andre Holmes: Yeah, sure. I hear ya.
Andre's eyes widened as he ducked to avoid the air wash from a low flying helicopter, it's sleek, steel frame zooming and darting overhead between canyons of glass and stone. A familiar yellow and black symbol emblazoned along the side. Behind the controls was an immortal man, seemingly wearing an eyepatch for no discernible reason.
Andre Holmes: Was that?
Johnny Rabid: Snake McMorris. The best we have. Former member of Texas Thunder.
Andre Holmes: ZMAC?
Johnny Rabid: He wears other hats, from time to time.
Andre Holmes: What the hell is happening here?
Johnny Rabid: Power corrupts. As I had hoped. Seth caved it so much that he cut away all that could stand by his side and defend him. No look, look upon what the lament box has BROUGHT ME.
The ghosts are not fierce or frightening, they're emaciated and damaged. They're an encampment of fools, an army of fools. Easy pickings for Pantheon. A formality for Jonathan Rabid.
Johnny Rabid: And so it ends, with a wimpier. With a cry. Gather round, Juggalos. Gather round, Trailer Trash. Gather round, Has-Beens.
No more days till' Helloween.
