One Job

[6ix God]

From the Tumblr of Jared Holmes:

1/7/17

Hey, sorry in advance, Frank. Normally, I’d throw out some sort of video with a big whacky adventure involving cocaine and aliens or maybe at least do a keg stand or two as part of this whole obligation I have to WCF when it comes to weekly material before my match. That being said, I used all of my A roll on the far more stout competition of CJ Phoenix, Andre Holmes, and Dion Necurat, so you’re just getting a blog post lmfao.

I have no whim or desire or motivation to give you anything besides a crappy Tumblr post. As it stands, you have never given me half the challenge that you have repeatedly stated yourself capable of, and I’m starting to think that this whole thing is one big, long, and pretty shitty joke that I don’t get. At the very least, we can end this joke of a TV Title reign at XIII when I fucking murder you on public television and take your belt. I’m doing this because you’re an annoying bitch who seems to have forgotten his place.

Let’s start at the very beginning, Frank. When you challenged Gemini Battle for the belt, who attacked Gemini Battle before the match? Answer: ME. I softened that stupid faggot up for you out of sheer whim and flight of fancy – you capitalized on it and won. I literally stated that week that I was going to attack Gemini and cost him the belt: you made it happen for me. So thanks, Frank. I really appreciate being right. It was even funnier when we piled up on Gemini after the match as he threw his – rightfully deserved – temper tantrum and tried to lump you in with us in Pantheon. While there was a certain joie de vivre of rubbing salt in that now dead faggot’s wounds and riling you up for getting associated with us, I need to make something very clear: all jokes aside, you will never be Pantheon. You are not good enough for Pantheon. Your title reign is not convincing enough for Pantheon.

I think there’s a reason why the TV Title division has had a shitty list of competitors: you’re an uninspiring champion. Joe Smarts? CJ Phoenix? Johnny Blaze? Can you seriously fuck right off with all of this? There are only a few names on your list who have any semblance of prestige when it comes to your defenses: Gemini Battle and Jared Holmes. I’ve already explained why the former is a tainted victory; on the latter, you have a fucking asterisk.

I fucking hate that asterisk, Frank. I hate that you have the fucking audacity to put my name on the little list that you parade around like some fucking trophy, but I hate even more than you’re cognizant of how little that victory means but choose to slap that little asterisk on anyway so you can try to sheepishly still claim the W while quietly acknowledging it has no merit. How about this instead: you can put my name on your list or take it off. If you wanna toothlessly claim you beat me, then just fucking say you did it. If you think it means dickshit (which is the correct answer) then scrub my name off your list. You can’t have this both ways. You look like a fucking goon for this when everyone knows the truth; when everyone saw me put you down and then get myself intentionally disqualified; when everyone saw me bury you and your little fucking trinket.

You talk mad shit for a guy who’s been openly exposed as a bitch. You love trumping up your former World Champion win while you’re getting put under by the big dogs in this federation – or, hell, when the “not big dogs” like Bishop put you down. If there has been a recurring pattern in this leg of your career, it’s that you talk big fucking game, get smacked down when the going gets rough, then you sneer a moment before putting that shitty little smirk back on your face to start talking shit again. For as much crap as you have slung at #BeachKrew, we have fucking eviscerated you in every match up we’ve had. The audacity of you. How dare you say my belt is worthless when I beat ZT and turned around to successfully defend against YOUR OWN “BROTHERS” in a match. I’m squaring with former champions who’ve held multiple belts and succeeding while you’re fighting Jaice Wilds and other losers of a similar caliber. My belt is, in every way, superior to yours.

Even my ONE match stood heads and shoulders above the snoozefest you had with Cameron Bankston. Can we be honest about something for a minute, Frank? No one gives a fuck about your match with Polar. No one gave a fuck when it was announced, and no one gave a fuck after the bell rang. Hell, I don’t think anyone gave a fuck during the match. The fact is that Bankston is a fucking wash-up who hasn’t meant scratch since he plodded back into WCF. Do you think I give a fuck about his past accomplishments? When he returned, he almost immediately went down like a bitch against Sarah Twilight. I’VE BEATEN SARAH TWILIGHT SO HANDILY THAT I’VE DONE FUCKING PUSH-UPS ON HER. TWICE. What we learned then and confirmed now is that Polar Phantasm shows up and phones it in to get a fucking paycheck, not to offer a decent challenge. On the biggest stage of the year, one of us faced a stout rival and hated enemy – the other one faced Polar Phantasm. Now tell me again with a straight face that your belt is better than mine.

You are my fucking bitch, Venable. Your whole family is my bitch, your whole stable is my bitch, and you are my bitch. You seem to have forgotten exactly who you’re facing and running your mouth against – apparently fucking you up once didn’t get the message through. I am the best wrestler in this company. I am a fucking titan who can take any belt he wants at any time. The only thing preventing me from being the World Champion is that is’ not my turn – my REAL brotherhood comes first to my ambition. Unlike your happy band of talentless idiots, we have a congealed unit. It doesn’t matter that Rabid and I hate each other – we work together flawlessly. That’s why even when my clique is in a Mexican Stand-off on the verge of implosion, we can still step in the ring and murk each and every single challenger thrown in our way. That’s fucking domination. And that you couldn’t even beat the second and third best members of #BeachKrew last week – that you somehow slithered away with your belt by tossing your leader under the bus – says volumes about this match up. I’m glad you want it. I’m glad you’re drooling over this chance to face me. It’s going to make slaying you so much more satisfying.

That asterisk is going to haunt you, Frank. When I kick your fucking skull in and walk out with your belt – naturally just to replace it immediately with that dank SeaV Title again lmao – I hope you stay up all night going back through your tweets and staring at every asterisk you ever typed. I hope you get sick to your stomach as you see it again and again and wonder how you were so stupid and arrogant. The writing was on the wall. The proof was in the pudding. You tried to polish a turd and hoped no one would realize it smelled like shit, but I TOOK THAT FUCKING TURD IN THE FIRST PLACE. YOU CANNOT CONCEAL MY OWN SHIT FROM ME: I KNOW WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE (and usually snapchat it to Wade rofl).

I’m going to dismiss your entire reign in one fell swoop at XIII. That is literally the only reason I’d agree to fight you in any capacity – to ruin your legacy. If there was not the belt on the line, I’d probably not even show up for this match. There is nothing that getting another win over you does to my career or my stocks. You are CM Punk trying to box “Relentless” Mike Tyson, and I’m gonna fuck you ‘til you love me, faggot. I’m also going to slap the black dye out of your gay emo hair. And btw, go get some sun and eat a sandwich: you look like you’ve been living in a basement for the last two years.

Sorry there couldn’t be more to this. I’m sure you were probably hoping for some kind of whacky misadventure on my end or maybe an exposition scene with my wife or Flash or w/e. Maybe a deeper peek into the inner workings of the court of Pantheon. Nah; sorry, buddy, you’re not worth that shit. Especially not for a dumpy little belt like the TV Title. I only hope you actually manage to hold the thing until XIII. Holy shit, can you imagine how embarrassing it would be if you actually lost to some fucking loser like Sebastian Knight this week and had to come into this PPV with nothing on your waist after all the shit you talked? To lose to Dollar Tree Jared Holmes? Holy fuck, I think I’d kill myself if I was in your position lmfao. You’d look like the biggest faggot in history, and I don’t even think I’d waste my time on this match. Keep it warm for me, Franky!

<3

Jared

P.S. Tell your brother he’s a faggot.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I: The Aftermath

There was no light in the court of the Six God, save the glow of the fireplace. The throne room office of the Six God was dim – Jared preferred to keep no electrical lights in this particular room of the sprawling Malibu mansion. The fire cast a dim glow on the walls of mahogany bookshelves which lined the room, the crackle of flames faintly illuminating the leather bound spines of various books – Dante’s Divine Comedy, the Pnakotic Manuscripts, the King in Yellow, the Satanic Bible, How to Win Friends and Influence People. At the moment, none of these tomes concerned Jared Holmes: his focus lay simply on the glowing logs before him as he raised the bottle of Pappy Van Winkle in his hand to his lips for a long drink.

The Six God twitched and shuddered uncomfortably as he stood, the bags under his eyes suggesting a lack of sleep and the empty bottle of Benzedrine on the end table besides one of his couches suggesting artificial stimulation to keep him awake. The bottle in his hand was half empty despite having been opened earlier that night; the solitude of Jared Holmes was the clue to his current state. It had been several nights since his wife had been spirited away – how long had he drunkenly stumbled shopping mall corridors and casino halls looking for her? His mind worked slow under this condition; he raised his free hand to rub his eyes as his temples scorched with pain at the deprivation of rest and onset of inebriation. He hardly noticed the figure that appeared behind him.

The nostrils of Johnny Rabid’s sleek and pointed nose twitched at the overwhelming odor of alcohol. If anything were to bother him, it was not the unconscious woman in his arms but this smell. He approached Jared’s side as silently as he entered, his own eyes resting on the fire before he spoke.

Johnny Rabid: I wouldn’t finish that bottle of Kentucky straight; you may need your wits about you.

Jared turned at the voice, his eyes falling on Rabid before going down to the unconscious form of his wife draped in his brother’s arms. He dropped the bottle immediately, rushing to the pair before seizing her from Rabid’s grasp, gently lowering her to the floor before cradling her body in his arms. He was quiet; his embrace was firm and his eyes were serious as he checked her pulse before brushing her hair from her face. He didn’t bother to look up as he spoke, a low and icy whisper that growled from his throat.

Jared Holmes: Who did this to her?

Johnny Rabid: Now that is the question on everyone’s lips, now isn’t it? We have fourteen bodies. Knitted out in body armor and carrying Gustavs. There’s no sets of file numbers on the weapons – nothing filed off. So we’re dealing with a level above your usual Russian mafia scumbag.

Jared’s head rose, his eyes narrowing on Rabid.

Jared Holmes: Yet… you found them.

Johnny Rabid: Force of habit. I’ve got an idea on who to bring in on this. We’re going to have to do some diggin’ here. This is just the beginning.

Jared remained quiet, the poison of suspicion still powerfully enveloping his mind. Despite the explanation, his face remained hardened.

Johnny Rabid: I’m very thorough with my work.

Jared Holmes: Yeah, go pat yourself on the fuckin’ back.

Rabid smiled thinly.

Johnny Rabid: Every chance I get. You might want to slow down on the booze; she’s going to need some care. She’s dehydrated.

The Six God looked from Rabid back to his wife, his hand coming up once more to cup her cheek. The suspicion for Rabid evaporated as seething anger took hold; Jared’s hand snatched for the bottle as he stood, flinging it at one of the massive picture windows on the far side of the room. The bottle struck with a loud crash, the glass of the window giving easily as the bottle hurtled down the Malibu cliff beneath. Jared’s voice rose to a loud bark.

Jared Holmes: They’ve crossed the line!

Johnny Rabid: I don’t think these people care about the statute of limitations. We’re in deep water, Jared. I can almost stomach your presence to get out of this one.

Jared’s anger remained unabated, the words of Rabid falling on dead ears as the Six God’s rage swelled.

Jared Holmes: She’s off limits! She’s not like… Like… whatever you and Emily are! She’s not even like me or Wade! She’ doesn’t even weigh a fucking buck twenty! She’s not involved in this!

Johnny Rabid: She’s involved with you, which makes her collateral for somebody. I’ve already seen one of bury their wife and child, Jared. I’m not particularly anxious to witness it again. We need to get to work.

Jared Holmes: We need to retaliate! We need to burn them to the ground! I want heads on my fucking wall between Harambe and Cecil the Lion!

Jared’s hand flew up as he jabbed a finger at a blank spot on the office wall, the stuffed heads of a familiar gorilla and lion staring lifelessly forward at the scene in the room. Rabid’s voice rose, firm and stern.

Johnny Rabid: We’ll make our move when we know what the game is. Last night was off… It was…

Jared Holmes: It was a shit show!

The interjection of the Harbinger was ignored by Rabid. His own eyes were turned down in thought, his hand coming to his chin as he paced before the fire.

Johnny Rabid: …Strange. I’m not sure where this is heading.

He paused, turning to Jared. Their eyes locked.

Johnny Rabid: And that does actually scare me.

Jared turned back to Thursday, crouching down to cradle her in his arms. He crossed the room to one of the sofas in the corner and laid her down, pulling a mink blanket over her. She breathed lightly, her body still limp but the warmth of the rug seeming to relax her. Jared stroked her hair affectionately, his forehead resting against her temple.

Jared Holmes: It’s Them, isn’t it?

Rabid shook his head to no one.

Johnny Rabid: No. This feels different. Strategy isn’t theirs. There’s a new player on the board.

Rabid took a moment to watch the King in Yellow comfort his bride. An image passed through his mind: a woman who lay dying on the floor of a Parisian apartment.

Johnny Rabid: I suggest you two keep moving for now. If it was them? She’d be dead.

He turned, his stride towards the ebony double doors of the room. A sound from the Six God stopped him at the threshold.

Jared Holmes: Wait.

Rabid turned to see the Shark now standing erect and turned toward him.

Johnny Rabid: What?

Jared Holmes: What’s your stake in this? You gonna hold it over my head? Get that little glint in your eye like Wade and say I owe you one?

Johnny smiled.

Johnny Rabid: You already do. Besides, I’d rather solve the puzzle first before conjuring my own.

Jared eyed Rabid quietly, a small smile crossing his own lips in sardonic amusement.

Jared Holmes: Very well. Now get the fuck out of my house; you didn’t take your shoes off on the carpet.

Rabid’s thin smile increased to a smirk. As he stared his brother in the eye, he shuffled his shoes upon the carpet.

Johnny Rabid: They’re thousand dollar Ralph Laurens. I’m walking in style.

His eyes traced the room, past the mounted animal heads, roman busts, and various paintings of Jared and Thursday that bedecked the walls.

Johnny Rabid: Your hovel could use it. Good. Day.

And as soon as he’d appeared, the Ripper had vanished, leaving Jared Holmes to call a servant for a glass of water and pick up the pieces.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

#Pantheon WhatsApp 1/9/17

6ix: I’m not doing it, Corey. Sorry.

CD: …What.

CD: Oh fuck no.

6ix: Sorry.

Flash: lmfao i wudnt either

CD: Fuck. No.

CD: I booked this shit. You wanted it. He wanted it.

CD: Do the fucking match.

Price: I wouldn’t test him on this.

6ix: Y tho.

CD: Um

CD: BECAUSE I ALREADY FUCKING BOOKED IT??

6ix: Yeah, but that was for the belt.

CD: Wrong

CD: The match was FPV vs. Jared Holmes

CD: The belt was only on the line because Frank always has to defend

CD: Did you sign a championship match contract?

6ix: Eat a dick.

CD: You wanna get Burning Hammer’d two XIIIs in a row, fuccboi?

6ix: I’ll kick you in the balls

CD: Last time you tried that, you almost broke your foot

Wade: OSHT

Flash: roflmao CD roastin this fuccin nerd

Sancho: Ded

6ix: I fucking hate you. I hope your first baby is black with a lower case b.

CD: <3 How did Thursday like the wedding gift?

6ix: Loves it. Very thoughtful. The Thank You note should be in the mail.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

II: One Job

The sound of flesh against nylon rang out as Jared’s fist struck the heavy bag in front of him, it groaning as it rock back from the force of the blow. A second and third punch caused it to rock further, and with a spinning kick, the Six God came to rest. Sweat poured down his forehead as he rubbed the chapped knuckles of his right hand in his left palm, his eyes locked on the bag before him. Behind him, Joey Flash clapped lazily. Jared turned with a small smirk.

Jared Holmes: Enough to beat Venable?

Joey Flash: If one punch took out that faggot Omega, a think you could probably knock Franky down with a slap.

Flash rose from his spot on the bench, walking across the room to inspect the bag.

Joey Flash: Have you ever even hit the gym before this? I can’t remember a single instance of you lifting weights or sparring or ever bothering to train.

Jared crossed the room to the water bottle and his iPhone 6 which lay on the previously occupied bench. Picking up the bottle of water, he squirted the contents into his mouth before squirting more onto his face. He let the water drip freely as he picked up his phone.

Jared Holmes: Just because I don’t film it doesn’t mean I don’t do it.

Joey Flash: The bag looks hardly used.

Jared Holmes: I buy new ones when the old ones get a little too worn. Gotta keep the place looking pristine.

A new message from Thursday awaited Jared; he swiped his finger across the screen to pull it up.

Thursday: Jen has a pole in her house, it’s way harder than it looks. But it’s pretty fun >>

Jared: >> I’m trying to focus on something and you’re giving me thoughts that make that difficult.

Thursday: Me on a pole? Lol

Jared: Yes. You on a pole. In a state of undress.

Thursday: Haha what are you trying to focus on?

A drop of water fell from his bangs and onto the screen. Jared shook his head to rid himself of further moisture before responding.

Jared: I’m working out /w Joe to prep for this match.

Thursday: I can see it now with us living together. You trying to train and me always distracting you.

Jared: I mean, that sounds like a pretty sweet set-up.

Jared: I can see all my training going to shit and my promos going from long rants to: “I was gonna try to make you cry, but I have a hot wife who demands my attention. Suck it, nerds.”

Joey Flash: Are you fucking done already? You practically just started.

Jared looked up from the phone at Flash, who’d been standing by the bag with a look of disinterest.

Joey Flash: And by that stupid grin, I’m sure your wife is sending you twat pictures. Tell her to fuck off.

Jared looked back down. Another message had appeared.

Thursday: Hahaha I actually laughed out loud. That does sound like a pretty sweet set-up. And I could punish you for not training🥊haha okay that was the last one, get to work.

Joey Flash: I swear to god…

Jared: What’s the punishment?

Joey Flash: Christ, no wonder Teo beat you.

Thursday: My purple strap on. Get to work.

Jared put the phone down as he turned back to the bag. Flash stepped forward and slapped the middle of it, moving aside so Jared could approach it once more.

Joey Flash: Now put a little fucking effort into it. You’re getting good, but you’re not a real natural. And shit’s starting to get rougher – some group of Bishop’s faggots will probably be coming for you at Rise Up.

The first flurry of blows flew at the bag, nailing in quick succession. Jared stepped back, a Cliché Kick thrusting forward to rock the bag violently.

Jared Holmes: And why should I care? I’ve already beaten three of them. I’m going to murk Frank a second time. It’s not like Bishop and Pomp could be much better.

Flash shrugged, his eyes closely locked on Jared as the young man lashed at the bag with another striking combination.

Joey Flash: Your stance is shit; square your fucking feet more. And I’m not saying they’ll be a problem, but you three haven’t exactly been playing nice.

Jared spun, his elbow striking the bag before he flipped backwards for a Pele Kick. He land on his chest, rolling forward and kipping up to his feet.

Jared Holmes: Fuck ‘em. I could take most of this fed on my own, three to one. Those Brotherhood losers can sit in their tent cabins and sing Kumbaya to each other all they want. Our worst is lightyears beyond their best, and I’ll prove it when I slaughter FPV.

Jared paused, a smile creeping along his lips.

Jared Holmes: It’s fucking hilarious. Franky wants so bad to look like this big bad champion, then he gets murked by some nobody faggot like Sebastian Knight.

Joey Flash: Kid has some talent.

Jared Holmes: He’s the new carbon copy of me. Like Singh is with you.

Joey Flash: Are you calling me a Paki?

Jared Holmes: Nah. But, I mean, if those two shacked up and got Andre Holmes, would we sue them for gimmick infringement?

Flash scoffed.

Joey Flash: If there’s anything that shit in Mexico did good, it was getting me away from that stupid gimmick with you two. For two weeks, I realized what it feels like to be a midcarder. Never again.

As Jared threw another flurry of blows at the bag, Flash placed a hand on his shoulder. The Six God stopped, turning to the World as he placed a second hand on his shoulder.

Joey Flash: But more importantly – fuck Frank – are you ready to do what you promised?

The two men stared at one another. It was the first time they’d spoken about it face-to-face; everything else had been through dummy emails and quickly deleted messages. For the first time, the elephant in the room was being acknowledged. The smile disappeared from Jared’s face, a deathly serious gaze replacing it as he nodded softly.

Jared Holmes: I gave you my promise, didn’t I? You say the word, and I’ll put him in the ground. You said the word.

Joey Flash: I did.

Jared Holmes: Getting cold feet?

Joey was quiet, but his eyes never left Jared’s. They burned bright and powerful, the World deep within the black pits of his pupils. His voice was low and cold.

Joey Flash: No.

Flash released Jared’s shoulders, turning back to the bag.

Joey Flash: He’ll be difficult. Your biggest test yet. I brought you into this group because I believed you have all the talent in the world hampered by his own entitled laziness. You’ve been proving me wrong, but you’re starting to slide back. I want you to kill this fucking loser at XIII. I want you to show me that you’re a man of your word. Because if you can’t take Frank, you won’t take him. Now turn to the camera and roast this faggot.

Jared turned, finally acknowledging the cameraman who’d been in the room. Pushing off the bag, he stood front and center with the grin of a hungry shark.

Jared Holmes: You had one job, Frank. One job. All you had to do was hold the TV Title all the way to XIII, and you’d finally have had a shot at scrubbing that asterisk off your record. I played down to you last time, Frank. I gave the people a show instead of a fucking blood bath, but this time, there’s not going to be any personal handicapping. No, I’m not going to tie a hand behind my back or allow this to be competitive. You’re going into the ring – no holds barred – with the Six God, and I’m going to do you like my nickname sake did Meek Mill. And you can call that Back-to-Back wins.

No Headshots for you, Franky – you’re about to be shooting blanks. Actually, scratch that. There’s no “about to be”: you’ve been shooting blanks since the moment you walked back into this company. First it started with all of your prattle about WAR and yet failing to even get into the final six. Your fucking brother, a man who you personally trained to wrestle in your style, did better than you in a match you’ve actually been in numerous times. That’s like Ken beating Ryu in a tournament: that shit shouldn’t happen. You’re supposed to be the Ace, the former World Champion who came back and gave Bishop his first pin fall loss. And here we are a few months removed and all that shiny golden glow of potential has totally been rusted away as you have to push your own stable leader in front of a Broseidon Punch to cling to your belt. How the mighty have fucking fallen.

If people thought I exposed you, Sebastian Knight took advantage of my design. Straight up, how the fuck do you think you can talk shit at me when the guy who killed you is practically my Mini-Me? Rich entitled white kid? Check. Fucks strippers and models? Check. Mean bastard? Check. Won the Trilogy Cup? Negative. Once held the WAR elimination record? Nope. Former Champion? Negative. Had a worthwhile match at ONE? Nah, just an entrance. You lost to a guy inferior to me in every way. If I was petty, I’d be tempted to go dome the little pussy for stepping in the way of my chance to embarrass you. But then again? I started thinking and I realized something:

I kill you worse if I kill you in a non-title.

There’s no excuses for you, Frank: this is XIII. If this match was the same match as that TV Title match, the ref would’ve let me cave your skull in with that chair. If you thought a single Dolphin Driver was enough to give you stiffness and whiplash, just wait until its through a fucking table or onto a chair. But that’s not why I think I can kill you worse for a non-title. What I’m talking about is record and appearance. Right now? You need both.

You just came off the most humiliating set of losses in your career, both of which consisted of you talking mad shit. Know what I find insulting? That you were more focused on me last week against Knight than you were when going up against Wade and Rabid. Your direction and vision is all fucked up: I got in your head hot and brought you down to Earth. That’s what #BeachKrew has done this whole time, isn’t it? We tied you to a chair and force fed you slice after slice of humble pie. And maybe at first you tried spitting it out, but now the hour is drawing near. You need to win this match. You absolutely have to win this match.

Spoiler Alert: You won’t.

Maybe it has finally gotten through your skull that I’m not one to fuck around with. You walked into our last match like the bratty little child you are and slapped your hand on the stove – despite repeated warnings – because you think you’re hotter. You got burned, little man; burned bad. And yet, that hasn’t stopped you from poking the flames. You get that little smug smirk on your face, raise a hand, and let it hover right above. You get burned every single time, yet you beg for more. You forget that most pyromaniacs are covered in scar tissue for being delusional idiots. So the question this time, Frank, is what you got?

You wanna call me a sniveling idiot frat boy? You want to call me spoiled or a pussy or talk about how I’ve never beaten you? Keep putting your hands over your ears and hoping the sky will turn purple if you wish hard enough. I’ve said it once before, and I’ll say it again: the most you have on me is a fucking asterisk. I’m glad the belt is off your waist because no matter what happens in this match, that asterisk will be a permanent part of your record. Maybe you’re upset you never had a chance to redeem it, but I think you should thank your lucky stars I can’t kill you, end your reign, and make it the ultimate omen. Instead? I’m just going to murk you after the fact, bury your career, and prove once and for all that even if you didn’t choke against Knight, your days were fucking numbered. And really? That’s all I cared about.

If I had any ounce of pity for you, I’d offer it now: you’re in the worst sort of purgatory that CJ Phoenix, Steven Singh, and Teddy Blaze are in. You’re in the position where you’re barred from the Alpha Title, you don’t want the Tertiary Titles, and you’re flat-out not good enough for the World Title. There is a list above you: me, Sanchez, Rabid, Wade, Price, Dune, Corey, ZMac. AKA Pantheon. There’s a reason why a guy like you or a guy like Andre Holmes was never considered for membership: you can’t hack it with that above list. Considering the shit you verbally took on my Trios Title, I feel inclined to say you have no right challenging for it. But knowing a spineless little faggot like you? I’m sure Rise Up is going to be some gay shit like #BeachKrew vs. Bishop, Frank, and Psychopomp. Then I’ll bury your fucking stable for good. But without that, you’ll be swimming aimlessly in a bunch of pointless feuds with a thick glass ceiling above you. And the water is rising pretty fast on your career.

You know who I do pity? Vic Venable. Your brother is one of the few guys who has ever given me an L, even if he didn’t pin me. In the same way, only one person has beaten me in a singles match: Teo del Sol. But for every time they beat me? I put the boot to them four times. Yet I can’t help but think in spite of that, Vic would have actually been a challenge. Vic actually had some bite to back up his bark, unlike your incessant poodle whining. Vic wasn’t a dumb bastard who’d have let himself get roped into the Brotherhood or let me cloud up his mind when he has to defend against a rising star. Vic would have retained! Vic would’ve actually given the devil his due and focused on Knight, realizing he can wait another week for me. That is what a talented wrestler looks like, not a washed up little trash bagger from a nigger state like Louisiana or Georgia who thinks trash bagging made him HAWD-KORE.

And speaking of which, I’m sure you think your history of having light tubes broken over your head is going to give you some advantage in this match. Hate it break it to you – and that’s a joke because I totally love it – but you’re just going to get another flashback of the last time you were made to bleed and pinned down. And no, not like when you were seven and living with dad in the bayou. But close. In this match? I can do whatever I want. I could tie you to the corner and kick you in the dick until you pee blood if I feel like it. I could just have Wade and Rabid jump the barricade and hold you down as I pound your face into hamburger meat. Considering this is XIII, I bet CD would even just let me shoot you if I wanted. And I’d consider it, if it meant putting a dying dog down. So take your barbed wire bat and kendo stick and light tubes and put them in your fuckin’ ass, because you’re going down like Tiffany White at a Lilith Fair. Or in a match against Chance von Crank.

Joey turned to the camera and screw faced.

Jared Holmes: That there is even a single person throwing their hat in your corner for this match doesn’t say a thing about people believing in you and everything about how jealous others are of me and my position. Who’s going to pick you, Frank? Lilith? Obi? Zero Tolerance? Guys who I’ve spent a career burning and burying? Go ahead and rally the locker room and beat that anti-Pantheon drum, hoping to get the support going high. Then go ask how many of them are willing to put money on your win. Answer? Fucking none. Nobody is that stupid to call this match with personal stakes. No one thinks you’re going to redeem yourself, even if they hope you do. This is just another #fuccboi murdered and another notch in my win column. And hey, Seth, if you’re seeing this? If Corey awards me Promo of the Week, I’m going to fuck you in the ass. No homo.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Part III: Finishing Touches

Jared’s man sat in the corner booth of the VIP Lounge of the House of Balloons, the dim red lighting casting an ominous glow upon the sunglasses he wore inside. When he caught Jared’s eye, a smile crossed the lips of the Six God. Thursday draped in his arm, he crossed the room to stand before the two empty seats that had been reserved for them. His eyes went down the row of girl who flanked his guest – only the best danced at the House of Balloons, and only the best were assigned to his guest of honor. The man rose and extended a hand upon the Six God’s arrival. Jared took it happily.

: Warm welcome you got me.

Jared grinned behind sunglasses of his own.

Jared Holmes: Only the best. I’m glad you came.

After they released the handshake, Jared pulled Thursday’s chair out for her. She stared in wide-eyed wonderment as the guest took her hand and kissed the back of it lightly.

: The beautiful Mrs. Holmes. A pleasure.

Thursday blushed, leaving her hand to linger in his for a moment before drawing back.

Thursday Holmes: The pleasure is mine. Jared speaks so fondly of you.

He grinned as he raised his goblet to his lips and took a long drink, chasing the liquid with a puff of the blunt he’d left in the ash tray.

: Honored. So, Six-G, onto business?

Jared nodded firmly, reaching out to pluck the champagne from the ice bucket and pouring a it into the goblet before himself before filling Thursday’s flute.

Jared Holmes: I heard Wade already reached out to you. Is that correct?

: It is. I must say, your request was… surprising. But I’m intrigued.

Jared Holmes: Things are getting rough for us. Enemies, sir. They’re closing in like the fuckin’ wolves, and a group of Slovenians can only do so much. We need resources. Someone powerful and savvy. You have that in spades – you were a fucking inspiration to me.

Jared reached forward to the gold cigarette case inlaid in the table before him. He opened it with the flick of his finger before drawing out one of the Bali Hai clove cigarettes and placing it in his lips. Thursday was quick to light the smoke for him.

Jared Holmes: With you helping us, I can’t imagine anyone stepping to us. It’d rock this company to its core. If my enemies would be scared…?

Jared grinned like a shark, the light dancing off his lenses and making them glow like Satan’s mirror ball.

Jared Holmes: Just imagine how our friends would feel. You know who I’m talking about.

The guest chuckled.

: Yeah, I know. I’m curious about his reaction, truth be told. We haven’t looked face-to-face in a long time.

The guest stared at Jared behind mirror lenses. He smiled wolfishly.

: So. I think there ain’t much business to be done here. I think we’re on the same page and this is all formality.

Jared Holmes: I agree.

: You want me on your side?

The guest extended a hand, his fingers glittering with rings. As the extended hand stared at Jared, palm down and fingers bent slightly, a memory ran through his head: sitting in Joey’s kitchen before Nightmare on South Street after Pantheon was being formed and being asked to bend the knee. He remembered the feeling of insult – that despite the work he’d done, he was being asked to kneel. His eyes went from the face of his guest to the hand. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to the ring.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dear Corey Black,

I don’t know why I feel compelled to write you this letter. Maybe because I don’t think we’ve ever totally been on the same page. Maybe because you probably feel (understandably) worried that the new generation is threatening once more to be the main attraction and don’t want to end up an irrelevant afterthought like Jayson Price, even if he is in our stable. It certainly is not because you have some sort of sway over who wins and loses in this match – that would be absurd.

But for real for a moment: I want to thank you.

Our relationship has ranged from openly acrimonious to cordial. Over a year ago, I had kicked you in the testicles and fired you. Then I did the same thing to that faggot Jeff Purse. You responded by putting me headfirst through a flaming table. I guess what I’m trying to say is “my bad”. Maybe it’s appropriate that I’m participating in XIII after I tried killing it – it’s the ultimate irony. I’m also going to fucking murder this loser FPV for you as a retirement present. Anyway, what I mean is that I’ve been honored to spend these last few months working with you, whether that was hitting the gym or us mutually ridiculing racist losers like Thomas Bates. You got screwed, never forget that.

There are still some things we don’t see eye to eye on. I think Metallica is one of the faggiest bands ever – I would say Dave Mustaine was the smart one for getting out of that terrible outfit, but he’s now a gay Jesus freak. Maybe Thrash is just horrible as a whole genre; the ugly bastard child of heavy metal and Dungeons and Dragons that hasn’t come out of the closet like its cousin Power Metal. On the other hand, there are things we totally see eye-to-eye on. For instance, I’m sure we both think Sarah Twilight is an absolute insult to Jason Vorhees with all the dick-riding she does of him. Also, when it comes to Guardians of the Galaxy, neither of our favorite character is Jay Omega.

In this retirement tour you have planned, you’ve already signed up Flash, Sanchez, and a bunch of other guys. Some of these guys, like Sanchez, want a piece out of sheer narcissism – they have absolutely no history with you and just want the notch on the belt. On the other hand, you and I have never stepped in the ring, save a brawl after XIII two years ago.

We need to change that.

I’m throwing my hat in the ring, Corey. You and me. You’ve given me a Burning Hammer: I owe you the favor of a Dolphin Driver. You pick the when, the where, the stipulation – I don’t care.

This is the battle of old vs. young. It’s like if you faced Howard Black, but I’m way better looking, taller, and don’t have an annoying family. I’ve also never jobbed to Zione Reddington lmfao what a loser.

Let’s do it. I’m going to show you what I’m capable of when I give Frank a very-late term abortion, then it’s on you to sign on the line.

Your Brother-In-Arms,

Jared Holmes