Post by John Rabid on Jan 13, 2017 16:52:59 GMT -5
In the absence of an effective general mythology, each of us has his private, unrecognized, rudimentary, yet secretly potent Pantheon of dreams.
- Joseph Campbell
July, 2016. Two foils crossed and sparked as they met in the Scandinavian Castle's great hall. Dethfort was gripped by a furious duel as a pair of quick witted fencers clashed; their lightening fast movements unperturbed by their masks and traditional white fie outfits as they feverishly circled each other on a dimly lit balcony. A mistimed lunge and slash by the student's rapier clips the pedestal of a priceless Ming dynasty vase, which rocks precariously. The teacher wastes no time however in attempting to take advantage by charging forward as the antique is about to collapse, catching the vase with the tip of his sword and returning it with delicate ease to an upright position before continuing the attack.
Both men edge dangerously close now to the maw of a purple carpeted staircase; an opulent centerpiece of the room that's of bold, medieval construction; it's winding curvature leading to a black marbled floor below.
“B-A-L-A...
...N-C-E. Yeah, I know!”
Student and teacher mirror the actions of the other, remaining parallel as they carefully descend, their footwork as complex and as imperative as any boxing match. With a few steps left, the fierce contest gains added dimension and shape beneath the harsh glow of a burning bright crystal chandelier.
“Don't over commit! Give yourself space to anticipate!”
“Yeah, got it!”
“Watch your point in line position! Keep that arm straight!”
Friendly competition within fencing circles is known, ironically, as “an assault”; in this case the assault is contested between the experienced and wryly Johnny Rabid and his student, “The Jomsviking" of Professional Wrestling, Corey Black. The clatter of their foils struck with a simpatico of focused action. Rabid nodded in approval as Corey shifted his stance, now leading with his right leg as he fainted a thrust before parrying a forced repost from Rabid.
Johnny Rabid: Good...much better.
Corey was indeed a fast earner. Rabid had expected some natural ability considering Black's global experience in various wrestling styles but expectations were currently being exceeded at a frightening rate. There was a drive and determination in Corey that Rabid had rarely seen him display in years. Not since the full fury of Creeping Death was last unleashed upon the world in 2013.
Interesting. When Rabid was first contacted a month ago, he was enjoying a freshly concocted Mai Tai (with a dash too much white rum) on a sun drenched Polynesian beach in Wikiki. A week later, and his family had traded Hawaiian bliss for the cold Gothic brutality of a Viking fortress. Somewhere in between all that there was Corey Black; arranging flights, writing a sizable check for tutelage, and the promise of an “intriguing proposition”. Rabid had enjoyed his sabbatical away from the business, but the ever widening distance between matches was beginning to drive him insane.
Johnny Rabid: Now remember, Bates uses the same faint before striking with the boot to throw his opponents off guard. Never hesitate to strike. It only takes a split second of hesitation, “Mister Volz”, to cost you everything.
Corey Black: If I can think like him...
Corey lunged forward, a final gambit as he aimed for Rabid's throat.
Parried. Corey's foil was removed from his shocked grasp by a quick counter as the sword flew across the room, it's tip lancing a nearby Marcus Larson original watercolor, a Fjord caught under moonlight.
Johnny Rabid: Then you can beat him. Soon. Very soon. But not yet.
Corey removed his mask as he inspected the damage to the painting. Grunting a low tut of disapproval.
Corey Black: So it would seem. Damn it, the restoration will cost me thousands.
Rabid smirked, his smug expression free once again to annoy the world as the mesh of the fencing mask was gone. He tilted his head to one side, then patted his hand on Corey's shoulder.
Johnny Rabid: I wouldn't worry too much.
Corey Black: Oh, and whys that?
Johnny Rabid: I have the original on display in London. The paintings a fake.
Corey Black: Fake?
Johnny Rabid: See the way the light strikes the cloud cover? It's slightly too far to the left. It's easy to miss, unless you have a trained eye for these things. Crooked brush strokes, fool's gold, reformed wresting factions that lack the quality of their predecessors. It's all in the details. All in the finite. You called me here because this time you want to get it right.
Corey Black: So, no more pretense. I take it you knew from the beginning?
Johnny Rabid: I knew the moment my foot stepped off the plane in Copenhagen. I knew on the flight. I knew when you Skyped me in Hawaii. But that was never the puzzle, was it? You didn't ask me here to unravel a problem named, Bates. This was about Pantheon. About a reformation. While the master was teaching the student...
Corey Black: ...The student studied the master. I needed to know if Flash was right about you.
Rabid raised an eyebrow.
Johnny Rabid: Flash? HA! Now there's a turn up. So, what are we saying here? Flash, you and...
Corey Black: Champions, Mister Rush. I need the best this time. I intend to root out a problem. An infestation. That requires a certain group of individuals with a certain mindset. I formed Pantheon once to bring order to my Federation, to create stability and ensure standards. But It failed. The DRG, Imperium, then #beachkrew. I sent out students, children like Jay Omega and Alex Richards, when men were required. Do you know what it feels like to see a dream crumble beneath your feet, John? I've bleed under the WCF banner across continents and through fourteen bloody years; my body is scared with the memories of victories won knee deep in pain. Of toppling Gods and crushing careers. It's what I'm good at. I'm a destroyer. I take things apart. Title reigns, dreams, people; it makes no difference to me. And that takes more than dedication, John. I know that now. And I accept it. It takes a killer's instinct. Our sport can be art, but for art to thrive? There has to be something ugly at it's center.
Johnny Rabid: So, in steps me? I'm flattered. Truly.
Two sets of heels echoed in syncopation upon the marble floor as they approached. Nikki Venus and Emily Rush were dressed in riding gear, slightly out of breath with patches of mud across their knee high boots, having rode quickly on horseback to beat the approaching sunset.
Nikki Venus: I can't believe it's been three whole weeks and neither of you plucked an eye out.
Emily Rush: Truly, we are in the presence of a miracle.
Corey Black: You want to see miracles, Miss Rush? Follow me.
Dethfort at sunset is an orange furnace of exquisite wonder. An elevated view over a burning world. Beneath the castle rests a thriving village; at this late afternoon hour the towns square is quite and peaceful, save for the odd barking dachshund keeping guard over the leftovers of a grocery stall. An old man, riding his push bike home from a hard day's fishing freewheels across cobbled streets. It's idyllic. Tranquil.
Corey, Rabid, Nikki and Emily look out across the Castle's terrace. An icy gust of wind from the east seems inconsequential while the world burns. The fire giving way to the blue emptiness of night.
Corey Black: You see these lights? A few years ago this village was a relic of the stone age. They had no main electrical supply; just a few ancient generators that would regularly sort out. I would look out over this terrace, and see their desperation. Their hardship. And I knew it had to stop. So I invested. I brought in the best contractors from the mainland and set them to work. In a few short months, a whole new infrastructure grew. Every home had power. Heating. I breathed life into this place, John. I gave it hope.
Johnny Rabid: Very admirable.
Corey Black: Now, Imagine this town infested with rats. A river of them that gnaw and bite and scratch, a nest that spreads it's disease to the old and the young. What would you do with a town like that, John? How would you deal with such a problem?
Johnny Rabid: If you can't save the past, then you burn it away and forge a new legacy.
Corey Black: That's what I want you to do, John. To follow me back. To the WCF. Burn it down for me, John. Burn it all down. Burn the Federation to it's core. Kill that patient, cure the disease. And when the smoke clears?
Johnny Rabid: We build again.
Corey nodded.
Corey Black: Yes, we build again. Have you ever been to the Pantheon in Rome, John?
Johnny Rabid: Once or twice. I like to catch the end of summer there; when the rain clouds roll in and the lightning forks over the city. If you stand inside the Church as sun sets, you can see the storms gather through the eye of the Occulus above. As they clash, It blinds you with searing rage, the thunder reverberating across the dome roof with a deafening roar while you sense yourself in the presence of something greater. Every time I visit I can feel my hands leave my side and reach out.
Nikki Venus: To God?
Johnny Rabid: No, not God. Power. Absolute fucking power.
- Joseph Campbell
OCCULUS
July, 2016. Two foils crossed and sparked as they met in the Scandinavian Castle's great hall. Dethfort was gripped by a furious duel as a pair of quick witted fencers clashed; their lightening fast movements unperturbed by their masks and traditional white fie outfits as they feverishly circled each other on a dimly lit balcony. A mistimed lunge and slash by the student's rapier clips the pedestal of a priceless Ming dynasty vase, which rocks precariously. The teacher wastes no time however in attempting to take advantage by charging forward as the antique is about to collapse, catching the vase with the tip of his sword and returning it with delicate ease to an upright position before continuing the attack.
Both men edge dangerously close now to the maw of a purple carpeted staircase; an opulent centerpiece of the room that's of bold, medieval construction; it's winding curvature leading to a black marbled floor below.
“B-A-L-A...
...N-C-E. Yeah, I know!”
Student and teacher mirror the actions of the other, remaining parallel as they carefully descend, their footwork as complex and as imperative as any boxing match. With a few steps left, the fierce contest gains added dimension and shape beneath the harsh glow of a burning bright crystal chandelier.
“Don't over commit! Give yourself space to anticipate!”
“Yeah, got it!”
“Watch your point in line position! Keep that arm straight!”
Friendly competition within fencing circles is known, ironically, as “an assault”; in this case the assault is contested between the experienced and wryly Johnny Rabid and his student, “The Jomsviking" of Professional Wrestling, Corey Black. The clatter of their foils struck with a simpatico of focused action. Rabid nodded in approval as Corey shifted his stance, now leading with his right leg as he fainted a thrust before parrying a forced repost from Rabid.
Johnny Rabid: Good...much better.
Corey was indeed a fast earner. Rabid had expected some natural ability considering Black's global experience in various wrestling styles but expectations were currently being exceeded at a frightening rate. There was a drive and determination in Corey that Rabid had rarely seen him display in years. Not since the full fury of Creeping Death was last unleashed upon the world in 2013.
Interesting. When Rabid was first contacted a month ago, he was enjoying a freshly concocted Mai Tai (with a dash too much white rum) on a sun drenched Polynesian beach in Wikiki. A week later, and his family had traded Hawaiian bliss for the cold Gothic brutality of a Viking fortress. Somewhere in between all that there was Corey Black; arranging flights, writing a sizable check for tutelage, and the promise of an “intriguing proposition”. Rabid had enjoyed his sabbatical away from the business, but the ever widening distance between matches was beginning to drive him insane.
Johnny Rabid: Now remember, Bates uses the same faint before striking with the boot to throw his opponents off guard. Never hesitate to strike. It only takes a split second of hesitation, “Mister Volz”, to cost you everything.
Corey Black: If I can think like him...
Corey lunged forward, a final gambit as he aimed for Rabid's throat.
Parried. Corey's foil was removed from his shocked grasp by a quick counter as the sword flew across the room, it's tip lancing a nearby Marcus Larson original watercolor, a Fjord caught under moonlight.
Johnny Rabid: Then you can beat him. Soon. Very soon. But not yet.
Corey removed his mask as he inspected the damage to the painting. Grunting a low tut of disapproval.
Corey Black: So it would seem. Damn it, the restoration will cost me thousands.
Rabid smirked, his smug expression free once again to annoy the world as the mesh of the fencing mask was gone. He tilted his head to one side, then patted his hand on Corey's shoulder.
Johnny Rabid: I wouldn't worry too much.
Corey Black: Oh, and whys that?
Johnny Rabid: I have the original on display in London. The paintings a fake.
Corey Black: Fake?
Johnny Rabid: See the way the light strikes the cloud cover? It's slightly too far to the left. It's easy to miss, unless you have a trained eye for these things. Crooked brush strokes, fool's gold, reformed wresting factions that lack the quality of their predecessors. It's all in the details. All in the finite. You called me here because this time you want to get it right.
Corey Black: So, no more pretense. I take it you knew from the beginning?
Johnny Rabid: I knew the moment my foot stepped off the plane in Copenhagen. I knew on the flight. I knew when you Skyped me in Hawaii. But that was never the puzzle, was it? You didn't ask me here to unravel a problem named, Bates. This was about Pantheon. About a reformation. While the master was teaching the student...
Corey Black: ...The student studied the master. I needed to know if Flash was right about you.
Rabid raised an eyebrow.
Johnny Rabid: Flash? HA! Now there's a turn up. So, what are we saying here? Flash, you and...
Corey Black: Champions, Mister Rush. I need the best this time. I intend to root out a problem. An infestation. That requires a certain group of individuals with a certain mindset. I formed Pantheon once to bring order to my Federation, to create stability and ensure standards. But It failed. The DRG, Imperium, then #beachkrew. I sent out students, children like Jay Omega and Alex Richards, when men were required. Do you know what it feels like to see a dream crumble beneath your feet, John? I've bleed under the WCF banner across continents and through fourteen bloody years; my body is scared with the memories of victories won knee deep in pain. Of toppling Gods and crushing careers. It's what I'm good at. I'm a destroyer. I take things apart. Title reigns, dreams, people; it makes no difference to me. And that takes more than dedication, John. I know that now. And I accept it. It takes a killer's instinct. Our sport can be art, but for art to thrive? There has to be something ugly at it's center.
Johnny Rabid: So, in steps me? I'm flattered. Truly.
Two sets of heels echoed in syncopation upon the marble floor as they approached. Nikki Venus and Emily Rush were dressed in riding gear, slightly out of breath with patches of mud across their knee high boots, having rode quickly on horseback to beat the approaching sunset.
Nikki Venus: I can't believe it's been three whole weeks and neither of you plucked an eye out.
Emily Rush: Truly, we are in the presence of a miracle.
Corey Black: You want to see miracles, Miss Rush? Follow me.
≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈
Dethfort at sunset is an orange furnace of exquisite wonder. An elevated view over a burning world. Beneath the castle rests a thriving village; at this late afternoon hour the towns square is quite and peaceful, save for the odd barking dachshund keeping guard over the leftovers of a grocery stall. An old man, riding his push bike home from a hard day's fishing freewheels across cobbled streets. It's idyllic. Tranquil.
Corey, Rabid, Nikki and Emily look out across the Castle's terrace. An icy gust of wind from the east seems inconsequential while the world burns. The fire giving way to the blue emptiness of night.
Corey Black: You see these lights? A few years ago this village was a relic of the stone age. They had no main electrical supply; just a few ancient generators that would regularly sort out. I would look out over this terrace, and see their desperation. Their hardship. And I knew it had to stop. So I invested. I brought in the best contractors from the mainland and set them to work. In a few short months, a whole new infrastructure grew. Every home had power. Heating. I breathed life into this place, John. I gave it hope.
Johnny Rabid: Very admirable.
Corey Black: Now, Imagine this town infested with rats. A river of them that gnaw and bite and scratch, a nest that spreads it's disease to the old and the young. What would you do with a town like that, John? How would you deal with such a problem?
Johnny Rabid: If you can't save the past, then you burn it away and forge a new legacy.
Corey Black: That's what I want you to do, John. To follow me back. To the WCF. Burn it down for me, John. Burn it all down. Burn the Federation to it's core. Kill that patient, cure the disease. And when the smoke clears?
Johnny Rabid: We build again.
Corey nodded.
Corey Black: Yes, we build again. Have you ever been to the Pantheon in Rome, John?
Johnny Rabid: Once or twice. I like to catch the end of summer there; when the rain clouds roll in and the lightning forks over the city. If you stand inside the Church as sun sets, you can see the storms gather through the eye of the Occulus above. As they clash, It blinds you with searing rage, the thunder reverberating across the dome roof with a deafening roar while you sense yourself in the presence of something greater. Every time I visit I can feel my hands leave my side and reach out.
Nikki Venus: To God?
Johnny Rabid: No, not God. Power. Absolute fucking power.
≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈
A BRIEF HISTORY OF ALEX
≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈
A few years back it would have been a clattering, broken down stagecoach that gathered the approaching dust storm upon the horizon; manned by some mid-card pack animals decked out in weather beaten backstories and hackneyed shoots. Desperate, toothless near-do-wells out to make a quick buck on the far side of the old west. But times had changed in the pan handle since then. The stage had been replaced by the steam train and the transcontinental railroad. Progress, the dirt sheets called it. A new golden age of wrestling domination.
Plumes of grey black smoke bleed from the thundering machine as it approached. It's arrival was imminent as a single passenger sat in it's one and only carriage. The wooden panelled interior had a foul musk of home brewed liqueur and the sharpness of mental institution bleach. For no matter where the hulking shape of the Arch Duke would travel, the past would never be that far behind. Richards leaned forward; his old, rusting six shooter irons cutting a hurt into that dusty old jacket of his as he peered though a window, out into an angry wake of mist to discover his final destination. Before him at the station was the pinnacle of civilization. The greatest show on Earth. An iconic location that cast a deadly shadow across the free world and held it stubbornly in place with an iron grip.
They called that shadow, Pantheon.
No tumble weeds here, not like the dark times of '15. No, this town was on the verge of an upgrade. Consider this a city in all but name. Rising skeletons of wood and mortar cut a foreboding and brilliant new skyline as the lumbering figure of the Arch Duke disembarked the train. He eyes saw a broken world he once knew reinvigorated. Reborn without him. The scares of the Mexican civil war were healing. New trade from east was bringing opportunists and new found prosperity with it. The Arch Duke felt a sensation he never knew before as the town's Undertaker, a certain Mister Danny McMorris measured up Alex for a new pine wood home.
“#LOLZ.FGT.EXE.”, uttered the Mortician. The Arch Duke gulped at the strange murmurings. A dryness had overtaken him suddenly as the hands of the clock tower closed ever sooner to XIII. Fate was near, he could taste it's electric presence in the air. Beckoning onward to the sound of laughter and commotion emanating from the Sealyfe Saloon.
Inside, Johnny Rabid, the fastest draw in the West, was sat at the poker table holding aces as per usual. A tap on Johnny's plush velvet trench coat was followed by a whisper into his ear by deputy Andre Holmes, who informed him that the Arch Duke had indeed arrived. On time. And suitably “attired” for the occasion.
Johnny Rabid: Still carrying the same old six shooters?
Andre nodded with a smirk.
Rabid smiled. He exhaled a plume of black tar cigar smoke into the faces of the ZT boys and called the hand. A chorus of disapproval was shrugged off as Andre removed his Stetson and gathered the chips for Rabid to cash out later. After all, this was a formality. No need to rush to the bank. Especially since he owned it.
Outside, the Arch Duke checked the chambers of his twin Smith and Westerns that had been his totems since those first tentative steps in the boots of a gunslinger. The weapons were tired and worn. Back in their heyday these once deadly smoke wagons could fell giants, but now?
Tick...Tock...
The hands moved closer. Footsteps followed them as Rabid pulled tight his set of black leather gloves and stood dead centre in the middle of Pantheon main street, straightening his black bowler hat as he did so.
Johnny Rabid: I see you're on time. Good. I hate hanging around to kill a man. I find a lack of punctuality to be a sin. Very uncouth.
Three minutes to XIII.
Johnny Rabid: I always wondered, what's in Zim-Quelia anyways? Never mind, It doesn't matter. After today, none of it will matter. You'll be buried on the hill with all the rest. This town will thrive and forget you. I will forget you. You're just a number, and I've never been good with remembering statistics. They bore me.
Two minutes to XIII
Johnny Rabid: See the town hall? I can spy Mayor Black from here. He's checking his fob watch now as we speak. He wants this done quick. Painless. I guess that's why he asked me. I don't like Torture. The act, not the guy. Personally? I think Tort is great. You like Tort? Don't answer that, It doesn't matter.
One minute to XIII
Johnny Rabid: Sixty seconds now, I can hear your heart beating overtime. The fear bubbling, rising. There's no need. Nothing you can do now will avoid this. All your pain shall be history. All your anguish, tamed. I want you to know something before I pull the trigger---
BAM!
...The Arch Duke fell. It was over.
Johnny Rabid: But there just wasn't enough time.
FIN.
A BRIEF HISTORY OF ALEX
Rarely do I start one of these blogs with a compassionate word. Today however, since I'm about to be knighted by the Queen, I'll make an exception. Consider it a Royal pardon if you will. First, I'll start with a wish, a dream. Something nice to say about my opponent at XIII, an event which occurs this Friday night at the Minnesota outhouse and eatery for the delectation of the masses. (all nine hundred of the blighter's)
So, this complementary gift for Alex. I've been thinking long and hard about this. Ever since the match was made. Something endearing, yet useful. I hate useless presents myself, so it has to be a nugget of wisdom. A learning experience. And then it struck me. As clear as day. The wish, it came to me.
Here it is.
Ready?
Alex, I wish you were Uncle Fester.
You should change your name. You should adopt every aspect of his persona. Own up, you look like him. You have that same hunched, over wound body language of his. You're monochrome, he's monochrome. You're a try hard kooky character, and so is Fester. I just wish you had all the fringe benefits that went along with the look. The more interesting brother in Gomez Addams. The strangely alluring sister in law in Morticia. The cool music to click our fingers to. The jet black sense of humor. The strangely Gothic world they inhabit. I wish you were Uncle Fester, Alex. Because then you'd be interesting. Useful. You in my world (and this is MY world) would then serve a purpose. But, you're not. You cherry picked one aspect of a supporting character in a Charles Addams comic strip and threw all the good stuff away. But that's always been your modus operandi, hasn't it? Steal a slice of another's personality and spread it over the mess that you were born with. Like caviar, layered liberally over shit.
I implore you Alex to step up. Do something different for once. Make this week at XIII a page turned, a new lease of life. Ditch the grotesque you've become and discover some originality. Say something from the heart rather than spout banal crap. Are you going to keep allowing others to pass you by as they ascend the ladder just as Dune once did? Or are you going to finally face facts, that no matter how “nice”, Alex Richards is, you are Alexander Richards, first, last and always; the monster, the twisted, scheming scoundrel, that lies and cheats his way to victory. An engine of unstoppable violence that can destroy anyone at will. Rather than the fractured has-been you've always been destined to eventually become. One heartbeat away from joining the Brotherhood and cleaning Kevin Bishop's shoes as his pet monkey. Now, I know you don't want that, now do you? So...do something about it. Show us a different side. I dare you. At least make your eventual and unavoidable loss to me this week interesting. Me and you, Alex. Let's put on a show. After all, this is wrestling. You need two to dance.
Well. That didn't hurt too much, I must say. I think I'll try and be more altruistic again in the future. Call it a new years resolution.
Now that the pleasantries are out of the way. I have a few things I need to get off my chest about a certain Arch Duke of boredom. One: have you ever noticed that Alexander Richards is never in color? The man's face has never known pigmentation. I used to think it was down to him being one of the people under the stairs. After all, he has suffered abuse most of his life. That has to be taxing on the complexion. Or maybe it's because he just drains all the life out of a room. If you've ever seen any of his matches, then you know it's a distinct possibility. He's this slow, lumbering mess that has all the nimble coordination of Stephen Hawking: without the chair. He has left and right feet, but they've never acknowledged the existence of the other. If he was mentally handicapped, at least he'd have Obamacare going for him. Instead he has glue sniffing and an imaginary girlfriend who wants him to grow a beard (hint)
Two: Other wrestlers have fans, Alex has gullible twats, numskulls who don't remember his jokes the first time around when Jayson Price told them bigger (and better) Alex does the exact same shtick as Jayson; he has inept friends, an inept narrator, he bounces from one drunken misadventure to another. There's no rhyme or reason to what's happening. It's chaotic, without a backbone of intelligence to make you smile. It's crafted by a distracted dunce who can't face the world without popping the lid off a bottle of Ketamine and downing the lot. I'll give him credit though, he has the audacity to try and palm off this drunk gimmick as his own, even when the world damn well knows that he airlifted ninety percent of it straight from Foam Lake without even offering the courtesy of a reach around to ICE Beckman. (see also Jayson Price) That takes some cheek. The only reason he got away with it was that his promos are so incomprehensible bad that they make ICE look twenty times better than he actually is. Watching an Alex Richards promo is like taking the short bus to mong school on a make a wish day out, as the cripple kids put on a Drunk Money tribute act. It's endearing, you clap at the end; but only because they're trying. Not because it's any fucking good.
Three: Let's get to the core of everything, Alex. It's time to strip away the flesh from this match and bleed it's heart dry. It's time to talk Pantheon. It's time to expose your greatest failure to a whole new generation. Because, just like the final solution, the world should never be allowed to forget the horrors you've committed. It's rare in the history of this sport to witness a more heinous fuck up on two legs than this imbecile. Alex Richards in Pantheon is the low budget network version of a cinema smash staring Jonny Fly. The sets are made from plywood. The effects look like they're held together with strings and a Ti82. When they cast you, Alex, they resurrected a legend and then promptly shelved it on a Friday night death slot, it was a failure from the start. Alex Richards, the perennial failure to launch for Pantheon. The weak link in a foursome of weak links. To somehow finish bottom on a list of Jay Omega, Scarecrow and Chelsea Armstrong takes some doing, and yet somehow Alex, you managed it.
You'd think with all the good work that I, and my TRUE Pantheon brothers have done over the past four months that the “Richards Incident” would have been finally put to bed. But for some people, the pain remains too great. It endures and needs to be finally buried. For the last few weeks I've seen nothing but Facebook posts and Twitter accounts light up whenever this twerp Richards has been mentioned. The tide of hate directed at Alex has been unprecedented. There's more love in the room for the bubonic plague than this man. Of course, he's been hiding under that idiot proof UCI rock for so long now that this tsunami of well deserved bile has just passed him by; Alex dodged the Pantheon community bullet that exploded on (@coffeecakes.com) as the site went into full-on nerd trigger mode, it all kicked off the second Alex's name was dropped for XIII. All the “Coffee-kings” seem to be in agreement that Alex is a cancerous blight. “The Arch Duke of wasted opportunities” they call him. A man who was once handed the keys to the kingdom, and yet managed to burn down the garage.
Let's take a look at some quotes over the last week from the community. Gather around ladies and germs. It's mean tweets time.
Alex Richards was tag champ once w/Oblivion. When the best thing you've done is pin a duck fucking retard for a belt at Ultimate Showdown? Then you know you're in trouble.
Alex Richards has a pin (w/The Pack) over Dune. He even pinned Dune for the Internet title clean. What does Dune do in response? He goes on to rule WCF. Alex Richards though? He ends up crying over being troll'd by ZMAC. LOLZ! That's karma bitch. #it'snotwhereyoustart #it'swhereyoufinish
Alex Richards ruled the internet title for four months in 2015. That's four months of NEVER trading up. #careerflatline #archdukeoflazyness
Alex Richards won the UCI world title from Howard Black last year. So, what's a UCI? #onlyWCFmattershere
Here's the thing though, I was the one who asked Richards back. Because for me, It's not good enough to simply allow Alex to fade away from history. The date of his demise must be remembered. It needs to be time stamped and toe tagged for prosperity, because the injustices he's committed aren't misdemeanors, he didn't accidentally drive the Strange Rover into Pantheon's front lawn after polishing off some home brew from a forty; Alex committed a long, protracted crime of treason.
You, Alex Richards, turned your back on the foundations of this great stable and cried a Zim-Quila poisoned river of tears as you packed away all your lame zingers into a knapsack and fucked off. You pulled a boo boo face and ran away with a soiled diaper between your legs because you managed to take all the good will that Corey Black and Jayson Price had infused within you and transformed their kingdom, the Pantheon brand, from being an all conquering juggernaut, into a third tier joke. You let it all slip away. And you didn't even have the guts to come back and fix it.
No, you'd rather play space cowboy with the Guardians in another universe. And how's that working out for you? Still champ? Nope, just the Tag belts again I see. Beaten at Black Mass by Andre Holmes. Who in turn has just lost the belt to Kevin Bishop. Bishop I know very well. I've been making this fool my regular bitch for weeks on end. He's my shoe-shine boy. Each week he brings me a new member of the Brotherhood to destroy. Last week he even managed to duck out of the match entirely and STILL lose, the final indignation. And that's your UCI champion. The man that pinned me this year at WAR with Gemini Battle holding down my shoulders. Well, I deal with my enemies, Alex. I don't duck and run from them. I face them head on and make them pay. Gemini is DEAD. Bishop's career is on life support. My doing. My responsibility (with some assistance from my good friend, David Sanchez) Oh, I know. You want to bring up the fact that I lost at Black Mass. Couple of points on that.
1. Don't give a shit. It's another universe. What happens to my inferior counterpart is of no concern to me. Tell him from me though to buck his fucking ideas up. He's a disgrace.
2. On the night in question, “Rabid Prime” was pinning the leaders of team WCF and securing victory for Pantheon at Hellimination. A match that would define our supreme domination over the WCF for the remainder of the calendar year and beyond.
You have no counter argument for this, Alex. How could you? The previous year it was the combined might of The People's Choice and Pantheon trying to arrest control of the WCF for themselves and what happened? We happened. You failed in your one task to take #beachkrew down and thus began the final days for your tenure with Pantheon. You blew it worse than Lilith on a 6ex God date. You self destructed, not with a bang, but with a loss.
After loss after loss, thus began the erosion, Alex. Big time chances to prove yourself would self destruct and chip another chunk of the legacy away. The apex of this tragedy has to be 2015 Trios Tournament; having your own faction leader turn on you and form his own team? That surly was the death knell. Two And A Half Black Guys trumps Pantheon and leaves you and Crow high and dry. And with good reason. You and Scarecrow were the dirge that was left for Jayson to curse. The last vestiges of the failed experiment. Corey wanted TRUE PANTHEON. Not you, Alex. Not the ghosts of a misstep, tugging at his purple and black coat tails and tripping him up. Would Corey have gotten to the finals with you? No. Would he have been in touching distance of the Trios cup had you been his partner? No. That was the point. It was all over in Mexico. You had your chance. And you blew it. Corey saw something in you the night he pinned Oblivion to rob you of the Tag Team Titles...for Pantheon. A spark of hope, perhaps. But by the time of Asesinato de Mayo in 2015? The reboot had already begun. You were old news, Alex. It's just that Corey forgot to text you the memo.
“Sorry kid. You fuccin' sux. It's over. 1 love. CD.”
Harsh? Not really. In fairness though, It wasn't just you that blew it, it was pointless talent contests (Dexter Radcliff?) and corridor beat downs by the DRG as they cemented their control over Slam. That was until #beachkrew arrived. And thus began the first era of #fuccboigenocide. We were the ones that brought them to task. We seized control and set the WCF house finally in order. All you could do Alex was watch from afar and think of what might have been. What could have been achieved if you just had the guts to step up and seize your opportunities when they presented themselves, instead of shirking responsibility and hiding in that Strange Rover with “Sorry, all out of candy today, I'm sulking” written across the side.
I blame you Alex, above the Maratopian uberbaby and the blue haired triggered bitch because, unlike them, you Alex had flashes of genuine brilliance once; moments of true promise. And yet you habitually refused to act upon them. Only at the end did it dawn on you that blowing chance after chance left the fans a little jaded. For every XIII battle royal you'd win; you'd get bodied the next week by #beachkrew. For every triumph over Bobby Cairo, you'd manage to throw it all away against the DRG like a chump. You ruled the internet with an iron fist, but all that noise you made in that division dissolved into a childish wimpier once you had to trade up and go after actual titles with actual prestige, held by actual champions. You're a 400lbs man, who should be as dominant today as Dune was in his prime; but you just stood still like a dumbfounded statue and watched the world pass you by. And as you did so? You dragged the name of Pantheon into the quicksand beneath.
That name by the way, it wasn't yours to piss away. You were supposed to be it's custodian, not it's meth addicted babysitter. I know about your oh so sad childhood; but that's no reason to abuse the trust of your betters, just because you were abused by those who were supposed to be your custodians as a child. You don't vent childhood anger issues on your team, you don't allow your own self destructive tenancies to ruin a heritage you never built up in the first place. Pantheon wasn't yours to tear down. You take all the metrics for what a member of Pantheon should be Alex and you piss it all away. The worst part is that you never seem phased; it never bothered you until it was too late. Then the taps began to run and the tears flowed. You couldn't wait to jump universes could you? The Mexico incident wasn't rescuing a fragment of the past. It was a fresh start in a new town. Away from the disaster you managed to create. Witness protection for the guilty party.
Pantheon..The greatest legacy in professional wrestling history. It gleamed and shone like no other stable, a foundation of perfection built upon the names of it's founding fathers: Jonny Fly, Steve Orbit, Polar Phantasm. Even the great Bobby Cairo once rubbed shoulders with the Gods. And here you were Alex, asked to carry the torch. To be keeper of the flame. And you almost managed to snuff it out forever. Two years on and the damage has been repaired. Pantheon is the 2016 stable of the year. We hold the Trios Title. The Final Destination cash in and The World Title. This year our reach will extend still further. We set ourselves no limits. We thrive on the boundaries we smash. The records we break. And the careers we destroy. And none of that would have been possible with your name still on the books.
That's your contribution to Pantheon, Alex. That's your legacy. A man who couldn't take the pressure of the mantle he had been bestowed and almost buried Pantheon forever. When people today think of the name: Pantheon, do you think they remember the Arch Duke of Confusion? No, they think of privilege. They bow and acknowledge Pantheon's complete and utter in ring dominance. Corridors in arena's across the country carry the begrudging respect Pantheon has earned from every name, friend or foe, that currently ply a trade in this federation. In short, Alex. They think about me. And Corey Black. And Jayson Price. And Flash. And David Sanchez. And Wade Moor. They even (for some inexplicable reason) think about Jared Holmes. Mostly because he caught *a rash* from....somewhere. Still, they THINK about him. They understand and respect his achievements. Jared Holmes will never be forgotten. But you, Alex?
No one thinks about you. No-one. Nobody, except that voice murmuring inside your brain that keeps the fantasy of you being important running. What's his name? Allan? Idiots today and their multiple personalities. You and “Evil” Crazy J should have a mud wrestling bout. Maybe Lilith/Katherine Phoenix can be the judge, and we can just shoot the three of you with the same bullet.
By the way, I think Allen wants a word. I'd listen if I was you.
HELLO, IT'S ALLEN
Hello Alex, this is Allen. Your third personality.
You know why I'm here, don't you? Course you do. It's that time again, Alexander. Time to scoop up the pieces of our broken psyche and scotch tape the remains back together. I'm your personal emergency pack up mind. The one that arrives to save the day when you're feeling down over a dead puppy, or an old WCF match plays on cable from your Pantheon days. I'm the parent you never had. The antithesis of the days upon days of ritual abuse you suffered in that foster home for the terminally emo. I'm the voice that tells you that everything is going to be okay. Because that's my job. My little white lie to stop you from doing something stupid.
Well, the red phone is ringing again. I guess it's time to go to work. What day is it? Ah yes. Saturday the 14th. Why should I even be surprised? It was always meant to be this way, wasn't it? You just can't help yourself. You just can't put on the breaks and avoid disaster.
Quick recap, just in case you've already booked a hotel room on the banks of denial; Johnny Rabid just destroyed you in the center of that postage stamp sized mockery of a wrestling ring they have in Minnesota. That little indy show just scooped you up and chewed you out. I screamed at you all day as you taped your scared wrists and sat popping pills and chicken wings to lousy Paul Rudd Movies (Ant Man not withstanding) But you never listened. You thought you could just coast by this time on your height and weight advantage like you do at that dog and pony show in Chicago. Fired up on Zim-Quila and pills as per usual. But you had no idea the kind of war you were sleepwalking into.
A mind is a wonderful thing, Alexander when properly utilized; it can create and construct ideas of vast importance. Constitutions of law and rocket ships to the moon (Yes, we did go—STFU) It can build empires and navigate wrestling matches. Unfortunately for you, the light-bulb is cracked. It can't handle anything as complex as thinking; not when it's fighting so very hard to forget. And that is always going to be the problem Alex. It's the very heart of why you lost last night against Rabid. Sure, you and him put on a show. It was always going to a hellacious match. The crowd fired up and screaming their lungs out as near fall after near fall held them on tender hooks. But the ending was never in doubt. Because while you flap about and hope for the best. Rabid thinks. He schemes and he plots. He's constantly facing height and weight disadvantages and yet the wins just keep coming. Because he ha belief in his abilities. He has a mind keen to work as one. No memory out of reach. No past that embarrasses or shames.
If Rabid has demons? They're on the payroll. If he has secrets? They're someone else's to exploit and study. Johnny Rabid had your number “Alex” from the moment the bell rang because there's only one of him, while there's three of us. And there ain't a face we share that's any fucking good. We're three flavors of vanilla. Just a skinny fat mass of failure.
Now, pick yourself up off the bathroom floor you idiot. We have a train to catch. It's time to head back to the playpen in Chicago and lick our wounds. Maybe we'll get lucky and Jeff Purse will bind side Rabid for some payback. Personally though, it's time to forget about Pantheon. It's time to climb inside that safe bubble away from real competition and know our place.
At the bottom, looking up.
≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈
You took the trust of Corey Black and you besmirched it with your lack of focus and determination. You beat Bobby Cairo then threw all that momentum away. Because nothing matters to you apart from Zim-Quila and a rusting pedo van. Well, now you're going to care, Alex. You're going to cry and plead and scream until your lungs burst. And when that last splatter of blood splashes across Bonnie Blue's distraught face from your opened up veins the world is going to know the truth. That “The Pack”, was a misstep, an abortion: tried, judged and sentenced to death. Buried now in a pauper's grave, somewhere inside a Minnesota nightclub. Buried and eulogized by the man that pulled the trigger. Your new nemesis. The Ripper. The Serpent. The knight errant of XIII. The sword of Pantheon. A scoundrel forged in fire and death.
Sir Jonathan of Rabid.
YOUR FUCKING GOD.
I am displeased as you bow at my alter this Friday, Alex. I would've thought by now you would've grown as a performer. But you haven't. You're a stagnant swamp of the same old tricks, the same old jokes told over and over. You haven't innovated or adapted. That's the reason why you're a scan lined haze in a 4k world. You wear your influences on your skin, Alex. A cro-magnon performer who's escaped from the history channel to haunt the modern world. You're a man out of time. Who at this XIII? Will find himself REALLY out of time.
Can you hear it? The hands are moving, the cogs are turning. It's almost high noon, Alex. The clock tower is about to strike XIII. Enough of the dance, Alexander. It's time to meet in the main street and settle this. In a time and place you used to know very well.
The Past.
In a town.
Called...PANTHEON.
≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈*≈
A few years back it would have been a clattering, broken down stagecoach that gathered the approaching dust storm upon the horizon; manned by some mid-card pack animals decked out in weather beaten backstories and hackneyed shoots. Desperate, toothless near-do-wells out to make a quick buck on the far side of the old west. But times had changed in the pan handle since then. The stage had been replaced by the steam train and the transcontinental railroad. Progress, the dirt sheets called it. A new golden age of wrestling domination.
Plumes of grey black smoke bleed from the thundering machine as it approached. It's arrival was imminent as a single passenger sat in it's one and only carriage. The wooden panelled interior had a foul musk of home brewed liqueur and the sharpness of mental institution bleach. For no matter where the hulking shape of the Arch Duke would travel, the past would never be that far behind. Richards leaned forward; his old, rusting six shooter irons cutting a hurt into that dusty old jacket of his as he peered though a window, out into an angry wake of mist to discover his final destination. Before him at the station was the pinnacle of civilization. The greatest show on Earth. An iconic location that cast a deadly shadow across the free world and held it stubbornly in place with an iron grip.
They called that shadow, Pantheon.
No tumble weeds here, not like the dark times of '15. No, this town was on the verge of an upgrade. Consider this a city in all but name. Rising skeletons of wood and mortar cut a foreboding and brilliant new skyline as the lumbering figure of the Arch Duke disembarked the train. He eyes saw a broken world he once knew reinvigorated. Reborn without him. The scares of the Mexican civil war were healing. New trade from east was bringing opportunists and new found prosperity with it. The Arch Duke felt a sensation he never knew before as the town's Undertaker, a certain Mister Danny McMorris measured up Alex for a new pine wood home.
“#LOLZ.FGT.EXE.”, uttered the Mortician. The Arch Duke gulped at the strange murmurings. A dryness had overtaken him suddenly as the hands of the clock tower closed ever sooner to XIII. Fate was near, he could taste it's electric presence in the air. Beckoning onward to the sound of laughter and commotion emanating from the Sealyfe Saloon.
Inside, Johnny Rabid, the fastest draw in the West, was sat at the poker table holding aces as per usual. A tap on Johnny's plush velvet trench coat was followed by a whisper into his ear by deputy Andre Holmes, who informed him that the Arch Duke had indeed arrived. On time. And suitably “attired” for the occasion.
Johnny Rabid: Still carrying the same old six shooters?
Andre nodded with a smirk.
Rabid smiled. He exhaled a plume of black tar cigar smoke into the faces of the ZT boys and called the hand. A chorus of disapproval was shrugged off as Andre removed his Stetson and gathered the chips for Rabid to cash out later. After all, this was a formality. No need to rush to the bank. Especially since he owned it.
Outside, the Arch Duke checked the chambers of his twin Smith and Westerns that had been his totems since those first tentative steps in the boots of a gunslinger. The weapons were tired and worn. Back in their heyday these once deadly smoke wagons could fell giants, but now?
Tick...Tock...
The hands moved closer. Footsteps followed them as Rabid pulled tight his set of black leather gloves and stood dead centre in the middle of Pantheon main street, straightening his black bowler hat as he did so.
Johnny Rabid: I see you're on time. Good. I hate hanging around to kill a man. I find a lack of punctuality to be a sin. Very uncouth.
Three minutes to XIII.
Johnny Rabid: I always wondered, what's in Zim-Quelia anyways? Never mind, It doesn't matter. After today, none of it will matter. You'll be buried on the hill with all the rest. This town will thrive and forget you. I will forget you. You're just a number, and I've never been good with remembering statistics. They bore me.
Two minutes to XIII
Johnny Rabid: See the town hall? I can spy Mayor Black from here. He's checking his fob watch now as we speak. He wants this done quick. Painless. I guess that's why he asked me. I don't like Torture. The act, not the guy. Personally? I think Tort is great. You like Tort? Don't answer that, It doesn't matter.
One minute to XIII
Johnny Rabid: Sixty seconds now, I can hear your heart beating overtime. The fear bubbling, rising. There's no need. Nothing you can do now will avoid this. All your pain shall be history. All your anguish, tamed. I want you to know something before I pull the trigger---
BAM!
...The Arch Duke fell. It was over.
Johnny Rabid: But there just wasn't enough time.
FIN.
