Post by Wade Moor on Jan 21, 2017 17:32:48 GMT -5
It was a late night in Philly. Too late for most, in fact, but not too late for these warriors, these pillars of WCF, that Andre Holmes, the Relentless One, and his nigga Godnilla, Wade Moor. Three AM and we were straight up killing on that red light district, empty moonstone vials and taco wrappers strewn about the dashboard. Even us grown ass men had to get their binge on at some point, considering we were out here doing this good work.
“Tha microphone explodes, shattering tha molds. Either drop tha hits like de la O or get the fuck off tha cammode. Wit tha sure shot, sure ta make tha bodies drop. Drop an don't copy yo, don't call this a co-op!”, the Rage lyrics burst from the P.A. system, littering the streets in riots and mass hysterical litany.
Those true to life lyrics hit close to home with us as we bobbed our heads along to the music. I turned to my ward, Young Andre Holmes, and gave him my praises.
“Andre”, I said, “You have my praises.”
“Man, what tha fuck yoo on about nigga?” he replied, his eyebrow ubercocked in a state of confusion.
“Most men in your position would have tucked tail and ran after those wicked things, those awful things we said about you”, I started, “But you stuck it through. You saw the big picture and the vision became clear. You're a driving force in the #fuccboigenocide now, whether you want it or not.”
“Yoo know I been about that life since day one”, he replied, “I'd straight up murder these #fuccbois on principle alone, ya feel me?”
“I do indeed feel you, Young Andre”, I stated.
“You inviting me to join Pantheon or nah?” he asked.
“Trust me when I say this”, I said, “You don't want to join Pantheon. The inevitable implosion – and believe me, it's coming like a freight train – will only swallow you whole. You, my friend, belong untethered by the bounds of time and space. A negro runnin' free on this cosmic #safespace is exactly what they don't want, you understand me? They want you to join Pantheon, like it's ordained on high, but you drop destiny like a Thrust Kick straight to the GodnillaDamn throat.”
The ruffles of Andre's cold heart were – indeed – warmed. Some say it grew three sizes that day. Maybe it was actually destiny that had brought us together this week? Destiny was a funny thing; mine had started a few months ago when we came back to the WCF on an Alpha trip to weed out the Betas that inhabited it. The Betas soon discovered my words, my intellect, and my fist...but there was one at the forefront of my mind at the present.
The loudest mouths are the first to get dropped. It was a scientific fact. The Zero Tolerance Betas don't understand how magnets work, let alone basic scientific method. Jason Cash. Salem Shepard. Crazy J. All acting hard on some wannabe gangster shit. They acted hard and what did it get them? I knocked the fuck out of those chumps and dropped them with a BROSEIDON PUNCH a piece.
“Crazy J”, I said, “Who the fuck does he think he is?”
“That #fuccboi you murked at Hellimination?” Andre asked.
“More specific please?” I replied.
“That #fuccboi you murked at One?” Andre replied hopefully.
“Even more specific?” I asked.
“That #fuccboi you gonna murk again at Slam?” he asked.
“Ah...indeed”, I replied, the void opening up to swallow my words, and my brain being ever revived from it's 'destroy Beta fgts' setting, “I turn my back for one damn minute and these mother fucking cockroaches sneak in. One look at Crazy J will tell you this dude is nearly fifty years old, but he's still acting hard on some easy street whiteboy thug bullshit. When I rolled back up in the WCF, with a pedigree like his, he should have dropped me easily, no exceptions...but yet, I have murked him several times through and through. Why do think this is, Young Andre?”
Before Andre even had a chance to reply, I was already on it.
“I'm sure it's been the same everywhere they've been in the wrestling world...these guys lack talent, basic business acumen, and a marketable gimmick, so they polarize themselves with cheap heat and #fuccboi tactics. There's no such thing as bad press, am I right? They attempt to stay at the forefront of everyone's mind so that they won't be forgotten, and thrown to the wayside like the garbage they are. The reason I am able to destroy a man so readily as a Crazy J is because he isn't a man to speak of at all.
“Crazy J is a construct that can easily be torn down. He is someone who prides himself on longevity and the almighty dollar dollar bill, but these aren't things to take pride in. What matters is what you do while you have the time. I have managed to become World Champion, main event One, carry the Trio's Champions, create a polarizing stable, and revive one whose name is synonymous with success. This was all in my very first year in the WCF...am I painting a vivid picture for you?”
“Yuh nigga, I'm turnt”, he replied, “that's that shit I do like fam.”
“I knew you would understand, Andre”, I said, “Men like us...we have to, because the world we hold in the palm of our hands is falling apart, piece by piece, and it's up to us to keep it whole, ya feel? We have to seize these so-called men by the throat and shout to their faces that we are their destiny. It is in their very nature to fall at our feet. They are our own ZT victims unit. Destroying him once again is just a formality at this point. 'Show up, Broseidon Punch Crazy J, get lit during the after party.'
“I grow bored with such trivial things. As long as J still stands, I can't move forward. Do you understand what I have to do? In order to move on, I must tie up this loose end...and liberate this #fuccboi from the burden of his existence. Hey, a carcass at Rise Up isn't such a bad opponent right?”
“I guess that makes sense”, Andre replied, “An opponent is an opponent. All white people look the same to me anyhow.”
“Excellent shit, my boi”, I said, “Eventually you will stop seeing them as people alltogether. They're dirt. They're vermin. Welcome to The Real World, Andre. That foot our opponents feel at their throat? That belongs to us. Crush them without a single thought. No remorse, do you understand?”
“Shit nigga get f8ded son”, Andre replied, “And what of the CJ Pheonix? Do we use his blood to paint the walls as well?”
“Nah, he's straight”, I said, “Just another wayward soul. If he knew what was good for him, he wouldn't rear his ugly head at Slam. Just a friendly caution.”
“Is that it, my nig?” Andre asked, “Can we go mainline coke and debase some stripper snatch now?”
“Of course”, I replied, “The world is our oyster. All we have to do is sink our teeth in.”
“I'm not sure that makes sense”, Andre replied.
“Da fuq do you know? You're high as fuck”, I replied as I stamped my boot on the gas and the sleek car accelerated into the dark, crimson horizon.
“Tha microphone explodes, shattering tha molds. Either drop tha hits like de la O or get the fuck off tha cammode. Wit tha sure shot, sure ta make tha bodies drop. Drop an don't copy yo, don't call this a co-op!”, the Rage lyrics burst from the P.A. system, littering the streets in riots and mass hysterical litany.
Those true to life lyrics hit close to home with us as we bobbed our heads along to the music. I turned to my ward, Young Andre Holmes, and gave him my praises.
“Andre”, I said, “You have my praises.”
“Man, what tha fuck yoo on about nigga?” he replied, his eyebrow ubercocked in a state of confusion.
“Most men in your position would have tucked tail and ran after those wicked things, those awful things we said about you”, I started, “But you stuck it through. You saw the big picture and the vision became clear. You're a driving force in the #fuccboigenocide now, whether you want it or not.”
“Yoo know I been about that life since day one”, he replied, “I'd straight up murder these #fuccbois on principle alone, ya feel me?”
“I do indeed feel you, Young Andre”, I stated.
“You inviting me to join Pantheon or nah?” he asked.
“Trust me when I say this”, I said, “You don't want to join Pantheon. The inevitable implosion – and believe me, it's coming like a freight train – will only swallow you whole. You, my friend, belong untethered by the bounds of time and space. A negro runnin' free on this cosmic #safespace is exactly what they don't want, you understand me? They want you to join Pantheon, like it's ordained on high, but you drop destiny like a Thrust Kick straight to the GodnillaDamn throat.”
The ruffles of Andre's cold heart were – indeed – warmed. Some say it grew three sizes that day. Maybe it was actually destiny that had brought us together this week? Destiny was a funny thing; mine had started a few months ago when we came back to the WCF on an Alpha trip to weed out the Betas that inhabited it. The Betas soon discovered my words, my intellect, and my fist...but there was one at the forefront of my mind at the present.
The loudest mouths are the first to get dropped. It was a scientific fact. The Zero Tolerance Betas don't understand how magnets work, let alone basic scientific method. Jason Cash. Salem Shepard. Crazy J. All acting hard on some wannabe gangster shit. They acted hard and what did it get them? I knocked the fuck out of those chumps and dropped them with a BROSEIDON PUNCH a piece.
“Crazy J”, I said, “Who the fuck does he think he is?”
“That #fuccboi you murked at Hellimination?” Andre asked.
“More specific please?” I replied.
“That #fuccboi you murked at One?” Andre replied hopefully.
“Even more specific?” I asked.
“That #fuccboi you gonna murk again at Slam?” he asked.
“Ah...indeed”, I replied, the void opening up to swallow my words, and my brain being ever revived from it's 'destroy Beta fgts' setting, “I turn my back for one damn minute and these mother fucking cockroaches sneak in. One look at Crazy J will tell you this dude is nearly fifty years old, but he's still acting hard on some easy street whiteboy thug bullshit. When I rolled back up in the WCF, with a pedigree like his, he should have dropped me easily, no exceptions...but yet, I have murked him several times through and through. Why do think this is, Young Andre?”
Before Andre even had a chance to reply, I was already on it.
“I'm sure it's been the same everywhere they've been in the wrestling world...these guys lack talent, basic business acumen, and a marketable gimmick, so they polarize themselves with cheap heat and #fuccboi tactics. There's no such thing as bad press, am I right? They attempt to stay at the forefront of everyone's mind so that they won't be forgotten, and thrown to the wayside like the garbage they are. The reason I am able to destroy a man so readily as a Crazy J is because he isn't a man to speak of at all.
“Crazy J is a construct that can easily be torn down. He is someone who prides himself on longevity and the almighty dollar dollar bill, but these aren't things to take pride in. What matters is what you do while you have the time. I have managed to become World Champion, main event One, carry the Trio's Champions, create a polarizing stable, and revive one whose name is synonymous with success. This was all in my very first year in the WCF...am I painting a vivid picture for you?”
“Yuh nigga, I'm turnt”, he replied, “that's that shit I do like fam.”
“I knew you would understand, Andre”, I said, “Men like us...we have to, because the world we hold in the palm of our hands is falling apart, piece by piece, and it's up to us to keep it whole, ya feel? We have to seize these so-called men by the throat and shout to their faces that we are their destiny. It is in their very nature to fall at our feet. They are our own ZT victims unit. Destroying him once again is just a formality at this point. 'Show up, Broseidon Punch Crazy J, get lit during the after party.'
“I grow bored with such trivial things. As long as J still stands, I can't move forward. Do you understand what I have to do? In order to move on, I must tie up this loose end...and liberate this #fuccboi from the burden of his existence. Hey, a carcass at Rise Up isn't such a bad opponent right?”
“I guess that makes sense”, Andre replied, “An opponent is an opponent. All white people look the same to me anyhow.”
“Excellent shit, my boi”, I said, “Eventually you will stop seeing them as people alltogether. They're dirt. They're vermin. Welcome to The Real World, Andre. That foot our opponents feel at their throat? That belongs to us. Crush them without a single thought. No remorse, do you understand?”
“Shit nigga get f8ded son”, Andre replied, “And what of the CJ Pheonix? Do we use his blood to paint the walls as well?”
“Nah, he's straight”, I said, “Just another wayward soul. If he knew what was good for him, he wouldn't rear his ugly head at Slam. Just a friendly caution.”
“Is that it, my nig?” Andre asked, “Can we go mainline coke and debase some stripper snatch now?”
“Of course”, I replied, “The world is our oyster. All we have to do is sink our teeth in.”
“I'm not sure that makes sense”, Andre replied.
“Da fuq do you know? You're high as fuck”, I replied as I stamped my boot on the gas and the sleek car accelerated into the dark, crimson horizon.