Post by John Rabid on Mar 26, 2017 15:40:10 GMT -5
Sir Jason Rush kneeled down as the sword hovered above, bowing his neat features as the gleam from the steel illuminated his shark black pupils. London had spent a week on edge, but this moment seemed serene among the uncertainty. Normality was back on track as Queen Elizabeth II blessed Rush with the hand of nobility. While somewhere beneath the surface, Rabid was laughing. It was an experience he rarely enjoyed, but today, as Buckingham Palace's pomp and circumstance enveloped him and his perfectly presented family with a bloom of pinpoint regalia; it seemed the only logical response.
Emily and Dorian smiled as they held hands. Emily whispering, “I love you” as Rabid bowed. Megan Ives lurked like a prowling attack dog in the distance; providing an extra level of protection in case of any unwanted intervention. This was a disjointed family; crooked beneath the weight of ghosts and the scent of murder. But right now, as Rabid stood and received his red and gold “Ribbon of a Knight Bachelor”, the waters became calm, buoyant upon an endless horizon of dark, brooding possibilities. Maybe it was true what mother had said. Maybe now England was for the taking.
Hushed words found themselves exchanged as Rabid and Elizabeth danced around the lethality of the other. One a necessary lie that operated openly to conceal the other's horrific truth.
The Queen: I dub thee, Sir Jason Rush. Knight of the Realm.
John Rabid: Thank you, Ma'am.
The Queen: I hear from that serpentine mother of yours, “Miss Ives”, that you're back working for us.
John Rabid: Yes Ma'am. The safety of my family is very important to me. As you can imagine.
The Queen: Of course. Family is the cornerstone of English society.
John Rabid: Well, It's good to hear you Germans are finally settling in.
The Queen scowls.
The Queen: Kindly fuck off, Rabid.
John Rabid: Yes, Ma'am.
Static invades the scene as it's whisked thousands of miles away. Rabid's moment of bribed legitimacy is transposed into a pixelated mosaic that's beamed across the Atlantic, reconstituting upon a large video screen. It's 4k presence a counterpoint to the theme of tonight's raucous celebration.
Laughter echoes now though cigar smoke and Depeche Mode as Sir Jonathan Rabid toasts his guests sitting across a large dining table; the rest of Pantheon are gathered as the MGM Grand's conference floor has been outfitted tonight to resemble an 1800's Hellfire Club. Stylized debauchery packs the place, the room clad in top hats, corsets, and fishnets. Perfect Gentlemen of the crown sit with scandalous harlots of the night; milk white bodies adorned with red ribbons's that are tied rigidly around fair skinned necks. Throats slit by the jolly jack.
Rabid adjusts his top hat nonchalantly as he casually sheaths and un-sheaths an ebony black sword cane; his keen sense of vision admiring the stainless steel craftsmanship hidden within the outer coiled serpent design of the black wood casing. The Ripper's dressed for the occasion (as our his guests) lost in a reflective mood, the charity event unfolds around him. Happier, simpler, more insidious times echo from an era now long since gone. An era of London fog and absolute impunity.
A cigar (a La Aurora from the Dominican Republic) finds it's way into the mouth of the serpent. John smiles as an elbow length laced glove caresses his cheek with an obvious fondness for the man. The half shadowed form of a nimble, lithe harlot coils it's seductive form across Rabid's brooding husk. Red lips, as thick and as reflective as a freshly opened wound, speak with a cockney accent that's reassuringly familiar.
Emily Rush: You need a light, M'lord?
John Rabid: Why, if it isn't my favorite scrubber. Indulge me.
Emily Rush: As you wish.
Emily removes a silver plated lighter, buried deep within her tightly corseted bust as she lights the cigar.
Emily Rush: You know what you need to do. Don't you?
Rabid grabs her left buttock.
John Rabid: I have a keen idea.
Emily shakes her head, pulling up the truss of her black dress and removing a smart phone from her garter.
Emily Rush: Promo, silly. You are obliged.
Rabid tuts as the gathering fall silent.
John Rabid: Right, very well.
[REC*]
Hello, Sebastian. I see we find ourselves at our inevitable rematch. It was always going to be this way, wasn't it? The clause activated. Your esteemed patriarch, that “wise old sage sterotype”, the good Mister Efron, warning you steadfastly about how great power comes with great responsibility. Father and son, smoking those large Montecristo No. 4's, filling your lungs with heavy, cancerous dread. Knowing, always knowing, that no matter what the excuse your father tells you, it's just that. Excuses. Misdirection that's designed to cushion the blow for now. But come Sunday the 26th. Come Las Vegas's MGM Grand Garden Arena. Nothing can anesthetize you from the truth I will deliver. A royal proclamation from an actual knight; signed and sealed with a Kingdom destroyer. The moment I dub thee, “Sir Nothing of the overrated undercard”...”Keeper of the debuting monosyllabic interview technique”...”Flat track slayer of Stalker, Turner, Timbers, Burnett and Rump”; the unwanted gift of 2017 that saunters around in haute couture clothing while googling feverishly what it means. And yet still, the doubts creep in. Doubts that crawl and scratch as they burrow their way deep. Gnawing at that fragile psyche you cracked in training all those months ago. Nerves shot before the race had begun.
“What if it wasn't Katherine Phoenix's fault that I lost that match?”
“What if my Father wants me to die in the ring? Does he have the biography rights?”
“What if all my Father's Knight parables are just incoherent babble designed to eat up valuable promo space?”
Do you know the difference between me and 95% of the roster? I don't stop getting better. For the rest of you, it's an up at dawn struggle not to get any worse. While for you, Sebastian, it's all about misdirection, your overwrought annunciation comes from the Steven Singh school of pointless hyperboles. You procrastinate like an OCD University English teacher smashed on Dexedrine. Tell me, how do you buy bread at the store? Is it...
“My good man, please direct me to the aisle containing the yeast infused delectables often found buttered and toasted upon china plates”
God knows what incoherent shite you're going to inflict upon my hypersensitive ears this week as you attempt once more to murder the English language. All I can ask is don't. Just don't. Put the sharp objects back in the drawer and step away from the pseudo-intelligence. It's embarrassing to watch these plastic knock off's try and match my intellect and grace. It genuinely grates to hear you, Knight, completely miss the point time and time again. That's why the board needs to be cleared. Scrubbed clean of the vaudeville acts and the dog and pony shows. Last week, my personal crusade to remove all limp impersonators struck true against Steven Singh. I carved out his useless heart and conquered Everest. This week, it's your turn Sebastian. I'm going to tear you limb from limb. Obliterate your dreams as daddy sinks deeper into that cheap bottle of Courvoisier L'Esprit (scrubs choice that, should have gone with the Henri IV, Cognac Grande Champagne).
Soon, you'll be joining the old man, Knight. Working on that board of blow hard directors. Adjusting your Winsor knotted tie during third quarter investment reviews as you try and strangle away the screams after this Sundays loss, screams that will continue to haunt you long into the rest of your innocuous life. A life trapped inside a prison of upper middle class domesticity. Trophy wife. Trophy house. Trophy dreams. But no actual gold. Nothing to differentiate you from the rest of the manatees that scramble for promotions and bust ulcers over spreadsheets. That is the hell I will sentence you to this Sunday at Explosion. The kind of hell you'll never be able to walk away from, because deep down inside, you'll know, as that bell rings and the screams rise inside, that it's a hell you belong in. Because you don't belong anywhere fucking else.
That injury, Sebastian. You should have listened to it. Cultivated it's knowledge. But you choose instead to bet it all on a dream. Everything on red....but it landed on black. Black Sunday is here, Sebastian. Everything fades as my ascendancy shines. Look upon me, Sebastian, for I am success without compromise. I am power without conformity. You are neither, and you will soon be extinct. A footnote on Wikipedia that joins the dots, from failed wrestler, to boardroom disappointment to pointless drug overdose. Maybe my theory though will be proven correct and Nathan will step in and salvage what's left after I've decimated your career. His red, cybernetic hand resting on your shoulder as he becomes your new surrogate Father. Just remember though, what happened to Frank Patrick Venable.
The video screen's imagery changes; a flashback to FPV's crucifixion at the hands of NVL.
Nasty business that, Sebastian. I can hear the nails now as they're hammered into his bloody, contorted hands. Frank's screams, a howl that could wake the dead. Terrible business to disappoint a deranged lunatic such as Nathan Von Libert. Think about that before you pick yourself up off the mat this Sunday and welcome his fatherly embrace. You're not a man that can avoid failure for long. Those nails, Sebastian...deep into the flesh. The scars remain. Is that how you want to be “Knighted” Sebastian? Think it though. There's no shame in realizing that your title reign was saved time and again by external forces. No shame in realizing that it took Ethan King to pin Adam Burnett to save that title run. That it took “soft” booking to tally up those limp defenses. No shame in it. As long as you're smart enough to realize that there no glory either.
I want you to take a look at something, Sebastian. See this glass of water?
Rabid raises a glass.
Everything around me is expensive and ostentatious. But this glass of water? It's just water. Natural and abundant, right? So you'd probably think it's the lest precious substance in the place. You turn on the foucet and there it is. We all take it for granted. We use it as a chaser, and flush it away with Gemini's ashes. It's nothing...when you have it.
But when you take it away? When you drain the Hoover dam? A town like Vegas turns into a dust-bowl. Doesn't matter about the pretty lights and the shows and the excess. You have nothing but a ghost town. You can have all the trappings in the world, but there's no life. No fire. Now, imagine this glass of water is talent. Nothing changes for me. I take it for granted because I have an abundant amount of the stuff. Nobody rules a 20x20 ring the way I do. It's my domain and mine only. But for you, Sebastian?
Rabid pours the water out onto the floor.
It's precious and absent and elusive. Talent to you might as well be riding the fucking mighty moon worm all the way to Dionysus's cloud cuckoo land. You're never going to have it. Which means all those expensive bespoke suits and high class whores and the #bottleservice 24/7 are useless when the bell rings. Because you'll be standing there opposite me in that ring, and the only thing you'll be able to be? Is thirsty.
You're going to die in the desert, Sebastian. You're going to rot, in the sand. All because of me. Snake eyes, rolled by a Serpent. A Television champion. This week. Next week. All the way to Ultimate Showdown and the Prize that is rightfully mine. For me, the road begins now. For you, Sebastian?
It's the end of the line.
Good. Night.
Emily and Dorian smiled as they held hands. Emily whispering, “I love you” as Rabid bowed. Megan Ives lurked like a prowling attack dog in the distance; providing an extra level of protection in case of any unwanted intervention. This was a disjointed family; crooked beneath the weight of ghosts and the scent of murder. But right now, as Rabid stood and received his red and gold “Ribbon of a Knight Bachelor”, the waters became calm, buoyant upon an endless horizon of dark, brooding possibilities. Maybe it was true what mother had said. Maybe now England was for the taking.
Hushed words found themselves exchanged as Rabid and Elizabeth danced around the lethality of the other. One a necessary lie that operated openly to conceal the other's horrific truth.
The Queen: I dub thee, Sir Jason Rush. Knight of the Realm.
John Rabid: Thank you, Ma'am.
The Queen: I hear from that serpentine mother of yours, “Miss Ives”, that you're back working for us.
John Rabid: Yes Ma'am. The safety of my family is very important to me. As you can imagine.
The Queen: Of course. Family is the cornerstone of English society.
John Rabid: Well, It's good to hear you Germans are finally settling in.
The Queen scowls.
The Queen: Kindly fuck off, Rabid.
John Rabid: Yes, Ma'am.
Static invades the scene as it's whisked thousands of miles away. Rabid's moment of bribed legitimacy is transposed into a pixelated mosaic that's beamed across the Atlantic, reconstituting upon a large video screen. It's 4k presence a counterpoint to the theme of tonight's raucous celebration.
Rabid adjusts his top hat nonchalantly as he casually sheaths and un-sheaths an ebony black sword cane; his keen sense of vision admiring the stainless steel craftsmanship hidden within the outer coiled serpent design of the black wood casing. The Ripper's dressed for the occasion (as our his guests) lost in a reflective mood, the charity event unfolds around him. Happier, simpler, more insidious times echo from an era now long since gone. An era of London fog and absolute impunity.
A cigar (a La Aurora from the Dominican Republic) finds it's way into the mouth of the serpent. John smiles as an elbow length laced glove caresses his cheek with an obvious fondness for the man. The half shadowed form of a nimble, lithe harlot coils it's seductive form across Rabid's brooding husk. Red lips, as thick and as reflective as a freshly opened wound, speak with a cockney accent that's reassuringly familiar.
Emily Rush: You need a light, M'lord?
John Rabid: Why, if it isn't my favorite scrubber. Indulge me.
Emily Rush: As you wish.
Emily removes a silver plated lighter, buried deep within her tightly corseted bust as she lights the cigar.
Emily Rush: You know what you need to do. Don't you?
Rabid grabs her left buttock.
John Rabid: I have a keen idea.
Emily shakes her head, pulling up the truss of her black dress and removing a smart phone from her garter.
Emily Rush: Promo, silly. You are obliged.
Rabid tuts as the gathering fall silent.
John Rabid: Right, very well.
[REC*]
Hello, Sebastian. I see we find ourselves at our inevitable rematch. It was always going to be this way, wasn't it? The clause activated. Your esteemed patriarch, that “wise old sage sterotype”, the good Mister Efron, warning you steadfastly about how great power comes with great responsibility. Father and son, smoking those large Montecristo No. 4's, filling your lungs with heavy, cancerous dread. Knowing, always knowing, that no matter what the excuse your father tells you, it's just that. Excuses. Misdirection that's designed to cushion the blow for now. But come Sunday the 26th. Come Las Vegas's MGM Grand Garden Arena. Nothing can anesthetize you from the truth I will deliver. A royal proclamation from an actual knight; signed and sealed with a Kingdom destroyer. The moment I dub thee, “Sir Nothing of the overrated undercard”...”Keeper of the debuting monosyllabic interview technique”...”Flat track slayer of Stalker, Turner, Timbers, Burnett and Rump”; the unwanted gift of 2017 that saunters around in haute couture clothing while googling feverishly what it means. And yet still, the doubts creep in. Doubts that crawl and scratch as they burrow their way deep. Gnawing at that fragile psyche you cracked in training all those months ago. Nerves shot before the race had begun.
“What if it wasn't Katherine Phoenix's fault that I lost that match?”
“What if my Father wants me to die in the ring? Does he have the biography rights?”
“What if all my Father's Knight parables are just incoherent babble designed to eat up valuable promo space?”
Do you know the difference between me and 95% of the roster? I don't stop getting better. For the rest of you, it's an up at dawn struggle not to get any worse. While for you, Sebastian, it's all about misdirection, your overwrought annunciation comes from the Steven Singh school of pointless hyperboles. You procrastinate like an OCD University English teacher smashed on Dexedrine. Tell me, how do you buy bread at the store? Is it...
“My good man, please direct me to the aisle containing the yeast infused delectables often found buttered and toasted upon china plates”
God knows what incoherent shite you're going to inflict upon my hypersensitive ears this week as you attempt once more to murder the English language. All I can ask is don't. Just don't. Put the sharp objects back in the drawer and step away from the pseudo-intelligence. It's embarrassing to watch these plastic knock off's try and match my intellect and grace. It genuinely grates to hear you, Knight, completely miss the point time and time again. That's why the board needs to be cleared. Scrubbed clean of the vaudeville acts and the dog and pony shows. Last week, my personal crusade to remove all limp impersonators struck true against Steven Singh. I carved out his useless heart and conquered Everest. This week, it's your turn Sebastian. I'm going to tear you limb from limb. Obliterate your dreams as daddy sinks deeper into that cheap bottle of Courvoisier L'Esprit (scrubs choice that, should have gone with the Henri IV, Cognac Grande Champagne).
Soon, you'll be joining the old man, Knight. Working on that board of blow hard directors. Adjusting your Winsor knotted tie during third quarter investment reviews as you try and strangle away the screams after this Sundays loss, screams that will continue to haunt you long into the rest of your innocuous life. A life trapped inside a prison of upper middle class domesticity. Trophy wife. Trophy house. Trophy dreams. But no actual gold. Nothing to differentiate you from the rest of the manatees that scramble for promotions and bust ulcers over spreadsheets. That is the hell I will sentence you to this Sunday at Explosion. The kind of hell you'll never be able to walk away from, because deep down inside, you'll know, as that bell rings and the screams rise inside, that it's a hell you belong in. Because you don't belong anywhere fucking else.
That injury, Sebastian. You should have listened to it. Cultivated it's knowledge. But you choose instead to bet it all on a dream. Everything on red....but it landed on black. Black Sunday is here, Sebastian. Everything fades as my ascendancy shines. Look upon me, Sebastian, for I am success without compromise. I am power without conformity. You are neither, and you will soon be extinct. A footnote on Wikipedia that joins the dots, from failed wrestler, to boardroom disappointment to pointless drug overdose. Maybe my theory though will be proven correct and Nathan will step in and salvage what's left after I've decimated your career. His red, cybernetic hand resting on your shoulder as he becomes your new surrogate Father. Just remember though, what happened to Frank Patrick Venable.
The video screen's imagery changes; a flashback to FPV's crucifixion at the hands of NVL.
Nasty business that, Sebastian. I can hear the nails now as they're hammered into his bloody, contorted hands. Frank's screams, a howl that could wake the dead. Terrible business to disappoint a deranged lunatic such as Nathan Von Libert. Think about that before you pick yourself up off the mat this Sunday and welcome his fatherly embrace. You're not a man that can avoid failure for long. Those nails, Sebastian...deep into the flesh. The scars remain. Is that how you want to be “Knighted” Sebastian? Think it though. There's no shame in realizing that your title reign was saved time and again by external forces. No shame in realizing that it took Ethan King to pin Adam Burnett to save that title run. That it took “soft” booking to tally up those limp defenses. No shame in it. As long as you're smart enough to realize that there no glory either.
I want you to take a look at something, Sebastian. See this glass of water?
Rabid raises a glass.
Everything around me is expensive and ostentatious. But this glass of water? It's just water. Natural and abundant, right? So you'd probably think it's the lest precious substance in the place. You turn on the foucet and there it is. We all take it for granted. We use it as a chaser, and flush it away with Gemini's ashes. It's nothing...when you have it.
But when you take it away? When you drain the Hoover dam? A town like Vegas turns into a dust-bowl. Doesn't matter about the pretty lights and the shows and the excess. You have nothing but a ghost town. You can have all the trappings in the world, but there's no life. No fire. Now, imagine this glass of water is talent. Nothing changes for me. I take it for granted because I have an abundant amount of the stuff. Nobody rules a 20x20 ring the way I do. It's my domain and mine only. But for you, Sebastian?
Rabid pours the water out onto the floor.
It's precious and absent and elusive. Talent to you might as well be riding the fucking mighty moon worm all the way to Dionysus's cloud cuckoo land. You're never going to have it. Which means all those expensive bespoke suits and high class whores and the #bottleservice 24/7 are useless when the bell rings. Because you'll be standing there opposite me in that ring, and the only thing you'll be able to be? Is thirsty.
You're going to die in the desert, Sebastian. You're going to rot, in the sand. All because of me. Snake eyes, rolled by a Serpent. A Television champion. This week. Next week. All the way to Ultimate Showdown and the Prize that is rightfully mine. For me, the road begins now. For you, Sebastian?
It's the end of the line.
Good. Night.