Post by Crow McMorris on Jul 18, 2017 19:30:43 GMT -5
King Ώf The DeathMatch
Night Ώne:
Panama City Beach, Florida.
Crow McMorris V The Demon Wolf
(Ladder Match)
Udy was a humble, fetal mess at my feet as the hatred welled up inside of me. It’s difficult to explain what that sensation feels like. I've tried to quantify the emotion into words before but each time seems insufficient. It’s as if there’s this missing piece of the puzzle, and that imperfection hounds me and taunts me and drives me back into the madness. And there, in the dark recesses of my mind, I see the Fat Man with his Panama hat and that ridiculous Bahama shirt he wears; each button straining around his bulbous midsection, desperate to break their moorings and escape their captor.
My ears throb now with a strange electric hum as I picture a great ocean replacing the wrestling ring; a canopy of deep blue that surrounds me and welcomes me down into its cold depths. It would be almost serene if not for the skeletal figures that inhabit this massacred fresco. Half recognizable corpses of cops and businessmen and doctors that dance upon the ebb and tide of the currents; their dwindling patches of flesh hanging like rags after years of subterranean decay.
Death is the great leveler here, and it’s all around me. From Goldman Sachs down to the lost youth of the Projects the bodies have piled up like towering humanoid ant hills of bones and agony, as my yellow eyes adjust to the lack of light and search for answers. I realize now that mountains of rusting metal and citadels of useless concrete covet my submerged landscape like a reef of broken human history. Eventually, I see a sign up ahead, it’s “Broadway”.
Sometime in the future, New York is gone, and the fat man will sing.
But for now, Moor’s song syncopates into a welcoming chorus of cheers as a stunned Udy looks up at me from that blood stained mat, his much lighter frame shaking off the effects of the chokeslam I delivered. The Wolf’s mat black hair hangs heavy now over his features like curtains of solid impenetrable night. Peering through that mane should be Udy, but there’s another face staring up at me now, one with an insane mouth that’s smiling like a demented Cheshire cat; grinning maniacally from ear to ear.
It’s Wade Moor, the fat man. Eventually, though the tide recesses and Udy’s disappointed expression returns from behind those mat black curtains as my knuckles lose their tenseness. Match one is won. I’m one step closer to Wade Moor and halting this nightmare before it begins. But for now, though, it’s time to celebrate.
Just as I’m about to climb a turnbuckle, however, I shift my boot to discover there’s something caught beneath. I turn over a flat sheet of laminated paper as a signed eight by twelve of a bewildered looking Seth Lerch returns my unimpressed gaze. Seth has always appeared discombobulated in photographs, it’s probably due to a recurring fear of being served a subpoena. The man is always on the run over a bad deal gone wrong or a bounced check. I make sure to stamp down on his thin, emaciated mug as I climb that turnbuckle and soak in the cheers. From the crowd stands a man who isn’t there. George A Romero is having fun in the bleachers, blinking in and out of existence as the camera phones flash and pulse around his winking spirit like a living heartbeat. I try to remember what it’s like to have one of those pounding in my chest, but it’s been awhile.
Tonight the dead win. Tomorrow? The living gets to pretend.
***
(ˌzɒmbɪfɪˈkeɪʃən) Occultism, folklore. an instance or process of turning into a zombie.
The process of zombification involves poisoning an individual with toxin from a puffer fish.
Ɖ Δ Ψ Т Ш Ω
(ˌzɒmbɪfɪˈkeɪʃən) Occultism, folklore. an instance or process of turning into a zombie.
The process of zombification involves poisoning an individual with toxin from a puffer fish.
Ɖ Δ Ψ Т Ш Ω
Nine hundred and sixty-five miles separate Florida from Pennsylvania. The Deathmatch has now relocated back to WCF’s roots inside The 2300 arena, while myself and Taylor Lorde wait like muttering cattle trapped inside a long, undulating line of human disquiet. The flight from Orlando International to Harrisburg is once again taking the piss while using the mouthpiece of an underpaid, undoubtedly Xanax popping woman to inform us over the tannoy to remain forever patient. The departure boards that hang like coffin lids above offer us little comfort as once again inform my flight is delayed.
I look at the snake of people around me clutching their children and laptops and I can’t help but think that their swaying, zoned out expressions are a mirror of what George was always trying to convey in his films. We, as a society, have for decades become the zombies. We move like an unsatisfied herd of consumer monsters, searching endlessly for food, for wealth, for happiness; always eager to devour whatever we think will make us happy.
Taylor is anxiously checking her phone to try and discover what the fuck a “Zombification” match actually is. Her long, black fingernailed digits work Google like crazy before she finally exhales, a length of long blonde bangs fluttering above her petite elfish features. Taylor’s always had this Valley girl gone goth vibe about her; her tartan skirt and dead Kennedy's stretch top hints at the inner punk beneath, while I try and pull off a Bowie in Berlin with a trilby and shades.Thankfully, the banality of the line is helping my cause. Higher brain functions are no longer in abundance here among the line of the dead.
“Fuck!” Taylor exclaims, “The shit from one Fugu can kill over thirty people!”
“Good for me I’m not people. I’m a Zombie.”
“It’s “Reanimated Individual”, let’s not normalize bigotry!”
“Wha-What?”
“My Therapist says you’ve been conditioned to accept your role. It’s a Stockholm syndrome effect to make you believe you’re a monster. You’re a victim of the racist middle-class junta of the new far right. An undead Uncle Tom”
I catch George observing the long cue ahead, he’s smirking to himself his patented mischievous grin, that welcoming expression of warmth that I’ve been missing since his “departure”. He sees me zoning out of Taylor’s pointless diatribe and starts to demonstrate the correct pace and cadence for any self-respecting “post living” soul. Zombies do not run. They do not bunch up into giant balls of rolling flesh. They simply shamble forward at a slow, deliberate pace. One foot in front of the other. No need to run. We’ll get to you eventually. George pretending to be a zombie seems strangely inappropriate but I can’t help but chuckle. Which I think was the point.
Then it hits me. A clear strategy for night two. It’s the very antithesis of everything my instincts usually tell me. Yet to beat Damian Simmons, I’ll have to adopt a whole new role inside that ring. Some workers are high flyers. Some sing the strong style. As for me? Well, in this match, I’ll have to add a whole new string to my bow, and then stick to the tune I conjure until I hear that three-count and victory.
I decide it’s time for some last minute mind games. Taylor works her phone, she points, while I shoot.
“Hello, Damian. It’s your opponent for tonight. Crow McMorris…”
The line of dead start to turn, their simple decommissioned synapses locking onto the sound of my voice. I carry on regardless.
“Jayce Wilds shocked you last night in Florida, didn't he? At seven feet tall you had the size advantage and the aggression, but he had the speed and the guile. Those are the kind of trump cards that never fail. Still, you did match him in daring do and athletic prowess. So I imagine that tonight, you’re probably feeling optimistic for a victory. After all, you’re taller than me, you have the reach and a lot less ring rust too. When that bell rings inside the 2300, you’re gonna try and hit me fast and hard. Knock me off my center of gravity and keep me spinning like a top until you’re ready to unleash that full Nelson Slam finisher and close the book on this tale. That’s a nice and neat hypothesis you have there Simmons, but trust me, here’s why it won’t work.”
The crowd they’re awakening. Remembering life. People. Faces. My words act like a beacon back to existence.
“Allow me to illuminate you on why this match tonight is happening, and the reasons why you have absolutely no hope in winning. Let’s start with our boss, Seth Lerch. Seth is the self-styled, “Master of Puppets”. He’s not just some low rent demagogue waif with delusions of grandeur, he’s a seasoned bastard with a dedicated passion for sadistic booking. This week I walked back through his doors searching for glory and his mind instantly started to spin, anxious to conjure up a special recipe in my honor. So that’s why, on tonight’s menu, we have Fugu fish, the defining ingredient required for the “Zombification”, of a zombie.”
The line has turned into an encampment of camera phones and questions that surround me and Taylor. Sparks of intrusion flash in my eyes as I carry on.
“But just like any poison, Damian, it effects can be slowed down. Tonight is all about who blinks first. Last night in your chairs match you went a thousand miles an hour like a Spot monkey boosting a Bugatti. You’re a showman and I can admire that. But this sport isn’t about spectacle, it’s about winning. They call me the Murder Machine, Simmons for various reasons. Tonight? I’ll earn that name for being the ultimate pragmatist. I’m going to hurt you slow. Inhibit the effects of the poison running through my veins as I dismantle you at a pace I will dictate. Then, when that distilled terror reaches my heart I’ll simply remind myself why it’s there. To remind me of the time that one used to beat inside my chest. Poisoned mementos don’t murder the already dead, Damian. But as for you? You don't have that luxury. The clock for you will be always ticking. Until the moment you pass out. And I gain another two points for the tally. “
“Caw Caw”
I take Taylor’s hand and run past the mob. George ushers us towards the checkout. While the living, as always, are in pursuit of those they hunger. Always eager to feed.
Fade Out.
