Post by Crow McMorris on Jul 21, 2017 22:46:28 GMT -5
King of the DeathMatch
Hammerstein Ballroom, NY.
07/20/17
Block B Match:
Crow Mcmorris Vs Jaice Wilds
[Celebrity DeathMatch]
Charles Manson was already cuffed and chained for prison transfer when they lead him past me. I was standing inside the emptied Hammerstein lobby, the last of the hardcore stragglers had left the merch stand and the mood had become more reflective. I was dressed in jeans and my “Ichi the Killer” tee as midnight drew near. The place was a silent grave now save for the odd Puerto-Rican cleaner performing their assigned drudgery the best they could. Above was a renovated sky of brilliant orange light, trapping us all beneath its godlike gaze like lonely flies swimming in amber. The match itself with Jaice was now a memory, one with a sour aftertaste truth be told. More deaths, more chaos. I tried to drown my thoughts inside the Ballrooms renovated canopy of art deco opulence but the experience was contaminated by Manson’s arrival, his foul odor of half eaten human entrails and old man piss was wrenching even my zombified guts.
His withered, shambling form under that halo of light made Manson seem almost human as his entourage of steroid juiced guards plowed their way across the auditorium. These guards were bigger and more wound up to me than the jobbers you’d find at Dub Cee DevelopMENTAL. Uniforms straining against muscle and bone as they circled the deranged nutjob. They seemingly expected the worst at all times, separating that frail old monster from the rest of outside world. That is until he opened his fucking mouth.
“Nothing good lasts in this world.”
“What did you just say?” I uttered. I didn’t even realize it was Manson until after I spoke. Taylor stood behind me. Her eyes told the story. Even after her bravery at the junkyard, this was a new kind of fear, everyone knew this man. What he capable of, even now.
“I said...cherry lips, blonde hair. She has a look about her. You missus. A way I think. It reminds me of someone.”“
That, someone, was Sharon Tate. The comparison wasn’t new, but now it had taken on a whole new level of unease. Back in 69’ the Family’s night of terror cumulated with Manson's loyal soldiers (comprised of middle-class dropouts and stoner outcasts) savagely butchering Tate and her unborn child. To hear these words from the horse's mouth? My blood might have been new, but my bones remembered hate. I could feel Taylor's grip tighten around my hand as I weathered the storm of Guards telling me to back away.
That’s when the world fell down.
Manson had a second shiv. A guard stumbled at first. I thought it was simply a trip but his hand pulled away from chest red and dripping. The rest you’ve probably read online or in the papers. A guard tried to taser Manson, but the Wyly cunt shoved another into the path of the stun gun as confusion reigned. As the scene broke down I picked up a nightstick and clocked him once across the skull. Just a simple move to subdue I thought. But Manson was incensed, he lunged forward at me with unnatural speed. I broke my link with Taylor as the Shiv became mine and I went to work. I have this connection with things. People. Places. As I stabbed Charles Manson One Hundred and twenty-three times to death I could hear a baby cry. I’ve not had the courage yet to ask anyone else if they heard the same. Maybe when I get out of here I’ll look into sneaking the question into a conversation with Taylor. But it’s going to be awhile.
♣♥♦
D Δ Ѱ Ƒ I V Ε
The 9th Police Precinct seems eerily still as I sit here in my holding cell. Processed and awaiting Buddy Roman to weave some of his patented spellbinding miracles. George Romero is here too, sitting on the end of the bed and contemplating matters. Ever since the transfusion, I haven’t been able to hear him anymore. While I’m still very much dead, I’m not about to expire. Our connection then is lost on some level as I wonder what he wants to say. He rubs his eyes and takes off those huge black rimmed glasses he doesn’t need anymore as he thinks things through. A security camera above turns its automated attention towards me. What the fuck, might as well cut a promo. Right?
Ring….Ring….
…..
Frank Patrick Venable.
…..
Click.
That’s how it ends. This is how it begins. Tonight, as the techs prepare the C4 for detonation inside the Hammerstein Ballroom area, the next batch of auxiliary referees seeking asylum are flown in from some nameless war-torn land we’re blown up in the name of freedom. The conveyor belt has ensnared more homeless meat for the grinder to replace the scores already dead. One of them, beads of crazed sweat running down their shaking cheeks, draws the short straw. He (or she) screams as they dress that poor fuck in the zebra stripes. Prayers are said to a God the Referee isn’t sure is still listening as moments of quiet desperation are superseded with a level of resolution bore from the acceptance of death as the Ref stands and kisses a half burnt photograph of a lost family. Soon, the Ref convinces themselves that they’ll all be together again in some metaphysical paradise that’s cliched and comforting. An hour later, the ring will have exploded. The referee’s charred, lonely remains will be collected with a poop scoop for study under an Obamacare microscope, then dumped in the trash or fed to a rabid, zombie bear. And I will be the winner of this contest. But that’s the future, Frank. Let’s look at the now. Let’s turn that devious microscope of yours on you for a change since you’re oh-so-excited to skin others. Lets see how you look hanging from a hook. Mouth agape. Gasping for breath.
You’re a fighter, Frank. Irish heritage clenches your fists and turns that soul of yours belligerent when backed into a corner. David Sanchez underestimated you, but then, if you trap yourself inside the eye of Sauron playing Mad Men footsie under the table with your uncomfortably young lackeys, what else can you expect? He was soft. You’re not. But I have come to the conclusion that you’re a man that’s divided. Split down the middle and weak. I can see the cracks, the stress fractures, and that means round five is the go home show for Vic’s big dumb brother.
Tell me, Frank, what rock is left on Earth you haven’t overturned in the name of contrived revenge? You’ve never had any trouble making enemies have you, Frank? It’s either the Yakuza or a rogue Mafia don or maybe it’s your own lack of self-worth that haunts you. I imagine that If you were trapped on a desert island, it would be down between you and Wilson the baseball in a knife fight for the last coconut. Frank Patrick Venable, a good Catholic boy always on the lookout for a new mea culpa to break his back upon. Is that why you never railed against joining the Brotherhood? Why you just accepted the scaffold match loss against Kevin Bishop and skipped your way into that soup kitchen fiasco with a “Home sweet Home” sign under your arm? Is there some hurt, damaged, intricate part of your psychological makeup that enjoyed being Bishop’s personal lapdog? I think I know why you need those gangland distractions, they’re an excuse for your lacking as a long term main event talent player. You know you should be in that headline act, yet you keep slipping out of the pack and getting lost by the wayside. That’s because you’re a half chromosome removed from Teddy Blaze. Just another month hot flake that can’t make the commitment anymore. You can play being strong style all day long, but you just don’t have the air miles to back it up.
And why is that? How can a man who can take such punishment have such a soft core? Probably has to do with simply physiology: you’re a five eleven man. a cruiserweight without a division. A wandering nomad that underwhelms when spotted at the airport or at the crime scene. All those disappointed photos people take with you at Wrestlecon each year, it’s a dank paradise. Think about it, Frank; you have no chance in this. I’m six, eight. Two sixty pounds. I’ve already Coma Kicked men double your size out of their boots. You can fight with heart. You can rally with ring sense. But the numbers always win out. I’m taller, stronger and quite frankly...faster. I have ring rust, this is true. But so do you, Frank. Your stop / start career has guaranteed you of that. You pinball from moment to moment but you’re a selfish twat with a brittle ego. One big loss and you’re gone to regroup into some brutal dojo thinking what your life really needs now is a Japanese stereotype to treat you like shit and get us all invested in Frank Patrick Venable again. As if we were in the first place.
The only time when you were interesting Frank was when you were nailed to a fucking cross.That’s your defining moment. A former World Champion who became a crucified hardcore messiah, sentenced to be the pawn of Nathan Von Libert’s sadistic pleasure now and forever more. Skip a few years and we find you a damaged soldier with wrestling PTSD, rummaging through trash for the Brotherhood, lacerated skin buzzing with flies in the heat, all, the while staring longingly at a half eaten Wendy’s and contemplating loopholes in the three-second rule. You know what I think about you, Frank? I think you look down at the stigmata on each hand that NVL nailed into your flesh and you’re still there. In that moment. And you like it.
Tell me, is there even a Peter Quinn out there for you to hunt? All those displaced memories, all that running you do from yourself. The only anchor you have left to normalcy is the scum that crosses you. And once you lose this match? There you’ll go, off on another crusade. The family is forgotten. Your brother Vic is left to rot in prison unaware that his parents are dead because Frank’s gotta roll. For all the midcard matches you’ve won (and lost) on your low rent jihads for justice, you keep forgetting that your career just stalls when you get the notion to run. Nothing else matters for you when you have that distraction buzzing in your ears and I know why.
You only have so many wins in you. Staying power has always eluded you. You’re a candle that flicks under a calm sky. You’re a lightweight when it comes to staying power. Sebastian Knight turned you over and left you squirming in the sun, a month later he was running out of town while your head searched for a hole in the ground to hide in. You have these days of magnificence that’s true, but they’re few and far between. Sooner or later the come down arrives and you’re gone. But you even in exile still think this business owes you a living while licking your wounds and convincing yourself you’re still a force. You can cradle snatch a world title from Jason O’Neal, but you can’t defend the belt against a frat boy who thinks he’s a space God. Teo’s old TV title whipping boy bested you and did push up’s on that adolescent physique you call an adult body. Jared destroying you has to make your skin crawl. But that’s okay, you can always use an old grudge as an excuse to escape the schedule and run off into hiding again. Newsflash, it doesn’t work anymore, we see through you and the fact that your smug cunt of a face doesn’t realize this is going to be your undoing.
BOOM! HEADSHOT!!
Take comfort Frank in the fact that the winner of Block B, will actually be able to look into the puffy eyes of the winner of Block A and not need a stool and lifts to accomplish the task. William the Behemoth is a Michelin man without the cardio. I’ll wrestle you tonight and run through him tomorrow and then the King will have the keys he needs to unlock all the doors he needs. Every piece of the puzzle will unravel and the mystery of this city and where it’s taking me will become clear.You can harp on about me not facing Wade Moor. But the fact is you’ve been running from Corey Black for ten years and only now when he’s at the twilight of his career do you suddenly have the gumption to face him. I suppose he seems a more attractive option now doesn't he? Corey is without Creeping Death in his corner now, no inner beast to tear your pale Atlanta, Georgia skin from your brittle hick bones.
When it comes to Wade Moor, it’s not down to a tournament if I face him or not. It’s not down to a judge to sentence me for killing Charles Manson. I can and will walk out of here and do as I please. Or I’ll simply wait it out and watch this place crumble around me while I play the time game. I am immortal. I have options. You have this one match and then what? You lose and you’re gone again on another useless sojourn no one gives a shit about to face another stock criminal that has seemingly wronged you, who no one gives a shit about. Face it, Frank. These walls are my prison. They are ones I can leave, Yours is the life you keep running away from because that ego of yours can’t accept defeat. There’s no possibility of parole from that kind of sentence. A sentence that guaranteed that your parents died without a son, and damned your brother into a life he was never meant to lead. All because Frank Patrick Venable had to be FPV. A brand that crushes a lives under the weight of its lofty expectations. Ones no one expects you to reach, let you keep reaching for the sun.
Tonight? You’re about to get burnt.Excuse me.
I stand and open my prison door, it was never locked as I walk out into a darkened corridor. The other cells are vacant, but there seems to have been signs of recent life. Struggles and gunfire leave trace elements of blood and bullet holes all around me. This precinct is empty, a hollow place without life as a sudden Squark of a radio carries desperate cries of apocalyptic struggles. I ignore the cries as there is nothing I can do as I match past the evidence room and exit the building through a set of heavy double doors, out into a desolate New York Skyline. This is not a dream or reality but a waypoint between. A doorway unlocked through the bars of a prison.
“Looks like we have something to talk about after all”
Howard Black has arrived on cue. The convergence is drawing nearer. I can’t say Howie is especially pleased to see me, but this is about business. He nods a cursory greeting as we look up at the snow, that is ash, that rains down from manufactured clouds of deadly fallout. A deathly silence howls whispers of radioactive discontent upon the wind as New York holds its breath and wonders.
What Next?
Ring….Ring….
…..
Frank Patrick Venable.
…..
Click.
That’s how it ends. This is how it begins. Tonight, as the techs prepare the C4 for detonation inside the Hammerstein Ballroom area, the next batch of auxiliary referees seeking asylum are flown in from some nameless war-torn land we’re blown up in the name of freedom. The conveyor belt has ensnared more homeless meat for the grinder to replace the scores already dead. One of them, beads of crazed sweat running down their shaking cheeks, draws the short straw. He (or she) screams as they dress that poor fuck in the zebra stripes. Prayers are said to a God the Referee isn’t sure is still listening as moments of quiet desperation are superseded with a level of resolution bore from the acceptance of death as the Ref stands and kisses a half burnt photograph of a lost family. Soon, the Ref convinces themselves that they’ll all be together again in some metaphysical paradise that’s cliched and comforting. An hour later, the ring will have exploded. The referee’s charred, lonely remains will be collected with a poop scoop for study under an Obamacare microscope, then dumped in the trash or fed to a rabid, zombie bear. And I will be the winner of this contest. But that’s the future, Frank. Let’s look at the now. Let’s turn that devious microscope of yours on you for a change since you’re oh-so-excited to skin others. Lets see how you look hanging from a hook. Mouth agape. Gasping for breath.
You’re a fighter, Frank. Irish heritage clenches your fists and turns that soul of yours belligerent when backed into a corner. David Sanchez underestimated you, but then, if you trap yourself inside the eye of Sauron playing Mad Men footsie under the table with your uncomfortably young lackeys, what else can you expect? He was soft. You’re not. But I have come to the conclusion that you’re a man that’s divided. Split down the middle and weak. I can see the cracks, the stress fractures, and that means round five is the go home show for Vic’s big dumb brother.
Tell me, Frank, what rock is left on Earth you haven’t overturned in the name of contrived revenge? You’ve never had any trouble making enemies have you, Frank? It’s either the Yakuza or a rogue Mafia don or maybe it’s your own lack of self-worth that haunts you. I imagine that If you were trapped on a desert island, it would be down between you and Wilson the baseball in a knife fight for the last coconut. Frank Patrick Venable, a good Catholic boy always on the lookout for a new mea culpa to break his back upon. Is that why you never railed against joining the Brotherhood? Why you just accepted the scaffold match loss against Kevin Bishop and skipped your way into that soup kitchen fiasco with a “Home sweet Home” sign under your arm? Is there some hurt, damaged, intricate part of your psychological makeup that enjoyed being Bishop’s personal lapdog? I think I know why you need those gangland distractions, they’re an excuse for your lacking as a long term main event talent player. You know you should be in that headline act, yet you keep slipping out of the pack and getting lost by the wayside. That’s because you’re a half chromosome removed from Teddy Blaze. Just another month hot flake that can’t make the commitment anymore. You can play being strong style all day long, but you just don’t have the air miles to back it up.
And why is that? How can a man who can take such punishment have such a soft core? Probably has to do with simply physiology: you’re a five eleven man. a cruiserweight without a division. A wandering nomad that underwhelms when spotted at the airport or at the crime scene. All those disappointed photos people take with you at Wrestlecon each year, it’s a dank paradise. Think about it, Frank; you have no chance in this. I’m six, eight. Two sixty pounds. I’ve already Coma Kicked men double your size out of their boots. You can fight with heart. You can rally with ring sense. But the numbers always win out. I’m taller, stronger and quite frankly...faster. I have ring rust, this is true. But so do you, Frank. Your stop / start career has guaranteed you of that. You pinball from moment to moment but you’re a selfish twat with a brittle ego. One big loss and you’re gone to regroup into some brutal dojo thinking what your life really needs now is a Japanese stereotype to treat you like shit and get us all invested in Frank Patrick Venable again. As if we were in the first place.
The only time when you were interesting Frank was when you were nailed to a fucking cross.That’s your defining moment. A former World Champion who became a crucified hardcore messiah, sentenced to be the pawn of Nathan Von Libert’s sadistic pleasure now and forever more. Skip a few years and we find you a damaged soldier with wrestling PTSD, rummaging through trash for the Brotherhood, lacerated skin buzzing with flies in the heat, all, the while staring longingly at a half eaten Wendy’s and contemplating loopholes in the three-second rule. You know what I think about you, Frank? I think you look down at the stigmata on each hand that NVL nailed into your flesh and you’re still there. In that moment. And you like it.
Tell me, is there even a Peter Quinn out there for you to hunt? All those displaced memories, all that running you do from yourself. The only anchor you have left to normalcy is the scum that crosses you. And once you lose this match? There you’ll go, off on another crusade. The family is forgotten. Your brother Vic is left to rot in prison unaware that his parents are dead because Frank’s gotta roll. For all the midcard matches you’ve won (and lost) on your low rent jihads for justice, you keep forgetting that your career just stalls when you get the notion to run. Nothing else matters for you when you have that distraction buzzing in your ears and I know why.
You only have so many wins in you. Staying power has always eluded you. You’re a candle that flicks under a calm sky. You’re a lightweight when it comes to staying power. Sebastian Knight turned you over and left you squirming in the sun, a month later he was running out of town while your head searched for a hole in the ground to hide in. You have these days of magnificence that’s true, but they’re few and far between. Sooner or later the come down arrives and you’re gone. But you even in exile still think this business owes you a living while licking your wounds and convincing yourself you’re still a force. You can cradle snatch a world title from Jason O’Neal, but you can’t defend the belt against a frat boy who thinks he’s a space God. Teo’s old TV title whipping boy bested you and did push up’s on that adolescent physique you call an adult body. Jared destroying you has to make your skin crawl. But that’s okay, you can always use an old grudge as an excuse to escape the schedule and run off into hiding again. Newsflash, it doesn’t work anymore, we see through you and the fact that your smug cunt of a face doesn’t realize this is going to be your undoing.
BOOM! HEADSHOT!!
Take comfort Frank in the fact that the winner of Block B, will actually be able to look into the puffy eyes of the winner of Block A and not need a stool and lifts to accomplish the task. William the Behemoth is a Michelin man without the cardio. I’ll wrestle you tonight and run through him tomorrow and then the King will have the keys he needs to unlock all the doors he needs. Every piece of the puzzle will unravel and the mystery of this city and where it’s taking me will become clear.You can harp on about me not facing Wade Moor. But the fact is you’ve been running from Corey Black for ten years and only now when he’s at the twilight of his career do you suddenly have the gumption to face him. I suppose he seems a more attractive option now doesn't he? Corey is without Creeping Death in his corner now, no inner beast to tear your pale Atlanta, Georgia skin from your brittle hick bones.
When it comes to Wade Moor, it’s not down to a tournament if I face him or not. It’s not down to a judge to sentence me for killing Charles Manson. I can and will walk out of here and do as I please. Or I’ll simply wait it out and watch this place crumble around me while I play the time game. I am immortal. I have options. You have this one match and then what? You lose and you’re gone again on another useless sojourn no one gives a shit about to face another stock criminal that has seemingly wronged you, who no one gives a shit about. Face it, Frank. These walls are my prison. They are ones I can leave, Yours is the life you keep running away from because that ego of yours can’t accept defeat. There’s no possibility of parole from that kind of sentence. A sentence that guaranteed that your parents died without a son, and damned your brother into a life he was never meant to lead. All because Frank Patrick Venable had to be FPV. A brand that crushes a lives under the weight of its lofty expectations. Ones no one expects you to reach, let you keep reaching for the sun.
Tonight? You’re about to get burnt.Excuse me.
I stand and open my prison door, it was never locked as I walk out into a darkened corridor. The other cells are vacant, but there seems to have been signs of recent life. Struggles and gunfire leave trace elements of blood and bullet holes all around me. This precinct is empty, a hollow place without life as a sudden Squark of a radio carries desperate cries of apocalyptic struggles. I ignore the cries as there is nothing I can do as I match past the evidence room and exit the building through a set of heavy double doors, out into a desolate New York Skyline. This is not a dream or reality but a waypoint between. A doorway unlocked through the bars of a prison.
“Looks like we have something to talk about after all”
Howard Black has arrived on cue. The convergence is drawing nearer. I can’t say Howie is especially pleased to see me, but this is about business. He nods a cursory greeting as we look up at the snow, that is ash, that rains down from manufactured clouds of deadly fallout. A deathly silence howls whispers of radioactive discontent upon the wind as New York holds its breath and wonders.
What Next?
♪ You're coming down fast
Yeah you're coming down fast
You're coming down fast
You're coming down fast
You're coming down fast ♫
♣ FADE OUT ♣
