AGAINST THE ROPES - PART I
Jul 29, 2017 21:22:29 GMT -5
David Sanchez, Wade Moor, and 2 more like this
Post by John Rabid on Jul 29, 2017 21:22:29 GMT -5
It was the beginning of the rout of civilization. The massacre, of mankind.
- H.G. Wells.
chapter one
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WHEN THE MAN COMES AROUND
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Below is an extract from Red Ledger 31-b. Believed to be currently in the hands of WCF Interviewer, Hank W. Brown.
Transcript: 39.5.33
Security Level: Alpha 1.a
Recording Location: Главное управление лагерей (GULAG - SHADOW 19 “RAMESSES”)
Chief Interrogator: генера́л-лейтена́нт (Major General) Heinrich Kuznetsov (Soviet 16th Air Army, Luftstreitkräfte)
Second in Command: полко́вник (Captain) Elena Vasiliev (Komitet gosudarstvennoy bezopasnosti, K.G.B)
Prisoner Held: “O.H Krill” (Current alias believed to be: Jimophy Thuggin, “Slovakian Entrepreneur”)
Timestamp: July 22nd, 1958
Capt. Elena Vasiliev: Interrogation five begins. July 22nd, 1958. 19:00 Hours. Present within cell 26 are myself, Capt. Elena Vasiliev, K.G.B. and Major General, Heinrich Kuznetsov, West German Air Force. The Major General will now begin questioning.
M.G. Heinrich Kuznetsov: The tape is rolling?
Capt. Elena Vasiliev: Yes.
M.G. Heinrich Kuznetsov: Prisoner 44. What is your Race?
(No answer is forthcoming)
Capt. Elena Vasiliev: Prisoner 44, also known as O.H Krill appears unresponsive. His head is bowed. Hands clasped.
M.G. Heinrich Kuznetsov: Prisoner 44. State your point of origin.
O.H Krill: Jalaxaritkatusa. I am Jalaxaritkatusan.
M.G. Heinrich Kuznetsov: What is your designation?
O.H Krill: I have no designation. I am not a soldier. I am not a leader.
M.G. Heinrich Kuznetsov: What is your purpose?
(Static, no response)
Capt. Elena Vasiliev: Prisoner 44! We require an answer!
O.H Krill: My purpose is to be determined by The Serpent.
(Shuffles of paper can be heard as notes are checked. Muffled whispers between interrogators sound hurried and confused as this new integer of information enters the fray)
M.G. Heinrich Kuznetsov: Who is this “Serpent”? What is his purpose?
(O.H Krill tilts his large elongated head back, shoulders of stone grey arching as his triple joined spine straightens at odd, disturbing angles. The alien’s large, black, oval eyes widen as if a whole new scene of hope is spread out before them. A small thin slit beneath the pinhole nostrils of the Jalaxaritkatusan upends into a malevolent smile as images of salvation invade the strange traveler's multidimensional senses.)
O.H Krill: The snow is crisp beneath his feet...He is alone, confident...He does not feel the cold. He never feels the cold.
M.G. Heinrich Kuznetsov: This Serpent? Is he in Russia? Where?
O.H Krill: A large cliff face overlooks his location...Beyond that there is a river of ice...The peaks of nearby mountains are melting...The moon is large above them...Your world has beauty.
Capt. Elena Vasiliev: The location he describes. That, that could be here.
O.H Krill: Perceptive. You should begin your exodus now, earth child.
M.G. Heinrich Kuznetsov: This is a maximum security location. Three battalions of the Soviet Socialist Republics October division lie beyond that cell door. Beyond that are snipers perched in watchtowers with night vision equipment attached to high powered rifles. That crisp snow beneath your Serpent’s feet conceals a minefield. There shall be no exodus. Only this prison and answers.
(Sounds of gunfire echo through a nearby corridor. Footsteps crash against stone as a klaxon sounds)
O.H Krill: Too late. He is closer than expected. Magnificent.
(A cacophony of explosions and screaming shatters the speakers of the tape recorder before an eerie silence descends. Rising from this is an unending hiss of white noise that carries with it a strange pulsing code of numbers that descend to zero. A few moments pass before we hear signs of life return to the cell. The trigger of a service revolver is locked slowly into position as short bursts of breathing transmit waves of helpless desperation)
M.G. Heinrich Kuznetsov: Captain, lower your weapon!
Capt. Elena Vasiliev: I, I can’t. This isn’t me anymore.
M.G. Heinrich Kuznetsov: Captain Vasiliev!
Capt. Elena Vasiliev: I’m sorry. I’m--
(A gunshot rings out as a body collapses)
Capt. Elena Vasiliev: It’s not me anymore. I’m nowhere. I’m--
(A second gunshot. We hear a body, accompanied by its service revolver, hit the stone floor with a brisk finality. A bolt slides open as a latch clicks. The door to the cell opens as footsteps invade the confined space. They step over the mess and proceed inside)
O.H Krill: Are you The Serpent?
Voice: Yes.
O.H Krill: You look like them. I wasn’t expecting that. They call me O.H Krill. Sometimes Prisoner 44. Is that to be my name?
Voice. No.
O.H Krill: What shall I be known as?
Voice: We’ll figure that out together. Shall we depart? It’s a long walk back.
Tape Ends.
chapter two
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TWILIGHT OF THE GODS
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Whoever is unjust let him be unjust still
Whoever is righteous let him be righteous still
Whoever is filthy let him be filthy still
Listen to the words long written down
When the man comes around
Salutations, you strange, fucked up, pitiful little world.
Let’s begin with the obvious, shall we?
I AM YOUR NEW WCF WORLD HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPION
Yes, let’s light up the sky with joy because since Sunday, July 23rd I have been the indisputable champion elect within the Wrestling Championship Federation. From the very moment we handed in our titles at the end of Slam, the most dominant, the most formidable opponent in this Ultimate Showdown contest has been me. It’s always been me. I have been the man to beat since day one. The pinnacle of excellence. Face it, I am untouchable in this race. I am the longest reigning Television champion of all time. Just let that sink in for a moment. One hundred and thirty five days of peerless excellence. A title run executed with the kind of flawless skill that comes but once a generation. In all that time I’ve lost but one TV title match due to the incompetence of a gaggle of special school dropouts who consider breathing and walking as a step beyond the pale. Factor in Taylor Wright stapled to my coattails and that wankstain of a contest was a non starter from the beginning. And yet, I still walked out the champion. During my reign I’ve fought a war against a horde of the undead in Denmark, travelled back to America for WCF duties and a Vietnamese tea, won title defense after title defense, returned back to the field of battle, laughed over the dismembered remains of Adrian Archer, then promptly saved the fucking world. How? Because I’m the best wrestler in the world, that’s how. Therefore, I am your world champion as of now. The equation isn’t arduous to follow, it’s fluid mechanics with a barium chaser. That’s science by the way, you vacuous cunts.
Look around, and what do you see my inferior opponents? It’s clear we live in perilous times. Dion Necurat, “The Crimson Gladiator” as a former world champion encapsulates to the combat sports community just how far we’ve fallen as a company. This time last year the cuddly hobo was jobbing out in the opening match of Ultimate Showdown to that Juggalo spastic Salem Sheppard, now Dion is supposed to be the banner man for this sport? Can none of you one dimensional twats hear the laughter from Boxing to MMA as they look down on us and kick sand in our faces? Professional wrestling has become a laughing stock under our watch and who do I blame for that? You, David Sanchez. You, Steven Singh. You, Gravedigger. You've all been at the cusp of winning that title this year, and yet all of you have tripped over your cancerous egos and blown it. You’ve all made this embarrassment happen because none of you were good enough to derail this tragedy. You’re all a fucking disgrace to this sport and to the WCF Galaxy in general. This Sunday inside the Richmond Coliseum, I’ll have no choice but to smash you all apart until they’ll have to bleach your blood from the streets with a fucking blow torch.
Only a full clearing of the board will wash away this catastrophe. And yet right now, I can already hear the tepid, timid excuses of a mentally malnourished Colombian sitting in his sylvanian families treehouse pretending to be intelligent. That’s you, David Sanchez, by the way. The twat with nothing but excuses to fall back on as he begs us all to follow the coma inducing escapades of a habitual self loathing cuntsack, who broods like a menstruating soccer wife, all the while lampooning the memories of his dead family on house shows for brief spikes of middling cheap heat. And this human potato wants to be a world champion? Stick to tormenting Teo Del Blaze with that crown of metal thorns, Sanchez. That was your high spot anyway. Everything else has been this slow, unfolding disaster of melodramatic shite I’d be embarrassed to walk into the house.
I’d like to think that David Sanchez is the biggest hypocrite in this Ultimate Showdown match, but that would be a lie, that dubious honor falls at the feet of the Alpha Champion, Sidney J. Warwick. Mister, “Prince of Poughkeepsie”, I’ve known how to destroy your damp squib of a career long before you even laced up your first pair of biodegradable wrestling boots. You are nothing more than an unadulterated joke. You’re this gormless, privileged stick insect that drapes himself with middle class pomposity, yet doesn’t have the guts to follow his supposed libertarian convictions to the letter. You speak with the argot of a far left crusader, but deep down, you harbor all the same corruptible desires and petty weaknesses that every other twat on this roster has. You’ll take a victory no matter what, and that makes you just another jobber that looks up from their welfare basement squat and wonders how to be me.
Your Achilles heel is that you suffer with bouts of selective memory to keep that kelp fed conscience clean and I can prove it. See, while you like to preach about Amnesty international approved knitted boxer shorts and the sad plight of the Snow Leopard, you’re also simultaneously cosying up with rapists like Oblivion on social media; making googly eyes with a sick, mass murdering queen of the nay nay while plotting your next vegan date night together. I can only imagine what you’d do if someone pointed out that little fact to you face to face, you’d probably turn tail and run until your ethnically diversified barber caught up with your blubbering eyes, sculptured that stupid mustache of yours into something half decent, then afterwards the two of you shared a nice Kimchi Taco together and dealt with the feels.
You, Sidney, are just as miserable and as self centered as everyone else. While me? I never claimed to be anything I wasn’t. I am the Serpent. I am a villain and a cad. You, Warwick, claim to be everything deep down you’re not, and this Sunday at Ultimate Showdown all that hypocrisy you conceal will drag you back down like an anchor, down into the gutter to wallow with all the rest of the lying plebs, all those selfish betas with lofty aspirations and delusions of misplaced nobility. This week I’m going to serve your arse to you in a mason jar, and watch you fucking drink it, you four-eyed spastic cunt.
Speaking of spastic cunts let’s cue up one Mister Jayson Price. Fuck me, how have you managed to hold every conceivable WCF title known to man and yet still turned yourself into an unequivocal disaster? Maybe it’s because you have Gravedigger’s piss still running through your veins. Maybe now you’re his zombified bitch, and you can’t help yourself, which would explain why you’ve turned into his personal caddy over the last few months.Tell me, is he a better “Man Made God” than Torture? Or just a better BJ for your flimsy ego? There has to be a reason why you’d hitch your wagon onto that geriatric sinking ship. Do you hang around with Digger because his career freefall is more advanced than yours? Or is it because you simply have no friends left to annoy? I’ll give you this, you and Digger managed to progress further than Paragon did in the Trios cup. But then, you didn’t have to fight Zero Tolerance week after week, did you? Your journey to the finals was as uneventful and as passive as Everest. You strolled rather than fought. And that extra percent of energy left in the tank assured you of progression. Want to accuse me of sour grapes, Jay? Go right ahead, that’s been your MO all through your squalid little existence.
Jayson, I know what makes you tick. Behind the empty bottles of gin and the protest marches for free porn you’re this frightened little man who’d rather waste his time on breaking the neck of Chelsea Armstrong than go for a world title challenge against a real opponent. You have abilities, Jay. You harbour a decent skill set, enough to pin Wade Moor clean. But because you wear that wrap sheet of yours like a set of armor, it’s easy to dissect what really makes you tick. That soft core that knows it’s inferior and small. Small, and somewhat damaged. I’ve seen the X-rays from Mexico 2015; the doctors told you then to hang up the boots. Both your livers are shot Jay, and your neck’s a mess. I’m surprised Cameraman Stu isn’t wheeling you around in a wheelchair right now, trying to farm you out for a soft core remake of “The Theory Of Everything”. Maybe though, that reality is just a Ultimate Showdown away, just one Kingdom Destroyer hit sweet so a spineless man finally sits down for good. This Sunday I’m going to peel away your accolades and carve up that fragile ego beneath. And as your body crumbles under years of self abuse, you’ll slip away from memory, and that gold you covet will lose it’s shine, the lead paint beneath revealing the folly of your blind obsession.
You must know deep down inside Jayson that what I’m saying is the truth. You’ve always been a fighter that never quite made the right weight, even with all that gold you have under your name you’re still twenty pounds too light, and a full foot under the bar. After Ultimate Showdown? Make that six feet under. Maybe Dexter Radcliffe can sing you a tearful rendition of “Hello” by Adelle as they lower you into the ground, realizing with a giggle that your dick pic was just Photoshop, and smother you with shit.
Speaking of awkward funerals. Andre, you’ve been a good associate to have by my side, until I needed an actual tag partner I could rely upon, then your services towards Pantheon and (Paragon especially) became as reliable as the fucking Lehman Brothers. I wish I could make excuses for you. I wish I could turn around to the world and blame the sad death of your ex-wife, Samantha on now stagnant and degrading your career has become. But you wouldn’t want that kind of lie from me. So that only leaves us with the truth. You and me have rode as far as we can together, and now we must part. Your Hardcore title reign since “Rise Up” seems a fine accomplishment upon first glance, the longest consecutive title reign of 2017 in fact. Very impressive, until you place that reign under a microscope to reveal it’s unremarkable history. Your defenses have been sporadic at best, seven in six months is almost Everest in it’s lethargy. While your opponents have been a cavalcade of mismatched duds from Oblivion to a broken down flake like Teo Del Sol. And at the core of that disappointment, Andre, is you. A nucleus of unfocused talent that never seems to have the right amount of conviction behind the blow hard bravado.
You just expect to win, Andre, don’t you? Because you have that incessant mantra of the “Relentless Andre Holmes” to fall back on. Beating like a roaring pulse between ears that have deafened you to the truth. Your talent level is not enough, Andre. Yes, your heart is strong, but at this level? It’s nowhere near enough. While I applaud your self confidence, your skill set and attention to detail is a fucking shambles. Let’s make no bones about it, you were at fault during the Trios cup, a tournament where you cost our team a world title shot that Corey and myself, unlike David Sanchez, would never have squandered. That failure is on you, and you alone, you and your piss poor level of preparation. You arrived in Mexico out of shape and unfocused. Too much Jamaican weed and good times under that ever expanding beltline of yours while your family became this weekend past time to nursemaid you through the mai tai comedown.
I used to think that I could carry anyone to victory, the hubris of an advanced mind. In my first match on Slam I was paired with a four hundred and seventy five pound slice of solid lard named, “Billy”, John Barber’s supposed “miracle find”. In truth, the lump was just a fat oaf that needed to be airlifted into the ring, but still, I persevered. My first match on Slam was a victory out of nowhere, only it wasn’t that shocking, just a calculated and devious example of my talents. Do you remember the circumstances? I superkicked Billy on top a shocked Yung Adam, both the legal men at the time, and turned that bloated liability I was shackled with into an immovable asset. One dropkick to Legion and a three count later and the victory was mine. And that’s where the trouble began. Because if I could score a pinfall with that millstone around my ankles I could do it with anyone. And for awhile there, I was right. Kyle Kemp was my next assigned stooge and together we won the Tag titles for #beachkrew. We outshone the competition with those belts for three long months straight, past ONE and beyond. But all one sided alliances come crashing down in the end, and so the day came to face you and Gemini.
You bounced Kemp’s head off the mat, and just like that, the belts were gone. I mistakenly placed you on a pedestal you hadn’t truly earned, and it’s taken me until now to realise that it’s a mantle you’ll never attain. You’re a trade up from Kemp for sure, but you’ll never be my equal. That’s a preposterous notion.
Think about it like this, Andre. If you were a fat, obese cunt; you’d be useful. But you’re not. I can’t even kick you over a downed opponent to score a pinfall. With you, Andre, I’ve run out of ideas because no matter how much ground I cover, no matter how much traction I create for us in a match, you’ll just unravel it all by trying to eclipse my speed and ferocity. You’ll run headlong into trouble and screw the pooch on the other side. Because you’re not me, Andre. You’ll never be my equal. Instead you’ll falter as you try to measure up and cost us yet another victory. That’s why I can’t have you living in my shadow any longer. That’s why your Hardcore title defence during Ultimate Showdown rests entirely on your shoulders now. In this match I am alone and I will stop at nothing to destroy anyone in my path. I have no friends, only targets to obliterate. Now, what does that mean for poor old Pantheon?
Well, watch this space.
Speaking of old. Somewhere out there right now there’s a forty one year old mexican gang leader beavering away with photoshop, his saggy tits bouncing up and down with nervous energy as he desperately tries to look cool on twitter. I find it funny Gravedigger that a thug like you who lives off the misery of his childhood neighbourhood would have this encyclopedic knowledge of all things WCF. You don’t sound like a gangster in your promos, your cadence is more like a librarian, a little shrill of a man shuffling books in the history section of the smithsonian. Maybe that’s why I can’t buy into you as real person. You don't threaten, you just smother your opponents with dates and times and seismic shifts in upper management and the occasional administration change. You’re a walking flowchart that dulls the senses just long enough for us to forget that you’re a murderous street rat that plays drug lord on the weekends. Maybe the contradiction here is just normal, maybe you’re just a cunt who gorges on history as a distraction away from the fact that you’re a pathetic excuse for a human being. You don’t elevate yourself with knowledge, you don't use it to better yourself or others, you use it to cloud our vision as you throw acid into the face of a man for half a key of coke.
I suppose you’re going to fire away at me with some clever bullet points on my highs and lows as a professional wrestler. Drone on about how #beachkrew has been absorbed into the Pantheon juggernaut that you hate so very much because a bald, aging cunt like you would never make the cut. “The Dark Side of Treachery”, what a fucking joke. I fully expect you to come at me this week with the same old shite everyone else does about how I’ve lived in another man’s shadow. Well look around, do you see Jared Holmes? Because he isn’t here anymore. So what else you got? Seriously, I would have thought a man like you would understand patience, you position the pieces upon the board so that you have the least resistance to the top before you ascend. Wade. Jared. Flash. I had to clear the board before I could play the game. I had to play Sanchez just right so he would break away from Pantheon and fragment it’s power. He’s made a few unexpected plays of his own, but that is to be expected. I had higher hopes for Sanchez, but just like Andre, I overestimated his intelligence.
Do you know what I hate the most about you, Digger? It’s that you fall into this part-timer cock blocker category of former legends that come back to unravel the future. Just when this Federation is trying to carve out a new destiny for itself a turd, like you, that won't flush bobs up to the surface with ancient tales of yore. Seriously, how many fucking times do we have to listen to you rabbit on about how you won the title at Explosion under a mask? That was fucking seven years ago! No one in this Federation gives a shit now. “Oh look! Grandpa is out of his rocking chair! Maybe, if we’re lucky, he’ll regale us with his one great story. Tell us again for the thousandth time Grandpa how you pretended to be Hector Rodriguez and defeated the all mighty Chad Evans. Blah. Blah. Blah”
You’re an ether to progression, Gravedigger. You shut down companies when you can’t have your own way because you’re such a fucking child. An old, lame dog that can’t stay out of the mix so he runs in between the legs of newer talent and trips up their momentum. Maybe deep down inside you simply just want one of us to turn around, step up, and finish you off inside the ring. The death of a noble warrior. One last swing of the sword before you fall upon the blade. I can make that happen for you, Gravedigger. If that trios semi final this year was just me and you, instead of the hired help in the way? I would have gladly pulled the trigger. One Kingdom Destroyer later, and you’d have been back trapped in that drain again with dear old sister, slipping away as that little boy lost, the poor frightened John Borroughs, the sixteen year old kid who let his sister drown. This Sunday lets time travel back together shall we? John and Jennifer, your hands linking up once more under the waves with as you both vanish into the deep. Brother and sister, buried at sea. No wonder you were such a #beachkrew mark back in the day, Digger. You just can’t escape the water, can you?
Oh, and don’t get your lip all twisted up, you firebomb night clubs, Digger. You don’t get to be aggrieved and upset. I’m John fucking Rabid. I’ll eat you for fucking breakfast and shit the remains out on Adrian’s lawn.
"Go pick up your internet title, Gravedigger. There's a good chap"
"Go pick up your internet title, Gravedigger. There's a good chap"
The day your twin sister died was the day Gravedigger was born, your words John, not mine. Your entire existence revolves around failure. That’s why you can’t let this business go, because if you did, all you’d have left would be Mara Salvatrucha and Jennifer’s screaming face as she disappears from view. You can’t stand yourself, so you drape that aging body in a persona you can hide in, an agoraphobic fool who can never step outside, because that path only leads to one destination: retirement.
You’re a man who can’t go forwards, yet can never retreat. Just like Singh you’re stuck in a limbo you can’t escape. But don’t worry, I have the solution. This Sunday, Gravedigger, you can be Alex, and I’ll be the fucker to switch off your ventilator. It’s time to go gently into the night, dear Digger. It’s time to relinquish the struggle and take Jennifer’s hand. For all those you’ve murdered. For all those lives you ruined and continue to ruin. At Ultimate Showdown I’m going to fucking eviscerate you from the neck down. I’m going to leave you a shattered, brain damaged vegetable, but with just enough life left in your terrified eyes so that a depressed Jayson Price can feed you baby food, his swollen face watching helplessly as tears well up in your confused eyes as the spoon fed contents of your rictus jaw dribble down your bib. And in that horrific moment, I’ll have ended both your careers.and saved the lives of hundreds of people from the scourge of MS:13. Because that’s the kind of hero I am. I’m the permanent marker on your yearbook, Gravedigger. I’m the line that’s drawn through your life that leaves you broken. I’m the day John Rabid came to town, and destroyed everything.
As Gravedigger’s cries fade, somewhere in Chicago, where the Tribune used to stand, there’s a “Yung Eagle” perched apparently atop of a giant eye, a self absorbed nonce who's about to have his feathers plucked. No plea bargaining can stop this event from happening, it has been decreed by me, and Steven Singh’s nonsensical Aztec God, Huitzilopotchli. Seems we both share a side hobby in human sacrifice. This Sunday I get to slaughter a sun worshiper who should have checked the fine print. But then, Steven Singh is a man who's used to making bad deals, especially with those he worships. Which is of course why Sanchez is still smiling. Steven Singh, the one man in this match who can never win the world championship. All because of The Plague and that fucking stipulation of his. Man worships False God. False God betrays Man. Hakuna Matata.
So Steven, just how is life treating you these days, old chum? Let’s start by ticking the box marked “fucking terrible” as a given and move on. I think personally you’re sitting there in your own private penthouse hell, locked inside that slave labour shack in Chicago deliberating on how to throw a killswitch on that career you’ve thrown away. I know I would if I was “The Golden God”, trapped within another man’s clinically depressed wonderland, daydreaming through sweats of paranoia on how you managed to sleepwalk yourself into a living nightmare called Everest. The answer is obvious, just turn to your left and look into the bloodshot, and unsatisfied eyes, of your long suffering manager/squeeze, Erica Baringer and you’ll know the answer. She’s heard your cries as you sleep.
Truth be told It was your brother, Steven that drove you here. The moment you turned off his ventilator was the day that Sanchez had your soul stamped on his ledger to collect. If you can’t figure it out by now, he’s the thief you dream to be. Only with Sanchez he steals designs for life from those that threaten his reign. You were once a threat, so he nullified you with that ridiculous stipulation you stupidly agreed to.Yet I can’t help but wonder why. You must have seen what his plan was. And yet here you are, on the verge of Ultimate Showdown, unable to lift the grand prize. Not very smart. So, how did you get here, Singh? How did you arrive at the greatest match of them all, as this muted, castrated fool?
How does the song go,“Always let your conscience be your guide?” Well, you did, and that conscience has been doing ninety into oncoming traffic ever since. That subconscious guilt you carry around like a backpack of rocks just loves to fuck with your decision making process. Look at you, Singh, the brother that lived, now prostrate at the feet of Sanchez so that the brother that died can finally have his justice. You’re buried six feet deep because your conscience has crafted you a mean little cage for you to inhabit, a prolonged, agonising living death so that the guilt you harbour over your dead brother can force you to experience just a percentage of Alex’s fate. It would be tragic, if you didn’t fucking deserve it. Now excuse me, I need to go laugh for a minute at your pathetic existence.
I’m back, where was I? Ah yes, killing Singh. So, Steve, I’ve always believed that you can judge the stature of a man by the monuments he builds for himself. The higher the self praise, the more insecure and brittle the personality beneath. Just like Jayson Price, Steven, you’re this man that surrounds himself with an armor of gold. With Price it’s titles, with you it’s aztec gods that don’t exist, whispering useless parables into your ear in the middle of the night that distort your sense of reason, games your fractured mind plays designed to shield that scorned, snivelling little child inside, the one guilty of fratricide who escapes his guilt through a tower in the clouds. You hide inside a prison, a self imposed exile where a twisted kindred spirit lives, a fellow lost soul who fell to his knees one day before a Jackal and lost it all. The Everest Eye isn’t a bastion of invincibility, it’s an encounter group for grief counseling. A doomsday cult lead by a devious guru looking to groom you and Ethan into a pair of obedient soldiers for the almighty “Jungle Fever” himself, “Mayor Dave”.
Those plucked wings of yours, Steven, it was Sanchez that performed the operation. David is your personal Doctor Frankenstein, strapping your mind down onto the operating table and rewiring all that promising ambition and talent you briefly had and reshaping your future into his own self loathing image. Now you’re just another morose cunt wondering when the world will end; a cloned hypochondriac who can’t function as a normal human being anymore, yet somehow brims with paradoxical confidence when there’s a match to be fought. Just like David Sanchez. Calibrated and primed to bore. Each and every week, another boring, unrealistic male fantasy rolling off the Sanchez assembly line, tagged and stamped and ready to stupefy a nation, smothering this business with enough soap opera dross to drown a small dictatorship. Oh how the world misses Cap n’ Crook now.
I blame myself for that demise by the way. And when I do? A ray of incandescent schadenfreude creeps across my beaming face. For on a rather fundamental level, your downfall is all my wonderful fault. I robbed the thief of his title belt and made his cash cow a sacrifice upon the altar of Rabid. A superkick to a ladder and the metaphor was complete. Back down you tumbled, Steven. It doesn’t matter that you and Ethan won those titles back a few weeks later, the damage was already done. Ethan is a very poor second to your personal merchandise monster, THE CAPTAIN. You’ve traded a surefire meal ticket for a Jared Holmes cos player, who himself traded in “The Shark” for “The Plague”. The only thing that changed however for Ethan was the color of the light bulbs at his master’s shrine. Ethan Atticio is an unpalatable twat no one loves. He can stand in a nightclub and pass judgement on how obnoxious the clientele are, but none of them will be able to match “The Future King’s” inane ability to monopolize oxygen out of the room until everyone’s ears bleed. The man is a retarded beat poem. He’s a never ending haiku for mongoloids. And that’s the fool that now sits opposite you Steven, picking 6ix god anecdotes out of his teeth and sticking them under the table. A leech siphoning the life out of your veins as you wish a letter opener would find it’s way into his pre-pubescent throat and end it all. Or end you. Whichever brings you peace quicker.
While on the other side of that desk we have Ethan King. King is this Buffalo Bill-esque male ring rat that tucks his dick between his legs and leaps into bed with whoever holds the aces at the table. He’s a straight up weirdo with a power obsession. I’ve already filed a restraining order against King in preparation for his inevitable conversion to the “Order of the snake” or whatever cult he cooks up in my name so he can beat himself off with a length of birch while reciting old Johnny Rabid promos in an effort to garner my favour. I’m sorry, King, but this “God” doesn’t take kindly to plastics throwing themselves at my feet. Switching deities three times in a single year is a bit much, don’t you think? And yes, that does make you katherine Phoenix no matter how much you try and wriggle out of that analogy. It sticks because that’s what the truth does. Ethan, you’re nothing more than an undefeated male cheerleader who steamrolled over minor talent with a decent Jared Holmes impression that metamorphosed by Timebomb into a half decent David Sanchez impression while never managing to actually show us your true face. All you’ve done this year is change your boy band poster on the wall and aligned yourself with a new main event dream to wet yourself over.
Ethan King is the personification of a twihard in wrestling form. He’s a metro sexual weebo with a hard on for success. And just like every other millennial, he doesn't want to actually work for it. Instead he’d rather cry to his latest cardboard cutout psychiatrist about all his nonexistent mental health problems so that he has a new story to sell to OK! Magazine for a tearful center spread and a couple of thousand hits on twitter. Meanwhile Steve’s bookie, “Byron” has Ethan pegged for the People’s strap because it requires the least amount of work but the maximum amount of exposure. A perfect oasis for a narcissistic child without the guts to simply be himself. Oh, and do us all a favor this week, Ethan, try not to trip over your fucking umbilical cord on the way to the ring will you? There’s a clever little chap. Milk and cookies later.
EVEREST ABOVE ALL? Give me a fucking break! We all know that’s spelled CONQUER THE HATE. Once again you three have proved to be just another cheap knockoff of a golden era that laughs at you now from the annals of WCF history. A Valhalla you’ll never be allowed to enter, because it’s halls are reserved for those that actually fucking matter. At Ultimate Showdown I’m going to punch all three of you into fucking paralysis and snap-chat the aftershock, and then we’ll see who stands above all, you trifecta of misanthropic cunts.
All this talk of excluding the worthless from paradise reminds me, there’s one last man I have to kill. The homeless champion of the poor. The knight in shimmering delusion, The God of “Whine”, Dion Necurat. Dion, you never had a chance to do this your way, did you? Some insane people who convince themselves they’re gods achieve greatness through hard work and perseverance, some have it thrust upon them by Joey Flash. For you it was the second option. You can rearrange the facts anyway you like, “Dionysus”, you can play it like a victory already earned because of your Trilogy cup win, but the fact remains that when it came to the actual pinfall, any sense of pride you had was stripped away from you by Malignaggi and his divine intervention. That World title belt (for it is a tangible item, thank you Sidney) is yours, but the triumph of winning it you’ll never truly experience. It doesn’t take a genius to realise that your matches after Blast have lived and died within the One Punch Man’s shadow. Slam after Slam you’ve fallen before each opponent presented before you. The Everest committee of mind numbing drudgery, Sidney J Warwick and even Marty fucking Barrett for fucks sake. You even lost to my pet Gemini Battle and you’re supposed to be the world champion? I can’t believe you didn’t even fight on the Slam after your win! What was that with? Did your ginger arse prolapse on the way to West Virginia, or were you abducted by aliens?
You must be terrified, Dion. You must know what’s coming. The end is here. I imagine you’re sitting inside your home right now (aka public washroom), unleashing a torrent of arse spraying mayhem into your lazy boy (aka toilet), as your mind frets about what Sunday night will bring. What will the world think of you come Monday morning when you crash out of this years Ultimate Showdown and leave Virginia with nothing? Well, there’s your answer: the world has never thought of you as anything other than nothing. Face facts, Dion; your career has been nothing. You will leave with nothing. You will remain the nothing you’ve always been. You’re the man that convinces a welp like Ethan King that he’s something special You’re the man that gives a self deluded prick like Marty Barrett hope. Your contribution to this Federation has been to systematically strip it of it’s pride and turn it into a flea circus.
A will not allow the WCF to become another “Happy Valley” of tents, rats and soup kitchens. You want to live a wretched existence, Necurat? Go ahead Dion and do so, but this company deserves better than you. It deserves better than a man who dreams he’s a God from the comfort of his cardboard box. Before you go trigger yourself I know you’re not literally homeless, but you are a man that is homeless of character, of spirit. Instead of being a professional wrestler who wins because he’s the best, you win because a mythical creation inhabits your nutjob mind and “wills it so”. You, Jayson Price, David Sanchez, Steven Singh, Ethan King, Gravedigger, Andre Holmes, even the Social Justice Weebo, Sidney J Warwick you all suffer from the one shared hysteria; that there has to be something bigger than you. Because you just can’t understand how just being you is enough.This week I’m going to show you all that being a man is enough. Because this one man is going to beat the living shit out of all eight of you so-called “Gods”. I’m going to humble you and drag you back down to earth from the mount Olympus you like to collectively hide behind. This is the hour of man. The dawn of a new Wrestling civilization. Embrace the future, my future. Or die.
What? That’s it? You’re done already? Fine, whatever. Time for the obligatory story elements to hang my character development on. Observe now how I weave seamlessly the themes of the Ultimate Showdown match into my personal growth. That’s what champions do by the way. Week after week, without buying themselves sabbaticals from the boss or crying about their “real issues”. That’s why I am your next WCF world champion, and you’re not. Now go get yourselves patched up and prepare for my coronation you weird little shits. And Dion? Go buy yourself a less camp suit for God’s sake. This isn’t a fucking pride rally.
Good. Day.
...You truncated band of bent cocksuckers.
chapter three
◬
THE TWO PUNCH MAN
▁▁▁▁
The frozen expressions of Muhammad Ali and Mike Tyson shook as Rabid’s strikes landed like arcs of pure lightning upon their target. Combinations of lefts and rights that traveled with an ambidextrous ferocity under the low hanging haze of Gleason's Boxing Gym, situated now at the heart of a rejuvenated Brooklyn. Surrounding The Ripper was a wall of the great, the good, and the infamous; photographs of fighters past that felt the aftershock of each blow The Serpent unloaded as they connected plush with the bag.
As he struck, Rabid’s entire boxing attired body seemed to pivot and adjust instantly, nifty footwork to supply his taped fists with the maximum amount of energy possible. Each blow impacted with an unstoppable wave of raw power, yet celebrated trainer, Robert Garcia (34 wins, 3 losses, former IBF super featherweight champion) simply shrugged and nodded with restrained approval as he folded its arms across his stout early 40’s body and leaned against the ring apron. "Grandpa’s" nonchalance here was a calculated and honest response, honed after twenty five grueling years of success in the business.
Garcia clicked an old time stopwatch between punches, working off glances from Gill, a muscular pit-bull of a man who was one of Robert’s most trustworthy members of staff. Gill hunched frame held the punching bag close to him behind considerable layers of sparring armor. Garcia paid close attention to Gill’s feet as the punches connected, the man’s legs strained to remain still, but Garcia wanted to see Gill buckle. By his calculations, Garcia believed there was at least another twenty percent more power still left to tap into. John’s arms needed to be straighter on impact. More shock. More awe. Youth will overpower a vet every time if properly focused, and Rabid had the energy of youth on his side, even if that youth was a mask for something inherently older and far more minacious.
Garcia adjusted his trademark backwards baseball cap and rubbed his middle aged chin as another jab collided with the bag. Ripper had been trained over months now to forget his softer European style, adopting a quicker, Mexican pace. Yet John’s attacks were still losing a percentage of hate on their way to the target. The Ripper needed to be more efficient, crueler. He needed to hit with blistering speed. Ultimate Showdown does not forgive those that hold back. And in that ring? The odds would be three to one at best with a slither of rules separating Rabid from quick annihilation.
Robert Garcia: Okay, take a break, Gill. I want a word with English here.
Gill nodded and disappeared to find a soda. Outside the low murmurs of New York during the small hours of the morning offered a haunting backing track of fire trucks and police sirens. Rabid sat on a stool and checked his taped hands while applying an extra layer of protection as Garcia exhaled.
Robert Garcia: You’re off the pace, John. These patterns we’ve been working on only work if the numbers are precise. Comprende?
Rabid stopped taping his hands and looked up.
John Rabid: I’m not off my pace. I’m waiting.
Garcia smirked.
Robert Garcia: For what?
John Rabid: For you.
Robert Garcia: Oh yeah, have you forgotten what Flash told you?
John Rabid: “Not to ask”. But he’s not here is he? I am. And this is the fight of my life, not his. I’ve held back long enough, “Gramps”. No more games.
Robert Garcia: Malignaggi said you were trouble. So what’s this? You’re trying to instigate some kind of quid pro quo shit? You wanna know some deep dark shit of mine? Fuck you man! I’ll walk, and take every last piece of hope you have of surviving this match with me. Not a problem. I’m the trainer, here. You’re the fighter. That’s my law, motherfucker!
John Rabid: Then walk. My bank balance won’t feel the split. You’re doing this for free. Tell me, Robert. Why is that? You could have squeezed me for a pretty penny months ago. You have your younger brother, Mikey training without you back in Oxnard, California. And his fight is in two weeks, yet here you are with me, running drills in the middle of the night, trying to figure out a way for me to survive a seven on one mugging at Ultimate Showdown. I’m holding back? You’re holding back. Now, if you want me to demolish poor dumb, Gill? Satisfy my curiosity. Why train me?
Robert Garcia: You really are a piece of work, Rabid.
John Rabid: I’m confident in my ability to sniff out a motive. You don’t train wrestlers, but suddenly now you do. Who’s your target? Sanchez? Did he put the lean on? He has an annoying habit of being a worldwide prick.
Robert started to pace like a tiger. “Not long now”, thought Rabid. “Everything surfaces eventually.”
Robert Garcia: About six months ago I get sent a Youtube link from The Golden Boy
John Rabid: Oscar Del La Hoya?
Robert Garcia: Yeah, I get this link to this kid boxing out of Arizona state. Lightweight. Fast hands. Low center of gravity. But this kid? He knew how to move, man. Ray Martinez was the kid’s name, seventeen years old. Not much in the way of a home life. Ray’s father was a veteran, had PTSD after Basra or some shit. His dad committed suicide five years ago. His mother has asthma. It’s chronic. So yeah, this Kid, he’s got problems but he’s fighting on. And he’s good, man. Real good. I see money in this kid. I reckon I can mold him into the next Triple G in five years. We’ll take our time with him. Move him out to California. Get his mother seen to by some real doctors instead of the quacks they have on welfare.
Garcia takes off his cap, threads it through his fingers as he thinks. Eventually he sits as he continues to speak. Rabid notices that there’s this pit of anger bubbling to the surface, Garcia’s face is turning red as he speaks, gripping that cap tighter.
Robert Garcia: I got Showtime to look at the kid. We’re trying to hack out a deal to sponsor him through school. Let’s get him a good education I say to myself. He’s had no breaks in life. My father, Eduardo, he was there for me, so let’s be there for him.
John Rabid: I applaud your philanthropy.
Robert shakes his head.
Robert Garcia: Fuck you, man.
John Rabid: Sorry. Ignore my contrarian attitude. I’m something of an unrepentant sociopath. Go on.
Robert Garcia: Fine. So a few months pass, I tell this kid, Ray we’ve ironed out all the details of his contract with Showtime. It’s all systems go just in time for Christmas. He’s seventeen and over the moon, so he decides to go out and celebrate with his friends like any kid would. He hits this nightclub. The best in town. They call it, “The Phoenix”.
And now the pieces were starting to fit. In the most horrific manner possible.
John Rabid: “The Phoenix” that used to be named “The Graveyard”, right? The club that Gravedigger firebombed?
Garcia covers his mouth as he begins to recollect the damage; in that moment Rabid can sense the rage and helplessness of his trainer as a wave of exasperation pounds out of the Californian man’s chest. The stench of charred flesh and the antiseptic odor of a hospital ward. The screams. The despair. All real and vivid and unrelenting in their hopelessness.
Robert Garcia: Sixty per cent of this kid’s body was burnt away. They had to amputate his arms. The kid has no face. Just eyes and a tube to breath out of. That ventilator of his goes up and down like a seesaw and I can’t figure out why. Why would you even bother if that was all that was left?
John Rabid: Because he’s a fighter. The odds don’t matter. The circumstances don’t matter. You lace up your boots and you go to work. Maybe he’s hanging on for this. For you to reach out to me and teach me the tools I need to wreck Gravedigger’s dreams. To burn down all of John Borroughs hopes and desires just as The Phoenix burnt, to hound the last vapours of his career over the cliff edge and watch them hemorrhage on the way down. This Ultimate Showdown will probably be Digger’s last. He’s forty one. Wrestlers age in dog years. His joints are held together with the calluses that grow upon them. His heart beats simply out of boredom. One shock to the system will have him gravitate towards an assisted suicide faster than you can say “Speedy Gonzales”. And yes, I know. That was slightly racist.
Robert Garcia: I don’t watch cartoons and get upset. So, are you going to hurt him?
John Rabid: Gravedigger? No. I can’t do that.
Robert Garcia: What?
John Rabid: Be quiet. Just get Gill in here.
Gill returns with a 7-up as he uses the cold can to wipe a layer of sweat from his perspiring brow. Garcia nods for him to take up his position again with the punching bag, still encased in his heavy cocoon of sparring armor.
John stands and calmly walks over to Gill; he checks his feet placement; begins to feel a sense of inner rhythm return to his muscle memory as The serpent’s eyes narrow and focus on their target; his shoulder swings back, collecting the minimum amount of drag as a maze of interconnected muscles and joins harness the power of heaven and earth; trusting forward with a singular purpose that would shatter the gates of hell.
Gill is lifted off his feet as his body cannons several feet across the gym; crashing into a set of tires stacked against a wall used for footwork. Gill rebounds off those and slumps against the floor of the gym in a undistinguished heap. Rabid finally decides at this moment to inhale a gulp of breath, just to make it look authentic.
Robert Garcia: Holy fuck.
John Rabid: Send in the sparring targets. Let’s run through those pattens again.
Robert Garcia: I thought you said?
John Rabid: I didn’t ask you to train me to kill one man. I’m here to learn how to kill eight. So, am I wasting my time?
Robert silently shook his head. No.
John Rabid: Good. Gravedigger will get his along with the rest. Now. Let’s begin.
Inside the boxing ring Rabid is joined by three other sparring partners; “Southpaw” is a wiry, slender fighter man who mirrors the build of Ethan King, while “Orthodox” has the upper body strength of Steven Singh. Finally there’s “Pitbull”. Gill has recovered enough to get changed and focused for tonight's “festivities”, his lower center of gravity, coupled with his tough, leathery exterior is a close match for the battle hardened MMA stalwart, Sanchez.
John Rabid: Alright, “Huey, Louie and Dewey of the Special Olympics”. Let’s have it then.
John waves on his outfitted executioners as all three boxers surge forward as one, throwing lefts and rights with precise, calculated aggression. Rabid dodges and weaves through their hailstorm of incoming destruction, feet working overtime to pivot his body out of their reach until he’s in the right position to counterattack:
An uppercut from Orthodox is dodged and countered with a bomaye out of nowhere followed by a rabbit punch to the groin of a lunging Southpaw has the wind is knocked out of him. Rabid’s body is like water now, perfect fluid movement as he continues onward, rolling though his attack until he’s back up on his feet, bobbing and weaving left and right as a charging Pitbull searches eagerly for an opening. A low kick is blocked by Gill the Pitbull, but that leaves him wide open for a massive uppercut from Rabid that lifts Gill out of his boots, his mouthguard flying across the ring as Rabid spin kicks his prey down to his knees. No mercy as The Ripper unleashes a left hook that hails the long suffering Gill a cab all the way to dreamstreet.
“Nice, but it won’t be enough”
The thick ebony mane of Corey Black peers out of the shadows as he steps forth with a regal confidence that can only be attributed to a man who has seen and experienced it all inside the squared circle. Corey is dressed for urban travel; black tee, grey sacks. His charcoal overcoat seems like a good fit for Rabid as The Ripper lifts Orthodox back to his feet and pats his back.
John Rabid: We’ll take a break, Robert. Seems I need a word or two with this man alone.
Robert Garcia: Fine, I’ll scoop up the wreckage and patch up what I can.
“Grandpa” gathers up what’s left of the sparring team and escorts them to a nearby makeshift infirmary as Rabid leans against a turnbuckle. Corey wastes no time in leaping up onto the apron and slipping through the ropes quick as a flash. A brief smirk greets Rabid as he realizes that the former Minnesota native isn’t particularly enamoured by his current surroundings, running an index finger across the top rope searching for dust.
Corey Black: Nice dump you have here. Does Dion have a room?
John Rabid: We don’t except livestock as barter. You shouldn't be here.
Corey Black: Two members of Pantheon in a World title match? Sounds like my business. Unless you have a differing point of you. Then it really is my business.
John Rabid: If you’re wondering if we’re on the same page, don’t. I don’t have the time right now to stab you, or anyone else in the back. As you can see, I’m too busy trying to produce a miracle.
Corey Black: You honestly think playing Cinderella Man here is going to win you that World Heavyweight title? I’ve been in situations like this before and it didn’t always end well. Revenge 2011 I faced Odin Balfore, he bounced my head off the mat five times with Powerbombs then finished me off with a Burning Hammer, just to remind me that miracles are bullshit dreams for fans. Not us. When you dream, Rabid. You sleep. If you walk into this match with your eyes closed? They’ll never open again.
John Rabid: So what are you saying, give up?
Corey Black: I’m trying to warn you. You go all out, and you might walk away with nothing. Sometimes you can be too much of a threat. You need to play this smart.
John Rabid: I’ve played smart for one hundred and thirty five days. Now is the time to be bold. You know that better than I do. No one ever seized a world title by hiding under a rock. My intentions now have to be clear. No more skulduggery. No more Machiavellian plots. The world title is mine. This Sunday. Next Sunday. A hundred Sunday’s from now. Once I have that gold, I’ll never let it go. Champions aren’t built through seizing a title, they’re forged though defending. That world title has suffered enough. It’s been humiliated on the shoulders of rat faced frat boys and Joey Flash knock off’s. Dionysus is just the latest humiliation that the strap has suffered. It can’t take much more, and neither can this business.
Corey Black: Seth has his chosen one now, Rabid. Sanchez holds the aces here, and he’s been shadowing you for months. Everest are a tight knit group. They’ll be prepared for you at Showdown. They’ll have their own countermeasures to nullify your talents. We both know what happened to you during Final Destination two years ago. You lost to Logan and Orbit. You can be outmaneuvered in a pinch. Everest knows how to work the spaces, cover the mat with bodies so that you’ll be penned in and helpless. Even If Andre sides with you, we both know he’s too emotionally disconnected right now to be of any use. And that will leave you trapped with nowhere to go. Like I said, play it smart. Take what you can this round, they’ll be other times.
John Rabid: Is that the best advice you’ve got? “They’ll be other times?” Don’t you have anything constructive to say? Or are you just going to stand there and be a pessimistic twat all day. Because if you are, I strongly suggest you rediscover the exit.
Corey Black: You’re right, I should leave. I should leave before I start to believe in you. And I’m not a fan of false dawns.
John Rabid: My dawn won’t be false. I’m going to blind the world with what I can do. And when your sight returns you can marvel upon the wonders I have created, and show penance accordingly.
Corey Black: As self effacing as ever. I’m trying to help you, you stuck up English prick.
John Rabid: You say that like it’s a bad thing. I act superior because I am. It’s called confidence. It affords me a certain swagger. I’m good at what I do. And quite frankly? I’m the fucking best the WCF has seen. Better than Sanchez, Better than Everest.
Corey Black: Better than Pantheon?
Rabid smirks
John Rabid: What Pantheon?
The moment turns cold as Corey lowers his head with a slow nod accompanying the gesture.
Corey Black: Point taken. So you really think you can do this, huh? Win Ultimate Showdown?
Rabid nods.
John Rabid: Do you remember when we first walked back through the doors of Seth’s Camelot? Those Pantheon colors flying high over the kingdom of Charlemagne. Who was always the extra in the crowd scene, stuck tag teaming with Jayson Price and Zombie McMorris in curtain jerkers?
Corey Black: David Sanchez.
John Rabid: When Thomas Uriel Bates would ride out to greet us with his invaders speech and his ZT sidekicks, who was there to greet him on the field of battle? It was always the same four; Me, You, Jared and Flash; the four of us riding out front. Always the bannermen. Always the alphas of Pantheon. Then you had the spine of the army, Andre Holmes and Wade Moor “The brozerkers”, smashing goons for fun and #bottleservice. But who brought up the rear? Who polished the armor and swept up the horseshit?
Corey Black: David Sanchez.
John Rabid: David fucking Sanchez, the toad who wished to be a prince. Jason Cash’s prize Hellimination victim. Two weeks later Sanchez is the first member of Pantheon to lose in single competition. Sanchez tapped to Tek. I mean, who the fuck is Tek?
Corey Black: He’s got this rep, apparently. Personally I don’t get it. Something about being a cult underdog. He’s nothing special.
John Rabid: Special enough on his day to make us look like fools. And who carries that burden? David Sanchez, the little man desperate to keep up. The Mayor of Chicago who builds himself an eye over a city that despises him. Why? Because little men need idols to ascend. Small men like Sanchez crave the skyline so that they can pretend to belong there. And yet no matter how high that deathtrap looms, The Plague still needs to wrestle down in the dirt with the rest of us. Because he knows, even with Seth on his side, he knows that he’ll always be that first man who tapped. That’s what drives him now. Not success, but failure. His failure. Failure to be the lynchpin of Pantheon. Failure to escape our shadows. The Eye may be Illinois's own space needle, but that fucking monstrosity will never unlock the keys to heaven. And he knows it. Being Mayor is just padding. Window dressing. Everest is Sanchez dragging his past out of the gutter, but eventually that past it will sink its hooks back into him and wrench The Plague all the way down the ladder.
Corey Black: A dead wife and kid is a hard past to shake. Shame, I liked Samantha. She had a cute ass. There is a fact you’re forgetting though. Sanchez did spend four hundred and thirty three days unpinned before the loss to Tek. That’s one hell of a record.
John Rabid: It’s skewered. Where was he all that time? He’s a transient. He comes and goes like the tide. Sanchez has Everest in his corner for now, so David thinks the wind is at his back. The moment that falters he’ll be gone to protect another irrelevant milestone. That’s David Sanchez. His design for life is to hide inside a bomb shelter until the competition fades, then he pokes his potato head up and declares himself the winner. He begged to be in Final Destination because he knew it was a sure thing. He misjudged FPV and Bonnie Blue because just like the Tek debacle, Sanchez buys too much into his own hype and slips. He’s like a coke dealer who’s hooked on the merch. An overconfident midcarder with ideas above his talent quota. And that is how I’ll dismantle him in Virginia. With talent.
Corey Black: He still has the numbers.
John Rabid: I only need three and a cover. If I have those in my corner, then the World title comes home. Maybe I’ll even dedicate the win to the memory of Gemini Battle and have a custom cricket bat made in Grayson’s honor. Y’know, when you think about it, there’s really no difference between an Oblivion slicing through coed’s for fun and a David Sanchez killing a split personality alien Juggalo; both are as fucking ridiculous as each other. Murdering a man on national television, without even a murmur out of an entire city you’re supposed to be governing? Preposterous. Reality and David Sanchez lost touch with each other months ago. And that is a separation of powers I can exploit to it’s fullest.
Corey Black: Of course, for Pantheon.
Rabid eyes catch sight of the mat. For the first time he notices that Corey’s shadow is eclipsing his. It shouldn’t seem symbolic, but the image burns into the Ripper’s mind. It lingers and converses with his ego. They conspire together, gathering momentum. Is now the time?
John Rabid: I think you should leave now.
Corey raises an eyebrow. His stance changes, sensing a shift in the conversation as he takes a step back.
Corey Black: So what are you going to do? Force choke me? Or will you have me walk under a bus?
John Rabid: A bus in New York? The wait would bore me to tears. Just leave.
Corey turns and pulls apart the ropes. Now! Screams the voice inside the Ripper. Strike now!
Corey Black: John?
Rabid grumbles.
John Rabid: Yes?
Corey Black: Take care. Maybe Camelot will need us again. Something tells me you’d want to be part of that.
Rabid feels a surge of energy run through his leg as his synapses tell him to unleash a superkick; but he contains the need to strike as Corey exits the ring. The Jomsviking’s feet shuffling away into a new dawn as a chapter closes.
John Rabid: Goodbye, Corey.
****
The alleyway behind Gleason's Boxing Gym carried with it all the pungency you’d commonly associate with a New York backstreet in the summer; it’s raw sewage at high tide aroma was almost blinding to behold, but Rabid’s charcoal suited splendor managed to compartmentalize the ordeal as he exited the club with his boxing gear slung over his shoulder inside a rucksack. Rabid had a smartphone pressed against his ear as the first rays of a clear blue day greeted him. The air felt crisp, but with a faint hint of electricity beneath.
John Rabid: Why is Dorian up? Emily, it’s five in the morning, he’ll be dog tired for school! Yes, yes of course I’ll drive him in. When don’t I? Look, make yourself a….
Rabid froze. His silver Aston Martin DB 11 was gone. A crackle of glass beneath his feet echoed the obvious. The vehicle was stolen. But this was but a herald, for the surprise that was to come.
John Rabid: Honey, I’ll call you back.
Rabid hung up as he slowly turned around to follow that hiss of electricity; it’s incessant hum a beacon built into a skin sack designed to conceal an insidious heritage. Pretend flesh worn by one…
John Rabid: Jimophy Thuggin. Well look who it is, it’s a cunt in a human suit. Shouldn't you be online pretending to be a six year old? I’m sure there must be someone out there who needs a dose of space chlamydia.
Thuggin had his back to the sun; His cream coloured suit and slicked back receding hairline seemed oddly more sombre than usual. Arms out at his sides, as if shielding something from view.
John Rabid: What did I tell you, Thuggin? The next time I’d see you, I’d--
…..oh
……….FUCK.
Rabid heard the roar of the DB 11 too late to dodge the incoming assault as it’s hood scooped up The Ripper and flung him twenty feet into the air. The world upended and spun for what seemed like an eternity as John’s body bounced off a hovel of nearby trash before colliding with the sidewalk. Blood filled the Serpent’s mouth as he clutched his ribs. The pain turned his sight into a mist of shapes and color. No definition seemed familiar save for Thuggin’s approaching silhouette which spoke while masked by the ringing in Rabid’s damaged eardrums, a howl of discord that refused to relent.
As bad as the situation was, what was worse was that Jimophy Thuggin wasn’t speaking with Rabid at all, but instead conversing with a hooded shape that was standing over Rabid’s shoulder. A shape that stood about six feet two, and weighed approximately two hundred and fifteen pounds. A shape that smelt of hospital antiseptic and Burberry Eau de Parfum cologne, two grand a pop. The kind of ostentatious shite worn by…
THE 6IX GOD
Rabid looked up as the cold muzzle of a revolver was pressed neatly against his bruised cheek. Beneath the hood of the shape, a voice spoke; not with lips. But with thoughts.
Jared Holmes: Hello, John. Let’s go for a drive.
To Be Continued.