Post by Harry "Bomber" Calden on Sept 28, 2017 15:56:10 GMT -5
“I hate war as only a soldier who has lived it can, only as one who has seen its brutality, its stupidity.”
-Dwight D. Eisenhower
VI.
I woke up in a cold sweat as I had so many times to the piercing rattling and hum of another headache. They’d become more frequent now, almost like they’d replaced Jo as the think I was waking up next to. After stumbling into the bathroom I popped a handful of Advil and washed it down with a cold drink of water straight from the sink. Then I started the coffee and got the shower running – takes a few minutes to get it nice and hot.
When the steam started pouring out from under the door, I knew it was ready. After pouring myself a cup of good black joe I got under the burning water and let it do its work on my aching arms and back. How long had I spent at the gym yesterday? How much more grinding would even do an old dog that much good?
Just a beat-up old jamoke …
…with a face like a bull dog
…a liver like lead
… and knees like two swizzle sticks.
But if a mean right is all it takes I still got something in my back pocket. Either way, the heat felt good. By the time I turned the shower off the Advil kicked in.
I had a meeting with Lionel down at WWE Studios today. He’d been talking about wanting me to meet someone. Something about giving me a little more than a faceless appearance at War. I called a taxi, not wanting to deal with navigating Tokyo. This was my first time out of the country.
The cab driver spoke English good enough for me to direct him to the ramshackle headquarters that WCF had set up in a meeting room at the Tokyo Dome. As the cab lurched (Lerched? Hehe, Harry you old dog, you’re still funny to yourself) through the neon drenched streets and throngs of oriental faces I remembered hearing that no matter how cold it was the snow never sticks in Tokyo. I don’t know why that popped in my head, just did. I wondered if it was even true and what the hell it could even mean. Nothing new can last? That the powers that be will always remain while the interlopers come and go? I wonder how much Jayson Price believes that – can’t even last half a year before he disappears again. Just another guy who walks in, checks his fan mail, and leaves.
The thought would’ve made me smile. But I doubt he even opens whatever’s sent to him, just tosses it in some big sack labeled “Things That Stroke My Ego And Make Up For My Lopsided Penis Which I Feel Inclined To Make The Central Gimmick Of My Identity Because I’ve Run Out Of Interesting Things To Say Or Do.”
When the cab reached the Tokyo Dome Lionel was already waiting for me out front. Nearly tripped over himself in excitement as I got out of the cab and stuck his arm out for a handshake. I’ll be damned the kid had a better grip than his goddamn boss.
“B-man!” he blurted out, the smiling never wavering, “Can I call you that?”
“No.”
The grin fell. “Sorry, Mr. Calden. Anyway, let’s get inside – you’re gonna love this.”
Up the stairs and through the winding halls – posters in frames covered in languages I couldn’t read, glossed by the faces of people I’d never seen. It was too damn white in those halls – white walls, white floors, and white ceiling. Felt like a hospital (or a sanitarium). In the back of my brain, I felt a little twitch of pain come back from how god damn bright it was. But then again, my brain don’t work to good.
With a sharp right turn, Lionel directed me past Corey Black who was on break and into a side room where my stage awaited, the curtain drawn tight. Several members of the technical crew scampered back and forth as they put the finishing touches on whatever the hell was behind it. Lionel grinned as he stretched his arms like a magician.
“You’re gonna love this! I was thinking about what you need going into War to generate a little excitement.”
“Do I need that excitement?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“I’m a 40-plus old buck with a crew cut and a mouth like a hockey player.”
Lionel shook his head dismissively. “Dune’s face was literally a scab. Jay Omega’s face USED to be literally a scab. Thomas Bates was troublingly overweight. Joey Flash didn’t know what soap or shampoo was, and Jared Holmes looked like he hadn’t slept or eaten in a week. Do you think anyone cares about looks?”
He wheeled to the curtain, throwing his hands up like one of them directors framing a shot.
“Now. Check this out. ACTION!”
The curtain rolled back… and there it was down to the most minute detail.
An exact replica…
I felt my stomach drop as I shook my head, one of my paws running over my crown. “Lionel, doesn’t everyone shoot a promo in a literal War?”
Lionel stared back, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “So?”
“I mean, I was thinking we could do something… you know… more creative?”
That moppy little mouse didn’t even blink. “It’s WAR. Your name is literally Bomber. Creativity went out the window a very, very long time ago in your career.”
A smile crept back on his face the door opened behind me. I turned to see some frumpy costumer carrying a helmet under one arm and a flight suit over his shoulder.
“Terrence, thank you! Now, Mr. Calden, suit up and prepare for take-off to the top of the card!”
VII.
>>BOMB!<< Your Dead!
^ ^^ ^
(Take One)
The video package opens to a poorly rendered CGI fighter jet zooming over the ocean. It does a sweet barrel roll before slinking low across the surface, carving two walls of water behind it in its wake. The camera zooms dramatically close to the cockpit – the pilot stares ahead behind aviator sunglasses. Then he gives a thumbs up. The plane rips skyward once more and makes a perfect loop before the camera cuts to inside the cockpit. The contrast between the CGI and the cheap set is jarring.
The pilot removes his mask and sunglasses, revealing the grizzled mug of Bomber. With a smirk, he raises a hand and pushes some buttons on the screen before him. A computerized voice rings out.
COMPUTER: Destination accepted: Tokyo, Japan.
BOMBER: When there’s a WAR going on, you gotta bring out the heavy guns. There’s no time to dilly-dally around with swords, pistols, or fists. You need the rifles, SMGs, and RPGs. You need tanks, air craft carriers, battle ships… and Bombers.
That’s why when I see an A-show full of the scrawny B-listers bringing their C-game, all I want to do is give them the D.
(Take Two)
BOMBER: That’s why when I see an A-show full of scrawny B-listers bringing their C-game, I feel like punching them in the D.
(Take Three)
Bomber: That’s why when I see an A-show full of the scrawny B-listers bringing their C-game, all I want to do is D-stroy.
COMPUTER: Target acquired: Kyle Kemp.
Target Locked.
Proceed to shoot.
BOMBER: Real men don’t need to tell anyone they’re the best, Kyle: they show it. Real men ALSO don’t feel they need to compare themselves to anyone – only themselves and maybe their daddies. But when I look at you, I don’t see a real man. I see a scared weak little bully who can only talk and never put up. First you ran with that group of sissies Bitch Crew when you couldn’t hold your own. And now you’re just floating around trying to score cheap points by knocking on doors. Look at you, Kyle: you’re the high school jock who hasn’t moved on twelve years later. All your friends have gotten jobs or been thrown in jail, your girl left you, and you can’t cut it in the real world so you spend every night drinking Hamms and slow rolling that old used red El Dorado that got you so many compliments thinking on the past. And then comes the reunion, and you go in and start trying to pick on the nerd, even though he now has a six figure salary and you work as a small town cop who likes giving speeding tickets to people going a mile over. People like you make me sick.
COMPUTER: Direct hit. Target dispatched.
BOMBER: One down, forty-four to go.
COMPUTER: Target acquired: Luke Force
Target Locked.
Proceed to shoot.
BOMBER: Congratulations, Luke. You got a belt and proceeded to deface it. I’m sure someone as self-absorbed and self-aggrandizing as you can’t wait until you get a shot for the biggest belt in the company to make it all about yourself as well. But just like the other bullies and cowards and narcissists who’ve been unable to appreciate the opportunities they’ve been granted, you’re going to come in mad, red, and nude only to get too big for yourself and come tumbling back down to earth. No amount of repetitious euphemisms for curse words is going to save your sorry behind from when I drop the bomb shell on it.
All I see from you is all catch phrase and no action. You’re an arrogant midcarder who thinks he can fly higher than he can. Who are you anyway, Luke? How scared are you that you don’t really matter? I see that FU tattooed around your arm, and I just imagine you screaming it over and over again, trying to force the phrase and make it stick because that’s all you got. All you can come up with is to force yourself down the throats of the audience until every match and screed and catchphrase becomes a series of meaningless symbol that create a Pavlovian response for polite applause. But all it takes to shatter than illusion? Is one big fist to the mouth, one kick strong enough to knock your mullet back and your mustache down into a beard. And then the Alpha Champion is just another beta.
COMPUTER: Direct hit. Target dispatched.
BOMBER: Forty-three.
COMPUTER: Target Acquired: Very Big Security
BOMBER: Just another group of no-goodniks who are all internet talk and no meat. Maybe you can hang on Twitter, but this is WAR. And I got two Very Big Guns aimed at both of you.
Bomber flexes his biceps. He does not smile.
COMPUTER: Direct hit. Target dispatched.
BOMBER: Forty-one.
COMPUTER: Target Acquired: Gonzo Murdock.
BOMBER: From one veteran to another, I should respect you. I don’t because I don’t respect cowards. Every year you come back for WAR or to make another big run for the top, always cloaked in an air of mystery like you’ve clambered out of some sinister wasteland. George Murdock – the wounded, walking man whose life is nothing but drama and tragedy. Every time you come back with new sob story or disfiguration or gimmick, I can’t help but wonder if, running through that mind of yours twisted by the horrors of war and the addictions caused by your weak will, you are just waiting with an open mouth like a dog for a little bit of sympathy.
No one sympathizes for you, Gonzo.
No one feels bad.
No one cares.
You ran away. You always run away.
For a man grizzled by the horrors of war, who fashions himself as professional wrestling’s action hero, you sure got thin skin and a weak stomach. You come back, a few frat boys call you and your brother retarded and gay, and you turn around and throw a fit. I want you to picture how absurd you look compared to how you carry yourself. The real George Murdock versus the Gonzo you see in the mirror. What if James Bond kicked in Blofeld’s door, then turned around and aborted the mission because Blofeld’s response was “Nice hairline pussy lmfao” or Arnold just sat down because the Predator made fun of his accent?
You’re such a try-hard. You are literally patched together from a mish-mash of various pop culture figures and archetypal badasses, yet you aren’t even worth half the sum of your parts. I can almost predict what an entitled little baby like you will do in this match: either you choke and retire for half a year before you come slithering back on your stomach out of desperation for an ounce of attention, or you do reasonably well and decide to un-retire until you choke and retire for half a year before you come slithering back on your stomach out of desperation for an ounce of attention. The Defilers of Logic were the most logical team in the history of WCF: you were three preening divas with higher self-images than your talent allowed, cupped on the butt by the management to shut you up, and haven’t gotten over how you could only sniff the top of the card when everyone who mattered left.
Just retire and get it over with. Go back to wherever you came from and stop wasting everyone’s time. The only person who cares about you being in this match is yourself.
COMPUTER: Direct hit. Target dispatched.
BOMBER: Good riddance.
COMPUTER: Target acquired: Jay Omega.
BOMBER: Speaking of people nobody cared to see again, pieced together from the bits of nonsense they think is cheaply cool but only looks like a crappy quilted rag doll of stained Hot Topic shirts, how ya doin’ Jay?
For someone who posits himself as a Space Cowboy, I’d like to be the first to say that if I were caught in a laser gun duel on an outer rim planet against a whole pack of bandits and YOU were the cavalry who rode in to save me, I’d turn my gun on myself. There’s a fine line between goofy and stupid. There’s also a fine line between rugged and gross. You’re the guy who looks at himself and sees a sleek, well-dressed man both ready for battle and for play. I see a spastic basement dweller with no actual grasp on style. You see a combination of Humphrey Bogart, Han Solo, and Peter Parker. I see a slovenly stoner in a camo-print fedora and trench coat. You are the human manifestation of Doritos and Mountain Dew. The adult version of Rick and Morty. Which, no, is not badass, cool, funny, deep, or interesting – it’s a mildly well-written show that misanthropic and maladjusted stoners and geeks fetishize because they wish they could be Rick and tell their moms to eff off and stop bothering them while they play Destiny 2 at 4 in the morning. But then again, that’s about what you’d expect from anyone who mines their entire aesthetic to appeal to 16-year-old high school boys who haven’t read Catcher in the Rye yet. Maybe you should try it. It’s a good gateway to adult culture and tastes. And now, buying beer doesn’t make you an adult if it’s at ComiCon – it makes you a man baby. Smoking weed also doesn’t make you cool, either. In fact…
Bomber looks directly at the camera.
BOMBER: Don’t do drugs and stay in school, kids. Don’t end up like Jay Omega.
COMPUTER: Direct hit. Target destroyed.
BOMBER: Target request: Bonnie Blue.
COMPUTER: Target acquired.
Target locked.
Proceed to shoot.
BOMBER: People don’t think you lack talent. That’s clearly not the case at all. No one thinks you’re bad or don’t have any ideas – they think you have no confidence.
You have successes and obvious talent. You’re skilled and have consistently been the most interesting wrestler of any group you affiliate with. It’s YOU who gets into your own head and then YOUR OWN FRIENDS who don’t have HALF THE TALENT YOU DO take advantage of that to push you down further. You don’t need enemies with friends like that – not that you have them anyway. And you wonder why you’re not taken as seriously as you should be? Why people are hesitant to work with you in any capacity? Because you go whichever way the wind blows.
You are bagging on #BeachKrew after working with Wade Moor and Johnny Rabid. You were openly a member of that group, respected, and appreciated. And then when your old pals come back, you’ve suddenly changed your tune? I understand wrestling fans have short memory spans, but stand up for yourself.
So here’s the real truth of the matter: Like Jay Omega, you’re a wrestler designed to move t-shirts off the shelves at Spencer’s Gifts and Hot Topic. But while the person you’re cloned from, Johnny Reb, was the innovator – the one who even showed Jay Omega what a time machine was – Omega eclipsed you on his pure delusions of grandeur and completely subsumed the legacy you should have furthered. The reason you will never reach the peaks of Johnny Reb is not because the company has caught up with him, you’re not as good, or some grand conspiracy against you by Seth. It’s because you don’t have that confidence. You don’t think you’re on the level of your peers.
When you walk your own walk, you succeed.
When you lead, not someone else, you succeed.
When you place yourself as second best, whether to Polar, Omega, or Richards, you’re lost in the shuffle.
When you worry about what others think or let people get under your skin, enemies or friends, you fail.
And that will sink you here as well. See you in the loser’s circle.
COMPUTER: Direct hit. Target destroyed.
BOMBER: Thirty-frickin’-seven.
COMPUTER: Target acquired: Everest.
BOMBER: Well look who it is: the Last King of Choking and the Knave of Hearts. Hey David, how does it feel to have constructed a monument to your own ego and have been the one to on the outside looking in? I want to make something clear: for all of your scheming and plotting and 4D Chess, it was a guy who had been BARRED FROM COMPETING FOR THE TITLE that ended up winning it. You choked in a title match where the one man who could have stomped you into the mud didn’t even bother trying. You lost to Dion Necurat. From one old, ugly bastard to another, put the iron mask back on and lock yourself back in the closet.
And as for Ethan “I Just Can’t Wait to Be” King, keep dreaming. Since the day the Pride died, you’ve been the perennial flunky. The Absolute Water Boy. Joke on a Rope, held in the sweaty hands of two alphas. WCF’s resident cuckold.
Earlier in this year, it was discovered that the Hillary Step had collapsed, destroying the previous routes to climb Mount Everest. Climbers are not sure whether this is bad or may make the mountain even easier to summit. This is a very apt description of your careers. And this little set of snarky comments is all you deserve.
COMPUTER: Direct hit. Targets destroyed.
BOMBER: All too easy.
COMPUTER: Target Acquired: Sydney J. Warwick
BOMBER: Of everyone in WCF, I respect you the least. It’s not because you’re an advocate for social justice or call out problematic rhetoric – it’s that you use it for cheap heat.
Don’t be coy, you’re as transparent as anyone. Another cynical attempt to tap into the moronic prejudices of the perceived stereotype of wrestling fans as bigoted rednecks. You’re just WCF’s equivalent of the Progressive Liberal who is trying to make an easy buck by skewering political sensibilities of people you don’t get making points you don’t really grasp. Bravo, what an exciting and cutting edge cultural critique you’re making, acting like a “snowflake” or whatever the mouthbreathers on Fox News like to say.
But for as smart as you think you are you can’t even help but beat the audience over the head with your stupid shtick. “HEY GUYS, MY INITIALS ARE LITERALLY SJW!! DON’T YOU GET IT?! DON’T YOU GET IT?!” Has nobody told you that the term SJW has been retired ever since that sissy BakedAlaska maced himself at Charlottesville for attention? Not that I expect anyone who tries to typecast a male Leftist as a bearded hipster with an undercut when Gavin McInnis and all the Proud Boys wear it with even more regularity. Holy heck, do you even have any idea what is actually going on in the current political sphere besides Reddit headlines and Facebook posts made by your racist relatives? Just drop the gimmick, go for a Tag Team with Dag Riddick, wave a Kekistan flag, and send Andre Holmes death threats instead of clogging the ring with your lack of ability.
On Sunday, I’ll be making you #TakeAKnee. But not in solidarity with Kaepernick. In complete submission.
COMPUTER: Direct Hit. Target Destroyed.
BOMBER: This is getting boring. Computer, lock on Odin Balfore AND Mikey Extreme.
COMPUTER: Targets locked. Secondary submachine gun actived. Dual shooting activated.
BOMBER: When I signed with WCF and learned I’d be in WAR, I could only wonder who would be my biggest opponent. This isn’t my first rodeo and I’ve been hitting the mats long enough to know you can’t go in blind – that’s how you lose. There will always be a big dog in the yard, and as soon as he goes down, it’s a free-for-all. So imagine my surprise as I did research and found that Mikey eXtreme and Odin Balfore were seen as the perennial front runners to win WAR. Two decorated former champions, one of whom broke last year’s WAR record.
How disappointing.
When was the last time you did anything notable, Odin? You show up for Imperium and join the Boom Cocks, you lose. You show up with Bobby Cairo to fight ZMAC, Crow, and Kaz, then you disappear. You show up for WAR, break the record, beat up Wade Moor, then you disappear. You’ll keep showing up, performing, then laughably underperforming until our heads are spinning by how quickly you slide in and out of this company like a turnstile. You’re big and strong. You’re a billion foot tall wizard who can bench press the globe, yet you got planted by Sarah Twilight. It’s the easiest summary of the threat of Odin Balfore: smoke and mirrors. A Chinese Dragon. Wizardry and illusion.
And speaking of illusion, we have Mikey eXtreme, a man who has somehow fooled the world for years that he’s upper-card quality despite never scratching the surface of being more than the WCF Dolph Ziggler. Please Mikey eXtreme to the ring, folks – he’s gonna make his opponents look like a million bucks before he puts them over once before going over again so they can move up the totem pole. Unless you’re Bernard Core, Dean Wolf, Cliff of Doom, or any of those babies who take one loss and decide they can’t mentally handle the pressure of being in the ring any more. Those painful, painful losses.
So what makes Mikey eXtreme think this time will be any different from the last? Why do you think you’re going to hit the switch and go from zero to hero when you’ve been wallowing in mediocrity so long, it’s permanently stuck in your beard? You’ve gone beyond hungry – you’re pure thirsty now. And in the end, it’s going to absolutely shatter you that anyone could be gassing harder than you. Just like last year when you eliminated yourself and quit like a loser because Joey Flash returned – after all the effort you put in to earn the final spot – you’re going to see this video, blanche out, and decide to stay home, smirking and patting yourself on the back as you convince yourself its some brilliant move while it all stems from cowardice. Those Dark Riders genetics passed down to you, pup.
Bomber flips open a panel on the console before him. A big red button blinks back at him labeled “DROP THE BOMB SHELL”
BOMBER: And the rest of you? You’re all gonna see a bright flash. Then the shockwave is gonna hit. And then the pain will be so quick you’ll hardly notice it before the end.
The video switches to outside as the CGI jet zooms above a CGI Tokyo landscape. The bottom of the jet opens and a single warhead tumbles towards the city below.
BOMBER: Bomb!
As the missile strikes the ground, CGI Tokyo is leveled by a devastating blast, a mushroom cloud rising from the middle of the city as the jet streaks away.
BOMBER: You’re Dead!
VIII.
When the final cut finished playing, Lionel beamed with effervescent pride. Bomber stared quietly at the screen, his face a blank mask. Turning his head, his moppish black hair ruffling around his face, Lionel beamed with pride. “Sooo… What do you think? Pretty neat, huh?”
Bomber’s gaze kept carefully locked on the TV screen, his fingers drumming on his chin. “It’s… well done, I guess…”
He paused in hesitation.
“But… Do you really think it’s appropriate… to show a video of a nuclear warhead being dropped on Japan?”
IX.
A day later.
-Dwight D. Eisenhower
VI.
I woke up in a cold sweat as I had so many times to the piercing rattling and hum of another headache. They’d become more frequent now, almost like they’d replaced Jo as the think I was waking up next to. After stumbling into the bathroom I popped a handful of Advil and washed it down with a cold drink of water straight from the sink. Then I started the coffee and got the shower running – takes a few minutes to get it nice and hot.
When the steam started pouring out from under the door, I knew it was ready. After pouring myself a cup of good black joe I got under the burning water and let it do its work on my aching arms and back. How long had I spent at the gym yesterday? How much more grinding would even do an old dog that much good?
Just a beat-up old jamoke …
…with a face like a bull dog
…a liver like lead
… and knees like two swizzle sticks.
But if a mean right is all it takes I still got something in my back pocket. Either way, the heat felt good. By the time I turned the shower off the Advil kicked in.
I had a meeting with Lionel down at WWE Studios today. He’d been talking about wanting me to meet someone. Something about giving me a little more than a faceless appearance at War. I called a taxi, not wanting to deal with navigating Tokyo. This was my first time out of the country.
The cab driver spoke English good enough for me to direct him to the ramshackle headquarters that WCF had set up in a meeting room at the Tokyo Dome. As the cab lurched (Lerched? Hehe, Harry you old dog, you’re still funny to yourself) through the neon drenched streets and throngs of oriental faces I remembered hearing that no matter how cold it was the snow never sticks in Tokyo. I don’t know why that popped in my head, just did. I wondered if it was even true and what the hell it could even mean. Nothing new can last? That the powers that be will always remain while the interlopers come and go? I wonder how much Jayson Price believes that – can’t even last half a year before he disappears again. Just another guy who walks in, checks his fan mail, and leaves.
Dear Jayson Price,
You have been with this company almost longer than anyone else in this match. You have had the honor of once calling yourself Mr. Every Title. You’re an old dog who has grinded day in and out and now sits in the nest of luxury, laying golden eggs for the company as you get fat on the profits.
Or at least that’s how you see it.
When you take two old dogs like us and put ‘em side-by-side, you don’t find much in common. You’re still young, relatively handsome, and have a record. You have a list of achievements as long as my leg. Even new bucks like Andre Holmes are eager to work with you, even if Andre’s induction to Pantheon came at your departure. But that’s what an accolade does. That’s a brand. People cheered for the Cowboys for years, even when they were shit. And now that they got Zeke in the backfield, the bandwagon is overcapacity. And then we have Jayson Price.
I will never disregard the work you put in to get where you are. But I’m also not gonna let you get away with the opportunities you’ve been given. See, that brand is why you’re still getting shot after shot without ever burning the midnight oil. Jayson Price wants to face the champion? Here you go. Tag Team? Yep. Even titles which you weren’t eligible to compete for had their rules bent to accommodate you. Guess I’ll quote Dire Straits or something – That Ain’t Workin’.
An old dog like me has been scratching for scraps for a long time. I’ve been running these ropes and taking slams and getting my nose broken more times than you can shake a stick at. And now I’m gonna cash in every bruise, bump, scrape, cut, and lickin’ I’ve ever had to get the biggest shot of them all.
Come on at me with your best shot, Mr. Every Title. And let’s see which old dog is gonna roll over and play dead.
You have been with this company almost longer than anyone else in this match. You have had the honor of once calling yourself Mr. Every Title. You’re an old dog who has grinded day in and out and now sits in the nest of luxury, laying golden eggs for the company as you get fat on the profits.
Or at least that’s how you see it.
When you take two old dogs like us and put ‘em side-by-side, you don’t find much in common. You’re still young, relatively handsome, and have a record. You have a list of achievements as long as my leg. Even new bucks like Andre Holmes are eager to work with you, even if Andre’s induction to Pantheon came at your departure. But that’s what an accolade does. That’s a brand. People cheered for the Cowboys for years, even when they were shit. And now that they got Zeke in the backfield, the bandwagon is overcapacity. And then we have Jayson Price.
I will never disregard the work you put in to get where you are. But I’m also not gonna let you get away with the opportunities you’ve been given. See, that brand is why you’re still getting shot after shot without ever burning the midnight oil. Jayson Price wants to face the champion? Here you go. Tag Team? Yep. Even titles which you weren’t eligible to compete for had their rules bent to accommodate you. Guess I’ll quote Dire Straits or something – That Ain’t Workin’.
An old dog like me has been scratching for scraps for a long time. I’ve been running these ropes and taking slams and getting my nose broken more times than you can shake a stick at. And now I’m gonna cash in every bruise, bump, scrape, cut, and lickin’ I’ve ever had to get the biggest shot of them all.
Come on at me with your best shot, Mr. Every Title. And let’s see which old dog is gonna roll over and play dead.
The thought would’ve made me smile. But I doubt he even opens whatever’s sent to him, just tosses it in some big sack labeled “Things That Stroke My Ego And Make Up For My Lopsided Penis Which I Feel Inclined To Make The Central Gimmick Of My Identity Because I’ve Run Out Of Interesting Things To Say Or Do.”
When the cab reached the Tokyo Dome Lionel was already waiting for me out front. Nearly tripped over himself in excitement as I got out of the cab and stuck his arm out for a handshake. I’ll be damned the kid had a better grip than his goddamn boss.
“B-man!” he blurted out, the smiling never wavering, “Can I call you that?”
“No.”
The grin fell. “Sorry, Mr. Calden. Anyway, let’s get inside – you’re gonna love this.”
Up the stairs and through the winding halls – posters in frames covered in languages I couldn’t read, glossed by the faces of people I’d never seen. It was too damn white in those halls – white walls, white floors, and white ceiling. Felt like a hospital (or a sanitarium). In the back of my brain, I felt a little twitch of pain come back from how god damn bright it was. But then again, my brain don’t work to good.
With a sharp right turn, Lionel directed me past Corey Black who was on break and into a side room where my stage awaited, the curtain drawn tight. Several members of the technical crew scampered back and forth as they put the finishing touches on whatever the hell was behind it. Lionel grinned as he stretched his arms like a magician.
“You’re gonna love this! I was thinking about what you need going into War to generate a little excitement.”
“Do I need that excitement?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“I’m a 40-plus old buck with a crew cut and a mouth like a hockey player.”
Lionel shook his head dismissively. “Dune’s face was literally a scab. Jay Omega’s face USED to be literally a scab. Thomas Bates was troublingly overweight. Joey Flash didn’t know what soap or shampoo was, and Jared Holmes looked like he hadn’t slept or eaten in a week. Do you think anyone cares about looks?”
He wheeled to the curtain, throwing his hands up like one of them directors framing a shot.
“Now. Check this out. ACTION!”
The curtain rolled back… and there it was down to the most minute detail.
An exact replica…
...of a fucking bomber cockpit.
I felt my stomach drop as I shook my head, one of my paws running over my crown. “Lionel, doesn’t everyone shoot a promo in a literal War?”
Lionel stared back, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “So?”
“I mean, I was thinking we could do something… you know… more creative?”
That moppy little mouse didn’t even blink. “It’s WAR. Your name is literally Bomber. Creativity went out the window a very, very long time ago in your career.”
A smile crept back on his face the door opened behind me. I turned to see some frumpy costumer carrying a helmet under one arm and a flight suit over his shoulder.
“Terrence, thank you! Now, Mr. Calden, suit up and prepare for take-off to the top of the card!”
VII.
WCF Presents…
WCF Presents…
WCF Presents…
WCF Presents…
WCF Presents…
WCF Presents…
V V V VWCF Presents…
WCF Presents…
WCF Presents…
WCF Presents…
WCF Presents…
>>BOMB!<< Your Dead!
^ ^^ ^
(Take One)
The video package opens to a poorly rendered CGI fighter jet zooming over the ocean. It does a sweet barrel roll before slinking low across the surface, carving two walls of water behind it in its wake. The camera zooms dramatically close to the cockpit – the pilot stares ahead behind aviator sunglasses. Then he gives a thumbs up. The plane rips skyward once more and makes a perfect loop before the camera cuts to inside the cockpit. The contrast between the CGI and the cheap set is jarring.
The pilot removes his mask and sunglasses, revealing the grizzled mug of Bomber. With a smirk, he raises a hand and pushes some buttons on the screen before him. A computerized voice rings out.
COMPUTER: Destination accepted: Tokyo, Japan.
BOMBER: When there’s a WAR going on, you gotta bring out the heavy guns. There’s no time to dilly-dally around with swords, pistols, or fists. You need the rifles, SMGs, and RPGs. You need tanks, air craft carriers, battle ships… and Bombers.
That’s why when I see an A-show full of the scrawny B-listers bringing their C-game, all I want to do is give them the D.
(Take Two)
BOMBER: That’s why when I see an A-show full of scrawny B-listers bringing their C-game, I feel like punching them in the D.
(Take Three)
Bomber: That’s why when I see an A-show full of the scrawny B-listers bringing their C-game, all I want to do is D-stroy.
COMPUTER: Target acquired: Kyle Kemp.
Target Locked.
Proceed to shoot.
BOMBER: Real men don’t need to tell anyone they’re the best, Kyle: they show it. Real men ALSO don’t feel they need to compare themselves to anyone – only themselves and maybe their daddies. But when I look at you, I don’t see a real man. I see a scared weak little bully who can only talk and never put up. First you ran with that group of sissies Bitch Crew when you couldn’t hold your own. And now you’re just floating around trying to score cheap points by knocking on doors. Look at you, Kyle: you’re the high school jock who hasn’t moved on twelve years later. All your friends have gotten jobs or been thrown in jail, your girl left you, and you can’t cut it in the real world so you spend every night drinking Hamms and slow rolling that old used red El Dorado that got you so many compliments thinking on the past. And then comes the reunion, and you go in and start trying to pick on the nerd, even though he now has a six figure salary and you work as a small town cop who likes giving speeding tickets to people going a mile over. People like you make me sick.
COMPUTER: Direct hit. Target dispatched.
BOMBER: One down, forty-four to go.
COMPUTER: Target acquired: Luke Force
Target Locked.
Proceed to shoot.
BOMBER: Congratulations, Luke. You got a belt and proceeded to deface it. I’m sure someone as self-absorbed and self-aggrandizing as you can’t wait until you get a shot for the biggest belt in the company to make it all about yourself as well. But just like the other bullies and cowards and narcissists who’ve been unable to appreciate the opportunities they’ve been granted, you’re going to come in mad, red, and nude only to get too big for yourself and come tumbling back down to earth. No amount of repetitious euphemisms for curse words is going to save your sorry behind from when I drop the bomb shell on it.
All I see from you is all catch phrase and no action. You’re an arrogant midcarder who thinks he can fly higher than he can. Who are you anyway, Luke? How scared are you that you don’t really matter? I see that FU tattooed around your arm, and I just imagine you screaming it over and over again, trying to force the phrase and make it stick because that’s all you got. All you can come up with is to force yourself down the throats of the audience until every match and screed and catchphrase becomes a series of meaningless symbol that create a Pavlovian response for polite applause. But all it takes to shatter than illusion? Is one big fist to the mouth, one kick strong enough to knock your mullet back and your mustache down into a beard. And then the Alpha Champion is just another beta.
COMPUTER: Direct hit. Target dispatched.
BOMBER: Forty-three.
COMPUTER: Target Acquired: Very Big Security
BOMBER: Just another group of no-goodniks who are all internet talk and no meat. Maybe you can hang on Twitter, but this is WAR. And I got two Very Big Guns aimed at both of you.
Bomber flexes his biceps. He does not smile.
COMPUTER: Direct hit. Target dispatched.
BOMBER: Forty-one.
COMPUTER: Target Acquired: Gonzo Murdock.
BOMBER: From one veteran to another, I should respect you. I don’t because I don’t respect cowards. Every year you come back for WAR or to make another big run for the top, always cloaked in an air of mystery like you’ve clambered out of some sinister wasteland. George Murdock – the wounded, walking man whose life is nothing but drama and tragedy. Every time you come back with new sob story or disfiguration or gimmick, I can’t help but wonder if, running through that mind of yours twisted by the horrors of war and the addictions caused by your weak will, you are just waiting with an open mouth like a dog for a little bit of sympathy.
No one sympathizes for you, Gonzo.
No one feels bad.
No one cares.
You ran away. You always run away.
For a man grizzled by the horrors of war, who fashions himself as professional wrestling’s action hero, you sure got thin skin and a weak stomach. You come back, a few frat boys call you and your brother retarded and gay, and you turn around and throw a fit. I want you to picture how absurd you look compared to how you carry yourself. The real George Murdock versus the Gonzo you see in the mirror. What if James Bond kicked in Blofeld’s door, then turned around and aborted the mission because Blofeld’s response was “Nice hairline pussy lmfao” or Arnold just sat down because the Predator made fun of his accent?
You’re such a try-hard. You are literally patched together from a mish-mash of various pop culture figures and archetypal badasses, yet you aren’t even worth half the sum of your parts. I can almost predict what an entitled little baby like you will do in this match: either you choke and retire for half a year before you come slithering back on your stomach out of desperation for an ounce of attention, or you do reasonably well and decide to un-retire until you choke and retire for half a year before you come slithering back on your stomach out of desperation for an ounce of attention. The Defilers of Logic were the most logical team in the history of WCF: you were three preening divas with higher self-images than your talent allowed, cupped on the butt by the management to shut you up, and haven’t gotten over how you could only sniff the top of the card when everyone who mattered left.
Just retire and get it over with. Go back to wherever you came from and stop wasting everyone’s time. The only person who cares about you being in this match is yourself.
COMPUTER: Direct hit. Target dispatched.
BOMBER: Good riddance.
COMPUTER: Target acquired: Jay Omega.
BOMBER: Speaking of people nobody cared to see again, pieced together from the bits of nonsense they think is cheaply cool but only looks like a crappy quilted rag doll of stained Hot Topic shirts, how ya doin’ Jay?
For someone who posits himself as a Space Cowboy, I’d like to be the first to say that if I were caught in a laser gun duel on an outer rim planet against a whole pack of bandits and YOU were the cavalry who rode in to save me, I’d turn my gun on myself. There’s a fine line between goofy and stupid. There’s also a fine line between rugged and gross. You’re the guy who looks at himself and sees a sleek, well-dressed man both ready for battle and for play. I see a spastic basement dweller with no actual grasp on style. You see a combination of Humphrey Bogart, Han Solo, and Peter Parker. I see a slovenly stoner in a camo-print fedora and trench coat. You are the human manifestation of Doritos and Mountain Dew. The adult version of Rick and Morty. Which, no, is not badass, cool, funny, deep, or interesting – it’s a mildly well-written show that misanthropic and maladjusted stoners and geeks fetishize because they wish they could be Rick and tell their moms to eff off and stop bothering them while they play Destiny 2 at 4 in the morning. But then again, that’s about what you’d expect from anyone who mines their entire aesthetic to appeal to 16-year-old high school boys who haven’t read Catcher in the Rye yet. Maybe you should try it. It’s a good gateway to adult culture and tastes. And now, buying beer doesn’t make you an adult if it’s at ComiCon – it makes you a man baby. Smoking weed also doesn’t make you cool, either. In fact…
Bomber looks directly at the camera.
BOMBER: Don’t do drugs and stay in school, kids. Don’t end up like Jay Omega.
COMPUTER: Direct hit. Target destroyed.
BOMBER: Target request: Bonnie Blue.
COMPUTER: Target acquired.
Target locked.
Proceed to shoot.
BOMBER: People don’t think you lack talent. That’s clearly not the case at all. No one thinks you’re bad or don’t have any ideas – they think you have no confidence.
You have successes and obvious talent. You’re skilled and have consistently been the most interesting wrestler of any group you affiliate with. It’s YOU who gets into your own head and then YOUR OWN FRIENDS who don’t have HALF THE TALENT YOU DO take advantage of that to push you down further. You don’t need enemies with friends like that – not that you have them anyway. And you wonder why you’re not taken as seriously as you should be? Why people are hesitant to work with you in any capacity? Because you go whichever way the wind blows.
You are bagging on #BeachKrew after working with Wade Moor and Johnny Rabid. You were openly a member of that group, respected, and appreciated. And then when your old pals come back, you’ve suddenly changed your tune? I understand wrestling fans have short memory spans, but stand up for yourself.
So here’s the real truth of the matter: Like Jay Omega, you’re a wrestler designed to move t-shirts off the shelves at Spencer’s Gifts and Hot Topic. But while the person you’re cloned from, Johnny Reb, was the innovator – the one who even showed Jay Omega what a time machine was – Omega eclipsed you on his pure delusions of grandeur and completely subsumed the legacy you should have furthered. The reason you will never reach the peaks of Johnny Reb is not because the company has caught up with him, you’re not as good, or some grand conspiracy against you by Seth. It’s because you don’t have that confidence. You don’t think you’re on the level of your peers.
When you walk your own walk, you succeed.
When you lead, not someone else, you succeed.
When you place yourself as second best, whether to Polar, Omega, or Richards, you’re lost in the shuffle.
When you worry about what others think or let people get under your skin, enemies or friends, you fail.
And that will sink you here as well. See you in the loser’s circle.
COMPUTER: Direct hit. Target destroyed.
BOMBER: Thirty-frickin’-seven.
COMPUTER: Target acquired: Everest.
BOMBER: Well look who it is: the Last King of Choking and the Knave of Hearts. Hey David, how does it feel to have constructed a monument to your own ego and have been the one to on the outside looking in? I want to make something clear: for all of your scheming and plotting and 4D Chess, it was a guy who had been BARRED FROM COMPETING FOR THE TITLE that ended up winning it. You choked in a title match where the one man who could have stomped you into the mud didn’t even bother trying. You lost to Dion Necurat. From one old, ugly bastard to another, put the iron mask back on and lock yourself back in the closet.
And as for Ethan “I Just Can’t Wait to Be” King, keep dreaming. Since the day the Pride died, you’ve been the perennial flunky. The Absolute Water Boy. Joke on a Rope, held in the sweaty hands of two alphas. WCF’s resident cuckold.
Earlier in this year, it was discovered that the Hillary Step had collapsed, destroying the previous routes to climb Mount Everest. Climbers are not sure whether this is bad or may make the mountain even easier to summit. This is a very apt description of your careers. And this little set of snarky comments is all you deserve.
COMPUTER: Direct hit. Targets destroyed.
BOMBER: All too easy.
COMPUTER: Target Acquired: Sydney J. Warwick
BOMBER: Of everyone in WCF, I respect you the least. It’s not because you’re an advocate for social justice or call out problematic rhetoric – it’s that you use it for cheap heat.
Don’t be coy, you’re as transparent as anyone. Another cynical attempt to tap into the moronic prejudices of the perceived stereotype of wrestling fans as bigoted rednecks. You’re just WCF’s equivalent of the Progressive Liberal who is trying to make an easy buck by skewering political sensibilities of people you don’t get making points you don’t really grasp. Bravo, what an exciting and cutting edge cultural critique you’re making, acting like a “snowflake” or whatever the mouthbreathers on Fox News like to say.
But for as smart as you think you are you can’t even help but beat the audience over the head with your stupid shtick. “HEY GUYS, MY INITIALS ARE LITERALLY SJW!! DON’T YOU GET IT?! DON’T YOU GET IT?!” Has nobody told you that the term SJW has been retired ever since that sissy BakedAlaska maced himself at Charlottesville for attention? Not that I expect anyone who tries to typecast a male Leftist as a bearded hipster with an undercut when Gavin McInnis and all the Proud Boys wear it with even more regularity. Holy heck, do you even have any idea what is actually going on in the current political sphere besides Reddit headlines and Facebook posts made by your racist relatives? Just drop the gimmick, go for a Tag Team with Dag Riddick, wave a Kekistan flag, and send Andre Holmes death threats instead of clogging the ring with your lack of ability.
On Sunday, I’ll be making you #TakeAKnee. But not in solidarity with Kaepernick. In complete submission.
COMPUTER: Direct Hit. Target Destroyed.
BOMBER: This is getting boring. Computer, lock on Odin Balfore AND Mikey Extreme.
COMPUTER: Targets locked. Secondary submachine gun actived. Dual shooting activated.
BOMBER: When I signed with WCF and learned I’d be in WAR, I could only wonder who would be my biggest opponent. This isn’t my first rodeo and I’ve been hitting the mats long enough to know you can’t go in blind – that’s how you lose. There will always be a big dog in the yard, and as soon as he goes down, it’s a free-for-all. So imagine my surprise as I did research and found that Mikey eXtreme and Odin Balfore were seen as the perennial front runners to win WAR. Two decorated former champions, one of whom broke last year’s WAR record.
How disappointing.
When was the last time you did anything notable, Odin? You show up for Imperium and join the Boom Cocks, you lose. You show up with Bobby Cairo to fight ZMAC, Crow, and Kaz, then you disappear. You show up for WAR, break the record, beat up Wade Moor, then you disappear. You’ll keep showing up, performing, then laughably underperforming until our heads are spinning by how quickly you slide in and out of this company like a turnstile. You’re big and strong. You’re a billion foot tall wizard who can bench press the globe, yet you got planted by Sarah Twilight. It’s the easiest summary of the threat of Odin Balfore: smoke and mirrors. A Chinese Dragon. Wizardry and illusion.
And speaking of illusion, we have Mikey eXtreme, a man who has somehow fooled the world for years that he’s upper-card quality despite never scratching the surface of being more than the WCF Dolph Ziggler. Please Mikey eXtreme to the ring, folks – he’s gonna make his opponents look like a million bucks before he puts them over once before going over again so they can move up the totem pole. Unless you’re Bernard Core, Dean Wolf, Cliff of Doom, or any of those babies who take one loss and decide they can’t mentally handle the pressure of being in the ring any more. Those painful, painful losses.
So what makes Mikey eXtreme think this time will be any different from the last? Why do you think you’re going to hit the switch and go from zero to hero when you’ve been wallowing in mediocrity so long, it’s permanently stuck in your beard? You’ve gone beyond hungry – you’re pure thirsty now. And in the end, it’s going to absolutely shatter you that anyone could be gassing harder than you. Just like last year when you eliminated yourself and quit like a loser because Joey Flash returned – after all the effort you put in to earn the final spot – you’re going to see this video, blanche out, and decide to stay home, smirking and patting yourself on the back as you convince yourself its some brilliant move while it all stems from cowardice. Those Dark Riders genetics passed down to you, pup.
Bomber flips open a panel on the console before him. A big red button blinks back at him labeled “DROP THE BOMB SHELL”
BOMBER: And the rest of you? You’re all gonna see a bright flash. Then the shockwave is gonna hit. And then the pain will be so quick you’ll hardly notice it before the end.
The video switches to outside as the CGI jet zooms above a CGI Tokyo landscape. The bottom of the jet opens and a single warhead tumbles towards the city below.
BOMBER: Bomb!
As the missile strikes the ground, CGI Tokyo is leveled by a devastating blast, a mushroom cloud rising from the middle of the city as the jet streaks away.
BOMBER: You’re Dead!
VIII.
When the final cut finished playing, Lionel beamed with effervescent pride. Bomber stared quietly at the screen, his face a blank mask. Turning his head, his moppish black hair ruffling around his face, Lionel beamed with pride. “Sooo… What do you think? Pretty neat, huh?”
Bomber’s gaze kept carefully locked on the TV screen, his fingers drumming on his chin. “It’s… well done, I guess…”
He paused in hesitation.
“But… Do you really think it’s appropriate… to show a video of a nuclear warhead being dropped on Japan?”
IX.
A day later.
It was close. Harry’s hands gripped the wheel – his confidence and decision had been made. The Operator was saying something – some sort of urging for him to reconsider – but he hardly paid her mind.
Swerve.
Swerve.
Impact in Three…
Two…
One…
