The Weight of the World

[John Rabid]

Limited in his nature, infinite in his desire, man is a fallen god who remembers heaven. 

- Alphonse de Lamartine

09/17/2017
Sunday Night Slam: Episode 400.
Korakuen Hall in Tokyo, Japan

The Wrestling Championship Federation’s Heavyweight title weighs in at approximately twenty two point four pounds and costs three hundred and thirty seven thousand dollars to produce. The main plate has a circumference estimated at nine and a half inches tall by eleven and a half wide, comprised of a solid silver base interlaced with 12lbs of real 24 carat gold. The strap is real leather; heavy and cracked due to blotches of dried blood soaked into the stitching. When you grip the strap tight, they say you can hear a deep vocal roar shudder through your bones until your teeth begin to chatter. The raspy, haunting war-cry of its first holder, Mace; echoing over an expanse of sixteen years and fifty two different world champions. Supposedly, it’s like holding a conch to your ear and listening to the ocean.

John Rabid however, heard nothing. The strap was lighter and less cumbersome in his taped hands than it should have been. The Ripper surmised that this was due to the fact that the belt was a mere copy. A flimsy echo of its actual history; a metaphor syncopating perfectly with the man who currently bore the title “World Champion”. A snarling, desperate figure, suffocating under the weight of responsibility, a not-so-native New Yorker named, Stephen Singh. Singh was once the former right hand man of Everest leader, David Sanchez. A sweating, six foot three, two forty five pound human scatter gun, a mid-carder who had reached out for the sun too soon. A competent, if forgettable wrestler, who had become consumed by the prestige of a title he was not yet ready to carry. A self imposed recluse, isolated by design from Erica, the woman he abused constantly, yet who still diligently loved him. A twisted relationship fueled by his own malignant self loathing. This grotesque figure stood before John now with a face contorted with Nekoosa, Wisconsin distilled venom. And it had no place to go.

Singh found himself sandwiched between Rabid and his other opponent at WAR, Teo Del Sol. Teddy’s baseball bat was raised like an accusing gavel as Singh’s gnashing teeth reflected in two deep pools of crimson glass. Rabid noticed that Singh’s shoulders seemed to lurch forward, as if his natural instinct now was to curl up into a ball and roll away. To Rabid, It was as if the Golden God’s body was quivering, desperately attempting to compute evasive action. Meanwhile, two thousand plus screaming Bunkyo bodies were pounding on the nearby metal barriers, creating a circular wave of hate that was eager for Singh to falter. This was a seething jury of former “faithful Stephenites" shouting a string of colloquial expletives that threatened to encroach upon the sanctity of the nearby Meiji Shinto Shrine and send it’s deified spirits into an afterlife tailspin.

Two Thousand. Even with the hard cam focused like a craned laser beam on the ring, a mere two thousand fans is still a noticeably low figure. WCF could have packed out the Nippon Budokan easy, which holds an average of fourteen thousand. But instead, Seth Lerch, owner of the company, had booked the four hundredth edition here. A vibrant, yet tiny, venue by comparison. Seth wasn’t a sentimental man, but everything about this night seemed odd. He could have cashed in on the milestone, but he didn’t. A test of commitment to the brand perhaps? Perform, no matter the size of the venue? Or perhaps it was a warning to all, that this is where you’ll end up if you don’t shape up? The previous week had seen Seth’s vitriol raise the bar for public chastising, calling out “The Sure Thing, Singh” as a man who had “Dodged every chance given to make him look like a credible World Champion”. The IWC lost their minds that night. Rabid however, kept his council. Everything is a chess game with Lerch, and he’s at his most dangerous when the pieces seem to neatly fit.

Singh snatched the belt back; Rabid couldn’t tell if Stephen’s hand was simply damp with sweat or clammy with nerves. It didn’t matter right now anyway, the damage had already been done. Singh’s world title reign was collapsing around his ears and Rabid suspected that “Jack of all Trades, master of One” knew it. When your shoulders can’t carry the weight of a real title? The writing's on the wall. Slam 400 was proving to be a “mactamus infortunio” for Everest, who couldn’t manage one single win the entire show, Singh simultaneously abandoning both his bodyguard and his leader to their fates. As loyalty became a redundant concept, the internet title changed hands with all the dark, machiavellian ceremony of a funeral march. The title now incapable of fitting around the waste of it’s new 570 pound champion, William the Behemoth. A man minus congratulations from Singh, his supposed employer. While Sanchez, the former title holder and Singh’s former leader, had evaporated post match off the face of the planet. The Mayor of Chicago having suffered one, final insult of indifference from Stephen the judas, the megalomaniac that had turned his back upon the very mentor who had made his ascension possible.

As Singh held the belt, Rabid whispered three words before an army of security guards swamped the ring. Even Del Sol, whose hatred for Rabid was legendary, couldn’t help but crack a small smile as the words leapt from the serpent’s lips.

“Everest above all”

Singh disappeared from view as the scene descended into chaos under a canopy of shunting and confusion. Rabid left the ring calmly, an artist happy with his part in the approaching downfall. No more brush strokes were required. Everything was eventual.

****

09/19/2017
The Gaspanic Club.
Roppongi, Tokyo, Japan

“So, is he dead?”

The Electro hop mix inside the compacted, low ceiling venue was booming too loud for the question to be heard, but Rabid could read lips and managed to decipher Corey Black’s query quickly. Answering however would be a problem. Rabid signaled to a casually dressed Jomsviking to follow his charcoal suited self outside, the serpent kissing his wife, Emily on the cheek before whispering into her ear that he’d be back soon to join her and Nikki Venus at the congested bar.

Outside the club, the air was filled with cheap cigarette smoke, paper lanterns and emergency sirens echoing across a neon futurist paradise. Corey and John looked like two paragraphs of omitted text blacked out from view. Dark clothing, serious moods. The atmosphere they created built an exclusion zone around them, drunk hipsters from the Shimokitazawa neighborhood stepped back and gave them room as they walked along the sidewalk while agile mopeds zipped haphazardly by. Rabid was waiting for the question to drop again. Black took his time navigating towards it.

“Can you believe the prices in there? 700 yen? Are they fucking high? For one Smirnoff Ice! That’s ten dollars spent on a single, Nikki Venus! We’re close, but seriously--”

“This is why I told you to get your buzz on at the Black Lion. Gaspanic loves to rip off foreigners. Next time, we land here on a Thursday. All drinks are 500 yen.”

“How about next time we hit Club Asia? Or at least Gaspanic 99’ instead? Upstairs they have pizza and some civility. Too many fucking pervs back there. And what’s with the flashlight and the drinks list? I get that shit flashed in my eyes again, and someone is losing theirs.”

“Did you say civility just then? You’re getting old. Old man.”

“I’m getting smart. So?”

And here it is.

“So?”

“Sanchez. You ready to answer me now, or are we still in a small talk holding pattern?”

“Are you honestly asking me If I murdered David Sanchez? Seriously?”

“Are you honestly pretending that it isn’t possible? I know how you think, John. A man like you sees the pieces on the board, then calmly removes them.You’re like a block of ice. I’ve never known anyone as cold blooded as you. Odin? Nathan? Forget it. Fucking amateurs in your shadow.”

“Such praise.”

“Oh, this isn’t praise, just a twinge of actual fear. I remember Libert’s face backstage when you buried Sebastian Knight. There’s a reason that one handed bastard hasn’t shown his face for War. And it’s you. John Rabid, the one man on the planet that can make NVL have second thoughts. Then, this morning, Seth informs me that Sanchez hasn’t been seen for the last forty eight hours. And now I can’t get the vision out of my head that the chessboard is minus a Knight and now a Rook. So who’s next, a King?”

“There’s less extreme ways to create an Endgame”

“But are they as pleasurable? And with the perfect set up in place, wouldn't it be a waste not to at least gloat a while?

“Set up? I’m not tracking.”

“Oh, you will.”

Corey stops at a small, diminutive newsstand, stationed by an elderly woman vaping to cope with the night air as she adjusts her red and green shawl. An arthritis afflicted hand takes five yen from Corey as he holds up the latest copy of Interview magazine, he flicks through the pages and begins to quote from Emily’s article.

“Seapunk aliens integrating themselves into wrestling culture in order to overthrow humanity makes perfect sense when you realize it’s just a wild narrative to sell merchandise. #beachkrew was a circus of nihilistic science fiction and satanic imagery. A metatextual discourse on the absurdity of professional wrestling. Stone Cold Steve Bosstin. Hacksaw Jimophy Thuggin. We couldn’t have been more obvious. From the very beginning we showed our hand. Nothing about #beachkrew was real, except our collective talent to win matches and keep on winning. We twisted urban legends and popcorn conspiracy theories and combined them with a dead club scene to create a neo realist landscape that operated on a different level that felt unsettling and menacing. And it worked.”

Corey allows a sardonic smile to creep across his face as he closes the pages of the publication.

“Yeah, it worked all right. You sold reality as fiction. You marketed it. You processed it. The only people who can get close enough now to inspect it, and to start to doubt how innocent you are, are wrestlers. Bonnie Blue. Flash. Singh. And the rest of the world thinks they’re simply pushing your gimmick and are ignored. You’ve taken Oblivion’s greatest weakness and turned it into the perfect strategy. The more a dolt like Stephen Singh tries to cast doubts about you? The more heat he generates for you. The more merchandise you sell. The less the world suspects you. It’s airtight. It’s brilliant. You’ve played Stephen since day one, and he doesn't even realize it. Look at this article! Look at you! You don’t even need the title now, do you? You’ve already won.”

“I don’t need the title? You think way too much, and you haven’t drunk enough. We should head back.”

Corey didn’t move as Rabid began to walk. A few steps taken before The Ripper stopped in his tracks and turned, facing Corey once again. Rabid was unraveling the situation in his mind. His next few words needed to be deft and precise.

“Sanchez never did lose that crown of thorns. Wherever he is? It’s a hell of his own making. Not mine.”

Nothing else was said as they returned to Gaspanic. Corey and John were just in time to see Nikki and Emily dancing on the bar top. A middle aged Japanese businessman, his normally pristine suit now shabby and soaked with saki, had hold of a fire extinguisher. Firing a blast at Nikki’s flowery skirt, the businessman’s bulging eyes searched desperately for a panty shot. Nikki meanwhile fell awkwardly forward into Emily’s arms with surprise as “Miss Rabid” let loose with a swatting kick that caught the businessman plush under the chin. As the pervert’s shocked body flew endlessly backwards, John smiled, clenched his fists, then went to work.

****

1:30 am.
The Spaceport X quick-stop Sushi
Roppongi, Tokyo, Japan

Bloodied knuckles held a set of chopsticks taunt with a confident swagger as they picked through a tray of preheated, freeze dried hell. This was an all night hipster hotspot. The food is supposed to be bad. The music is supposed to be kitch. But none of the contrived 80’s science fiction atmosphere made the experience any more pleasurable. The lense of a mobile phone tracked up from that hand as Rabid finally addressed the camera center stage. Some obvious signs of battle damage were visible, but otherwise the Ripper was none the worse for ware.

“You see this plate of shit, Stephen? It’s inedible. And it’s late. Much too late. For you. For the world. For your title, I need you to picture a scene now, a Lion sits in the shade as a crooked dawn rises for the last time. Midday heat scorches the earth with its oppressive presence as emaciated, nervous livestock (mid-carders) scurry for shelter and fight for scraps. An air of desperation descends upon the herds, but not the Lion. It calmly waits. It waits and observes the shadows as they grow long and narrow. For the Golden God’s sun is setting. A failed champion’s reign is ending, relinquishing its strangle hold upon the land. Now the Lion stands, the wind at its back as a canter evolves into a run. The animal is awake as the land quakes with fear. The Starving Lion corners it’s prey and feeds, devouring reputations and undefeated streaks and misplaced hubris. A God, dies. A new champion, rises. This new sun cleanses the land. As a brave new world kneels before it.”

Rabid pushes the tray aside as he adjusts his stance against a bar. A figure shrouded in black, seemingly alone in a white, antiseptic, conquered universe. Like death himself, ruling over heaven.

“A new era begins at War XVI. October 1st sees the Starving Lion feeding upon the world, and he shall find it sweet. October 1st is John Rabid verses his damaged shadow, the Serpent’s crooked, inferior mirror image, a supposed God, faltering in my wake. It’s the Ripper, vanquishing the thief. It’s Fifty Two, falling to his black and gold knees and praying for salvation at the feet of Fifty Three. It’s Teo Del Sol, unable to do a damn thing about it. The Starving Lion has waited long enough. My era as the WCF bon vivant is close. It’s time to unify the Television Title and the World. Just as Creeping Death once did back at Revenge 2003. That night, Corey Black pulled double duty against Epic and Hellz Angel. I’m sure Seth will have something similar planned for me at the Tokyo Dome. It doesn't matter though, because just as Creeping Death overcame the odds and defeated Hellz Angel, so will I against Teo Del Sol and a man who claims to be a God. You Stephen, a divine being who scrambles to retain his title with DQ finishes. Who retains his gold through trumped up charges filed against his opponents by abused girlfriends who have lost the will to fight. A champion who hides behind rolly polly lard arse bodyguards that disappear when the going gets tough. Stephen, formally Steven, Singh. This company's supposed figurehead, circa twenty-seventeen. Although personally, I like to think of you as something of a twenty thirteen throwback.”

Rabid has a glass of expensive champagne passed to him by a hand with a few chipped nails. Emily didn’t hold back with the punches it seems.

“Raise some Château Lafite-Rothschild in a toast, if you have it, for I believe congratulations are in order. Stephen Singh has attained his lifelong goal of becoming a lifelike 1:1 scale model of Eric Price. The only omitted scene here is a humiliating world title loss and a pair of tights welling up with urine. Allow me Singh this Sunday to smash that missing jigsaw piece into place and complete your tragedy. Everything you are Stephen is derivative; you’re a sponge that soaks up the ideas and narratives of others and re-calibrates them for your smaller, less interesting world. You shrink to fit the grandiose machinations of David Sanchez and Ethan King’s forlorn bouts of self doubt into your dumb little macro-verse and there you sit on your throne of plagiarism, safe and comfortable in the fact that you’re simply doing what it says on the tin; stealing. After all, you’re the great “Thievin’ Stephen”, or at least you were, until you decided to turn your WCF world title reign into a protracted car crash of abject cowardice punctuated by failing to headline Slam Four-hundred. A lost figure, standing around looking emasculated as your oh so mighty Everest falls apart around your ears. As your “Very Big Security” abandons you. So much for “a radical reprieve from repetition”, your golden era has been nothing but repetition; the bland little straight man, who can’t help but slip into a pair of clown shoes and appear like a sulking, impoverished mess as Seth Lerch runs your career into the ground, while millions across the world agree in unison in his response. My sympathies by the way to your tattered reputation, Stephen. I’d sent it some flowers and a card but I doubt “the gutter” is an adequate address."

The camera tracks in tighter.

“You’ve always claimed to be about precision, haven’t you Stephen? The atomic clock of professional wrestling. Never missing a step, never off key. Yet with every turn, with every step you choke out your own reputation. In your very first promo you said you’d rather use “pontificate” to describe your flow because it’s more on point. Only pontificate is not a form of intellectual rhetoric, it’s speaking in a pompous and dogmatic manner. That’s the problem with you in a nutshell, Stephen. You haven’t got a fucking clue what you’re saying. Seriously Steve, don’t you ever feel a need to cup your hands over your mouth and think? I only ask, because if you do, you really need to start listening to your instincts more closely because every one of your promos is a strange, prolonged calamity of camp, off key, pseudo intellectual claptrap. And yet, even as you desperately try to sound interesting, each sentence remains oddly anodyne, because you have absolutely nothing piercing or stimulating to say. It’s just the same pitiful merry-go-round as you limp through the English language struggling to sound intelligent. The great Stephen Singh, who once discovered the word “epithet “ by accident on geocities back in 06’ and now can’t stop using it, his personal comfort blanket of fake intelligence, a tourette tic that sooths Stephen’s brittle ego and convinces him that he’s an important and special snowflake. A man with a chip suddenly on his shoulder over an accent that’s close to my cold, banker's heart.”

Emily waves a Union Jack flag sarcastically in the background.

“Stephen Singh, the so-called “Shakespeare of Shoot”, who now has a problem with the “Kween’s English”, all of a sudden. Apparently my mother tongue sounds a bit “too gay” for him, so Singh twists up that lower lip of his tighter than his agitated sphincter and cries about my supposed superiority complex, like a dimwit grasping at straws, determined to swat my character. You’re pathetic and stupid, Singh. How can you consider yourself a “Shakespeare of Shoot” then denounce the very language the Bard perfected? What is wrong with you? Are you a fish named Dory? Is the last sentence you utter completely forgotten before the next drips from your nasty frayed gums? There’s an old saying, “Wise men learn by other's mistakes, fools forever repeat their own. And you Stephen, are constantly repeating and repeating; prat-falling into mess after mess. You can’t even cut a half decent promo on me without fucking it up. Allow me to enunciate to the back row for a second as I tear apart your world.”

“Let’s start with a quick history lesson. Back in the tail end of the nineteenth century, within the field of magic, the most powerful influence upon the art-form wasn’t the magicians themselves, but the L'ingénieur: the engineer of the trick. The L'ingénieurs were the creators of the mystery, artists who designed the illusions that build worlds of wonder, captivating the minds of millions. It’s a skill. A discipline. And there is no shame in falling under their spell. After all, the closer you are to the light, the less you can see. Definition. Place. It all slips away. And so, all you’re left with is the outlandish and the impossible. You’re standing too close to the light, Stephen, and now you’re obsessed by it. All you can see are Jalaxaritkatusain salvation programs and extra-dimensional and immortal serial killers and it scares you. Not because “they’re real”, but because the concept and execution of #beachkrew has been, and will continue to be, light-years ahead of you.”

The camera lingers on a poster for #beachcon 2017 - special guest: John Rabid!

“While Everest is what? Three Mad Men imprisoned inside a conversion therapy tower? A trio of boring, introspective malcontents hiding their queer love for each other? In 2017 you’d think you three would just come out and be adults. But no, you have to slap your assistants around and bed them to prove your manhood. Or climb down the analyst's couch when life gets tough and the coke runs dry. Or maybe you just disappear like David Sanchez, glad to be free from his beard family. Everest, that cutting edge spectacle of reality with a Mayor of Chicago killing an alien clown live on camera, and getting away with it. Or three men climbing Everest without oxygen, then wrestling week after week on Slam without a hint of frostbite. Or that marvel of modern engineering, The Everest Tower. Did you know Stephen, that the average Skyscraper takes a full year to build? Doesn't matter though, because “six loaves and six fishes Sanchez” can get all that shit done in three months. And let's not forget that his smokescreen family was taken away from him by a shapeshifting personification of the combined evils of all mankind named “The Jackal”. Yes sir, everything in your life is grounded in reality then. Fucking hell.”

Rabid opens an app on his phone. “The Darknet”. An error code says “404: service not found”.

“Maybe some of those facts have slipped from memory, Singh. But don’t worry though, because you can always look everything up on the Darknet. Right? Oh wait. No, you can’t. Not anymore. Darknet is down. Say “bye-bye” to that overused sci-fi trope where your consciousness is downloaded into a mind control program. “Maggie’s farm” is DEAD. Or maybe, its just disappeared up your arse. Same difference. Thinking about it, memory and facts aren’t your strong suit, are they? Let’s run a fact check on your “enlightened” quotes shall we?

1. You accused me on Slam episode 399 of “Running away from a loss” when I left the WCF.

Wrong!

"I’d just won the Television title for the first time a week before Mexico. No loss."

2. “You’ve achieved nothing. What have you taken down?”

"I think you mean, "Who have you taken down?". Since my return? Zero Tolerance. Thomas Uriel Bates. The whole corrupt hierarchy of this company by decimating The Brotherhood / ZT alliance at Hellimination 2016. An event you ducked out of, because you were too busy shitting your courage into a bucket and pretending not to care. Not to mention running the entire WCF after Hellimination: 2015. Sebastian Knight and a man named....DUNE. Fact check. BITCH!”

3. “You was once a pale imitation of...Joey Flash?”

Wrong!

“I’ve never been a gangster. Never injected heroin in New York. Never had my son dropped from a church balcony for dramatic effect."

4. “You was once a pale imitation of...Jared Holmes?”

Wrong!

“I’ve never pity-fucked Lilith. Never caught cylindroma. Never married a woman named after a day of the week to sound interesting and cool. Never allowed my wife to die under strange circumstances. Never wore a shark mask and pretended to be a Luchador. Never. Been. Jared. Holmes. While you, Stephen? You’ve always pretended. To. Be. ME! Your cadence, your swagger, your poise and delivery. Everything about you is me, except what actually matters. The details. The facts. God is in the details, Stephen. But not for you. You can’t help but fumble the ball. That’s why you turn around and make a good woman like Erica Baringer’s life a living hell. Because you’d rather hang out in a pig pen with Byron the stereotypical Bronx bookie than show some guts and apologize to “Your Assistant” for being an arrogant, abusive piece of shit. But don't worry, Stephen. We at the Rush family are about to take care of everything. My dear, if you please...”

To: [e-mail]
From: [e-mail]

Hello, Erica.

This is Emily Rush. I’m the wife of John Rabid, the man who’s scheduled to be challenging, and defeating, Stephen Singh for the world heavyweight title at this year’s WAR event. It seems strange, I know, to state such an obvious fact, but I get the impression that you’re not kept in the loop as much as you used to be these days. Just another insult to add to a long list that began twelve months ago for you. You were at Stephen’s side from the very beginning, weren’t you? Back then you were just, “The Assistant”, a hard working woman seemingly unworthy to even have a name. Just background noise to be used and abused by a misogynistic troll with a self loathing complex and a tiny penis. A man who’s grinder account pic is a lonely clown with a single tear running down it’s cuck face.

Make no mistake girl, my husband is going to destroy your precious Singh at WAR. The only question you need to ask yourself now is, do you want to keep monitoring his frail living corpse after the loss? Or would you rather exit the room and let the respirator stop? I suggest you choose option two, Erica. Let his life come full circle with an ironic, well earned death so he can join Alex in the earth. While you, Erica, join me at Imperial Ventures. I have a modeling agency that needs a good organizer. That could be you. A desk. Some actual responsibility. Perhaps we can hook you up with someone who doesn't need half an hour jerking off into a tiny hand to get hard for you. You know, a real man.

Think it over. There’s no need to stay locked up in a Stockholm syndrome forever. There’s no need to remain a convenient, contrived fantasy for a small, worthless little man. Try freedom instead.

Good. Day.

Emily presses “send” on her phone as Nikki smiles. The camera returning to face Rabid. A slow zoom towards the Ripper.

“When I started in this business, my first booking was in a rundown bingo hall in the arse end of North Wales. I was a fourteen year old kid with a hundred t-shirts stuffed into a sports bag. That night, I sold sixty. Now that shirt’s print run goes for six hundred dollars a pop on E-bay. Nobody made me, Stephen - but me. Nobody held my hand or strapped a rocket to my back or allowed me to cower under a rock and never defend my trios title. I scraped and clawed and fought my way to the top until the world had no choice but to do the same to book me. No silver spoon in my mouth made that happen. Eton college didn’t make that happen. The army didn’t make that happen. I MADE THAT HAPPEN! I am a self made scoundrel. Before there was one hundred and seventy days as Television champion. Before every tale of “The Ripper”. Before every saga of “The Serpent”. Before there was a #beachkrew. Before there was a Johnny Rabid. There was a Jason Rush. A boy who knew how to clench his fights, raise them, and fight for his spot. You know what makes me better than you, Stephen? It isn’t your delusions about supernatural powers, faraway planets and alternative realities. It’s none of the theatrics that blind you. It’s the moves that hit you. It’s my skills that devastate you. It’s my talent that embarrasses you. I surpass you, because you, Stephen Singh, are nothing but a third rate John Rabid wannabe. A contrail withering in my wake. An echo stamped out by my scream. That’s why this match isn’t about you, Stephen. Because there is no you. There never has been a you. You’re nothing. An invisible apparition; innocuous and forgettable. A paper thin membrane wrapped around a skeletal marionette that dances to every tune expect it’s own. Because you have no voice, just a dog-eared script sang by a million others with more heart and more fight. University of Chicago dropout? Makes sense. You’re nothing but a glorified carny pretending to be smart.”

Emily blows her husband a kiss and Nikki smiles. The camera cranks up now towards another mobile as it plays a Youtube video.

“What did you call me on Slam 399, “A pale imitation?” Really. You have the gall to say that?! Two weeks ago, your promo opened with this long protracted speech about originality. Let me think back, what did you say again? Oh yes…”

“Some people would have you believe that all worthwhile artistic endeavors and their unique seeds of creativity have been done before. Any attempts at creation, at originality, is all for naught. These people are either simply unintelligent or lazy.”

“You know, you really should try that thinking lark before you open your unintelligent, lazy mouth again. Especially with that nose of yours that, “Was chiseled by the Gods themselves” and that body that was, “Sculpted to the proportions of Michelangelo's David”. Here’s the skinny, dickhead. In-between time travelling to the late eighteenth century to murder prostitutes, while also emerging from wormholes to fuck your mother, thereby making me your actual absent father, I occasionally watch “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia”. You’re not a “Golden God”, you’re a dank, pale ripoff. You’re a Dennis Reynolds clone who spouts the EXACT same insults he does ad nauseum. You’re an unintelligent, lazy man in search of originality without a hope in hell of discovering that precious oasis. So instead you throw shade over those that do have that elusive spark, while wallowing in your sitcom squat, snorting aerosol cans and snarling at actual talent, you pathetic pleb. Face it, you’re not the Dayman. You’re not the Nightman. You’re a nowhere man, You’re shit, and you need to be flushed."

Emily does the cutthroat signal as we return to Rabid.

“What’s the problem, Singh? You wanted to live in reality? Now here it is. Knocking on your door demanding answers. So, where are they, Stevie? How are you going to retort? Will you cough into your hand and mutter something incoherent? Maybe you’ll just slap Erica over the face for a dramatic distraction. Personally, I’m hoping you jump out of an Everest Eye open window like a 1929 stock market flop, perhaps you’ll say something profound on the way down, realizing only too late that you’ve used the word “pontificate” to describe your shoot...again.”

“Golden God? No, more like the God of pablum. Week after week, opportunity after opportunity, handed to you on a silver platter and yet you can’t perform. You can’t produce. You had the entire complement of Everest and Taylor Wright by your side and you still couldn’t take away my Television title before Ultimate Showdown. Face it, you’re just another flat dud cherry picked off a metrosexual assembly line of lazy fucks that have no real commitment to this business. And that isn’t just an observation. I can honestly say first hand that you’re no good on the mic in person.You can't sell a match. You can’t sell a story. You can’t facilitate the demands of this business. I’ve lead the buildup of this contest around by the nose since day one, and every time you try and keep up? It just comes off as an embarrassing second place for the thief.”

“Ten plus years in combat sports and not a day in that Roufussport MMA gym has prepared you for this. I want you to take a good look at those feet of yours that don’t touch the ground, I want you to stare at them and snap a mental photograph of that image, because those feet are about to be cemented right back down into the mid-card where they fucking belong. That reflection of yours that you think shimmers with a golden hue? It’s cracked and twisted. It betrays you, and leads you to the cliff edge where I wait for you. Come October 1st you’re going to finally realize what everybody else on planet Earth knows. That no man is a God. That no heaven exists to serve you. And that no world title is safe from my grasp.”

The camera is tighter now as Rabid dominates the frame.

“What’s your tipple Steve? I want to get it right when I spill it on my lawn. Face it, in this contest, I’m Drake and you’re Meek. Now, go bring me my mead and bend the knee. Bitch.”

The camera zooms out turns one-eighty degrees as Corey’s swollen lipped face finally addresses the lens.

“And Jonny Fly? You hot-fry piece of shit! The bell. It toils for--”

CUT.