Post by John Rabid on Oct 1, 2017 15:58:29 GMT -5
“Horror is the removal of masks.”
― Robert Bloch
ザ・スラッガー The Slugger
09/04/17
Hole 'n Run
Wheeling, West Virginia.
“Louisville, please. Yes, the prime maple.”
The Monday after Slam #398 arrived as John Rabid inspected a baseball bat held loose in his hands, the Ripper could feel the weight mitigate evenly across his open palms. It reminded him of #beachkrew’s first rise to power back in the fall of 2015. Travelling cross country with the faction in that dilapidated bong on wheels, “The WINEObago” good times as their collective stock thundered through the roof, and their names dominated every aspect of the wrestling world. Recollections of drunken nights felt fresh and new as Rabid gripped the bat tighter now and gave it a gentle swing. Home runs crashing like waves against the confines of rusting batting cages which echoed once more with a fresh vivere from the past. Days spent conducting a rhythmic symphony of attrition as bleacher burners clipped the side of the bago’, spooking Wade Moor inside as his huge Floridian frame sat half baked with the world title cradled on his shoulder.
It all returned to the fore as the bat seemed balanced and complete in the Ripper’s grasp. Then there was hours spent tearing up one horse towns with former tag partner, Kyle Kemp. Kyle’s face always etched with a permanent scowl of fearful anxiety around John, an expression that always amused the Ripper, especially when spied through Kyle’s one way windshield as Kemp cowered inside from sight. That was the first day they met at the badminton court. Kyle, the baseball star that threw it all away. The patsy in a betting scandal who always considered himself “better” than the competition, no matter what the matches outcome.
Tinted windows. Tinted glasses. Nether could hide the truth from John. Everything was visible to the Serpent. People. Places. Just a see-through universe of fragile, self absorbed animals afraid of everything. Rabid approached the counter of the store and placed the bat down, opening his wallet.
“You deliver?”
“Sure” said the Store Assistant. She was a Hot Topic refugee. Hair every color. Tattoos she’d regret when the kids grow up. Rabid wrote a name and address down on a spare scrap of paper. The assistant inspected the instructions, adjusting her lean as her interest was spiked.
“Weird name. Sounds like a cocktail I had on spring break once. Anything else?”
“Yeah, I’d like this engraved on the handle. Nothing too conspicuous please.”
Rabid drew the symbols and pushed the scrap of paper back across the counter.
よく 戦う
“Is that Japanese? What does it say?”
Rabid smiled. Paid for the request. And left.
****
09/20/2017
Hotel Emion
Tokyo Bay, Tokyo, Japan.
Tokyo’s Uraga channel discards it’s blue veil as an orange dawn ascends to rule the bay. Cruise ships below seem baked in fire as Rabid’s vantage point reigns over all like a shogun; the Serpent sitting by his open laptop at a davenport desk, body slumped back in his chair while resting from the chaos of the Gaspanic clash in a pair of grey sweatpants and a black Mustache Bros. tee.
Emily is up and awake, patrolling her spacious new environment, wild locks of blond hair falling loose across her milk white cheeks. She’s clad in a silk dressing gown of vibrant peach that hugs her slightly bruised upper thighs. Her body has kept it’s perfect conditioning however from her modeling days as her hips move with a metronomic motion across the hardwood hotel room floor; manicured hands carrying John’s wrestling gear (black tights and a trench coat) cocooned inside a clear plastic sleeve towards a closet.
Emily stops and inspects the gear. Her eyes trained on the Japanese writing that runs down one leg of the tights.
ライオン
Her eyes widen, two blue searchlights peering out from the seclusion of thick mascara as she scrutinizes the characters.
“Jason. What does this say again? I remember asking you for the Interview piece, but you didn’t answer.”
“What?”
“The Japanese running down the tights. Is it Rabid?”
Jason Rush, aka, John Rabid looks up from the screen and smiles.
“Oh that? It says Raion”
“Which Means?”
“The first time I toured Japan as a wrestler, the promotion I was working for was a small independent outfit named Tight Pro. The man that ran it was a rather stout looking gentleman by the name of Genzo Inoki. Genzo didn't understand what Rabid meant. I tried to explain it to him, but my Japanese was bad and his English was worse. The next day I was suddenly “Johnny Raion”. I had long blonde hair at the time, and he wanted me to be his gaijin hero, so I became…”
“Lion? Johnny Lion? HA! That’s perfect!”
“Blonde haired gaijin’s usually end up being a Lion somehow.”
“So, why keep the design on the tights? Sentimental reasons?”
“Just a reminder. I can be the Serpent. I can be a Lion. But in the end, they’re just uniforms for the office. Beneath it all, I’m still Jason Rush. The man I started out as. No split personalities or reinventions. Those tights are as close as I get to taking my work home with me.”
Emily has a mischievous smile
“The original and the best. Rotten at the core. Just the way I like you.”
“You always could see right through me,”
Emily hangs up the gear and waltzes over to Rabid’s chair, straggling it as her thighs coil around his waist and back. Her arms embrace her husband’s shoulders and neck as she leans in and kisses him on the lips, whispering.
“You know, sometimes I wonder. Who dreamed up who first? I look at you sleeping and I feel like I opened a door in that bathtub back in Paris and let you in. And you’ve held court over my life ever since”
“Is that so bad?”
“Oh it’s bad...very, very bad. Somebody should stop this.”
She kisses him again as their lips linger. Then her gaze falls upon the laptop screen.
“So, what are you working on?”
It’s Rabid’s IMDB:
- Longest Television Title Reign in WCF history (200 plus days)
- Guest of honor at #beachcon 2017
- MVP of Hellimination 2016 with three eliminations.
- Former interim CEO of The Wrestling Championship Federation (2016).
- Youngest ever English Sportsman to receive a Knighthood.
- Former Trios Champion.
- Former head of #beachkrew.
- Head of Imperial Ventures worldwide
- Retired: Dune, Sebastian Knight.
There’s a gap, as if Rabid is pondering the final entry:
- Defeated Teo Del Sol at Slam 400 to become THE NEW, UNDISPUTED KING OF ALL MEDIA.
“Looks good. Let’s save this”
Emily’s finger is about to press the “enter key” when Rabid interjects.
“No wait, I’m thinking it over.”
“What’s wrong?
Rabid kisses his wife on the cheek with a cursory gesture as Emily senses her husband needs some space.
“I’ll go check on Dorian. Meet you downstairs for breakfast?”
“Yeah, sounds good.”
Rabid stars at the screen, a moment later he deletes the “KING OF ALL MEDIA” line as he addresses the laptop’s camera lens.
“Hello Teo. There’s rumors persisting of you prancing around inside a Akihabara arcade begging for yen so you can fight an imaginary version of me in an arcade game. And you’re losing. It seems Teo, that I have your life trapped in a vice. Well, now it’s time to squeeze. Get ready to cry. Because these next few words are going to get emotional.”
Rabid leans forward slightly.
“I’m going to make a confession here today that I probably shouldn’t. I’m worried about the future. Not in your typical, hysterical way, Teo. With your Tommy Wiseau facial expressions and wild bouts of comical introspection. My concerns are very pragmatic and anchored in reality. I’m worried about War. Not the match. Not the world title bout. I’m worried about what comes after. How I deal with the very peculiar handicap I now find myself saddled with:
"Namely you, Teo."
"Think about it. The War match is one of the most arduous and punishing hours a professional athlete in this sport can possibly endure. Once you enter the contest, you are but one of fifty different competitors, forty nine of whom have amassed a combined amount of experience that exceeds over one hundred years. From bell to bell there is no respite, no safe haven, no shelter from the storm. Whoever wins War this Sunday will have rightfully earned their place at ONE; the biggest, most prestigious showcase this sport has ever known. The road to ONE begins, Sunday; October 8th. The week after WAR. Imagine if you will that first spine tingling segment. The crowd is screaming. The signs are out in force. The beachballs are as fucking annoying as ever. My music hits, I walk down to the ring and enter through the ropes. The WCF world heavyweight title is slung proudly now over my left shoulder, my cricket bat.poised to strike over my right. I have my aviator shades on, my long trench coat is flowing. I lower the bat and raise a microphone to my lips and prepare to address the masses. At that moment, my opponent's music hits. The man I will face at ONE has arrived, He is driven by an unquenchable purpose as he marches towards me. His eyes are trained with manic jealously at the title. He has climbed the mountain. He has driven back the hoards. His claim to be here cannot be questioned. And then, he addresses me. Now, what do you think, Teo Del Sol, will be the first words that this unknown challenger will utter? Because I know. I’ve replayed the moment in my mind a thousand times. And it goes something like this:"
“I am your challenger for the world heavyweight championship. I am the winner of WAR. Last Sunday night, inside a sold out Tokyo dome, in the main event of the evening, for one and a half grueling hours, I was punched, kicked, piledriven, brainbustered, enzurguried, eye gouged, slapped and superkicked. I have endured the full, unrelenting fury of forty nine other men, and I am victorious. I stand before you now as a man that has proven his worth. While you, stand before me with the belt. And a pinfall over Teo Del Sol. So, “Johnny Rabid”, answer me this: who deserves the title more?”
"To whit, my only response is..."
“...Well, you work with what you’re given...”
"...I slither out of that exchange, but the texts and emails keep arriving."
"I didn't take part in WAR this year because I was trapped in-between two cracks in the sidewalk, but if I had shown up and won? I'd remind you at ONE, Johnny Rabid, that you only pinned Teo Del Sol for that title. So no big deal." - J. Purse
“You honestly think a win over Teo Del Sol at WAR is going to prepare your sorry, limey azz for Ragnarok at ONE? Get rdy Johnny to get ur shit royally pushed in by a professional. Lolz Fgt!” - Odin “War” Balfore.
“The Thief was robbed! Teo never should have been the easy option at WAR. He gifted my title to Rabid like a whore on his back! Ripper’s title reign is a sham!” - Stephen Singh.
“J-J-John...Rahhhhbidddddd, fuck! I can’t even say your name now? Really? I-I have to run and hide before this nervous tic gets worse and I pee my pants. Maybe I’ll take a knee later for Kaepernick and cleanse my soul. But before I do, I just want to remind you, Rahhhh--fuck it!. You only pinned, Teo Del Sol. Right? RIGHT? Now go fuck yourself you anti-Chapo scumbag!” - Sidney J. WARwick.
"And the only answer I would have, is the same one line: “You work with what you’re given”, Still, If I can make a world champion like Stephen Singh look like a broom handle, I can make a broom handle like you Teo, look like a worthy challenger. At least for the five laborious minutes I allow you to briefly shine before I bury you six feet deep, and end this fiasco. After all, you called seizing the championship, “The impossible dream”, why prove you wrong?"
"I don’t want to embarrass you, Teo. I don’t want to erode your legacy away into nothing. But you frustrate me. You’re like a Russian doll. Each time that you re-emerge from hibernation with a different name, there’s this smaller man standing before me. His stature lessened. His presence, diminished. But that hatred for me burns just as bright and just as fierce in those cracked red shades. You’ve sacrificed everything else that mattered. Except that. The irony is, I wish I could help you now. If I could, I’d love to get your career in a headlock and drag it back from the abyss. But I can’t save you, Teo. Only you can do that. Only you can step up and see what you’ve become. A ghost from the past. A Tokyo ghoul. A charisma vacuum driven insane by an all consuming sense of mawkish sentimentality for an era that you can never return to."
"Tell me, who made you the moral arbiter for the WCF, Teo? Because I swear they’re fucking cross eyed! Look at the facts, you side with Logan, an ocular changed pervert that kicks his psycho girlfriends off balconies, while you snap at my heels because maybe, just maybe, your lord and master Seth will greenlight a push and make you the star, your meagre talent can’t back up. But the joke’s on you, Teo. Because the world knows you’re just filler in this match. There’s a very good reason why I’m confident, I’m facing Teddy Blaze performing a bad Teo Del Sol impersonation. The fear is gone and you know it. When this federation supposedly needed you to stand against me, you ran. You’re a coward from your Texan heels up and you know it. Where were you during Hellimination 2016, Teo? Why didn’t stand by Team WCF when the supposed “barbarian invaders” were gathering at the gates? If I’m the incarnation of the devil like you want the world to believe, where were you? Oh, that’s right, you were Spencer Adams pet bitch over at UCI, where the plateau for talent is easier to deal with, and the card is nice and open for a lunatic like you to flourish in. How’s that fake TV title they have over there, Teo? It looks like shit by the way."
"You blame me for Mexico. You blame me for becoming Teddy Blaze, You blame and you blame and you blame. You rage and you cry up to the heavens for vengeance. And yet, with all of that, you’ve forgotten the only important fact that matters..."
"...You becoming Teddy Blaze had nothing to do with me."
May 29, 2016.
Reading, Pennsylvania
Slam! Arena.
From: Dr. Remus Micayle
To: Seth Lerch
Subject: The mental condition of Teo Del Sol.
Patient Teddy Blaze AKA Teo Del Sol has suffered significant head trauma due to oxygen starvation. It would appear that during the conclusion of the WCF Classic Tournament Match between Teo Del Sol and Nathan Chambers, a portion of Teo’s mask became lodged into his throat after Chambers applied the Guillotine Choke around Teo’s neck, this was followed by a leap off the top rope. With his windpipe blocked, Teo’s brain became vulnerable to asphyxiation. It is the conclusion of this medical practitioner that Teo Del Sol (Teddy Blaze) be removed from active competition until a series of tests can be undertaken to further understand the extent of his injuries.
Reading, Pennsylvania
Slam! Arena.
From: Dr. Remus Micayle
To: Seth Lerch
Subject: The mental condition of Teo Del Sol.
Patient Teddy Blaze AKA Teo Del Sol has suffered significant head trauma due to oxygen starvation. It would appear that during the conclusion of the WCF Classic Tournament Match between Teo Del Sol and Nathan Chambers, a portion of Teo’s mask became lodged into his throat after Chambers applied the Guillotine Choke around Teo’s neck, this was followed by a leap off the top rope. With his windpipe blocked, Teo’s brain became vulnerable to asphyxiation. It is the conclusion of this medical practitioner that Teo Del Sol (Teddy Blaze) be removed from active competition until a series of tests can be undertaken to further understand the extent of his injuries.
"I never knew Nathan Chambers. By all accounts he was a man who was competent at his job, but not exactly outstanding. I never knew Nathan because I, and the rest of #beachkrew had already left the WCF when your “reinvention” occurred. May 29th 2016 is the night Teo Del Sol died. Teo was Euthanized by the sport of Professional Wrestling. A week later, in stepped Teddy Blaze. Gone was the mask. In it’s place was you. Cracked Glasses. Morose personality. A 24 carat prick. Call yourself Teo all you want. But you’re Teddy Blaze and there’s no fact check necessary on that score."
"The wheels have come off this nostalgia trip, “Teddy”. The currents are sweeping you out to sea, snuffing out your flame. There’s no salvation waiting upon the shore. No rescue party that will haul you back from the dead. Your second time of death will be October 1st, 2017. Cause? A hero's journey that was sunk beneath the waves, weighed down it’s own pathetic martyr complex. I used to think “kickstart my heart” was a song of celebration, now I know it’s a cry for help. You ridiculous bastard, you’re quicksand, Teo. You sink every time you arrive, always desperate to drag the world down along with you."
"They say the definition of madness is believing that the same action will reward a different result if performed over and over. Face it, Teo. You were never one second away from glory at Revenge against Singh. That title has been, and will continue to be, a far flung distant future, one that you’ll never live to see. You left the best part of that half dead brain of yours frying under the desert heat twelve months ago. Your mind is scrambled, incapable of separating fact from fiction. That’s why you were wide open against Sidney J. Warwick. Why the same mistake happened against me. You keep making the same fumbles and expecting success. Not going to happen. "
"That Sidney J Warwick. He’s a wily fellow, isn’t he? But he soon learned his place against me and now I have his title shot. Did you teach him the same lesson on Slam 399? No Because you can’t focus on anything else but your own crazed narrative. Salivating for revenge against those who broke your precious federation. Even though it’s now stronger than ever, with a roster that your talent pales into insignificance against. But that won’t do for the likes of you, will it Teo? You have to be the one that saves the day. Clinging on to the liferaft of Mexico. A grudge that weighs you down and turns you rotten. You have to be the WCF’s shining knight though, don’t you?. Otherwise you’re just a third rate Don Quixote, chasing windmills to burn down."
"Question: since you couldn’t beat Sidney J. Warwick, why are you in this World title match? I fought him to be here, you lost to him and yet you’re still in the hunt. Why? He beat you, so why wasn’t Sidney been reinstated into the triple threat at War? You say you’ve earned your place here. When? You’ve been a complete non factor all year. Yet suddenly, you reappear. Lose constantly. And yet you’re rewarded with a title shot. Pinning you this sunday won’t be a victory. Simply a public service. "
"It’s strange, isn’t it? There used to be a time when beating Teo Del Sol actually meant something. Before the days of a Sidney J. Warwick pinning your lazy arse to the mat on Slam 399’. Back in your halcyon days, you used to be respected. Maybe not as awe inspiring as you’d like, but at least respected. Teo Del Sol, one of those names that garnered approval from both the workers and the management. You used to be considered a prime scalp back in 2015. You had the mask then. And your manhood. A cruiserweight luchador who radiated the fear factor of a heavyweight. Six months a people’s champion. You defeated Kyle Kemp for that title. You even held your People’s Choice partner at bay, poor Spencer Adams, they say his jaw crack to this very day. Such unnecessary pantomime. Just another name crushed for no reason in your once sunny wake. I miss the old Teo, but those days are long gone. Evaporated in the ether. You’ve lost too many pieces of the jigsaw, Teo. That’s why cry like a wounded animal. Because you are one."
"When I look at you now with that baseball bat, pretending to be the hero you once were, it’s obvious he isn’t there anymore. The King of all media that defeated Zombie McMorris at One 2016 is deader than the monster he vanquished. Now I’m about to be trapped in a ring with a Teo tribute act, a clown mercilessly mining his split personalities past. Teo Del Schizo, a morose orator with a mouth full of excuses no one cares to hear, but you’ll cry them anyway because they’re from the only voice he’ll listen to, his own."
"You’ve become a selfish, spoiled brat, Teo. A man that only shows up now when it’s easy. When it’s comfortable. A former hero stranded on auto-pilot, treading water until the check clears. Then like magic, Teddy? You’re gone, living under a rock for another year on action figure royalties that date back to a moment in history that’s fading from memory. A time when the real Teo Del Sol actually existed. Not this Teo Del Sol of 2017, a pointless reboot that lacks the charm and the wit of the original. You’re a stupid little man, Teo. And after I’m done with you this Sunday night at WAR? They’ll be wringing out what’s left of your tainted career into a bucket and emptying it down a drain."
"You say you have no regrets. That you, “know who you are”. Really? You dress like Teddy Blaze, but you call yourself Teo Del Sol. Well then, which one is it? Are you the Luchador of the people? Or are you the psyche ward avenger? “You know who are...You know who you are…” Turning a lie into a mantra doesn’t make it the truth, Teo. Sing it until you’re hoarse. It won’t stop the laughter. "
"This Sunday inside the Tokyo dome, listen out for it. They say forty thousand make one hell of a noise."
Good Day.
****
ライオン - The Lion
09/24/17
#BEACHCON 2017
Tokyo convention hall
Tokyo Square Garden
24th September - Special Guest….JOHN RABID! (1300 hours prompt.)
Forever mercurial, The Great Gatsby, as envisioned by Edgar Allen Poe, Sir John Rabid has been the focal point of three of the most popular anime series of the past few years. It began in 2016 with “#beachmecha Chronicles”, then “Tokyo #beach Police”, before Rabid graduated into his own series which has taken Japan by storm. A nation is now hooked on his dark, brooding tales of an immortal alien vampire professional wrestler detective, solving crimes with his supermodel wife, Samurai Viking sidekick, and comical android butler named “Three-Pee-Teo”. “Ripper’s Astounding Adventures” is about to enter season two, and now has a time slot scheduled in North America via Adult Swim.
Today, inside hall H, Rabid will be discussing his life. His career as a professional wrestler and what it means to be the spearhead of the international media juggernaut known as the WCF!
****
The oval hall was jam packed with Johnny Rabid’s. Some were asian. Some North American. Some from Africa and India. This was a world that had come together as one to see and celebrate the life and work of their champion live on stage. A nation of Rabid, becoming increasingly anxious while celebrated animator, Genndy Tartakovsky concluded his hour.
“What this season of Ripper’s Astounding Adventures” will bring is a whole new insight into the Three-Pee-Teo character. He wasn’t always this mindless, loyal robot manservant. I think you’ll discover that this season, his past is a tragic one that adds depth and weight to a lighthearted figure. Let’’s roll the clip!"
The lights lower in the auditorium as a heart wrenching scene is played out on the screen:
Ext. Rabid Mansion - Night
The atomic powered bi-plane of Sir John Rabid gracefully swings into shot as Lord Singh’s Darknet Androids are sliced apart by the craft’s single engine prop: it’s a tornado of adamantium cruelty.that leaves nothing but spare parts in it’s wake. JOHN RABID and his trusty Samurai Viking sidekick, CORVUS DHARKE leap from the cockpit as the engine slowly dies down. Amidst the chaos and confusion, two bright red eyes flicker in the twilight.
Sir John Rabid: TEO!
Three-Pee-Teo is a mess. His arms and legs have been shredded apart during battle. Only his torso and half of one side of his brain remains in tact. Rabid cradles the remains in his superhuman vampire arms as Corvus stands stolic over the scene, his deep set eyes narrowing as they search constantly for danger.
Sir John Rabid: Corvus?
Corvus Dharke: I hear no bells chime from the crucible of souls. My Warhammer does not weep blood. We are safe, Master Rabid.
Three-Pee-Teo: What about Mistress Emily and young Master Dory. Sir! Are they safe?
Sir John Rabid: Yes. You have performed your duty admirably.
Three-Pee-Teo: Do you forgive me master? For malfunctioning?
Sir John Rabid lowers his eyes. There is a long, dramatic pause as the alien vampire enters a moment of thoughtful introspection.
Sir John Rabid: No. Not yet. First you must fight. And prove your worth to me.
The atomic powered bi-plane of Sir John Rabid gracefully swings into shot as Lord Singh’s Darknet Androids are sliced apart by the craft’s single engine prop: it’s a tornado of adamantium cruelty.that leaves nothing but spare parts in it’s wake. JOHN RABID and his trusty Samurai Viking sidekick, CORVUS DHARKE leap from the cockpit as the engine slowly dies down. Amidst the chaos and confusion, two bright red eyes flicker in the twilight.
Sir John Rabid: TEO!
Three-Pee-Teo is a mess. His arms and legs have been shredded apart during battle. Only his torso and half of one side of his brain remains in tact. Rabid cradles the remains in his superhuman vampire arms as Corvus stands stolic over the scene, his deep set eyes narrowing as they search constantly for danger.
Sir John Rabid: Corvus?
Corvus Dharke: I hear no bells chime from the crucible of souls. My Warhammer does not weep blood. We are safe, Master Rabid.
Three-Pee-Teo: What about Mistress Emily and young Master Dory. Sir! Are they safe?
Sir John Rabid: Yes. You have performed your duty admirably.
Three-Pee-Teo: Do you forgive me master? For malfunctioning?
Sir John Rabid lowers his eyes. There is a long, dramatic pause as the alien vampire enters a moment of thoughtful introspection.
Sir John Rabid: No. Not yet. First you must fight. And prove your worth to me.
****
Off stage, the real John Rabid, looking as impeccably assured as ever in his charcoal suit, smiles. He turns to face the camera and begins to address us...
"Hello Teo. can you hear this scene? I didn’t write it, but I do find it funny how you’ve seemingly integrated yourself into my world. It’s perfect, don’t you think? Apart from the Jazz soundtrack they insist for the score. you like Jazz, Teo? I fucking hate Jazz. I’ve tried to like it, but I can’t. It’s music suffering from a concussion. It’s everywhere searching blindfolded for a melody. When I’m forced to endure Jazz at a restaurant, or I’m inside an elevator and my ears are forcibly subjected to Jazz’s sustained blithering incoherence, you know who’s name immediately to springs to mind? Yours. Because there’s absolutely no difference. None. Your career is exactly like Jazz. You ramble with no purpose. You hit every bum note on the way to a disappointing end. You’re suddenly angry out of the blue, then gone, then back again. And just like Jazz, Teo, exactly like Jazz, even with all the pointless angst...nobody is listening to you. You’re a background hum that’s tolerated, then forgotten."
"Teo, I know in turn you suffer with a lot, crooked teeth, bad skin. Basically an English Northerner. Perhaps Brimingham. Definitely Manchester. But I’ve been thinking, you can add one more ailment to the list: obdurate recalcitrance; it means that you think the cheers of the crowd give you carte blanche to do whatever you want. To say whatever you want. To act however you want. But that’s not how it works, Teo. Your self indulgence is like a noose around your neck. The people are sick of being dragged by their heels into your pathetic never ending psychodrama. Why should they be denigrated into willing on a man who sees them only as bit players in his personal chekov tragedy? Why should the people have to stand around and watch a once good man retrogress into a parody of his former self?"
"For you Teo, consistency a hypothetical argument that you’ll never understand. It will never take precedent over you prancing melodramatically through a desert like a Luchador version of Priscilla: Queen of the Desert, or talking manically to imaginary versions of better talents as if you hilariously belong. You have zero reviews on Yelp. You’re such a hive of misery, Teo, the stenographer at your court hearing hanged herself."
"Perhaps Teo, if you undergo a colonoscopy, we might discover your head. You’re a luddite that has no sense of place or self. You live inside a bubble of refracted reality, like a glass case dedicated to Lepidopterology. A butterfly whose wings will never beat because they’re weighed down with a depressed mind with a proclivity to self destruct. "
"Every time I have to listen to one of your promos it’s like peering through a crack in your psyche, a door ajar that reveals your disturbed ego; inside we see a tearful clown sitting on a three legged stool that suddenly breaks. You’re trapped inside a thicket of your own doubts and fears, struggling to escape like a wingless fly entangled in a spiders web.
I listen to you and there’s no trace of the man you once were. It’s like a cold case arriving at my doorstep. The disappearance of Teo Del Sol. There’s clues leading me to the corpse, but when I arrive the body has been desecrated. Scarred and beaten. It’s once lively spirit crushed and bitter. You used to be a happy-go-lucky luchador that “just wanted to put smiles on people’s faces”, a man who eyes still saw a world alive had the wonder of a child. Now you’re a deluded pyromaniac with the mind of an adolescent. That is not a step up, “Teddy”. It’s a fitting for a straitjacket. I can already hear what kind of nonsensical bunkum you’re going to let slip from those broken gums.
My crooked smile forms fangs, Rabid.
My bite will cure your disease.
Bring you peace.
Bring me glory.
Snuff out your flame.
Cure this Federation.
Of your infection.
Rinse.
Repeat.
Yawn.
“What is your problem, lunger? Do you have asthma? Are your lips parched with thirst? Can you not at least deliver your promo without the Shatner pause? Not only is it distracting, it’s embarrassing. You’re not a third grader struggling with a haiku assignment. This isn’t your high school English Literature class, Teo. You’re standing on the grand stage now. This is WCF. This is War. Don’t play the cracked actor holding the script upside down. Find your mark. Show me some courage! Announce to the back row though that snaggletooth convention center of yours. No need to concern yourself with breaking a leg though. I got that covered. A nice new excuse for you to vanish for another six months and pretend you’re just biding your time. As for the medicare? I’ll take care of it, I know your checks will bounce anyway. You’re nothing, if predictable.”
“Teo, your spirit animal is an unflushed toilet, and your patronus is a sad man crying. I’ve seen homeless people on park benches with more coherence than you. Also, I should send you a comma as a get well present. Look it over once you’ve peeled your sunburnt face off the mat and disappeared into assisted living for the next twelve months.”
The cheers of the world rise as one as the clip ends. The hour has almost arrived. Rabid is about to exit the backstage and stroll calmly into a barrage of waiting flash lights that burn like a thousand suns. Yet he waits, and turns back to face us. One last time.
“I was wondering Teo. Did you check the baseball bat yet? The one I sent you? The one you’ve been using all these weeks? I must thank you for playing your role perfectly by the way. You see Teo, your red shades cannot conceal your fear from me. Your rage cannot hide your misery. Your angst, cannot camouflage your pain. You’re just a broken marionette, still tied to its strings. I’d suggest you check the handle of that bat if you haven’t. I had it personalized for you weeks ago. It’s an inscription. I believe It says Yoku tatakau…”
"...It means, fight well”.
“Fight well, Teo. Fight well, Stephen. Fight, fight until I have no more need of you. Until the strings…”
CUT.
