Post by John Rabid on Oct 13, 2017 18:56:55 GMT -5
The Dumbwaiters
05/10/2017
Keio-Plaza Hotel
Nishi-Shinjuku, Tokyo
It was day five of the Rabid regime, eight days before The Ripper’s clash with Steve Orbit inside the Bank Stadium in Minneapolis, Minnesota. William and Anisley stood helplessly on a busy Tokyo street corner. Two huge, bulbous expressions were stuffed neatly into a pair of newly tailored three piece suits, scornfully observing a steel and glass impasse, a barrier separating the newly (and secretly) re-christened Very British Security from their latest employer; the WCF World Champion John Rabid. The Ripper meanwhile sat patiently inside a plush top floor penthouse dressed in his customary charcoal suit with a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignonl, his wife, Emily, and the World and Television titles by his side. Rabid was literally sitting on top of the world, a double champion waiting for his latest masterplan to finally show. But “Security” below had a problem.
A set of busy revolving doors was their nightmare, the Plaza’s entrance and exit spewed forth Japanese Business men and woman out onto the street like Jonah exhaled from the whale. Anisley tapped his feet to some Spotify babymetal, waiting with an impatient energy for the hotel bellhop to show, a bewildered young man who was destined to allow the twin five hundred-pounders access inside the skyscraper via a kitchen service entrance. From a mobile pressed against the Behemoth's ears, laugher with an English twang echoed and taunted. William knew with a heavy sigh, that this was going to be a long day.
Anisley: What’s he saying?
William: Rabid wants to know if he needs to hire a crane.
Anisley rolled his eyes.
Anisley: Cute.
Elevators were solitary excursions for the Very British Security. Five hundred pounds each of solid intimidation doesn’t allow much space for company. As they entered their respective one man dumbwaiters they kept in constant communication via their mobiles.
Anisley: 30th floor, right?
William: Yeah.
Anisley: This isn't an old building, is it?
William: No, you’re not going to die in your lift.
Anisley: Lift?
William: That’s English for elevator.
Anisley: Weird. What else they call it?
William: Dumbwaiters.
Anisley: What? You have food? You sumbitch-
William: No, elevators, they call them “Dumbwaiters.” I think they’re special though, designed just for food.
Anisley: This is turning into a very ironic trip.
The elevator doors opened fifteen minutes later as William and Ainsley gasped for oxygen, their suits soaked with sweat. The internet champion’s face resembled cooked crab as William stumbled out of the exit into the penthouse lobby with Ainsley, who was struggling to regain his own bearings closely behind him. A moment later a voice spoke. Calm. Reserved. And very english.
John Rabid: Welcome to the top of the world. Now, did I ever tell you two gentlemen about my first WCF tag partner? His name was Billy. A man who shared your unique dimensions and abilities. But unlike you two, he had no ambition. No purpose. Each day for you is a struggle, yes? And yet, each day you two persevere because the alternative is impossible to fathom. That’s why I hired you. I admire your collective dedication to success. To overcome the odds. Now, how about some champagne to celebrate your arrival. My dear, if you please?
Emily Rush was sculpted into an Alexander McQueen rendition of the simple black dress. Her curvatures perfectly aligned for the svelte design as her hips metronomically bedazzled the visitors as she approached. She handed William and Anisley a glass each.
John Rabid: Now, the idea is to sip--
Very British Security gulped the seven thousand dollar bottle of champagne as they loosened their ties. Two survivors escaping the desert.
Emily Rush: Well, that went down well. Perhaps they should switch to water until they rehydrate?
Rabid smirked.
John Rabid: Yes, perhaps.
The Tokyo skyline seemed invaded by kaiju as William and Anisley stood near a large, full length, spacious window that illuminated the penthouse office with blooming natural light. Rabid observed the concrete and steel vista below as he stepped forward and sipped from his own glass of bubbly, all the while contemplating his next move.
John Rabid: Special guest referees. Sometimes fate just falls into your lap.
Ainsley: No doubt. Right, William?
William seemed lost in the moment.
William: The city...it’s beautiful.
Rabid smiled as William’s eyes widened, attempting to gage his place in the universe.
John Rabid: Yes, it is beautiful, isn’t it? Soon I’m going to need your help to restore beauty to another city for me. Chicago to be exact.
Ainsley: You really do know how to tear something down, don’t you? So much for the almighty Everest.
John Rabid: Tearing down junta’s and usurping coup’s is my specialty. But I also know how to build. To reengineer and perfect. Look at the latest incarnation of Pantheon, #beachkrew was the backbone of that resurgence. The tag titles. The trios titles. Even a second world title came back home with us. Because, as a unit, we knew how to win. To succeed. Yet I never stop hearing “legends” backstage like Steve Orbit bragging about how “Their Pantheon” was superior. Little Steve, waxing lyrical with that pimp swagger of his, the attitude he cherry picked from a screening of Norbit back in his days inside an Oakland correctional facility. When in truth, his accomplishments with Pantheon, Cryogenix and Genesis pales in comparison on every conceivable level.to #beachkrew, we have held more titles and seized more power in half the time. Let’s not even get started on The Vapor Kings. They--
Anisley: Sir?
John Rabid: Yes?
Anisley: I honestly have zero idea who Steve Orbit is. I saw him after Corey Black’s match backstage briefly. He seemed cocky. Self assured. But nothing special really. But If you want us to drop a shark cage on him at XIII? We can rig that up. Sixty five thousand laughing at a screaming pimp suspended inside a cage might get us trending. Although, as far as I can remember, wasn’t Steve eliminated without a scalp of his own by Luke Force at WAR this year? So maybe he isn’t that high of a priority after all.
John Rabid: He’s high priority. But no shark cages. I want this match to play out as I envision it. I want to take all that bravado he has and shove it down his sex trafficking throat. Ever since I’ve known him, Orbit’s had this problem with me. He calls me pompous, keeps crying about how he’d love to “wipe that fuckin' smirk off my face”. For the longest time I didn’t get it, what was it about me that made Steve Orbit’s skin undulate in my presence? That drove him insane when he saw me? And then I figured it out.
Anisley: What was it?
John Rabid: When Steve Orbit sees #beachkrew, he sees what he could only dream about with The Vapor kings. Three members. Three world titles. Three wrestlers on an equal footing, dominating everything and everyone. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve hated Wade and Jared through gritted teeth more often than not, but I’ve also called them brothers too. Over twenty months I won every major title by their side. Even when the moment came to win the World title, my experiance with #beachkrew served me well. But that isn’t the nucleus of why someone like Orbit hates what I’ve accomplished.
Anisley: When you mentioned Orbit backstage, It rings a bell now. I remember he was talking about how “his” Pantheon was the better generation.
John Rabid: That’s part of it. The crux of the matter however is that I became a World Champion AFTER #beachkrew disbanded. #beachkrew didn’t ruin my career, it allowed me to flourish in a way Orbit’s never did. Becoming a Vapor King tore Orbit’s world title hopes apart. That’s the difference. Orbit gave up everything for the cause and walked away with nothing. No Club Violet. No Meridith. No Kamelia. Just a husk where a professional wrestler once stood. But for me, I used “the cause” up and moved on. It served me, not the other way around. Now Orbit has nothing to keep him company but loss, screaming about being the victim of abandonment, while abandoning everyone and everything close to him at every conceivable turn is his raison d'etre. Orbit walked away from the kings. He betrayed Pantheon. And yet somehow, through it all, managed to blame Corey Black for all his misfortunes because in Steve Orbit’s twisted little mind, Steve Orbit can’t be responsible for his own actions. Steve Orbit can’t be held accountable for his choices. Steve Orbit, the pimp who rules Oakland, yet remains forever unable to take charge of his own life. It’s pathetic. Orbit abandons his career when the going gets tough because he can’t stand the fact that he never had the star power to truly rise above the pack, to sustain a meaningful run, not in the same way a Fly did, or a Black. That’s why he tried to commit matricide at his brother’s behest, because he knows that deep down, every fabric of his being he shares with a bigger, more successful name. Even his own DNA is just an inferior copy of Jonny Fly. The man whose shadow he forever lives behind.
Anisley: But Jonny Fly is--
John Rabid: It’s 2017. Don’t question it, just move on.
William: Crippling Everest. Destroying The Brotherhood. Does a Steve Orbit spur you on? Is that why you have to tear their dreams apart?
John Rabid: No, I do it because of the collateral they leave behind. Lives shattered because of megalomaniacal schemes that go nowhere and flawed world building that scars communities. You take an Everest, or a Steve Orbit, and there’s no difference, they all use honest people like pawns. Laundering money from misery. But when they fall? They leave nothing but chaos in their wake. That’s why when the time comes and the eye closes, I have to wonder, who will look after the Chicago? That’s the dilemma, William. The homeless of Kevin Bishop’s “Happy Valley” had Dion Necurat and his foundation to turn to. But two point seven million windy city natives are somewhat of a larger problem. And they cannot be abandoned. Not again.
William: So you care, about the people? I didn’t think--
Rabid catches a glance from Anisley and adjusts his stance slightly.
John Rabid: Cities need people to survive, William. No point squeezing the life out of a dead ecosystem, now is there?
William: Right. Understood.
As Rabid adjusted his tie, he caught sight of Emily as she stood by the Penthouse doorway. She had a phone in her left hand. Her face was knotted up with concern as a lock of blonde hair fell on her cheek, while her right fingers gestured to her husband to usher their guests out into another room so privacy can be restored.
John Rabid: Anisley, William. If you’d please excuse us, there’s a buffet in your honor in the next room. Imported steak. Go crazy.
Emily marched forward as Security departed..
Emily Rush: John. It’s about your match at XIII. We’ve got a problem.
John Rabid: Problem? What Problem?
STEVE ORBIT: SEX TRAFFICKING AIN’T EASY
SPIN THE WHEEL
06/10/2017
Hotel Emion
Tokyo Bay, Tokyo, Japan.
Darkness encompassed the Rush family’s Tokyo apartment as moom beans from the bay played an anarchic symphony of light upon the living space’s ceiling. Rabid was perfectly still in his La-Z-Boy leather recliner. The Ripper’s fingers remaining interlocked with a quiet rage as he sat focused upon a 65 inch, 4k confession. He was dressed in a white Clockwork Orange tee and black slacks. Occasionally, Rabid gritted his teeth, as if gnarling his fangs together would erase the P.R. cyclone that was about to unfold across the world.
Rabid pressed “play” on the TV remote, he wore a set of Headphones now, large cans so he didn’t wake his son . This would be for the fifteenth time.
Harvey Weinstein: Roman, you sure these new bitches are Kosha? I got a “Hateful Eight” premiere in three days, and I don’t have the time, nor the inclination, to pay out for another vat of sulfuric acid. You’re going to have to clean up your own fiasco’s.from now on, understand? I’m a famous man. People know me in this hotel! Make sure they’re under when they arrive, know what I mean? I want them fully cooperative when I pleasure myself. Like fembots.
Vincent “Buddy” Roman: Harvey...Harvey! You need to stop worrying and embrace the struggle. You need to travel with the Evil Incarnate and I. Spend a few weekends with us. The horrors we’ve left abandoned on interstate roadsides. Incredible. Milk white necks, snapped and discarded. After a while you’ll inhale invincibility the way I do my dear boy. My son...my...my poor sweet Steve. He understood. But now he’s gone. Steven Damien Orbit-Roman was the love of my life. He was the heart and soul that once pounded inside a chest cavity where no life should inhabit. He was--
Harvey Weinstein: He’s still alive, Roman! Fucking hell, enough with this shit! He walked out on you, remember? I’ll call the Club Violet myself. Get the ‘mack to deal with this matter himself.
Vincent “Buddy” Roman: My son is DEAD! Why would you bring up poor Steven like this? There’s nothing inside that club but ghosts. His coco spirit sits restless and alone inside. Just thinking about his purple clad phantom. It...it...*sob*... *sob*...
CLICK!
Vincent “Buddy” Roman: Harvey? HARVEY!?
**Static**
Emily returned from the open plan kitchen area with a cup of Yorkshire tea. She sipped the hot beverage as she sat opposite her husband in her oversized Yankees jersey. Domestic bliss, of a sort.
John Rabid: What did your contacts at Interview say? How long we have?
Emily Rush: We could get lucky. The Times have amassed hours on Harvey alone. They probably don’t feel a need to burn out the story of the year just yet. We might get a week, maybe two.
John Rabid: Maybe two…
Rabid threw the headphones against the wall. They shattered on impact.
John Rabid: HOW COULD ORBIT BE SO FUCKING STUPID?!? What is he? Oblivion? All those promo’s with Havana Ginger singing his praises, his personal ho cheerleader beaming about how Steve has a back up plan for the back up plan. Where are these plans now? Did he honestly think dressing like a 70’s pimp in the 21st century was a smart move? No one calls it pimping anymore. It’s not a misdemeanor crime. It’s sex trafficking for fucks sake! What a complete nob. Leaving bodies in ditches across America, Is this how a Vapour King covers their tracks? It’d be comical if people weren't actually dead.
Emily Rush: What are you going to do?
John Rabid: Maybe, maybe I can incapacitate him. One swift abdicator kick to the side of the temple. If he suffers from a “Jayson Price” for a few months, we can use the coma to our advantage. Isolate the WCF from Orbit’s and Roman’s actions. Denounce the Vapor Kings and get the spin machine working overtime. Roman is UCI now. Perhaps there’s light at the end of the tunnel.
Emily sipped her tea. Then stopped and looked up with a lead weight finality.
Emily Rush: Or maybe you should just kill him.
Rabid raised an eyebrow. Was she serious?
John Rabid: Emily, you don’t mean that.
Emily Rush: Why not? Doesn’t Orbit deserve it? If it’s true what the Feds are saying, then Orbit sat in his Cadillac and did nothing. Danny McMorris murdered those woman, hundreds of them with Roman’s help, and Orbit couldn’t care less. He offered up the meat for the grinder. Steven Damien Orbit-Roman, the Oakland caddy that facilitated McMorris’s “wants” and “desires” That fed the monster and looked the other way, who swerved his pimp mobile and lit up another joint as a body rotted by the wayside. Orbit isn’t a man, John. You wouldn’t be killing a human being at XIII. He gave up on that right a long time ago. You could do it. You could do it, and get away with it.
John Rabid: No, it would be too clean. Too perfect. When the truth surfaces they’d be a through line straight to me. To us. And I can’t have that.
Emily Rush: But It’ll be justice! How many names are out there John that we’ll never know. How many daughters? How many mothers? You could fix things. You’ve done it before. You can make it work.
Rabid didn’t say anything for what seemed like eternity.
John Rabid: I’ll deal with it.
Emily leaned in on her husband and kissed his lips. He tasted tea and KIKO lipgloss. It reminded him of liquorice, but he couldn’t be sure.
“You have my permission. Finish him”
Rabid’s mind was racing now. Formulating.plans as Emily retired for the evening, God knows why she had a spring her step.
After a few minutes, Rabid stopped grinding his teeth. A venomous serenity fell upon the serpent as the blood in his reptilian veins turned into rivers of ice. The Ripper would waste no more time, he worked industriously to set up the Go-pro for body bagging annihilation. It was time to record a Vlog and kill this fool, Orbit. Once and for all.
John Rabid: So Orbit, where do I start? Final Destination? Your absolute capitulation to Logan again and again. Or how about how I blame you for Mexico? Because I can (and I will) So many directions to take. Which path first? How about we let the spinner decide?
Rabid has hold of Corey Black’s “Play XIII @ Home” tabletop game set. He opens up the packaging and removes “The Wheel of Fate”. Spinning a plastic arrow on a circular cardboard board, the tip of the arrow falls upon, “Shoot to Kill: What about that last in-ring performance huh?”
John Rabid: So yeah, what about that last performance, Orbit? I’ve been watching your WAR XVI performance on repeat now for the last few days, Each time I study it, I try to convince myself it’s worth my while. But as I sit inside my plush Tokyo apartment, with my wife Emily by my side on the couch, her legs crossed, cuddling me and whispering words of encouragement into my ear I believe that less. Why should I pay more attention to your performance in that ring than her? There’s nothing I need to unravel watching you. You’re not the great mystery of the Oakland Mack.
Rabid rubs his chin, thinking about the utter disappointment Orbit has become.
John Rabid: I was so sure before this Friday arrived that I had to focus and document every nuance and tick of your fighting style. That it all had to be classified, stamped and sectioned into my mind. But in the end, after watching you stumble around in that ring like a beached whale, I simply turned off the television and focused on more important matters. Picking up the right Halloween decorations from Macy’s when I arrive back at New York. Pushing new merch designs on Wrestling tees.com. Oh, and Johnny Chinlock this Sunday. You, the challenger for my WCF World Heavyweight title, have become a distant fourth on my “to do” list, because WAR opened my eyes to the truth. Steve Orbit is dead. He’s been dead for years. He’s just a corpse coasting on past glories. A grotesque half the roster has no recollection of. A Californian phantom, who still thinks sex trafficking is called “pimping”.
As that footage rolled and my disappointed increased, I couldn't help but feel sorrow. This was supposed to be a dream match. Now it’s a foregone conclusion. I had expected you to at least turn up on your arrival back in the WCF, to at least be a shadow of what you were. But even that vein hope ended up being a pipe dream. You’ve done yourself a terrible mischief, Mister Orbit. You’ve allowed your life to become ensnared in a trap of entropy. Your once illustrious eight year career (five of which spent within the WCF) is now a forgotten footnote in history, imprisoned within the thrall of permanent heat death. Time and again you’ve allowed others to back you into a corner without a clear exit. The white man, dressing you in extra’s clothes while they told you to go stand in the corner and wait your turn, until their rich, white champion was finished speaking. You’re a two time WCF world champion. A former Television Champion. A two-time Tag Champion. We both hold the illustrious honor of being triple crown winners. And yet, we’re poles apart, because only one of us knows what self respect actually means.
Look at me, Steve. I am a leader. I run my own legitimate company. I’ve been the leader of #beachkrew, a team that has dwarfed your over inflated accomplishments without breaking a sweat. I’ve run the WCF. While you? You are a criminal. A follower. A talented athlete who throws it all away at the click of Jonny Fly’s fingers. Or Buddy Roman’s. Or Corey Black’s now. When you betrayed Pantheon to join The Vapor Kings three years ago, what were you promised? Riches? Glory? And what did you become? An extra in the crowd scene, who slept for two whole years before waking up and realizing exactly what Vincent “Buddy” Roman had degraded you into. A poster boy for a Jim Crow state of mind. An Uncle Tom desperate to win over the affections of a fat, manipulative cult leader who demands that his Family to flock by his side. Roman is nothing more than a David Korresh meets Harvey Weinstein hybrid, and you couldn’t help yourself but to fall under that ludicrous, spellbinding gaze could you? Transforming yourself from pimp into bitch in his presence. "Yes masa Roman, I won't challenge for the world title masa Roman. it belongs to that good little jewish boy Beckman." Vincent Roman, The Shape, the slave owner that made you work the cotton fields so that “Natural” Ice Beckman stood front and center and gained all the accolades and won all the plaudits while you were relegated to the role of Zombie Sidekick. Steve Orbit, former two time WCF world heavyweight champion, reduced to facilitating hookers for a obese psychopath to strangle inside that cramped blue Honda accord, dumping their cold, raped carcasses on lonely highways for the worms to feast upon. What a hero you are, Steve. The pimp with the heart of gold.
And yet the irony is, is that all the while, it was your career that was being slowly consumed same as Roman feasting upon the brains of those young Mexican children. You and those kids share a lot, Steve. You’ve both been eaten up. Your talent and abilities feed to the foam lake monster, you became nothing but the negro backup for a drunk fool who saw you as “that purple clad sidekick who speaks jive”. Steve Orbit, an actual thoroughbred talent, trapped inside a white middle class stereotype. “Superfly” Steve. Cadillac. Cane. Hoe relics unearthed from the attitude era. Oh, you had it all, except you’re nothing but a black Oblivion. Bust out some moves for me Steve, lets see you perform the nae nae, you witless cunt.
Rabid spins the “XIII: Wheel of fate”, once again. The arrow spins, then stops, pointing to “Abject Pussy. No DeathMatch 4 U”
John Rabid: I see the WCF hierarchy have scrambled to save you from me. No deathmatch stipulation in our future it seems. Just a sanctioned match. Safe and simple. Except Orbit, nowhere is safe from me. No rules offer clemency from my wrath. I’m going to tear you apart. I don’t need chairs or tables to traumatise you. I have something far superior. Talent. I’ll pin you in the center of the ring and It won’t take a barbed wire baseball bat or a flaming branding iron to get the job done. No excuses. No get out jail clauses necessary. No, “but things would have gone different if this was a standard match”, because it is. There are a million ways to kill a man, Steve. Strip him of his pride, and what do you have left? The open wound of a past-his-prime shell that’s hollow and dead inside. I’m going to mine your life for every last ounce of agony you have left and paint it across that twenty by twenty canvass for the whole world to see, Steve. Your last XIII was two years ago, you fell eighteen feet then, you had your body sliced open with a machete, but nothing is going to prepare you for the beating you’re about to take. Nothing expect those last few days of your career. Final destination and beyond. And the road that lead us all to Mexico.
Rabid spins the XIII Wheel of Fate once again: “Here’s Logan! You’re a victim of treachery! Welcome back to the midcard!”
John Rabid: I can see with perfect clarity how your shoot on my career unravels, it goes something like this:
- He’s pompous! And has bad teeth like all the welsh!
- He’s done nothing, because he wasn’t in original Pantheon like I was!
- He’s a TV champ who’s a flat track bully!
- I pimp slapped his ass off a ladder during the first ever Final Destination and that cat piss cheek of his still stings!
John Rabid: I’m affording you the benefit of poetic licence Orbit, even though you probably don't deserve it. You get that one free pass from me because I envision myself having to do all the heavy lifting in this match, since I expect ZERO effort from you. The light has died from your eyes, Orbit. Logan stripped them clean of their fire. I was there, remember? Think back and ask yourself this, whose position would you rather be in? Allowing a cheap shot to knock you off the ladder, or standing there like a fool for the world to gawp over as the briefcase is raised tantalizingly from your grasp as your eyes quiver with shock. Then the case is lowered so as “the chosen one” can ascend to claim his pre-ordained prize with a swift kick administered to the fool in his way. That’s you, Orbit. The fool forever. When the Network plays back footage of that first ever “Final Destination” match at “F15teen”, they don’t show me falling off the ladder, they show you, desperately reaching out for that briefcase, a briefcase forever beyond your dainty little Trump like fingertips. That’s the image that leaves retinal burns upon the wrestling world's consciousness. It’s the pivotal juncture that worms its way into people’s minds. The moment when your career died. When Mexico began. Your failure to retrieve the case was the touchstone that sparked it all. Do I blame you for Mexico? Yes, in a way. Because if you were everything you always said you were, then Logan would never have been able to kick you off that fucking ladder. He never would have had gained the clout afterwards to battle you one on one and systematically unravel your career. Even with your win in that three stages of hell win at Explosion, a match that was supposed to end everything, it just made the situation worse. If you hadn’t fed him a dose of confidence with that Final Destination loss would “The family” have ever gained the power they did? That’s debatable. But what isn’t debatable is that Logan was, and is, always inside your head. The transsexual redhead playing Sarah Twilight. Twisting the knife, right into the side of the mack.
The week after Fifteen, we were all behind you in that locker room, Steve. Unified as one. Even me. I remember the crowds inside that FedEx Forum in Memphis, those thousands chanting as one, “YOU GOT ROBBED! YOU GOT ROBBED!” At Fifteen, yeah, it was a mugging. But the weeks that followed? You let Logan play you. Years of Vapor King erosion had left you too weak to stand up to his psychological onslaught, to corrupted to stand up for the federation. Maybe the writing was already on the wall before Final Destination, in the weeks leading up you lost to Howard Black and Occulo. You were almost a hair’s breadth away from being pinned by me before Atreyu fucking shat on the match for the no contest a week later. You were supposed to be the shining knight we all hoped would rise to the occasion, but in the end, you sank miserably beneath the waves with that Slam 350 world title condership loss to Grayson Pierce. Fake Gemini Battle ethered you that night. And Mexico from then on, became inevitable.
You failed me, Steve. Because you had already failed yourself. Ask yourself this, If you were such an intricate part of Pantheon, Steve, how come Corey asked everyone from “the golden era” back EXCEPT you? I’ll leave you to ponder that nugget, as I spin the wheel for the last time.
Rabid spins the wheel of fate.
The arrow slows
It stops.
On DEATH.
“Game Over”.
CUT.
05/10/2017
Keio-Plaza Hotel
Nishi-Shinjuku, Tokyo
It was day five of the Rabid regime, eight days before The Ripper’s clash with Steve Orbit inside the Bank Stadium in Minneapolis, Minnesota. William and Anisley stood helplessly on a busy Tokyo street corner. Two huge, bulbous expressions were stuffed neatly into a pair of newly tailored three piece suits, scornfully observing a steel and glass impasse, a barrier separating the newly (and secretly) re-christened Very British Security from their latest employer; the WCF World Champion John Rabid. The Ripper meanwhile sat patiently inside a plush top floor penthouse dressed in his customary charcoal suit with a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignonl, his wife, Emily, and the World and Television titles by his side. Rabid was literally sitting on top of the world, a double champion waiting for his latest masterplan to finally show. But “Security” below had a problem.
A set of busy revolving doors was their nightmare, the Plaza’s entrance and exit spewed forth Japanese Business men and woman out onto the street like Jonah exhaled from the whale. Anisley tapped his feet to some Spotify babymetal, waiting with an impatient energy for the hotel bellhop to show, a bewildered young man who was destined to allow the twin five hundred-pounders access inside the skyscraper via a kitchen service entrance. From a mobile pressed against the Behemoth's ears, laugher with an English twang echoed and taunted. William knew with a heavy sigh, that this was going to be a long day.
Anisley: What’s he saying?
William: Rabid wants to know if he needs to hire a crane.
Anisley rolled his eyes.
Anisley: Cute.
****
Elevators were solitary excursions for the Very British Security. Five hundred pounds each of solid intimidation doesn’t allow much space for company. As they entered their respective one man dumbwaiters they kept in constant communication via their mobiles.
Anisley: 30th floor, right?
William: Yeah.
Anisley: This isn't an old building, is it?
William: No, you’re not going to die in your lift.
Anisley: Lift?
William: That’s English for elevator.
Anisley: Weird. What else they call it?
William: Dumbwaiters.
Anisley: What? You have food? You sumbitch-
William: No, elevators, they call them “Dumbwaiters.” I think they’re special though, designed just for food.
Anisley: This is turning into a very ironic trip.
****
The elevator doors opened fifteen minutes later as William and Ainsley gasped for oxygen, their suits soaked with sweat. The internet champion’s face resembled cooked crab as William stumbled out of the exit into the penthouse lobby with Ainsley, who was struggling to regain his own bearings closely behind him. A moment later a voice spoke. Calm. Reserved. And very english.
John Rabid: Welcome to the top of the world. Now, did I ever tell you two gentlemen about my first WCF tag partner? His name was Billy. A man who shared your unique dimensions and abilities. But unlike you two, he had no ambition. No purpose. Each day for you is a struggle, yes? And yet, each day you two persevere because the alternative is impossible to fathom. That’s why I hired you. I admire your collective dedication to success. To overcome the odds. Now, how about some champagne to celebrate your arrival. My dear, if you please?
Emily Rush was sculpted into an Alexander McQueen rendition of the simple black dress. Her curvatures perfectly aligned for the svelte design as her hips metronomically bedazzled the visitors as she approached. She handed William and Anisley a glass each.
John Rabid: Now, the idea is to sip--
Very British Security gulped the seven thousand dollar bottle of champagne as they loosened their ties. Two survivors escaping the desert.
Emily Rush: Well, that went down well. Perhaps they should switch to water until they rehydrate?
Rabid smirked.
John Rabid: Yes, perhaps.
****
The Tokyo skyline seemed invaded by kaiju as William and Anisley stood near a large, full length, spacious window that illuminated the penthouse office with blooming natural light. Rabid observed the concrete and steel vista below as he stepped forward and sipped from his own glass of bubbly, all the while contemplating his next move.
John Rabid: Special guest referees. Sometimes fate just falls into your lap.
Ainsley: No doubt. Right, William?
William seemed lost in the moment.
William: The city...it’s beautiful.
Rabid smiled as William’s eyes widened, attempting to gage his place in the universe.
John Rabid: Yes, it is beautiful, isn’t it? Soon I’m going to need your help to restore beauty to another city for me. Chicago to be exact.
Ainsley: You really do know how to tear something down, don’t you? So much for the almighty Everest.
John Rabid: Tearing down junta’s and usurping coup’s is my specialty. But I also know how to build. To reengineer and perfect. Look at the latest incarnation of Pantheon, #beachkrew was the backbone of that resurgence. The tag titles. The trios titles. Even a second world title came back home with us. Because, as a unit, we knew how to win. To succeed. Yet I never stop hearing “legends” backstage like Steve Orbit bragging about how “Their Pantheon” was superior. Little Steve, waxing lyrical with that pimp swagger of his, the attitude he cherry picked from a screening of Norbit back in his days inside an Oakland correctional facility. When in truth, his accomplishments with Pantheon, Cryogenix and Genesis pales in comparison on every conceivable level.to #beachkrew, we have held more titles and seized more power in half the time. Let’s not even get started on The Vapor Kings. They--
Anisley: Sir?
John Rabid: Yes?
Anisley: I honestly have zero idea who Steve Orbit is. I saw him after Corey Black’s match backstage briefly. He seemed cocky. Self assured. But nothing special really. But If you want us to drop a shark cage on him at XIII? We can rig that up. Sixty five thousand laughing at a screaming pimp suspended inside a cage might get us trending. Although, as far as I can remember, wasn’t Steve eliminated without a scalp of his own by Luke Force at WAR this year? So maybe he isn’t that high of a priority after all.
John Rabid: He’s high priority. But no shark cages. I want this match to play out as I envision it. I want to take all that bravado he has and shove it down his sex trafficking throat. Ever since I’ve known him, Orbit’s had this problem with me. He calls me pompous, keeps crying about how he’d love to “wipe that fuckin' smirk off my face”. For the longest time I didn’t get it, what was it about me that made Steve Orbit’s skin undulate in my presence? That drove him insane when he saw me? And then I figured it out.
Anisley: What was it?
John Rabid: When Steve Orbit sees #beachkrew, he sees what he could only dream about with The Vapor kings. Three members. Three world titles. Three wrestlers on an equal footing, dominating everything and everyone. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve hated Wade and Jared through gritted teeth more often than not, but I’ve also called them brothers too. Over twenty months I won every major title by their side. Even when the moment came to win the World title, my experiance with #beachkrew served me well. But that isn’t the nucleus of why someone like Orbit hates what I’ve accomplished.
Anisley: When you mentioned Orbit backstage, It rings a bell now. I remember he was talking about how “his” Pantheon was the better generation.
John Rabid: That’s part of it. The crux of the matter however is that I became a World Champion AFTER #beachkrew disbanded. #beachkrew didn’t ruin my career, it allowed me to flourish in a way Orbit’s never did. Becoming a Vapor King tore Orbit’s world title hopes apart. That’s the difference. Orbit gave up everything for the cause and walked away with nothing. No Club Violet. No Meridith. No Kamelia. Just a husk where a professional wrestler once stood. But for me, I used “the cause” up and moved on. It served me, not the other way around. Now Orbit has nothing to keep him company but loss, screaming about being the victim of abandonment, while abandoning everyone and everything close to him at every conceivable turn is his raison d'etre. Orbit walked away from the kings. He betrayed Pantheon. And yet somehow, through it all, managed to blame Corey Black for all his misfortunes because in Steve Orbit’s twisted little mind, Steve Orbit can’t be responsible for his own actions. Steve Orbit can’t be held accountable for his choices. Steve Orbit, the pimp who rules Oakland, yet remains forever unable to take charge of his own life. It’s pathetic. Orbit abandons his career when the going gets tough because he can’t stand the fact that he never had the star power to truly rise above the pack, to sustain a meaningful run, not in the same way a Fly did, or a Black. That’s why he tried to commit matricide at his brother’s behest, because he knows that deep down, every fabric of his being he shares with a bigger, more successful name. Even his own DNA is just an inferior copy of Jonny Fly. The man whose shadow he forever lives behind.
Anisley: But Jonny Fly is--
John Rabid: It’s 2017. Don’t question it, just move on.
William: Crippling Everest. Destroying The Brotherhood. Does a Steve Orbit spur you on? Is that why you have to tear their dreams apart?
John Rabid: No, I do it because of the collateral they leave behind. Lives shattered because of megalomaniacal schemes that go nowhere and flawed world building that scars communities. You take an Everest, or a Steve Orbit, and there’s no difference, they all use honest people like pawns. Laundering money from misery. But when they fall? They leave nothing but chaos in their wake. That’s why when the time comes and the eye closes, I have to wonder, who will look after the Chicago? That’s the dilemma, William. The homeless of Kevin Bishop’s “Happy Valley” had Dion Necurat and his foundation to turn to. But two point seven million windy city natives are somewhat of a larger problem. And they cannot be abandoned. Not again.
William: So you care, about the people? I didn’t think--
Rabid catches a glance from Anisley and adjusts his stance slightly.
John Rabid: Cities need people to survive, William. No point squeezing the life out of a dead ecosystem, now is there?
William: Right. Understood.
As Rabid adjusted his tie, he caught sight of Emily as she stood by the Penthouse doorway. She had a phone in her left hand. Her face was knotted up with concern as a lock of blonde hair fell on her cheek, while her right fingers gestured to her husband to usher their guests out into another room so privacy can be restored.
John Rabid: Anisley, William. If you’d please excuse us, there’s a buffet in your honor in the next room. Imported steak. Go crazy.
Emily marched forward as Security departed..
Emily Rush: John. It’s about your match at XIII. We’ve got a problem.
John Rabid: Problem? What Problem?
****
STEVE ORBIT: SEX TRAFFICKING AIN’T EASY
06/10/2017
Facebook Messaging:
Seth_Hates_Everything: You there? Wake up.
Corey_The_PizzaGod: Seth! FFS! It’s five am! Why is this phone on? FUCK!
Seth_Hates_Everything: Don’t make this XIII World title bout a Deathmatch. Change the stipulation.
Corey_The_PizzaGod: Can’t this wait until the morning? Call me then.
Seth_Hates_Everything: This is the morning. Change it.
Corey_The_PizzaGod: Don’t you have some Trump tweets to like? Stop bothering me. Taylor’s waking up, I want to get a quickie in before sending Price a dick pic.
Seth_Hates_Everything: Oh, how you “amuse” me. Pay attention, Corey! Orbit is in danger. Now normally, I couldn't care less, but Steve was a bankable commodity for me once. And I’m sentimental during sunrise.
Corey_The_PizzaGod: Don’t worry about, Orbit. The ‘Mack can take care of himself. Besides, they both want this.
Seth_Hates_Everything: This match is destined to go south. I spoke with Emily. Look, don’t you care?
Corey_The_PizzaGod: What do you mean, “Spoke with Emily”? You mean Emily Rush? About what?
Seth_Hates_Everything: The NY Times has a new set of recordings. Weinstein stuff linking Harvey back to Roman and Steve. The FBI are planning on digging up sections of the I-80 looking for the remains of ZMAC’s “recreational flirtations” with hookers. Woman they’re determined to link back to Orbit. The feds are building a case. Rabid is old school, if he thinks Orbit is going to threaten the business? He’ll do something about it.
Corey_The_PizzaGod: He wouldn’t. Rabid wouldn’t. Besides, it’s Orbit.
Seth_Hates_Everything: Wake up, idiot. Go watch Orbit’s performance in the WAR match. He’s in no shape to survive Rabid. Save your friend, and get him out the fucking country. Oh, and tell Orbit. “Sun’s up. He’s dead to me”.
Facebook Messaging:
Seth_Hates_Everything: You there? Wake up.
Corey_The_PizzaGod: Seth! FFS! It’s five am! Why is this phone on? FUCK!
Seth_Hates_Everything: Don’t make this XIII World title bout a Deathmatch. Change the stipulation.
Corey_The_PizzaGod: Can’t this wait until the morning? Call me then.
Seth_Hates_Everything: This is the morning. Change it.
Corey_The_PizzaGod: Don’t you have some Trump tweets to like? Stop bothering me. Taylor’s waking up, I want to get a quickie in before sending Price a dick pic.
Seth_Hates_Everything: Oh, how you “amuse” me. Pay attention, Corey! Orbit is in danger. Now normally, I couldn't care less, but Steve was a bankable commodity for me once. And I’m sentimental during sunrise.
Corey_The_PizzaGod: Don’t worry about, Orbit. The ‘Mack can take care of himself. Besides, they both want this.
Seth_Hates_Everything: This match is destined to go south. I spoke with Emily. Look, don’t you care?
Corey_The_PizzaGod: What do you mean, “Spoke with Emily”? You mean Emily Rush? About what?
Seth_Hates_Everything: The NY Times has a new set of recordings. Weinstein stuff linking Harvey back to Roman and Steve. The FBI are planning on digging up sections of the I-80 looking for the remains of ZMAC’s “recreational flirtations” with hookers. Woman they’re determined to link back to Orbit. The feds are building a case. Rabid is old school, if he thinks Orbit is going to threaten the business? He’ll do something about it.
Corey_The_PizzaGod: He wouldn’t. Rabid wouldn’t. Besides, it’s Orbit.
Seth_Hates_Everything: Wake up, idiot. Go watch Orbit’s performance in the WAR match. He’s in no shape to survive Rabid. Save your friend, and get him out the fucking country. Oh, and tell Orbit. “Sun’s up. He’s dead to me”.
WCF.com
XIII ANNOUNCEMENT: DEATHMATCH STIPULATION REMOVED “AS REQUESTED” BY SETH LERCH. 06/10/2017
Hotel Emion
Tokyo Bay, Tokyo, Japan.
Darkness encompassed the Rush family’s Tokyo apartment as moom beans from the bay played an anarchic symphony of light upon the living space’s ceiling. Rabid was perfectly still in his La-Z-Boy leather recliner. The Ripper’s fingers remaining interlocked with a quiet rage as he sat focused upon a 65 inch, 4k confession. He was dressed in a white Clockwork Orange tee and black slacks. Occasionally, Rabid gritted his teeth, as if gnarling his fangs together would erase the P.R. cyclone that was about to unfold across the world.
Rabid pressed “play” on the TV remote, he wore a set of Headphones now, large cans so he didn’t wake his son . This would be for the fifteenth time.
Harvey Weinstein: Roman, you sure these new bitches are Kosha? I got a “Hateful Eight” premiere in three days, and I don’t have the time, nor the inclination, to pay out for another vat of sulfuric acid. You’re going to have to clean up your own fiasco’s.from now on, understand? I’m a famous man. People know me in this hotel! Make sure they’re under when they arrive, know what I mean? I want them fully cooperative when I pleasure myself. Like fembots.
Vincent “Buddy” Roman: Harvey...Harvey! You need to stop worrying and embrace the struggle. You need to travel with the Evil Incarnate and I. Spend a few weekends with us. The horrors we’ve left abandoned on interstate roadsides. Incredible. Milk white necks, snapped and discarded. After a while you’ll inhale invincibility the way I do my dear boy. My son...my...my poor sweet Steve. He understood. But now he’s gone. Steven Damien Orbit-Roman was the love of my life. He was the heart and soul that once pounded inside a chest cavity where no life should inhabit. He was--
Harvey Weinstein: He’s still alive, Roman! Fucking hell, enough with this shit! He walked out on you, remember? I’ll call the Club Violet myself. Get the ‘mack to deal with this matter himself.
Vincent “Buddy” Roman: My son is DEAD! Why would you bring up poor Steven like this? There’s nothing inside that club but ghosts. His coco spirit sits restless and alone inside. Just thinking about his purple clad phantom. It...it...*sob*... *sob*...
CLICK!
Vincent “Buddy” Roman: Harvey? HARVEY!?
**Static**
Emily returned from the open plan kitchen area with a cup of Yorkshire tea. She sipped the hot beverage as she sat opposite her husband in her oversized Yankees jersey. Domestic bliss, of a sort.
John Rabid: What did your contacts at Interview say? How long we have?
Emily Rush: We could get lucky. The Times have amassed hours on Harvey alone. They probably don’t feel a need to burn out the story of the year just yet. We might get a week, maybe two.
John Rabid: Maybe two…
Rabid threw the headphones against the wall. They shattered on impact.
John Rabid: HOW COULD ORBIT BE SO FUCKING STUPID?!? What is he? Oblivion? All those promo’s with Havana Ginger singing his praises, his personal ho cheerleader beaming about how Steve has a back up plan for the back up plan. Where are these plans now? Did he honestly think dressing like a 70’s pimp in the 21st century was a smart move? No one calls it pimping anymore. It’s not a misdemeanor crime. It’s sex trafficking for fucks sake! What a complete nob. Leaving bodies in ditches across America, Is this how a Vapour King covers their tracks? It’d be comical if people weren't actually dead.
Emily Rush: What are you going to do?
John Rabid: Maybe, maybe I can incapacitate him. One swift abdicator kick to the side of the temple. If he suffers from a “Jayson Price” for a few months, we can use the coma to our advantage. Isolate the WCF from Orbit’s and Roman’s actions. Denounce the Vapor Kings and get the spin machine working overtime. Roman is UCI now. Perhaps there’s light at the end of the tunnel.
Emily sipped her tea. Then stopped and looked up with a lead weight finality.
Emily Rush: Or maybe you should just kill him.
Rabid raised an eyebrow. Was she serious?
John Rabid: Emily, you don’t mean that.
Emily Rush: Why not? Doesn’t Orbit deserve it? If it’s true what the Feds are saying, then Orbit sat in his Cadillac and did nothing. Danny McMorris murdered those woman, hundreds of them with Roman’s help, and Orbit couldn’t care less. He offered up the meat for the grinder. Steven Damien Orbit-Roman, the Oakland caddy that facilitated McMorris’s “wants” and “desires” That fed the monster and looked the other way, who swerved his pimp mobile and lit up another joint as a body rotted by the wayside. Orbit isn’t a man, John. You wouldn’t be killing a human being at XIII. He gave up on that right a long time ago. You could do it. You could do it, and get away with it.
John Rabid: No, it would be too clean. Too perfect. When the truth surfaces they’d be a through line straight to me. To us. And I can’t have that.
Emily Rush: But It’ll be justice! How many names are out there John that we’ll never know. How many daughters? How many mothers? You could fix things. You’ve done it before. You can make it work.
Rabid didn’t say anything for what seemed like eternity.
John Rabid: I’ll deal with it.
Emily leaned in on her husband and kissed his lips. He tasted tea and KIKO lipgloss. It reminded him of liquorice, but he couldn’t be sure.
“You have my permission. Finish him”
Rabid’s mind was racing now. Formulating.plans as Emily retired for the evening, God knows why she had a spring her step.
After a few minutes, Rabid stopped grinding his teeth. A venomous serenity fell upon the serpent as the blood in his reptilian veins turned into rivers of ice. The Ripper would waste no more time, he worked industriously to set up the Go-pro for body bagging annihilation. It was time to record a Vlog and kill this fool, Orbit. Once and for all.
Knife The Mack
♪ Now on the canvass, Friday night yeah
Lies a body, just oozin' life,
And someone's remaining, World Champion baby!
Could that someone, be knifing the mack? ♫
Rabid has hold of Corey Black’s “Play XIII @ Home” tabletop game set. He opens up the packaging and removes “The Wheel of Fate”. Spinning a plastic arrow on a circular cardboard board, the tip of the arrow falls upon, “Shoot to Kill: What about that last in-ring performance huh?”
John Rabid: So yeah, what about that last performance, Orbit? I’ve been watching your WAR XVI performance on repeat now for the last few days, Each time I study it, I try to convince myself it’s worth my while. But as I sit inside my plush Tokyo apartment, with my wife Emily by my side on the couch, her legs crossed, cuddling me and whispering words of encouragement into my ear I believe that less. Why should I pay more attention to your performance in that ring than her? There’s nothing I need to unravel watching you. You’re not the great mystery of the Oakland Mack.
Rabid rubs his chin, thinking about the utter disappointment Orbit has become.
John Rabid: I was so sure before this Friday arrived that I had to focus and document every nuance and tick of your fighting style. That it all had to be classified, stamped and sectioned into my mind. But in the end, after watching you stumble around in that ring like a beached whale, I simply turned off the television and focused on more important matters. Picking up the right Halloween decorations from Macy’s when I arrive back at New York. Pushing new merch designs on Wrestling tees.com. Oh, and Johnny Chinlock this Sunday. You, the challenger for my WCF World Heavyweight title, have become a distant fourth on my “to do” list, because WAR opened my eyes to the truth. Steve Orbit is dead. He’s been dead for years. He’s just a corpse coasting on past glories. A grotesque half the roster has no recollection of. A Californian phantom, who still thinks sex trafficking is called “pimping”.
As that footage rolled and my disappointed increased, I couldn't help but feel sorrow. This was supposed to be a dream match. Now it’s a foregone conclusion. I had expected you to at least turn up on your arrival back in the WCF, to at least be a shadow of what you were. But even that vein hope ended up being a pipe dream. You’ve done yourself a terrible mischief, Mister Orbit. You’ve allowed your life to become ensnared in a trap of entropy. Your once illustrious eight year career (five of which spent within the WCF) is now a forgotten footnote in history, imprisoned within the thrall of permanent heat death. Time and again you’ve allowed others to back you into a corner without a clear exit. The white man, dressing you in extra’s clothes while they told you to go stand in the corner and wait your turn, until their rich, white champion was finished speaking. You’re a two time WCF world champion. A former Television Champion. A two-time Tag Champion. We both hold the illustrious honor of being triple crown winners. And yet, we’re poles apart, because only one of us knows what self respect actually means.
Look at me, Steve. I am a leader. I run my own legitimate company. I’ve been the leader of #beachkrew, a team that has dwarfed your over inflated accomplishments without breaking a sweat. I’ve run the WCF. While you? You are a criminal. A follower. A talented athlete who throws it all away at the click of Jonny Fly’s fingers. Or Buddy Roman’s. Or Corey Black’s now. When you betrayed Pantheon to join The Vapor Kings three years ago, what were you promised? Riches? Glory? And what did you become? An extra in the crowd scene, who slept for two whole years before waking up and realizing exactly what Vincent “Buddy” Roman had degraded you into. A poster boy for a Jim Crow state of mind. An Uncle Tom desperate to win over the affections of a fat, manipulative cult leader who demands that his Family to flock by his side. Roman is nothing more than a David Korresh meets Harvey Weinstein hybrid, and you couldn’t help yourself but to fall under that ludicrous, spellbinding gaze could you? Transforming yourself from pimp into bitch in his presence. "Yes masa Roman, I won't challenge for the world title masa Roman. it belongs to that good little jewish boy Beckman." Vincent Roman, The Shape, the slave owner that made you work the cotton fields so that “Natural” Ice Beckman stood front and center and gained all the accolades and won all the plaudits while you were relegated to the role of Zombie Sidekick. Steve Orbit, former two time WCF world heavyweight champion, reduced to facilitating hookers for a obese psychopath to strangle inside that cramped blue Honda accord, dumping their cold, raped carcasses on lonely highways for the worms to feast upon. What a hero you are, Steve. The pimp with the heart of gold.
And yet the irony is, is that all the while, it was your career that was being slowly consumed same as Roman feasting upon the brains of those young Mexican children. You and those kids share a lot, Steve. You’ve both been eaten up. Your talent and abilities feed to the foam lake monster, you became nothing but the negro backup for a drunk fool who saw you as “that purple clad sidekick who speaks jive”. Steve Orbit, an actual thoroughbred talent, trapped inside a white middle class stereotype. “Superfly” Steve. Cadillac. Cane. Hoe relics unearthed from the attitude era. Oh, you had it all, except you’re nothing but a black Oblivion. Bust out some moves for me Steve, lets see you perform the nae nae, you witless cunt.
Rabid spins the “XIII: Wheel of fate”, once again. The arrow spins, then stops, pointing to “Abject Pussy. No DeathMatch 4 U”
John Rabid: I see the WCF hierarchy have scrambled to save you from me. No deathmatch stipulation in our future it seems. Just a sanctioned match. Safe and simple. Except Orbit, nowhere is safe from me. No rules offer clemency from my wrath. I’m going to tear you apart. I don’t need chairs or tables to traumatise you. I have something far superior. Talent. I’ll pin you in the center of the ring and It won’t take a barbed wire baseball bat or a flaming branding iron to get the job done. No excuses. No get out jail clauses necessary. No, “but things would have gone different if this was a standard match”, because it is. There are a million ways to kill a man, Steve. Strip him of his pride, and what do you have left? The open wound of a past-his-prime shell that’s hollow and dead inside. I’m going to mine your life for every last ounce of agony you have left and paint it across that twenty by twenty canvass for the whole world to see, Steve. Your last XIII was two years ago, you fell eighteen feet then, you had your body sliced open with a machete, but nothing is going to prepare you for the beating you’re about to take. Nothing expect those last few days of your career. Final destination and beyond. And the road that lead us all to Mexico.
Rabid spins the XIII Wheel of Fate once again: “Here’s Logan! You’re a victim of treachery! Welcome back to the midcard!”
John Rabid: I can see with perfect clarity how your shoot on my career unravels, it goes something like this:
- He’s pompous! And has bad teeth like all the welsh!
- He’s done nothing, because he wasn’t in original Pantheon like I was!
- He’s a TV champ who’s a flat track bully!
- I pimp slapped his ass off a ladder during the first ever Final Destination and that cat piss cheek of his still stings!
John Rabid: I’m affording you the benefit of poetic licence Orbit, even though you probably don't deserve it. You get that one free pass from me because I envision myself having to do all the heavy lifting in this match, since I expect ZERO effort from you. The light has died from your eyes, Orbit. Logan stripped them clean of their fire. I was there, remember? Think back and ask yourself this, whose position would you rather be in? Allowing a cheap shot to knock you off the ladder, or standing there like a fool for the world to gawp over as the briefcase is raised tantalizingly from your grasp as your eyes quiver with shock. Then the case is lowered so as “the chosen one” can ascend to claim his pre-ordained prize with a swift kick administered to the fool in his way. That’s you, Orbit. The fool forever. When the Network plays back footage of that first ever “Final Destination” match at “F15teen”, they don’t show me falling off the ladder, they show you, desperately reaching out for that briefcase, a briefcase forever beyond your dainty little Trump like fingertips. That’s the image that leaves retinal burns upon the wrestling world's consciousness. It’s the pivotal juncture that worms its way into people’s minds. The moment when your career died. When Mexico began. Your failure to retrieve the case was the touchstone that sparked it all. Do I blame you for Mexico? Yes, in a way. Because if you were everything you always said you were, then Logan would never have been able to kick you off that fucking ladder. He never would have had gained the clout afterwards to battle you one on one and systematically unravel your career. Even with your win in that three stages of hell win at Explosion, a match that was supposed to end everything, it just made the situation worse. If you hadn’t fed him a dose of confidence with that Final Destination loss would “The family” have ever gained the power they did? That’s debatable. But what isn’t debatable is that Logan was, and is, always inside your head. The transsexual redhead playing Sarah Twilight. Twisting the knife, right into the side of the mack.
The week after Fifteen, we were all behind you in that locker room, Steve. Unified as one. Even me. I remember the crowds inside that FedEx Forum in Memphis, those thousands chanting as one, “YOU GOT ROBBED! YOU GOT ROBBED!” At Fifteen, yeah, it was a mugging. But the weeks that followed? You let Logan play you. Years of Vapor King erosion had left you too weak to stand up to his psychological onslaught, to corrupted to stand up for the federation. Maybe the writing was already on the wall before Final Destination, in the weeks leading up you lost to Howard Black and Occulo. You were almost a hair’s breadth away from being pinned by me before Atreyu fucking shat on the match for the no contest a week later. You were supposed to be the shining knight we all hoped would rise to the occasion, but in the end, you sank miserably beneath the waves with that Slam 350 world title condership loss to Grayson Pierce. Fake Gemini Battle ethered you that night. And Mexico from then on, became inevitable.
You failed me, Steve. Because you had already failed yourself. Ask yourself this, If you were such an intricate part of Pantheon, Steve, how come Corey asked everyone from “the golden era” back EXCEPT you? I’ll leave you to ponder that nugget, as I spin the wheel for the last time.
Rabid spins the wheel of fate.
The arrow slows
It stops.
On DEATH.
“Game Over”.
CUT.
