Ｊｏｅｙ Ｆｌａｓｈ ｉｓ ａ ｒｅｔａｒｄｅｄ ｆｕｃｋ ｅｒｒｏｒ． い まど 園゚ド尉 あ
Jul 11, 2018 20:46:49 GMT -5
Joey Flash, Bonnie Blue, and 1 more like this
Post by John Rabid on Jul 11, 2018 20:46:49 GMT -5
Ｉｎ Ｔｈｅ Ｓｈａｄｏｗ Ｏｆ Ｎｏ Ｔｏｗｅｒｓ ニ宴煙ーこ若
Dedicated to the memory of Grime. RIP
A week ago an AN-158 commercial aircraft bobbed and weaved through Manhattan cloud cover like a featherweight’s first sparring session. The jarring motion inside woke a percentage of passengers as the CUBEANA flight began its turbulent approach towards an early morning LaGuardia. The front half of the plane was comprised almost entirely of Havana on the Hudson’s Cubanoamericanos population, most of them contemplating the worrying possibility that simply being born in America isn’t enough these days to avoid being locked up with a tin foil blanket for company.
It had been six months since the departure of a now cream suited John Rabid from the WCF and America. On returning, the world had seemingly spun off its axis, hurtling in all directions at once; a landscape that seemed both dangerous and unhinged to a returning Rush family, sitting peacefully in first class. Emily Rush cradled her husband’s sleepy head towards her shoulder as a copy of a dog eared Frank Sinatra biography slipped from the serpent’s grasp, finding purchase on his plush leather bucket seat, the book’s aging pages dog eared and yellowing. A queasy jolt forward syncopated into the families mobile phones silently buzzing into life, an influx of acid tinged social media greeted them with snarling glee.
Emily checked Rabid’s twitter account; it wasn’t anything she didn’t expect.
A nine year old Dorian Rush leaned forward, before Emily could swipe the phone’s screen and close the app, her son’s keen eyes had already locked onto the tweets and digested them. He was young and still had that buffer all children have. That sense of distance that gifts them with an innocent sense of pragmatism.
Dorian Rush: A lot of people don’t like dad, do they?
Emily shrugged.
Emily Rush: No, they don’t.
Dorian Rush: People are mean.
Emily Rush: Yes, Dory. Most of the time, they are.
Dorian Rush: Why? I don’t get it. Half of these people don’t even know dad.
Emily needed a distraction, so she cracked a thin smile and tickled underneath her son’s chin. Dorian giggled involuntary, it was the kind of astute misdirection a mother can conjure.
Emily Rush: When I have the answer to that kiddo, I’ll let you know. Now sit back down and buckle yourself in. We’ll be landing soon.
Rabid stirred. His hand casually ran a set of fingertips across the fringe of his wife’s blonde bobbed hair. Their eyes met.
John Rabid: So, have the sheep begun to bleat?
Dorian Rush: They all think you ran away because you “lost to a tranny”.
Rabid laughed while rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his vision focusing as he digested the messages.
John Rabid: Hypocrites. Most of these twonks lost to Warwick during WAR! Honestly, this shite reads like a Katherine Phoenix reddit page, It’s like catching visual gonorrhea.
Dorian Rush: Dad, can that actually happen?
Emily Rush: Nice one, Jason. Any other weird ideas you want to plant into our son’s innocent mind today?
John rolled his eyes.
John Rabid: Just settle down, son. And stop listening in on your dad’s conversations.
Dorian Rush: Sorry.
Rabid straightend up and bucked himself in as Emily cupped her hand and leaned in to continue talking.
Emily Rush: This might not be the time but I have to ask. Why do you want this fight with Flash? We can attend the exhibition. Play it cool with the authorities. Get back to Havana and relax. There’s no reason for you to fight a broken relic. Flash is just an uncouth thug with a mouth.
John Rabid: That’s exactly why I want to fight him. I want him to stand opposite me and realise that it’s over. I want Malignaggi to know that I see Flash for what he really is, a suck up prick whose career is about to end after four years of licking a chorus line of boots. Joey’s a man with nowhere else to go. Just a clown whose about to blink first. And I want to be there when it happens.
Emily Rush: For someone who used to play it so cool on twitter he’s a triggered little incel today. That’s for sure.
John Rabid: Just imagine his life, Emily. Imagine every day arriving at a gym with people sparring around you, looking at you and thinking the same thing. Imagine being in the front row of a big time WBO heavyweight bout, with the commentators zeroing in on you and the first words out of their mouths are “Failed boxer, turned professional wrestler…” I lost one match, one title...to a man who won WAR. To a man who defeated the best the roster had to offer week after week. But with Joey Flash, it’s different. Joey had an entire career taken away from him before he even arrived at the WCF. That’s why the scales can never be even between us. No matter what Flash does July 13th at the Mythic, Malignaggi can never crawl that back. It’s gone. It’s embers. That’s why I can sit here and smile. Because on July 13th, I’ll face a man who can’t outrun himself. Just like Sidney J Warwick couldn’t outrun what he had become, nether will Joey. Two peas in a pod I guess. Now, how ironic is that?
Emily exhaled, she found it vaguely embarrishing when her husband would slip into promo mode, out of the corner of her eye she noticed the passengers surreptitiously turning their gaze towards them. Time to whisper a new subject and hope the air marshal isn’t listening.
Emily Rush: You know, they’ll be waiting for you….the police.
John Rabid: They’ll take their time. They won’t be at the airport, no need to cause a fuss. It’ll be the exhibition like we planned, that's when they’ll move in.
Emily Rush: Remember--
John Rabid: Be polite and tell the truth. I know.
Emily Rush: Good, but don’t flaunt matters the way you usually do. The world has changed.
John Rabid: I know. That’s why I’m an all-new, discrete Johnny Rabid. No showboating. No grandstanding.
Emily shook her head.
Emily Rush: You’re a very poor liar.
John Rabid: Only with you. I can’t help myself I guess.
Rabid leaned in and kissed his wife on the lips. Their embrace didn’t last long though, the Plane’s descent had accelerated, pulling them apart.
John Rabid: Oh well, luv...here we go. Brace for impact.
Ｔｈｅ Ｐａｒｉａｈ Ｄｉａｒｉｅｓ 遺火ヒ
Ｄｅａｔｈ ｏｆ ａ ｓｉａｍｅｓｅ ｄｒｅａｍ 浦右ンウク
‘The TriBeCa art factory’ was a cuboid space of bleached white minimalism. Here, among the seemingly infinite, John Rabid sat on a white bench, his suit an off cream color but near enough camouflage. Only the walls gave the space a sense of volume and purpose. Each of the four contained a photographic phalanx of Emily’s Havana adventure, her latest foray into the art world was to try her hand at becoming the next “Annie" Leibovitz. As first exhibitions went, it wasn’t a total disaster.
Captured in monochrome moments of semi decent composition, Cuban father’s dressed in “Guayabera’ shirts worked on classic cars while their bare footed sons stood by and watched intently. Up above, a hot Havana sun baked their crumbling town. Rabid tapped his smoking pipe against the base of the bench and contemplated the day ahead; he imagined the sun emanating from the canvass, reaching him with a burning touch. A Long time ago that would have scared him, but not today.
“That stupid pipe doesn’t make you look cool.”
“I know, luv. It's all about the man smoking it though, right?”
Heels clacked against the floor paneling. Emily arrived; an ebony pants suit to match her business like approach, she tilted her head forward, her green eyes meeting Rabid’s baby blue’s while standing over her husband, obviously eager for approval.
Emily Rush: So, what do you think?
Rabid chewed on the smoking pipe and folded his arms in contemplation.
John Rabid: It’s a solid start, is everything set?
Emily Rush: The authorities will be here soon. We should have a few moments. Jason?
John Rabid: Yeah, what’s up?
Emily Rush: Do you think she--
John Rabid: I think she dreamt of a perfect day, just ahead of the horizon. She reached out for it. Hung on for it. Her eyes closed and it arrived. That’s how I compartmentalise what happened. But it’s probably not as neat as all that.
Emily Rush: I miss her, she was stupid.
Rabid smiled.
John Rabid: Yes, she was. Best keep Dorian away from here when the cops arrive.
Emily Rush: Of course. You want the remote?
John Rabid: Hand it over.
Footsteps clattered up a nearby stairwell as Emily departed. Rabid winked at his wife as he depressed a switch on the remote, the action coinciding with a swarm of Blue bloods invading the organized isolation of the gallery. Gone now was Emily’s Cuban escapade, replaced by an obsessive collage of Joey Flash, authored by the bloody palm prints of Jared Holmes.
Rabid dropped the remote as the police swooped in.
John Rabid: Hello, Officers. I suggest we talk about Warwick tomorrow. Today...it’s Thursday.
Ｉｎｔｅｒｖｉｅｗ ｔａｐｅ ７／６／１８ や塩ぅ
“Did you kill, Sidney J. Warwick?”
“No”
“Did you have, Sidney J. Warwick Killed?”
“No”
“So let me get this straight. A man threatens to kidnap your only son. He alludes to becoming a forced surrogate father. He practically admits to pedophilia, and yet we’re supposed to believe that there was no retaliation by you? No measure of revenge? Seriously, that’s a stretch, Mister Rush.”
“Frankly, Jason? It’s beyond the bounds of believability.”
“None of you get it, do you? I never needed to lift a finger after ONE. I backed Sidney into a corner where the only option for him was to dive over the edge. Sidney J. Warwick, the man from the peace corps. The transgender winner of WAR. The little dove who preached only peace, became everything he despised all on his own. Winning a wrestling match is finite, it’s a skip of a stone across history. It’s impact departs just as quickly as it arrives. But when you can get a man to ether his own career? That’s power. That’s the kind of power that breeds fear. Six hours ago I disembarked a plane, now the whole world has me back in their sights. And the only reason why is because they want to get to me...before I get to them. Now, why would I ruin that? Why would I kill that kind of heat by being stupid enough to put my hands on Warwick, when the fool can throw himself under a truck for free.”
“You sound as if you welcome the hate”
“When I man hates you, he’s at the mercy of his own emotions. A couple of days from now I’m scheduled to face Joseph Malignaggi, heard of him?”
“Yeah, we know the suspect.”
“For the purposes of this recording, the two cops standing above me are doing a stand up job of looking like a pair of stock flatfoots nodding in agreement.”
“Mister Rush…”
“Fine. Malignaggi fancies himself as a cornerstone of moral turpitude (sarcasm engaged) he wants to accuse me of intolerance. I thought I’d put matters back into perspective.”
“So the stunt back at the gallery...”
“Just making sure he understands. I take it the lab results will be back soon.”
"Well, we can't..."
“Just to clarify for the purposes of the tape. The flatfoots look concerned.”
“Mister Rush!”
“Sorry, again”
“It’s common knowledge anyway now. Jared Holmes and Thursday Holmes’s DNA has been identified. Both samples from the canvass date back to the time of her….disappearance. So, just to clarify for the tape. You believe Joseph Malignaggi is also involved?”
“Trust me, he’s always involved. He probably fisted both up to the elbow”
“And the canvass, how did it come into your possession?”
“It was a donation from a concerned citizen.”
“Enough dancing around, Jason. Who?”
“A namesake of mine. Name of O’Neal. Jason O’Neal.”
Ｊｏｅｙ Ｆｌａｓｈ ｉｓ ａ ｒｅｔａｒｄｅｄ ｆｕｃｋ ｅｒｒｏｒ． い まど 園゚ド尉 あ
Dedicated to the memory of Grime. RIP
A week ago an AN-158 commercial aircraft bobbed and weaved through Manhattan cloud cover like a featherweight’s first sparring session. The jarring motion inside woke a percentage of passengers as the CUBEANA flight began its turbulent approach towards an early morning LaGuardia. The front half of the plane was comprised almost entirely of Havana on the Hudson’s Cubanoamericanos population, most of them contemplating the worrying possibility that simply being born in America isn’t enough these days to avoid being locked up with a tin foil blanket for company.
It had been six months since the departure of a now cream suited John Rabid from the WCF and America. On returning, the world had seemingly spun off its axis, hurtling in all directions at once; a landscape that seemed both dangerous and unhinged to a returning Rush family, sitting peacefully in first class. Emily Rush cradled her husband’s sleepy head towards her shoulder as a copy of a dog eared Frank Sinatra biography slipped from the serpent’s grasp, finding purchase on his plush leather bucket seat, the book’s aging pages dog eared and yellowing. A queasy jolt forward syncopated into the families mobile phones silently buzzing into life, an influx of acid tinged social media greeted them with snarling glee.
Emily checked Rabid’s twitter account; it wasn’t anything she didn’t expect.
“Rabid’s back in the WCF? Fucking Sandbagger faggott”
“I see Cameron Bankston lite wants back in, lol”
“Smash him, Joey!”
“Is he gonna cry? I hope he cries.”
A nine year old Dorian Rush leaned forward, before Emily could swipe the phone’s screen and close the app, her son’s keen eyes had already locked onto the tweets and digested them. He was young and still had that buffer all children have. That sense of distance that gifts them with an innocent sense of pragmatism.
Dorian Rush: A lot of people don’t like dad, do they?
Emily shrugged.
Emily Rush: No, they don’t.
Dorian Rush: People are mean.
Emily Rush: Yes, Dory. Most of the time, they are.
Dorian Rush: Why? I don’t get it. Half of these people don’t even know dad.
Emily needed a distraction, so she cracked a thin smile and tickled underneath her son’s chin. Dorian giggled involuntary, it was the kind of astute misdirection a mother can conjure.
Emily Rush: When I have the answer to that kiddo, I’ll let you know. Now sit back down and buckle yourself in. We’ll be landing soon.
Rabid stirred. His hand casually ran a set of fingertips across the fringe of his wife’s blonde bobbed hair. Their eyes met.
John Rabid: So, have the sheep begun to bleat?
Dorian Rush: They all think you ran away because you “lost to a tranny”.
Rabid laughed while rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his vision focusing as he digested the messages.
John Rabid: Hypocrites. Most of these twonks lost to Warwick during WAR! Honestly, this shite reads like a Katherine Phoenix reddit page, It’s like catching visual gonorrhea.
Dorian Rush: Dad, can that actually happen?
Emily Rush: Nice one, Jason. Any other weird ideas you want to plant into our son’s innocent mind today?
John rolled his eyes.
John Rabid: Just settle down, son. And stop listening in on your dad’s conversations.
Dorian Rush: Sorry.
Rabid straightend up and bucked himself in as Emily cupped her hand and leaned in to continue talking.
Emily Rush: This might not be the time but I have to ask. Why do you want this fight with Flash? We can attend the exhibition. Play it cool with the authorities. Get back to Havana and relax. There’s no reason for you to fight a broken relic. Flash is just an uncouth thug with a mouth.
John Rabid: That’s exactly why I want to fight him. I want him to stand opposite me and realise that it’s over. I want Malignaggi to know that I see Flash for what he really is, a suck up prick whose career is about to end after four years of licking a chorus line of boots. Joey’s a man with nowhere else to go. Just a clown whose about to blink first. And I want to be there when it happens.
Emily Rush: For someone who used to play it so cool on twitter he’s a triggered little incel today. That’s for sure.
John Rabid: Just imagine his life, Emily. Imagine every day arriving at a gym with people sparring around you, looking at you and thinking the same thing. Imagine being in the front row of a big time WBO heavyweight bout, with the commentators zeroing in on you and the first words out of their mouths are “Failed boxer, turned professional wrestler…” I lost one match, one title...to a man who won WAR. To a man who defeated the best the roster had to offer week after week. But with Joey Flash, it’s different. Joey had an entire career taken away from him before he even arrived at the WCF. That’s why the scales can never be even between us. No matter what Flash does July 13th at the Mythic, Malignaggi can never crawl that back. It’s gone. It’s embers. That’s why I can sit here and smile. Because on July 13th, I’ll face a man who can’t outrun himself. Just like Sidney J Warwick couldn’t outrun what he had become, nether will Joey. Two peas in a pod I guess. Now, how ironic is that?
Emily exhaled, she found it vaguely embarrishing when her husband would slip into promo mode, out of the corner of her eye she noticed the passengers surreptitiously turning their gaze towards them. Time to whisper a new subject and hope the air marshal isn’t listening.
Emily Rush: You know, they’ll be waiting for you….the police.
John Rabid: They’ll take their time. They won’t be at the airport, no need to cause a fuss. It’ll be the exhibition like we planned, that's when they’ll move in.
Emily Rush: Remember--
John Rabid: Be polite and tell the truth. I know.
Emily Rush: Good, but don’t flaunt matters the way you usually do. The world has changed.
John Rabid: I know. That’s why I’m an all-new, discrete Johnny Rabid. No showboating. No grandstanding.
Emily shook her head.
Emily Rush: You’re a very poor liar.
John Rabid: Only with you. I can’t help myself I guess.
Rabid leaned in and kissed his wife on the lips. Their embrace didn’t last long though, the Plane’s descent had accelerated, pulling them apart.
John Rabid: Oh well, luv...here we go. Brace for impact.
Ｔｈｅ Ｐａｒｉａｈ Ｄｉａｒｉｅｓ 遺火ヒ
**Ring, Ring**
Joey Flash.
**Click**
Sometimes I dream about that phone call. The day Joey dies and the eulogies flood in. The Boys will be the first to respond. You know their names. Howard Black. Dune. Occulo. Jared Holmes. The usual crew. The rats that nail their colors to a listing wreck that will finally sink beneath the waves this friday at the Myth center. I can see the days that follow as clear as day, it’s a nation In mourning. A sea of Bandiera d'Italia flying at half mast from every nook and cranny across the globe. The outpouring of love is universal.
And misplaced.
When I contemplate the WCF, a myriad of thoughts spring to mind. The backstabbing I’ve received on social media. Mexico. Logan losing his damn mind. Joey Flash reading off autocues that are written by hands other than his own. The fed beneath the fed, bubbling incessantly to the surface, a clique of whiney man-babies crying over wrestling careers they’ve carved through politics rather than talent. While from a different perspective, away from the basement hovels these clowns inhabit, the outside world peers inside and laughs at the freakshows barricading themselves from reality. I used to think Joey Flash was cut from a different cloth. That Joey was a step above the likes of Zero Tolerance. But no, he drank the kool aid too and became a believer. Poor Joey Flash, muttering into his laptop screen, hoping his perfect creations love him back. Joey is just another fractured soul who can’t stand his own reflection, just like all failed actors, his life is the worst role to play.
Recently, I’ve played the role of a man in exile. When people ask me though, “why did you leave the WCF?”. The answer is simple. I didn’t. It was long gone before I even arrived. Before Joey Flash, the WCF was once an institution built around a core group. A bedrock of hard working talent that bleed their dedication and love for this federation into the veins of the company for over a decade, creating an immune system that ticked over through adversity and controversy,. Through RaYne and shine the WCF bloomed back from every cold winter of discontent that rocked it’s roster or split it’s ideology. And then came Joey Flash, and things began to change.
November 9th 2014, a pint sized Italian American in a pair of post labour day trunks shows up brimming with smarmy confidence and a controversial past. Joey (along with his rival/cohort/house slave Occulo) had been recently kicked out of a previous fed. It should have rang alarm bells with the higher ups, but the WCF has always been a place for second chances and so Occulo and Joey had a new arena to ply their well oiled shtick in..What no one realized at the time was however, was that Occulo was just the latest in a long line of crutches for a man who only functioned when he could procure talent and claim their work as his own. Those that were immune or above Joey would be removed though bullying and subterfuge. Never before had the WCF known a figure as devous or as cunning as Joey Flash. In truth, he makes a better serpent than I do.
The nascent beginnings of Joey Flash’s WCF career were all about shouting to be heard. Joey was just another noob crying for change . In a strange way it was all so desperate and endearing, this little frustrated goon crying out for attention. While high above on the card; looming over Flash’s pleas for interest stood the goliath’s. An upper echelon of Vapour Kings and Poondock Saints. They sneered down at the little man who came from the bronx. But just like all little men, Joey vowed to make his betters listen. And listen they eventually did. And in doing so, they flushed themselves away.
Joey has a trenchant for destroying threats in an indirect fashion. I guess what I’m trying to say is that Joey is a fucking cunt who can’t go toe to toe with a threat he can’t control. And he certainly can’t fight a battle without an autocue under his nose. The man is a parasite who syphons ideas from the rich veins of others so that he can line his own pockets with gold. He really did miss his calling, he should have been a lawyer or a Hollywood producer, his DNA is three quarters cockroach; his words are mostly stolen from someone else’s tongue. His life is a Goodfellas reboot on Lifetime. He’s basically a patchwork mechanism of shit.
Joey’s favourite hobby is to lubricate the ears of the top brass with his forked tongue. The same tongue he used to cut passive aggressive promos on podcasts to get under the skin of legends like ICE Beckman. Joey formed Imperium to nullify the best rivalry the company had ever seen, while off in the distance a sand storm was brewing, tucked into a blindspot Beckman couldn’t see. Ready to strike when appropriate. All part of the plan. Beckman never sees it coming, but Joey does. Because Dune? Dune is one of “The Boys”. He’s a made man. Mob mentality in a wrestling company? I know, it’s unheard of but there it is, Beckman is set up to be clipped. And Dune is the triggerman.
“But...Dune is a good guy, he’s no heel…” Don’t be so fucking naive. That’s not how life works. Dune wants the world title. Flash wants Beckman finally gone and he knows Occulo can’t get it done, So Flash trades up, throws his arms around Dune and this other new guy, a young, midwestern type who sees wolf headed people. It’s weird and not very interesting but he might make a good new foil. His name is Black...Howard Black.
Black, Dune and Occulo become the Sentinels. It’s nowhere near as entertaining as The Vapour Kings or as inventive as The Poondocks, but that’s perfect for Flash. It all exists on his level now. Bland and predictable. And they’re on his payroll. Even when Flash snaps Howard’s arm, it’s just a paid vacation. Eventually they’ll all get together and perform a Summer stock rendition of the Exorcist at ONE 2016. Dune will feign being possessed by a demonic spirit named Jack. It still exists as one of the most embarrassing moments in professional wrestling history. But the boys stick to their roles. One cohesive unit; no matter how turgid the material. Oh, how inspirational.
This is why ICE beckman V Joey Flash never happened. This is why Bobby Cairo V Joey Flash never happened. Because Flash can’t take the risk. He can’t take a step into the unknown and test himself against the absolute best. So he manufactures a situation where the odds are always in his favour. Where Cairo and Beckman’s egos are primed to self destruct. Flash isn’t smart enough to win a chess match with the best the business has produced, but he can wipe the pieces off the board if his opponents are fragile enough to let him. And that’s exactly what Emperium was all about. All it took was a fissure to allow the DRG to march right in, and the rest took care of itself. Three months after being formed, Emperium was no more. Beckman was no more. Cairo was effectively gone. And Joey Flash had positioned himself to move up the ladder. Not by winning matches, but by simply removing the competition.
Emperium fades, #beachkrew arrives. Flash scoffs, he initially sees nothing in it. And neither did I in the beginning. but there was something there, a spark of invention. A collision of a fading vaporwave esthetic eating itself and becoming irony. And in that irony there was millage, and so, Flash latched on and refused to let go. Like a puppy humping the leg of it’s master, Joey Flash was riding a new meal ticket..Same old story, but with a new song. Joey Flash went about his business as he always did, positioning himself as the focal point of a narrative he had no reason to be a part of. This would become a recurring theme between us with Flash encroaching into my milieu time and again; but never more so than when the final coming of Pantheon arrived.
Traditionally when the cavalry charges in, it’s a scene of hope and salvation. But if Joey Flash is leading the line, motives change. Late August 2016; “Sheriff” Thomas Uriel Bates is the de facto God-king of the WCF, and he knows it. His size and “confederate charm” hold the company in a stranglehold. The charlemagne dreaming psychopath has the power and the gold. A year later he would just be another ozymandias like dream lost in the dust, but for right now, at this moment, he is untouchable.
Enter….John Rabid. The first of the “dissenters” to arrive back after the Mexico incident split the roster in two. Want to know more about Mexico? DM Corey...he’ll tell you.
Now, no one ordered me to show up and walz right up to Bates and call him out. That was just me. On my own. No Pantheon yet. No back up. No Joey Flash. Just me. The response as I arrived was exactly what I expected.
Hate.
Seething and unbridled wave, except for Odin, a good friend. Odin has always been an island of decency, while Bates is a politician to his rotten core, spinning my arrival into a fucking jihad. Tommy boy declares himself a “defender of the weak”, against the infidel “invader” John Rabid. Supposedly I’m out to destroy the WCF for a second time. That’s Bates’s narrative as I go to war with him. But there’s no twinge of fear on my part, because I have reason on my side. And courage. And a sense of justice. John Rabid against an entire federation is nothing new to me. Been there, done that. 2018 is no different than before. The only difference now is that Joey makes a poor Bates substitute. Nowhere near the comedy value. Better personal hygiene though.
So Bates and I are at each other’s throats when out of nowhere, Joey is back. Flash crawls out from his maserati built bomb shelter declaring himself the great architect of a new Pantheon. He’s America launching a nagasaki strike before Russia can reach the Japanese shore. And guess what? He has the boys by his side. Over the months that follow the dominos fall with ease. Pantheon wins. Bates and his racist edict are ousted. It was a victory, of sorts. Sour grapes put aside for the greater good.
But never forgotten.
But once again for Flash, the void appears. Joey Flash needs a new crutch to lean on to make himself special and important. He can’t do it on his own. Joey can’t be out there exposed and vulnerable. The days of Occulo are over. The days of Howard Black are over. So who steps up? Why, it’s the 6ix god...Jared Holmes, a rat faced clown with his adoring blow up doll of a girlfriend in toe. Poor Thursday Kerrigan, honestly, who knew a simple weekday could become a national fag hag holiday named in her honor? Oh, poor, sweet Thursday, we knew you so well, because just like Alessandro, you were designed to be a lazy man’s jerk off fantasy, manufactured to give head to a shallow, bitter mind. But when Joey tapped Jared on the shoulder? Thursday was history. Now Jared had a new slash fiction obsession, a new shining light, one that Holmes would do ANYTHING for.
“The man who sold the world” didn’t ask for much in the end. All he wanted was to feel loved, and in Joey, Jared had found his man. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. “The King in Yellow” only had one task in return to perform; feign a broken jaw and get typing, because poor ol’ Joey was running on empty. Joey needed reinvention. A new foe to conquer.
It’s charming to see Wade Moor still consider #beachkrew an entity. But the fact is, Jared dismantled the heart of the cause a year ago so that Joey Flash could plant his flag on New Jalaxaritkatusa and proclaim himself King. The Shark gave up his crown and took the mantle of chief jester and slapstick villain. If you want to know comedy, check out last year's ONE match between Joey and Jared. It’s a hoot. Why? Because it doesn’t exist. They shat themselves and ran off. I lost my match, but at least I had a match. They simply eloped with flowers in their hair.
Do you want to know truely what the WCF is now compared to 2015? Think about it like this: If you carve the heart out of an animal, what you’re left with is a husk. From the outside, the husk may appear alive from a distance, but upon closer inspection? It’s lips are blue. It’s eyes are rolled back. There’s no breath upon the mirror, just a still, stark reflection of what it used to be. Joey Flash culled the beast that the WCF used to be. It will be up to others to breath new life into the remains. Just remember this caution from history. Leave Joey Flash six feet under where he belongs. He’s earned it.
Joey Flash.
**Click**
Sometimes I dream about that phone call. The day Joey dies and the eulogies flood in. The Boys will be the first to respond. You know their names. Howard Black. Dune. Occulo. Jared Holmes. The usual crew. The rats that nail their colors to a listing wreck that will finally sink beneath the waves this friday at the Myth center. I can see the days that follow as clear as day, it’s a nation In mourning. A sea of Bandiera d'Italia flying at half mast from every nook and cranny across the globe. The outpouring of love is universal.
And misplaced.
When I contemplate the WCF, a myriad of thoughts spring to mind. The backstabbing I’ve received on social media. Mexico. Logan losing his damn mind. Joey Flash reading off autocues that are written by hands other than his own. The fed beneath the fed, bubbling incessantly to the surface, a clique of whiney man-babies crying over wrestling careers they’ve carved through politics rather than talent. While from a different perspective, away from the basement hovels these clowns inhabit, the outside world peers inside and laughs at the freakshows barricading themselves from reality. I used to think Joey Flash was cut from a different cloth. That Joey was a step above the likes of Zero Tolerance. But no, he drank the kool aid too and became a believer. Poor Joey Flash, muttering into his laptop screen, hoping his perfect creations love him back. Joey is just another fractured soul who can’t stand his own reflection, just like all failed actors, his life is the worst role to play.
Recently, I’ve played the role of a man in exile. When people ask me though, “why did you leave the WCF?”. The answer is simple. I didn’t. It was long gone before I even arrived. Before Joey Flash, the WCF was once an institution built around a core group. A bedrock of hard working talent that bleed their dedication and love for this federation into the veins of the company for over a decade, creating an immune system that ticked over through adversity and controversy,. Through RaYne and shine the WCF bloomed back from every cold winter of discontent that rocked it’s roster or split it’s ideology. And then came Joey Flash, and things began to change.
November 9th 2014, a pint sized Italian American in a pair of post labour day trunks shows up brimming with smarmy confidence and a controversial past. Joey (along with his rival/cohort/house slave Occulo) had been recently kicked out of a previous fed. It should have rang alarm bells with the higher ups, but the WCF has always been a place for second chances and so Occulo and Joey had a new arena to ply their well oiled shtick in..What no one realized at the time was however, was that Occulo was just the latest in a long line of crutches for a man who only functioned when he could procure talent and claim their work as his own. Those that were immune or above Joey would be removed though bullying and subterfuge. Never before had the WCF known a figure as devous or as cunning as Joey Flash. In truth, he makes a better serpent than I do.
The nascent beginnings of Joey Flash’s WCF career were all about shouting to be heard. Joey was just another noob crying for change . In a strange way it was all so desperate and endearing, this little frustrated goon crying out for attention. While high above on the card; looming over Flash’s pleas for interest stood the goliath’s. An upper echelon of Vapour Kings and Poondock Saints. They sneered down at the little man who came from the bronx. But just like all little men, Joey vowed to make his betters listen. And listen they eventually did. And in doing so, they flushed themselves away.
Joey has a trenchant for destroying threats in an indirect fashion. I guess what I’m trying to say is that Joey is a fucking cunt who can’t go toe to toe with a threat he can’t control. And he certainly can’t fight a battle without an autocue under his nose. The man is a parasite who syphons ideas from the rich veins of others so that he can line his own pockets with gold. He really did miss his calling, he should have been a lawyer or a Hollywood producer, his DNA is three quarters cockroach; his words are mostly stolen from someone else’s tongue. His life is a Goodfellas reboot on Lifetime. He’s basically a patchwork mechanism of shit.
Joey’s favourite hobby is to lubricate the ears of the top brass with his forked tongue. The same tongue he used to cut passive aggressive promos on podcasts to get under the skin of legends like ICE Beckman. Joey formed Imperium to nullify the best rivalry the company had ever seen, while off in the distance a sand storm was brewing, tucked into a blindspot Beckman couldn’t see. Ready to strike when appropriate. All part of the plan. Beckman never sees it coming, but Joey does. Because Dune? Dune is one of “The Boys”. He’s a made man. Mob mentality in a wrestling company? I know, it’s unheard of but there it is, Beckman is set up to be clipped. And Dune is the triggerman.
“But...Dune is a good guy, he’s no heel…” Don’t be so fucking naive. That’s not how life works. Dune wants the world title. Flash wants Beckman finally gone and he knows Occulo can’t get it done, So Flash trades up, throws his arms around Dune and this other new guy, a young, midwestern type who sees wolf headed people. It’s weird and not very interesting but he might make a good new foil. His name is Black...Howard Black.
Black, Dune and Occulo become the Sentinels. It’s nowhere near as entertaining as The Vapour Kings or as inventive as The Poondocks, but that’s perfect for Flash. It all exists on his level now. Bland and predictable. And they’re on his payroll. Even when Flash snaps Howard’s arm, it’s just a paid vacation. Eventually they’ll all get together and perform a Summer stock rendition of the Exorcist at ONE 2016. Dune will feign being possessed by a demonic spirit named Jack. It still exists as one of the most embarrassing moments in professional wrestling history. But the boys stick to their roles. One cohesive unit; no matter how turgid the material. Oh, how inspirational.
This is why ICE beckman V Joey Flash never happened. This is why Bobby Cairo V Joey Flash never happened. Because Flash can’t take the risk. He can’t take a step into the unknown and test himself against the absolute best. So he manufactures a situation where the odds are always in his favour. Where Cairo and Beckman’s egos are primed to self destruct. Flash isn’t smart enough to win a chess match with the best the business has produced, but he can wipe the pieces off the board if his opponents are fragile enough to let him. And that’s exactly what Emperium was all about. All it took was a fissure to allow the DRG to march right in, and the rest took care of itself. Three months after being formed, Emperium was no more. Beckman was no more. Cairo was effectively gone. And Joey Flash had positioned himself to move up the ladder. Not by winning matches, but by simply removing the competition.
Emperium fades, #beachkrew arrives. Flash scoffs, he initially sees nothing in it. And neither did I in the beginning. but there was something there, a spark of invention. A collision of a fading vaporwave esthetic eating itself and becoming irony. And in that irony there was millage, and so, Flash latched on and refused to let go. Like a puppy humping the leg of it’s master, Joey Flash was riding a new meal ticket..Same old story, but with a new song. Joey Flash went about his business as he always did, positioning himself as the focal point of a narrative he had no reason to be a part of. This would become a recurring theme between us with Flash encroaching into my milieu time and again; but never more so than when the final coming of Pantheon arrived.
Traditionally when the cavalry charges in, it’s a scene of hope and salvation. But if Joey Flash is leading the line, motives change. Late August 2016; “Sheriff” Thomas Uriel Bates is the de facto God-king of the WCF, and he knows it. His size and “confederate charm” hold the company in a stranglehold. The charlemagne dreaming psychopath has the power and the gold. A year later he would just be another ozymandias like dream lost in the dust, but for right now, at this moment, he is untouchable.
Enter….John Rabid. The first of the “dissenters” to arrive back after the Mexico incident split the roster in two. Want to know more about Mexico? DM Corey...he’ll tell you.
Now, no one ordered me to show up and walz right up to Bates and call him out. That was just me. On my own. No Pantheon yet. No back up. No Joey Flash. Just me. The response as I arrived was exactly what I expected.
Hate.
Seething and unbridled wave, except for Odin, a good friend. Odin has always been an island of decency, while Bates is a politician to his rotten core, spinning my arrival into a fucking jihad. Tommy boy declares himself a “defender of the weak”, against the infidel “invader” John Rabid. Supposedly I’m out to destroy the WCF for a second time. That’s Bates’s narrative as I go to war with him. But there’s no twinge of fear on my part, because I have reason on my side. And courage. And a sense of justice. John Rabid against an entire federation is nothing new to me. Been there, done that. 2018 is no different than before. The only difference now is that Joey makes a poor Bates substitute. Nowhere near the comedy value. Better personal hygiene though.
So Bates and I are at each other’s throats when out of nowhere, Joey is back. Flash crawls out from his maserati built bomb shelter declaring himself the great architect of a new Pantheon. He’s America launching a nagasaki strike before Russia can reach the Japanese shore. And guess what? He has the boys by his side. Over the months that follow the dominos fall with ease. Pantheon wins. Bates and his racist edict are ousted. It was a victory, of sorts. Sour grapes put aside for the greater good.
But never forgotten.
But once again for Flash, the void appears. Joey Flash needs a new crutch to lean on to make himself special and important. He can’t do it on his own. Joey can’t be out there exposed and vulnerable. The days of Occulo are over. The days of Howard Black are over. So who steps up? Why, it’s the 6ix god...Jared Holmes, a rat faced clown with his adoring blow up doll of a girlfriend in toe. Poor Thursday Kerrigan, honestly, who knew a simple weekday could become a national fag hag holiday named in her honor? Oh, poor, sweet Thursday, we knew you so well, because just like Alessandro, you were designed to be a lazy man’s jerk off fantasy, manufactured to give head to a shallow, bitter mind. But when Joey tapped Jared on the shoulder? Thursday was history. Now Jared had a new slash fiction obsession, a new shining light, one that Holmes would do ANYTHING for.
“The man who sold the world” didn’t ask for much in the end. All he wanted was to feel loved, and in Joey, Jared had found his man. It was a mutually beneficial relationship. “The King in Yellow” only had one task in return to perform; feign a broken jaw and get typing, because poor ol’ Joey was running on empty. Joey needed reinvention. A new foe to conquer.
It’s charming to see Wade Moor still consider #beachkrew an entity. But the fact is, Jared dismantled the heart of the cause a year ago so that Joey Flash could plant his flag on New Jalaxaritkatusa and proclaim himself King. The Shark gave up his crown and took the mantle of chief jester and slapstick villain. If you want to know comedy, check out last year's ONE match between Joey and Jared. It’s a hoot. Why? Because it doesn’t exist. They shat themselves and ran off. I lost my match, but at least I had a match. They simply eloped with flowers in their hair.
Do you want to know truely what the WCF is now compared to 2015? Think about it like this: If you carve the heart out of an animal, what you’re left with is a husk. From the outside, the husk may appear alive from a distance, but upon closer inspection? It’s lips are blue. It’s eyes are rolled back. There’s no breath upon the mirror, just a still, stark reflection of what it used to be. Joey Flash culled the beast that the WCF used to be. It will be up to others to breath new life into the remains. Just remember this caution from history. Leave Joey Flash six feet under where he belongs. He’s earned it.
Ｄｅａｔｈ ｏｆ ａ ｓｉａｍｅｓｅ ｄｒｅａｍ 浦右ンウク
‘The TriBeCa art factory’ was a cuboid space of bleached white minimalism. Here, among the seemingly infinite, John Rabid sat on a white bench, his suit an off cream color but near enough camouflage. Only the walls gave the space a sense of volume and purpose. Each of the four contained a photographic phalanx of Emily’s Havana adventure, her latest foray into the art world was to try her hand at becoming the next “Annie" Leibovitz. As first exhibitions went, it wasn’t a total disaster.
Captured in monochrome moments of semi decent composition, Cuban father’s dressed in “Guayabera’ shirts worked on classic cars while their bare footed sons stood by and watched intently. Up above, a hot Havana sun baked their crumbling town. Rabid tapped his smoking pipe against the base of the bench and contemplated the day ahead; he imagined the sun emanating from the canvass, reaching him with a burning touch. A Long time ago that would have scared him, but not today.
“That stupid pipe doesn’t make you look cool.”
“I know, luv. It's all about the man smoking it though, right?”
Heels clacked against the floor paneling. Emily arrived; an ebony pants suit to match her business like approach, she tilted her head forward, her green eyes meeting Rabid’s baby blue’s while standing over her husband, obviously eager for approval.
Emily Rush: So, what do you think?
Rabid chewed on the smoking pipe and folded his arms in contemplation.
John Rabid: It’s a solid start, is everything set?
Emily Rush: The authorities will be here soon. We should have a few moments. Jason?
John Rabid: Yeah, what’s up?
Emily Rush: Do you think she--
John Rabid: I think she dreamt of a perfect day, just ahead of the horizon. She reached out for it. Hung on for it. Her eyes closed and it arrived. That’s how I compartmentalise what happened. But it’s probably not as neat as all that.
Emily Rush: I miss her, she was stupid.
Rabid smiled.
John Rabid: Yes, she was. Best keep Dorian away from here when the cops arrive.
Emily Rush: Of course. You want the remote?
John Rabid: Hand it over.
Footsteps clattered up a nearby stairwell as Emily departed. Rabid winked at his wife as he depressed a switch on the remote, the action coinciding with a swarm of Blue bloods invading the organized isolation of the gallery. Gone now was Emily’s Cuban escapade, replaced by an obsessive collage of Joey Flash, authored by the bloody palm prints of Jared Holmes.
Rabid dropped the remote as the police swooped in.
John Rabid: Hello, Officers. I suggest we talk about Warwick tomorrow. Today...it’s Thursday.
Ｉｎｔｅｒｖｉｅｗ ｔａｐｅ ７／６／１８ や塩ぅ
“Did you kill, Sidney J. Warwick?”
“No”
“Did you have, Sidney J. Warwick Killed?”
“No”
“So let me get this straight. A man threatens to kidnap your only son. He alludes to becoming a forced surrogate father. He practically admits to pedophilia, and yet we’re supposed to believe that there was no retaliation by you? No measure of revenge? Seriously, that’s a stretch, Mister Rush.”
“Frankly, Jason? It’s beyond the bounds of believability.”
“None of you get it, do you? I never needed to lift a finger after ONE. I backed Sidney into a corner where the only option for him was to dive over the edge. Sidney J. Warwick, the man from the peace corps. The transgender winner of WAR. The little dove who preached only peace, became everything he despised all on his own. Winning a wrestling match is finite, it’s a skip of a stone across history. It’s impact departs just as quickly as it arrives. But when you can get a man to ether his own career? That’s power. That’s the kind of power that breeds fear. Six hours ago I disembarked a plane, now the whole world has me back in their sights. And the only reason why is because they want to get to me...before I get to them. Now, why would I ruin that? Why would I kill that kind of heat by being stupid enough to put my hands on Warwick, when the fool can throw himself under a truck for free.”
“You sound as if you welcome the hate”
“When I man hates you, he’s at the mercy of his own emotions. A couple of days from now I’m scheduled to face Joseph Malignaggi, heard of him?”
“Yeah, we know the suspect.”
“For the purposes of this recording, the two cops standing above me are doing a stand up job of looking like a pair of stock flatfoots nodding in agreement.”
“Mister Rush…”
“Fine. Malignaggi fancies himself as a cornerstone of moral turpitude (sarcasm engaged) he wants to accuse me of intolerance. I thought I’d put matters back into perspective.”
“So the stunt back at the gallery...”
“Just making sure he understands. I take it the lab results will be back soon.”
"Well, we can't..."
“Just to clarify for the purposes of the tape. The flatfoots look concerned.”
“Mister Rush!”
“Sorry, again”
“It’s common knowledge anyway now. Jared Holmes and Thursday Holmes’s DNA has been identified. Both samples from the canvass date back to the time of her….disappearance. So, just to clarify for the tape. You believe Joseph Malignaggi is also involved?”
“Trust me, he’s always involved. He probably fisted both up to the elbow”
“And the canvass, how did it come into your possession?”
“It was a donation from a concerned citizen.”
“Enough dancing around, Jason. Who?”
“A namesake of mine. Name of O’Neal. Jason O’Neal.”
Ｊｏｅｙ Ｆｌａｓｈ ｉｓ ａ ｒｅｔａｒｄｅｄ ｆｕｃｋ ｅｒｒｏｒ． い まど 園゚ド尉 あ
Hello, Joey
The etymology of Flash is Swedish in origin, it means to burn brightly. And you did Joey, you really did. Strange though, that for all of your accomplishments. For all of your victories. You don’t have an infinity stone named in your honor. It’s almost as If Corey Black knows the truth and can’t bring himself to take part in the lie anymore. Maybe, he still has what you’ve always lacked...integrity, and he wouldn’t mind keeping hold of his since witnessing you without it is like watching a spiteful cunt perform a Katherine Phoenix belly flop on screen.
Just listen to yourself, “You lost to a tranny” ad nauseum. Tell me, when Sidney J. Warwick beat you, and everyone else on the roster that night at WAR, just how much sand did your vagina inhale? I bet it was at least a fistful. It makes you feel bloated all the time, doesn’t it? Just knowing that a man born with a vagina managed to outfox you in a match you can’t win no matter how hard you try. Which is to say...not very hard, since WAR is a match you hate. A match you can’t fudge to suit your meagre plateau of hand-me-down, written-for-you talent that can’t fill up half a napkin.
When I left the WCF after Mexico it was because Logan abused a woman on the internet. You left because you lost a world title to Logan in a fair fight and you threw a hissy fit. That’s the difference between you and me. You’re a self centered, malignant narcissist, Joey. If the world was on fire it wouldn’t matter as long as Joey Flash was on top. There’s nothing selfless or brace about you. You snuggle up with Danny Torrance, the man that murdered your only son, just because you like to breath in Danny’s exhalation, knowing it’s been close to gold. That aphrodisiac that keeps the Malginaggi heart beating.
What does Dune whisper into your ear to get you going at night, Is it red rum?
Face it Joey, when you strip away all the accolades you’ve stolen, all the limelight you’ve leached from others more deserving, when all that you’ve accomplished through hate and guile is gone, there’s absolutely nothing of interest left. Exactly what are you, Joey Flash? Just a third rate Jonny Fly saddled with some “wop-face” verbiage and an improbable assassin for a wife, a pre programmed ridiculous mannequin that’s a shallow rendition of a dominatrix fantasy. Thinking about it, it’s amazing how “the misses” can be the head of a Mafia family, be seemingly number one with a bullet around the world, and yet can’t win a bingo hall wrestling match surrounded by a group of clueless Final Girls that had never collectively laced up a set of boots before in their lives. Maybe, If “Diavolo” had followed your strategy and just stuck to fighting spineless shrills in the ring for a living, she might have stood a chance at January 2017’s XIII, right?
Now, is all this clear enough for you, Joey? I’d hate to be using too many big words. I know how you get a migraine if it isn’t cortana friendly, JoJo. There’s a good chap.
You’ve never won, or been entered into, an Ultimate showdown match. You’ve never been in a Final Destination contest. It took half the roster and a flaky Jay Omega to hold your hand through WAR (cheers). You never became the destroyer at ONE that you promised the world, and you never vanquished the threat of the 6ix god. You’re a “man” that dodges bullets and delivers nothing in return.
It’s easy to sculpt the past when you think there’s no one out there studying it. Me? I love history, I have this insatiable appetite for dates, times and places. It anchors us to reality. That’s probably why you make up your own history, Flash. If you ever had the guts to acknowledge the truth, it would weigh your bitch ass down six feet under.
C'est la vie.
The etymology of Flash is Swedish in origin, it means to burn brightly. And you did Joey, you really did. Strange though, that for all of your accomplishments. For all of your victories. You don’t have an infinity stone named in your honor. It’s almost as If Corey Black knows the truth and can’t bring himself to take part in the lie anymore. Maybe, he still has what you’ve always lacked...integrity, and he wouldn’t mind keeping hold of his since witnessing you without it is like watching a spiteful cunt perform a Katherine Phoenix belly flop on screen.
Just listen to yourself, “You lost to a tranny” ad nauseum. Tell me, when Sidney J. Warwick beat you, and everyone else on the roster that night at WAR, just how much sand did your vagina inhale? I bet it was at least a fistful. It makes you feel bloated all the time, doesn’t it? Just knowing that a man born with a vagina managed to outfox you in a match you can’t win no matter how hard you try. Which is to say...not very hard, since WAR is a match you hate. A match you can’t fudge to suit your meagre plateau of hand-me-down, written-for-you talent that can’t fill up half a napkin.
When I left the WCF after Mexico it was because Logan abused a woman on the internet. You left because you lost a world title to Logan in a fair fight and you threw a hissy fit. That’s the difference between you and me. You’re a self centered, malignant narcissist, Joey. If the world was on fire it wouldn’t matter as long as Joey Flash was on top. There’s nothing selfless or brace about you. You snuggle up with Danny Torrance, the man that murdered your only son, just because you like to breath in Danny’s exhalation, knowing it’s been close to gold. That aphrodisiac that keeps the Malginaggi heart beating.
What does Dune whisper into your ear to get you going at night, Is it red rum?
Face it Joey, when you strip away all the accolades you’ve stolen, all the limelight you’ve leached from others more deserving, when all that you’ve accomplished through hate and guile is gone, there’s absolutely nothing of interest left. Exactly what are you, Joey Flash? Just a third rate Jonny Fly saddled with some “wop-face” verbiage and an improbable assassin for a wife, a pre programmed ridiculous mannequin that’s a shallow rendition of a dominatrix fantasy. Thinking about it, it’s amazing how “the misses” can be the head of a Mafia family, be seemingly number one with a bullet around the world, and yet can’t win a bingo hall wrestling match surrounded by a group of clueless Final Girls that had never collectively laced up a set of boots before in their lives. Maybe, If “Diavolo” had followed your strategy and just stuck to fighting spineless shrills in the ring for a living, she might have stood a chance at January 2017’s XIII, right?
Now, is all this clear enough for you, Joey? I’d hate to be using too many big words. I know how you get a migraine if it isn’t cortana friendly, JoJo. There’s a good chap.
You’ve never won, or been entered into, an Ultimate showdown match. You’ve never been in a Final Destination contest. It took half the roster and a flaky Jay Omega to hold your hand through WAR (cheers). You never became the destroyer at ONE that you promised the world, and you never vanquished the threat of the 6ix god. You’re a “man” that dodges bullets and delivers nothing in return.
It’s easy to sculpt the past when you think there’s no one out there studying it. Me? I love history, I have this insatiable appetite for dates, times and places. It anchors us to reality. That’s probably why you make up your own history, Flash. If you ever had the guts to acknowledge the truth, it would weigh your bitch ass down six feet under.
C'est la vie.
