Post by John Rabid on Dec 23, 2018 23:02:52 GMT -5
Chapter 1
Dead Echoes
From: Rabid1@Echelon.net
To: VeryBigGoogle.com
So, El Gran Grande Devorador De Planetas Gigantesco Behemoth. That’s a nice, rambling alias, William. Very understated. I’m sure the authorities closing in on your massive rear end will be perplexed by the complicated veil of deception you’ve created. I especially enjoyed the line in your bio that says “on the run”. Honestly, has a more blatant bare faced lie ever been written? There’s no way that “run” and “William the Behemoth” can co exist in the same reality. You do not “run” William, you’re either dragged by a C-130 heavy transport plane until reaching Usain Bolt velocity, or you’re a perpetual dead stop. Run is not part of your repertoire. But do not fear former useless henchman, while your immobile, uneducated frame is facing the greatest professional wrestler ever to lace up a pair of boots this week, you will not be embarrassed without purpose on Christmas eve.
Unlike others, I have always taken pride in turning a challenge into opportunity. This Federation is now cram packed with non believers. The James Wolf’s of this world that do not understand the lunacy of picking a fight with John Rabid. So, when I dissect your fat turkey of a frame this week, I do it with an educational agenda in mind. Your autopsy will be my Christmas lecture. A tradition in OUR HOMELAND of Great Britain. The country you now betray while wearing a Spanish football jersey, a team of overpaid bratty shites that was drummed out of the World Cup far too early. Spain deserves you, William, you’re both as useless and as delusional each other. Spain is in financial meltdown, a broken crumbling land, a fading power that now has you, a rolly polly turd of a man, as it’s champion. Poor Spain, once upon a time they puffed out their chests to do battle with good Queen Elizabeth, they barked and plotted a course for mighty Britain with an armada of huge, lumbering warships, they wished to conquer my green and pleasant land. Now they have you to look towards, a five hundred pound lumbering lame duck barely able to stand, let alone fight. And just like that armada, you will face faster, smarter competition in me. What was your name again, William the Behemoth? Piff! You couldn’t intimidate a set of revolving doors, you fucking waste of space!
What have you ever done with your career, William? What mountain have you ever climbed? What odds have you overcome? What accomplishments do you covet? An internet title? Really, is that it? You live in a time when Adam Young is your superior in practically every division. How does that make you feel, William? To know that you live in the shadow of the G.O.A.T? If I were you, I would’ve placed a shotgun in my mouth months ago. Maybe you did, and just ate it out of habit. Numpty, you’re supposed to pull the trigger first. Can’t you do anything right?
Chapter 2
A Fire In London
Three months ago.
John Rabid observed the flames as they flickered and danced; orange caressing the concrete black husk of his once luxury Chelsea apartment. Sirens cried as they approached, fire engines hurrying to a Victorian built SW3 scene far beyond salvaging. Hollow gestures followed as worker ants in high visibility jackets went about their well drilled procedures as the serpent sat in the back of an open ambulance. Around John, fire crews doused the remains of his life with foam and water as the sun threatened to rise over a shocked capital.
John glanced downward and observed that his thousand pound Salvatore Ferragamo Moccasins were blighted with patches of scoot. Instinctively, Rabid reached inside his charcoal black trousers and pulled out a monogrammed handkerchief and dealt with the imperfection, fastidious brush strokes eradicating all traces of ash. John fancied he could probably get away with a quick spit into the fabric for a thorough clean, but decorum always came first for an Eton gentleman.
The handkerchief was neatly folded and placed back in John’s pocket, his blonde hair brushed away from his eyes with a switchblade metal comb. His tie straightened. No matching jacket tonight though. Shame, he’d just have to make do.
John stood and exited the ambulance, the press had swarmed the scene; they jostled and squabbled with police like half starved vultures, but constables from Scotland Yard stood firm; a line of masonic lodge blue rallied against the gathering media storm.
“Mister Rush, how did this tragedy?”
“Your Wife and Son”
“Is this arson?”
“Are there suspects?”
Rabid observed humanities petty nature up close. A salivating mass of filth in search of a tragedy fix. Once upon a time he used to like pleasing them, he enjoyed the cheers from the fans, it wasn’t natural for him but he adapted, now those days seemed a million miles away as he cleared his throat. John Rabid had nothing left to lose. A serpent backed into a corner, forced to become his most venomous. Now, all bets were off.
“You want to know the truth? You probably don’t deserve it, but truth is exactly what you’re going to get. What happens after? I couldn’t give a toss about.”
“What does--”
“It means you’re going to have to wake up every day from this day on, to a new reality. This world is a lie. Your place in it, is a lie. I played their game for eons, and today they repaid my loyalty by murdering my family.”
“John...who are they?”
“Eons?”
John felt the eyes of the constables turn on him; a mass of blue ready to surge forward and quell his rebellion. It was to be expected, the Covenant where everywhere, they had puppet strings attached to every facet of society. The police were not immune, none were immune, none except John Rabid - the anomaly they could not control, the deceiver that they feared the most.
“Fuck it”, thought the serpent, “Fuck it if they can’t take a joke”
“You want answers? Here’s the only answer you need, my name is John Rabid, and I’m a Vam--”
Time froze. Constables brandishing semi automatic weapons suddenly became statues of petrified flesh; muzzle flare with nowhere to go. Screaming journalists, their bodies cowering yet never reaching the floor. There was only one woman who could perform such a miracle, her heels clanging against the tarmac as she stepped out from behind a nest of panicking bystanders.
Bonnie Blue; dressed in a Union Jack tee she must have brought from a gift shop, jeans, a leather jacket. She looked haunted, drained. Something inside of her was hollowing out. Maybe the power drain it took to pull off this trick, but Rabid sensed something more. This was it. The convergence, time had finally caught with him.
“Hello, Bonnie, your nose”
Bonnie looked down and saw a speck of red on her Union Jack that wasn’t the St. George cross. It was blood, her blood, dripping from her nostril.
“Have you been fighting the gypos outside of Covent Garden again?”
“John, honey...do you remember?”
The Serpent nodded, memories of events let to come arrived and rewrote others hundreds of years in the past. This was the horror of time travel, losing who you were, for the person you are about to become. The butterfly beats its wings, the world changes.
“Yeah. It’s Time”
“Let’s talk. You have a promise to keep.”
Chapter 3
In My Shadow
From: Rabid1@Echelon.net
To: VeryBigGoogle.com
Bumbling henchman, that’s all you’ve ever been, Will. You’re a Laurel and Hardy act with a brain damaged hungarian on your shoulder. Congratulations, “Armada”, you’re Alex Richards without the jokes. Which to me means you’re basically Alex Richards. I especially enjoyed the embarrassment of ‘Very Big Supremacists’, this is why I told you not to listen to other people and their agendas, becoming a fat racist just goes to show how uninspired a human being you’ve become. But hey, anything for laughs though, right? Maybe if your lard ass had tried to goose step across the ring once in awhile it would’ve been funny. But you’ve never been that creative. The best you can conjure up is shitting your pants.
Me on the other hand? I’m nothing but creative. My talent spans generations, it eclipses eras and embarrasses legends. The only reason I’m in this match is because it was booked by a man who lives inside a woman’s giant, cavernous clitoris. Such is the level of smarts at the helm of the WCF these days. Still, like I said, I enjoy a challenge, so I think I’ll turn to a classic for inspiration. Which means William, on Christmas eve, you get to be Tiny Tim! Yeah, I know, the irony, but listen, just like Tiny Tim from the Dickens tale “A Christmas Carol” you’ll get to be a crippled useless character, who through the course of events will die and serve as a wake up call for others. That’s what I have planned for you, William. I’m going to dissect you on my canvass and send the elephantine remains back to “Spain City” so Johnny Foreigner can see what happens when Johnny Rabid deals with those that betray his country and its flag.
Yes, William. BETRAYER. That’s what you are. I gave you and the Hungarian a safe port. I gave you food (so, so much food) and shelter from the storm. And how do you repay me? Very Big Spaniards...VERY BIG SPANIARDS? SHIT OFF, YOU FUCKING BUFFOON! I’m going to make you eat your own liver this Monday night, you incontinent twat! You do not take the Union Jack in vein! Do you hear me? Or are your ears full of lard like the rest of you? Clear them lug holes out before the 24th, William, you need to hear me when I snap your bones. You need to hear my laughter. I want my joy to echo inside whatever’s left of that brain of yours so that maybe, just maybe you’ll wake up and renounce your gimmick of the week and come home.
In truth though, William, you’re coming home regardless, the means of your arrival however is up to you. You either lumber off the plane with your tail between your legs and grovel at the majesty of my kingdom. Or I bring your head home and place it on a pike. Maybe Ainsley will be there at your funeral, a fat Old Yeller, watching over your remains year after year though rain and shine. Shivering in the cold, as you rot beneath his feet. That might be funny, if I cared. I guess.
But caring is an undiscovered country to me now. It’s useless. Just like you William, a useless fat mess with no value. You’re a failure trying to pass for satire and I’m bored of it. You bore me, William. You were never interesting, everything you are has been propped up by a desperate management structure to look interesting. You get this match because you remained loyal to a crumbling cause. Very Big Ass kissers, that’s your next gimmick, even though that’s been you since the start. You always did love to smooch, didn’t you William? A man your size is supposed to be imposing, but when I see you, when I hear you, the only word that springs to mind is pathetic. You’re a fat man with an anorexic sense of self respect. An anorexic skill set. Yeah, pathetic...perfect for you. So utterly pathetic, the quintessential company brown nose. Breaking you will be a mercy. A mercy you do not deserve.
Tearing you apart should mean more, the size difference, the weight class. But look where we are on the card. It should tell you exactly what defeating a loon like Scott Slayer last week actually means. It counts for nothing. Against me? Even less. You’re being feed to me, William. All that brown nosing has rewarded you with your career being gutted and left to bleed out in a wrestling ring. That’s what you get for being the comedy act and a company man. You’ve become a punchline for someone else’s joke. This week it’s mine.
Why did William the Behemoth cross the road? Because his hearse was reversing.
This match isn’t even an anecdote to me. It’s nothing. It’s an embarrassment in truth because I am a main event talent feed shite like you. It’s depressing to see the once mighty WCF fall so far, so fast. Bonnie and I are doing our best to right the ship, but the ballast may be lost and her rudder damaged beyond repair. And yet, I soldier on, I struggle against the tide, because this old haunt of mine means something to me, even when I have to trudge through useless dross like you, William. Even when that indignity is thrust upon me by lessers. Jayson and Corey don’t respect true talent like me it seems; probably professional jealousy, after all I could wipe the floor with both of them hands down, and yet here I am, making a nonsense match like this look good, just because I can. Just because I’m me.
Good. Day.
