#ONElove

[John Rabid]

Chapter 1

The Price of Power

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

So, here we are Jayson. One has finally arrived. January 7th at the Wells Fargo center sees us meet one on one for the first time ever. But as auspicious as that fact is, it’s just the same routine for me I undertake before every match. I do my homework. I study form. I search and scour for a weakness that I can exploit; a chink in the armor I can use to capitalize and triumph. And yet, this time it is different, because you Jayson, have the greatest resume of any professional wrestler I have ever faced, and that includes Joey Flash. You outshine them all. It’s an incredible history you have, Jayson. Nobody can deny that. It archs over two iconic companies and incompasses the lengh and breath of their histories. Just imagine a world without you, Jayson, exactly where would the WCF and UCI be without you? Want to know the answer? It’s simple. I can tell you everything you need to know with just one sentence.

“Why the fuck am I not in the Hall of Fame?”

Now, as far as I’m concerned, the hall of fame is a fallacy, it’s a joke. It means nothing to me. Because I know that it’s an old boys club, designed by the original dinosaurs of this federation to pat each other on the back, and to sub those that follow them. If it was progressive, If it was inclusive, then Dune would be included in their ranks. As would Joey Flash and Frank Patrick Venable. But it isn’t, now is it? And yet here you are, icing your ball sack because you had the audacity to step up and ask to be inducted. How impertinent of you. To think you should be allowed to stand toe to toe with the likes of Trent Hunter and Epic. Names nobody knows. Names nobody remembers. And yet you, Jayson Price, a two time grand slam champion. The only man to headline both Ten and Fifteen; has the Hall of Fame door slammed firmly in his face. To the sound of raucous laughter, that echoes across Philadelphia like a cackling symphony.

You want it, so you can never have it. Because no matter how many matches you win, no matter how many titles you hold, you’ll always be Jayson Price. You’ll always be one half of a ridiculous tag team like Mushroom Mandingo. You’ll always be the guy that ruined Andre Holmes’s career. You’ll always be the man that lives inside a woman’s vagina. The man whose cameraman gimmick hasn’t altered course in over a decade. The naked drunk on a tricycle. Mr. Every Title. Mr. Self Destruct. Even when you sink to the despicable levels of breaking Chelsea Armstrong’s neck, nobody can take you seriously. You can Price Check skulls on a thousand steel steps and they can echo for all eternity, but even then, you’re still Jayson Price. The man that murdered his clone in the center of the ring because he didn’t want to be called “Jay” anymore. Still the fool. Still the wasted potential. Still the man who could never fill Logan’s boots. The man that blew it. You personify privilege because you were the chosen one for so very long, Jayson. Seth believed in you and pushed you all the way to the top. But when you got there? You proved to Seth and the world, time and time again, that you have absolutely no idea how to stay there. Your privilege eroded away until the bottle took over and it became your comfort blanket, and it was all downhill from there.

You know what Corey Black is to you? He’s your sponsor. He keeps finding you in a gutter, smeared in your own shit. He cleans you up and gives you a second chance and you keep blowing it on purpose because the idea of you reforming scares the shit out of you. Because someone like you, Jayson, can only see what it takes to be a true icon in this business. You’ll never have the guts to become it.

But that hand keeps reaching down, into the depths of your self loathing, dragging you back to the surface. Cleaning you up. Setting you on the right path. I used to think it was because Corey genuinely liked you. That he believed in you. But now I think he does it for his own twisted amusement. I think he gets a kick out of you playing the Yoko from inside whatever version of Pantheon Corey decides to create this week. It give him a reason to lose. A whipping boy he can point at and blame. You’re not an equal to him, Jayson, you’re an excuse for failure. An internet implosion waiting to happen. And now a wedding that’s the laughing stock of the wrestling world.

You held it all together for months, you booked the shows, you paid the talent. I stepped aside and you stepped up and I was proud of you, Jayson. Finally, you had the reins and you ran with it. You even managed to make Corey Black look like a cuck afterthought while he bodied himself at L. Verez’s feet in AW. But it was never going to last, was it Jayson? You can’t pretend to be the alpha for long. You just can’t keep your finger off that detonator. It calls out to you. It sings to you. And before you know it, it’s pressed. A whole new way to unravel all the good work you’ve done. So you walk headlong into traffic and book yourself into “The Wedding of the year” at One, because if you’re going to humiliate yourself, why not do so on the grandest stage of them all? At least in that regard you think big, even if it is only to create the largest pratfall in human history, diving face first with aplom into the clitrial maw of a ninty year old sex pest.

You can hold all the titles, all the accolades, but the truth is, Jayson, you’re the wrestling equivalent of gruel; you’re bland. You’re forgettable. Your whole shtick is a onenote sexual pathology undertaken by a drunk coroner giving himself a handjob. You’re a man obsessed with the D. You think that means yours, but I’m beginning to think otherwise. Afterall, Mama Snatch is your first girlfriend in years. While you’ve always surrounded yourself with men filming your every move. Maybe you wank off over it. Maybe they do and you get to watch. Personally, I think you protest too much. Maybe Mama is your cover story because The Swerve has hacked emails between you and Corey Black:

CD: Hey Panties. Whatcha doing?

Panties: Beating myself off to footage of you getting bodied by Odin for your WCF World title. That was a special moment. I like how he kept hitting you with a Burning Hammer. Gets me hard.

CD: Didn’t think you could get an erection after the coma incident. At least that's what the Doctors told me.

Panties: Fucking lies.

CD: They said it was useless now, a flaccid mess. You get painful discharges. Even Cameraman Stu stripping off and working those nipple clamps leaves you soft.

Panties: Lies!

CD: Oh yeah? Which part?

Panties: Every part. I’m hard right now just thinking about you and L. Verez. She Femdomed you into the mid card.

CD: Fuck AW, and quit being a freak. I have something to tell you.

Panties: Oh yeah? What? The part where you enjoyed it? I bet you did.

CD: Shut it, Panties! Listen. I’m fighting Wade Moor at ONE.

Panties: Yeah? So? I’ve beaten him. I don’t care.

CD: Yes you do. You want to hold me again, don’t you? How many matches have we had?

Panties: About thirty. Five of those you promised to retire after.

CD: Yeah well, you play too rough and hurt my feelings. You know I say things I don’t mean. So, who are you facing?

Panties: I’m waiting for a reply to my open challenge.

CD: Did you remember to pay Juice Worlds?

Panties: It’s Jaice Wilds.

CD: Whatever. Did you pay him?

Panties: Why? What’s that got to do with anything? Juice will show and take up the challenge. He knows it’s worth a Hardcore shot. We spoke.

CD: Oh....

Panties: What do you mean, “Oh”?

CD: John Rabid answered the challenge.

Panties: FUCK!

CD: No thanks. Not after last time. You left a rubber ducky up there. So, what are you gonna do?

Panties: Pay Rabid off. I can’t handle that level of talent. I have half a liver working and my dick is broken. I’m a shadow of what I used to be. And you don’t even love me anymore.

CD: Dick broken?

Panties: Keyboard slip...FUCK!

CD: You’re wrong though. I do love you. You should fight Rabid for me.

Panties: I’m not that stupid.

CD: Joey Flash beat him.

Panties: Just. And Rabid kicked out of the world. Nobody has done that. Rabid has the best win/loss record in the entire federation. He held the television title for nine months. Maybe a few years ago when I was in better shape it would still have been a contest between us. But today? It’s a slaughter. I’m only good for comedy these days. I’m the man living inside a woman’s vagina. That’s my level.

CD: But, I’m fighting Wade Moor. Don’t you want to prove to me that you can still ONE up me?

Panties: I’ve ONE-upped you dry, you little whore! And I’ve left rubber duckies in my wake. Besides, I’ve decided my love for you doesn’t lead to suicide. So go fuck yourself, CD.

CD: Every night, thinking of you. Go on, Panties...fight for me. Fight Rabid. I promise to worship your shattered corpse afterwards.

Panties: Leave me alone, you bitch!

CD: You know I can’t quit you.

Panties: Stop it.

….

CD: Jayson....you know you want to. For me. Dethfort has been cold without you.

….

Panties: Wait, wait so...you’ll take me back If I fight Rabid? Really? Promise me before I agree.

CD: I promise nothing.

Panties: Cunt! Alright...alright I’ll do it!

CD: That’s my Panties.

You know why “Till death do us part” follows ONE? It’s because of moments like this. The above exchange may be fake, but you know Jayson that the motives are real. Corey goads you all day, every day and you follow him like a cuntstruck puppet. Answer me this though, why didn’t Corey leap to your defense at The Hall of Fame ceremony if WCF is an actual partnership between you two? Because no matter how hard you work for this company. No matter how much you cover for Corey. You’re just the hired help. You’re Corey’s Jim Crow bitch. You’re his underling. His amusement. You’re a masochist that can’t help but grovel at the feet of men that don’t deserve to wipe the shit from your boots. And thats funny. To Corey Black.

It’s not funny to me though. Your twisted perversion makes me sick. If I had my way though, I’d rather fight Corey Black first and end him before you. Personally I cannot stand the hypocrisy that Corey champions in this place. The Jayson Price’s of this world that dedicate themselves to working hard and displaying good practices are treated like scum. Those like Corey that snivel and lick the right boots of irrelevant legends, people (and I use the term loosely) who don’t even run the company anymore, get the rewards. Corey Black sold you out to Seth Lerch and now he’s seen as the hero, when in reality it really should be you Jayson. Corey’s a yes man while you’ve become a nowhere man.

When I left the WCF a year ago after the SJW scandal it was for the good of this company. At the time I naively thought I was protecting it’s “good name” from being dragged through the mud. Now after seeing you Jayson on your knees with Seth Lerch grinning over you like a Cheshire cat I know I made the wrong decision. I never should have bothered. Looking around there’s fuck all here to save in 2019. Especially you, Jayson. You’re too far gone. ONE, January 7th is a mercy killing. The first of many. So I might as well start with the best of a rotten bunch. Then work my way down from there.

Still, as a parting gift I promise to send you a mobility scooter as a memento of our adventure together. I’m sure you’ll get some use out of it. Just remember to bill Corey Black for the repair costs later, after all, he’s the one that drove you into this mess in the first place by picking Wade Moor to fight. Corey gets the easier option, you get the impossible mountain to climb. Maybe next time though, Corey will take pity on you and you’ll get a fingering instead from your lover, rather than a match staring down the barrel of a kingdom destroyer that’s going to snap your spine like a twig.

Chapter 2 

Remains Redux

Three Months ago

Far beyond the confines of the Rush family apartment, a top floor affair that was situated in London’s affluent Chelsea district; a frustrated John Rabid was hard at work at his South Bank offices on the latest script for a Kingdom Pro Wrestling PPV event; burning the midnight oil to meet a looming Saturday deadline. While inside the apartment, skulking in the shadows at the exact same time, was also John Rabid. A John Rabid that had recently turned Bonnie Blue with razor blade kiss into a match for the sadistic God that taunted to end her existence at WCF Payback.

The paradox was the result of Rabid’s uniqueness. How he began many decades ago was as a lowly copy and paste monster eking out a meagre existence on the throats of back alley whores, what he had become in the interim was far from such humble beginnings. He was an adaptive; he didn’t just drain, he copied, duplicating the abilities and memories of those he embraced. Inside his now fervent mind was a crowded room of heroes and villains, of mythic beasts and towering legends. But none of them could withstand what Rabid had in his locker now, a will to survive unrivaled by the great and the good of history.

Today though, Rabid would not use that survival instinct for himself, but for those he loved. John watched with an intense stare as his wife, Emily, was making a cup of steaming hot chocolate in the apartments spacious chrome and steel kitchen. Her hair was long and blonde and perfect; because models never really stop being models, they’re conditioned to condition and Emily was no different. Everything seemed to stop though as she turned and blew a gust of gentle breeze into the mug. Her dressing gown was blue, her cup was grey, these facts never registered for the serpent. All he could see was his wife standing before him. All he cared about was saving her this time.

“Hey, I thought you were still in the office. What’s happening?

John emerged from their bedroom, tiptoeing as not to wake their son. “You look beautiful. I love you.” He didn’t feel the need to dress the sentiment up. John just wanted to say it as simple and as earnest as possible. Bonnie..had changed him. He sought her power, but her memories, her emotions, they cancelled out the last mythic creature he feed on, an alien without true emotion or sympathy, a harbinger for a new world order. A Jalaxaritkusian agent Thuggin had named JOHN RABID.

“We don’t have much time. Not in the here and now. Do you trust me?” said the serpent.

“Always, John” Emily said, frowning as John forced a smile with a tear forming in his eye. “We better wake, Dorian. It’s time to go”. “Go, where?” inquired Emily. “John, are you okay?”

Jason Rush held his wife in his arms for the first time since Bonnie and the embrace, now John could feel what love and hope and passion might be like. It had been so long since such emotions were accessible. But now, he could share them with Emily. Exchange looks that carried warmth. Allow emotion to sway his decisions. It wasn’t weakness, it was strength.

But it was also all too fleeting. They had to go, the covenant agents would soon be here.

“Take my hand” said John. “Don’t worry, I’ll explain along the way.”

As they disappeared the front door was kicked in as a firebomb was hurtled inside. As flames engulfed the walls and spread up to the ceiling, two carefully placed bodies were lying in a bedroom each; stolen from the local morgue, their dental records altered to match those of Emily and Dorian. A few hours later, John Rabid would look up from the back of a ambulance at the burned out husk of his old life and feel the convergence take place. While two hundred years in the past, another John, living with Emily and Dorian would begin a new life; with new adventures. A woman married to a husband now filled with a new sense of purpose and the capacity to finally express it.

Emily and Dorian lived and fought and cried. They grew old and regretted as people do. John was by their side as always. Later, Rabid would disguise himself as an old man to be at their hospital beds or to kiss them goodbye at their funerals. They didn’t recognize John as they slipped from life, that broke his heart.

But Jason Rush never regretted the pain, he knew the cost of not feeling. He never wanted to live that way again.

Chapter 3

The Ball Drop

The WCF of the year awards. Forrest Theater. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
January 1st. 2019

Jayson Price fell to his knees, his pitiful frame compressed and contorted into a quivering fetus position on impact with the marble stage that broke his fall. As the wrestler struggled to regain his bearings through streaming tears, Jayson’s tuxedo shook with a burst of intense agony. It wasn’t long before Jayson instinctively reached down and clutched his sucker punched crotch with both sweaty palms. The laughter that echoed around Price was deafening, a swarm of joy that rocked the WCF awards ceremony to the rafters. Jayson’s Hall of Fame ‘doxing’ had triggered a riotous response among the attending audience. A roar comprised of fellow professional wrestlers who bestowed a hero’s welcome upon the returning Seth Lerch; his undernourished frame still too feeble for his tailored suit as he stood proudly over Price. Seth soaking up a seemingly endless outburst of cheers that greeted him.

Seth’s return was a unilateral success, except for one silent voice of dissent, John Rabid’s lip was upturned as his face scowled. The sight of a pathetic Jayson Price enraged the Serpent as his icy blood boiled “Get up, you fucking mincer!” snarled Rabid to himself, “Get up and show some fight!”. Rabid shuffled uncomfortably in his seat as Bonnie Blue placed a gentle hand upon his shoulder; her sapphire gown glistened under the arena’s hot lights, a calming ocean of azure beauty, and yet, in this moment, nothing could simmer John’s temper.

“What is Price doing?” John snarled.

“Probably pissing himself” replied Bonnie. “I imagine the first three rows will catch chlamydia off the stench alone.”

“The man is a disgrace.” Rabid’s head was in his hands now as he loosened the bow tie wrapped around his neck that completed his modest black tuxedo. “I can’t believe Jayson is just lying there, get up! GET UP, MAN! How can Jayson allow a nothing like Seth Lerch to blindside him like this? Seth’s absolutely pathetic, the cunt backed a sex offender for chrissakes, he’s an unrepentant shit that cracked this federation in two, and now he’s getting an ovation? ON YOUR FEET, JAYSON...COME ON!”

But Jayson just laid there, broken and unmoving. As if his spirit had been alchemized into a block of solid lead. Rabid’s eyes darted left and right as the laughter intensified around him. It made The Serpent sick to his stomach. Even for a man as devious and as malefic as John Rabid, the injustice of it all was just too much.

“This room is full of parasites, let’s go.” Rabid whispered to Bonnie. “I don’t want to be here anymore.”

Out in the floyer, away from the echoes of the sycophants, Bonnie kissed John on the cheek while there arms were linked tightly. “You’re usually cooler than this, John. Is it about--?”

“Emily and Dorian had long, good lives, I cherish every waking moment I spent with them; but they should have lived those lives here, with me. Not two hundred years in the past.”

“You gave me a shot at survival. You changed time itself and reversed history. You saved them. And you saved me. Think about it, you had a whole lifetime with them. And now you have a whole lifetime with me. Isn’t that enough?”

“I’m not sure I know what “enough” means. I don’t think I’ll ever know. I only sense the hunger. And that hunger, It taunts me. Teases me with it’s flame. It never lets me go. That’s why I can’t abide ambition rewarded with disrespect. If I was Jayson Price, I’d be stabbing both of Seth’s eyes out right now. Price deserves better than being treated like a dog.”

Bonnie smiled, “Now that’s the John Rabid I know” Her flowing Blonde and blue hair flopped forwards slightly as she kissed John tenderly on the cheek, “I wonder if Jayson knows you’re probably the only man left in this company that actually respects him?”

“Respected. Past tense.” John added. “Tonight was the last straw. When you get knocked down? You get back up. You wipe away the blood from your teeth and then spit in the face of your enemies. You punish them. You eviscerate them. Promise to calmly to kill them, then show them you’re a man of your word. Jayson Price will never display those kind of qualities. He’s a cart horse getting whipped out there. Those cucks laughing wouldn't have a job if it wasn’t for Jayson Price. He kept the wheels turning. He ran the place, not that fucking glory hound Corey Black on his nineteenth retirement tour. Jayson Price runs the WCF when everyone else bailed, it should be enough to have my respect, but it isn’t. Because Jayson had a simple decision to make out there. It was out of his hands to fall, but it was his choice not to get up. And I can’t abide that.”

“Sometimes people get knocked down so many times, it’s just easier to stay there. Every time Jayson achieves success, it never lasts. World Championships slip through his fingers like water. That’s why there’s a bitterness in him. A self loathing. He can beat Wade Moor at Fifteen, but two weeks later? It’s gone.”

Rabid shook his head, his teeth grinding at the mere mention of Wade. Bonnie looked away, bad timing. “That’s not an excuse though is it? I lost to Joey Flash at XIII, but I became the first man ever to kick out of the world in the process. Next time I’ll have the strength to do more than that. Because I evolve, while Jayson Price is a stagnant mess. The man back there on his knees has learned nothing from being a leader. All the opportunities in the world, and all he has to show for it, is a room laughing at him.”

“Clowns seek applause, John.” Bonnie said. “You can’t help a man that refuses to help himself”, Bonnie then ran her hand across Rabid’s cheek as Jason Rush felt the warmth of her kindness bring out a smile in him. “Put him down quick. Show some mercy”

Rabid thought about the request. And in a moment of love, decided to lie.

“If it pleases you. I suppose I could.”

Fin.