Post by John Rabid on Jan 27, 2019 23:35:57 GMT -5
Chapter 1
Tape 001: Wakey, Wakey
“CLICK”
Okay, so how should I start? How about a brief introduction to wet the palate. My birth name is Jason Rush. When I strut down a pyrotechnic bombarded WCF ramp on a sold out Monday Night Slam, gnashing my fangs though the flames at your jeering, triggered faces? It’s John Rabid you see. But no matter what moniker I go by, who I am...or should I say, “what” I am I’ve kept to myself for decades. Occasionally there’s been times when I’ve been backed into a corner and forced to lead you down some outlandish garden path. As something of a habitual deceiver it all seemed part of the game. At least that’s what I told myself, until the rules changed. Who makes the rules you ask?
“The Covenant” makes the rules.
Now, these Covenant bellends, they fancy themselves to be something of a “spiritual organisation” They believe in rules and regulations. They prise loyalty above all. And for those that challenge the status quo? There’s penalties to be paid. You suffer the repercussions and you retreat back into your shell. That’s how it’s supposed to go. But not with me. I find avenues of escape. Exit strategies. And when I’ve regrouped? I strike back.
All of the above has nothing and everything to do with you, dear listener. What happened to my family is personal, what I’m about to tell you is strictly in your best interest.
The world is full of vampires. Real vampires. They’re not Gothic flops. They don't sparkle. They don’t cross oceans of time searching for lost loves. They’re organised. They’re serious.
And they own you.
“CLICK”.
Chapter 2
Pick your Poison
The John Rabid estate. Somerset, England.
As an early morning mist descended over the extravagant domicile of quintessential English Vampire John Rabid, time drew close. The serpent was joined in his streamlined and modern “media room “ by Bonnie Blue, her heels providing an echoed punctuation on the marble floor as she slumped into a large leather recliner. Her workout gear was relaxed and functional, while the art deco surroundings that Rabid enjoyed felt less cluttered and pomp than the all too obvious opulence of the remainder of the house.
In the rooms center was a large TV screen. Rabid (Who was dressed in a Led Zeppelin tee complimented by a pair of skinny black jeans and white adidas, poured his lover another glass of Chateau Mouton Rothschild (1945) As the WCF power couple sipped on their Bordeaux blend, the giant 60’’ inch screen beamed live a constellation of camera phone flashes pulsing at irregular beats as worse for wear looking Corey Black and a sprightly Jayson Price emerged onto a hastily constructed Pennsylvania stage. This was the draw for the competitors of the Tag Team League, and while John had no preferences for a partner, Odin Balfore might prove to be a stumbling block.
“So, what if you get Jay Omega?” Quizzed, Bonnie. “Will you two be able to function?”
“Function?” replied Rabid. “Of course! I hated Jared Holmes, but that never stopped us from becoming the most dominant trios champions in history. No matter what Everest might say, that is a fact. Same with Kyle Kemp. I hated the shrill, but we dominated the Tag division for months. I have no preference, because with me? It just doesn’t matter.”
Corey made an obvious cough into a clenched hand as Jayson stepped forward from the shadows and turned the handle on the obviously archaic bingo hall style tumbler that contained a series of numbered balls.
“Number 12” shouted Corey as Jayson checked a clipboard and said “Odin Balfore”
Rabid smirked, he honestly half hoped it would be him next.
“Number eight” proclaimed the former Creeping Death as once more Jayson checked the clipboard. “Alex Richards!”
Rabid smirked while drinking, the expensive Bordeaux shooting up his nostrils as he burst out into roaring laughter. “Odin will go spare. This is perfect!”
“Number 7” was the next number. “Roy Speede!” Shouted Jayson, as Corey received the full force of Prices lungs into his now perforated ears.
“Number 6!” Shouted Corey. Rabid poured himself another glass and swigged it back, saving a drop for a toast. “John Rabid!” was the echo around the WCF studio as the serpent raised his glass.
“Here’s to silver linings!” Smirked Rabid as Bonnie kissed her man on the cheek. “First ever two time AW world champion, Roy has some pedigree.”
“He bested Wade” Began Bonnie, “Not a bad man to have in your corner.”
“Not bad at all” Finished Rabid.
Chapter 3
Malcolm in the mid card
From:@theserpent
To:@thechurchofsingh_Xman
Dear Not Malcolm X
Now, allow me to understand the narrative, X. Is this the part where I’m I supposed to quake in my boots over the return of “THE GREATEST LIVING AMERICAN” Yeah, I don’t think so, Mikey. Look at you, you’re one step away from becoming a full blown Rob Zombie stock character. Your entire gimmick is a fake bible nobody reads. Your entire schick is that you’re the best, even though your longest title reign lasted an uninspiring four months, four months for a U.S. belt nobody could be bothered to challenge you for. While I held the WCF Television championship for nine months, every seven days I fought under the yoke of constant, heated competition week after punishing week. And you know what? I never lost that belt. Think about that, nine long months at the top, In that time I could’ve impregnated Vidalia with some useful DNA for a change and watched your face explode as her child was eventually born without your mongoloid pollution in its veins. Imagine it, a baby in your midst possessing the capacity to actually grow and learn. Then again, that’s probably a bad idea considering you’re such a fucking edgelord. You’d probably eat the infant with some fava beans and a chilled bottle of YooHoo.
THE BOOK OF EXTREME: JUST LIKE OLD TIMES
A Good Reviews blog by John Rabid
And so, another listless, self congratulatory chapter in the life of Michael Extreme unfolds as our deluded protagonist spits nonsensical venom across the page. From the first line it’s another ride trapped aboard a hot garbage barge leading nowhere. Previous chapters have been painful, but this time however it feels especially excruciating as our bewildered minds are subjected to “X” screaming about a RISE OF DARKNESS (all caps) As I’ve previously stated, “Justin Bieber: First Step 2 Forever”, is the worst book ever written, but at least that shitshow has a twisted purpose. This “Catcher in the Rye meets your first dump of the day” is simply trash in wrestling tights as X proclaims himself the best at everything. And from this point on there is no discernible narrative nor character study. X supposedly has Vidalia and Freakshow and the imaginary “Doc” as barely constructed foils for the lead. Maybe if “The Devil’s Rejects” had a better plot, Mikey would have a tighter plotted fable unfolding around him too. But it isn’t, and so Mikey doesn’t. Redundant seems an easy get out for a work constructed with this amount of sheer stupidity, but it will have to do.
Everything you are, all that aggressive banter that prattles down from your slobbering lips and bobbing malformed head is meaningless. Nobody considers you anything but a third rate blowhard. On any given day (when I’m around) you’re relegated to the Jason O’Neal table with all the other fluke champion nerds that can’t hang against real competition. Oh, and while you’re there, say hello to Oblivion for me, let IT know his foundation is still alive and kicking and making me money. Just like you’re gonna make me money “X” by pretending to be competition this week, before being swept aside like a daffodil in the wind. Dissected and forgotten.
Forgotten, that’s your world title reign by the way. You win it one month, you lose it the next. If there’s an algorithm to your career, it’s that you can’t hold onto shit. You have no staying power. No sense of fortitude. Nine times out of ten you’re a flat track bully that steamrolls over eyes fixed higher up the card, or legends who’re simply punching the clock until it’s time to hand the torch over. Up against a real foil that’s focused? And you crumble. But don’t take my word for it, because the facts speak for themselves.
31st May 2015 - You win the US title from Kaz Mazy
28th June 2015 - You drop it back to Kaz.
Time held: 28 days. (enough time for a zombie apocalypse, not enough time for you to learn how to be a wrestler)
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25th March 2018 - You defeat Teo Del Sol for the Omega Championship
1st April 2018 - Corey Black shelves the belt (because an April fool like you kills titles)
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27th August 2017 A contractually obliged Corey Black rolls over and hands Mikey eXtreme the Omega Championship (also in the match was nineties teen drama, Dawson Creek and #fightsmart drama queen, Kyle Kemp.)
17th September 2017: Sidney J. Warwick pins Mikey eXtreme to win the Omega Championship. (Mikey doesn’t win it back, he simply rolls over and cries)
Twenty one days, Mikey. And so it goes on. You win a title, a month or so later it slips through your fingers like water. You have no staying power. Your supposed legendary Tag title run lasted a poultry thirty-five days. While I dragged Kyle Kemp around like a broomstick / rag doll hybrid for a staggering ninety two days. That's ninety two days including a ONE 2015 show stealer where I basically took on half the roster in a winner takes all TLC tag match and came away victorious. Former UCI world champion Preecha Kamon couldn’t prize the belt away, nether could AW World Champion Spencer Adams, or Vic Venable. None of them could get it done because when it comes to the Tag division, just like the Television strap, I dominate. All I need is a partner that isn’t a demented superhero or a deluded hack who gambles his career away and I’m set.
Funny thing about that ONE Tag match though, is that your US title defence preceded it. Thanks for killing our heat by the way, Mikey, most appreciated. You remember how you assaulted Chelsea Armstrong? You went right after her busted neck. Very convincing win against a woman who’d spent the better part of a year being softened up by the likes of Jayson Price and Isaiah Chavis. You know what Seth said to me as I stood at Gorilla watching your shitshow unfold as you attacked Armstrong’s gurney? He said you peaked. This was it, as far as the train would take you. Little did Lerch know the WCF would sink so low as for Mikey X to carry the strap. The upswing though is that it’s you, so of course that World title reign was doomed to crash exactly one month later. And who did you drop it to?
Odin Balfore. Your biggest nemesis. That’s where you fall on the pecking order, “King of Extreme”, below the 60 year old truck driver to the gods. You’re crawling on your belly avoiding the gaze of a seven foot tall Big Lebowski cosplayer, with a busted wheel and a primadonna attitude. Last week on Slam, Pensacola was treated to a massacre in the main event. Bonnie and I decimated the Norse Tank. We smashed his spirit until it resembled a teething child lost and alone. Your so called “Wrestler of the Year”, was crushed under my oppressive boot. Meanwhile your career is mid carding in a pointless match with a nobody in Vincent Augustine, a pathetic non entity that should have stayed dead when Bonnie Blue gave him the chance.
That's the difference between me and you, Mikey. When I return I’m an instant main event hit. But with you, it’s different. No one’s convinced. Even with all these accolades you bestow upon yourself, nobody is buying it. King of Extreme? More like Queen for a day. Take for instance Sidney J Warwick. When you lose to a WAR winner it’s a mid card loss for a forgotten title. When I lose? It’s the main event of ONE. Even my failures dwarf yours. And let’s not forget that I at least hold a win over SJW, what do you have? A crying bald head and a serial rapist for a manager in Freakshow. When you lick your wounds and scurry back to that lighthouse at the end of the world, I get back up and beat my enemy. I manoeuvred Sidney out of his WAR world title shot and won the WCF title in the process. What did you do? You observed and grew sour. So sour that all your hair fell out.
Speaking of Freakshow, how is he not in prison? He raped a woman in front of you in a promo and you’re still running around like nothing happened! How is Vidalia okay with this? What are you, a Zombie McMorris clone throwing dead prostitutes out of the back of a blue Honda accord? Oh, but of course, he’s your mentor, your muse. Why should I expect you to be any more grown up? Couple of years ago you were hiding in kids closets with Danny boy, bet you thought no one would remember that promo. I did. I was the one that called social services. In fact, when I think about it, it makes perfect sense that you would find yourself a Golden God. All Churches are the same, why should yours be any different?
The Church of Singh. Just another support role for you, Mikey. At least that was the plan. Mikey X, third acolyte from the left. Just another bible thumper. But you had to get upperty. You had to overshadow the Crook. Good move. Smart. Stephen Singh isn’t all that he’s cracked up to be. You proved that. You also proved to be untrustworthy and an ungrateful backstabber. These are qualities I can appreciate. Unfortunately for you, this isn’t an Ultimate Showdown match where you can claim a momentary lapse of faith and prosper. This is a tag contest. It’s all about trust. So what do you suppose your “Self professed consummate professional” Jaice Wilds thinks of your betrayal? Do you honestly expect anyone to believe you're still under the thumb of Singh? He didn’t walk out on you at ONE because he had a vision of a burning bush. He hates you. Singh despises you.
Now, I know something about fractures in a team dynamic. I once superkicked Jared Holmes in the face because he pissed me off. I threw a trios tag belt down the toilet for Everest to plunder and claim like it was the second coming. And you know what? I didn’t bat an eyelid. So what makes me different from you? Simple. #beachkrew had beaten everyone for that trios title. There was no challenge left. No hill to climb. I was bored. You? You have no legendary tag run. You only have votes by sheep who are noobs and transients. A pointless win over Power Word: Kill, a tag team nobody in the WCF knows nor cares about. You have a mind dulled by religious infatuation. You have an invisible “little Jimmy” name Doc that only you and two other dimwitted twats can see. You know who else disappeared up their own arse like you?
Kevin Bishop.
Now, go ask Bishop what it means to stand in a wrestling ring with John Rabid. It means the end of your faction. It means the dissolution of your dreams. This week I will coil around your temple and bring it all crashing down around your cauliflower ears. This week, for one week only, I am the one that walks the path of the righteous man. Seeking to punish false prophets choking up my fucking air time with an exhausted gimmick that died the day “The Church of the Dark Saints” closed its doors. But don’t worry, there is a silver lining in this for you. Losing this week took the combined talents of John Rabid and Roy Speede. So at least no one can say you lost to some randoms. Take pride in that. You fell to the best. No shame.
Malcolm X once said, “Be peaceful, be courteous, obey the law, respect everyone; but if someone puts his hand on you, send him to the cemetery.” Your culturally appropriated namesake is half right, X. No peace, no courteously. But sending you to a cemetery? “Amen, brother X…”
“...I have seen the light.”
Chapter 4
Church of the Poisoned Mind
The interior of the church was cold and empty, it’s walls constructed from cheap bolster wood and a handful of tacts while the stained glass windows had the composition of cheap sugar. Roy Speede and John Rabid checked out the WCF set with incriminating eyes. “Who had this built?” enquired Speede. “Corey, in case the Church wanted to perform more sermons live on Slam! He thought the set might work as a heat magnet”
“You think Jaice Wilds cares about any of this?” Inquired Roy. “He doesn’t seem phased by anything”
“That’s because Jaice wilds has nothing to be phased over. Have you noticed every promo he conducts always starts with him trying to convince his audience that he’s a consummate professional with years of experience. That Jaice is a major star in lots of federations...that you’ve never heard of. That’s the speil of a cold canvasser. Because basically, that's what Jaice Wilds is. A cold canvasser for a idea that does not exist. The concept of Jaice Wilds being anywhere close to the main event scene is laughable. He’s never won a WCF Heavyweight title. Never come near to a WAR win. Never won Ultimate Showdown. And yet Jaice wilds considers himself some kind of entitled legend. He’s nothing. A vulture that leeches off the backs of those that have worked longer and harder in this business than his scams will ever amount to.”
“Yeah, he’s always seemed too smarmy for his own good. I remember getting weirded out by him during AW talent rally’s. He always pushed his way to the front like the heavyweight strap was perched on his shoulder and not mine. Yet he’s always light by ten pounds of gold”
“Jaice is a dreamer, a fantasist. In a lot of ways, this set is Jaice. Inside it represents a place of worship. It has reverence and respect. Outside though, it’s cheap. A phoney. A plastic facsimile of the real thing. Just like Jaice and his flights of fancy. I spoke with Bonnie about him. She shares your opinion.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Bonnie said Jaice was “Some dude who had a mediocre career in WCF while I was dominating UCI in both tag and singles competition, who was always talking like he was going to challenge me, but hid behind a mask and a different persona. Trying to play it safe”
“No chance for him to play it safe inside The Columbus Civic Center. You can’t hide behind ten thousand fans throwing sodas when the great “Xtreme Aerialist” has had his wings clipped by a BOOM! HEADSHOT! Jaice wants to play in the major leagues, that’s nice for the old man, but he forgot to invest in some talent. And that means no seat at the table for round two.”
“So, about this set. I’m thinking, superkick practice?”
Roy smirked
“Sure, why not?”
The Church collapsed under the impact of a devastating double superkick that splintered the facade into a thousand pieces. The dreams of Church and man died as reality came crashing down.
FIN.
