Post by John Rabid on Feb 10, 2019 23:23:35 GMT -5
Slam 02/04/2019
The block B match between Jayson Price and Vincent Augustine V Michael X and Jaice Wilds.
Unencumbered by the nation’s polar vortex, the Myrtle Beach Convention Centre sits around eight thousand in total. Most in attendance this Monday night are your prototypical casual wrestling fan. A condensed thrall of oversized and undernourished males have gathered, still sporting their fading #beachkrew or DRG shirts from a few years ago. They sing for Thomas Uriel Bates because they enjoy being annoying. They voted Republican because “reasons”. They think the flat Earth theory raises some “interesting points”. The MAGA contingent in row F laments the missing Logan, so they scream “Boudle” when the long suffering hot dog vendor makes her miserable, soul crushing rounds. A “Got your ticket?” chant eventually germinates from this, echoing around the jam packed arena as Roy Speede instinctively pulls down the brim of his blue “Silver Lining” baseball cap, shielding his rugged features from a nest of nearby fans perched like half starved vultures among the bleeds.
Sitting next to Roy is John Rabid; he’s wearing a pair of reading glasses and has his distinctive two-tone hair masked by a grey beanie hat. Rabid’s customary charcoal suit is a fading memory as he adopts a more casual appearance these days. “The Ripper” enjoys wearing a white David Bowie “Ziggy Stardust” tee with black skinny jeans and a pair of vintage chestnut lace up hiking boots. Yet for all of his casual hipster demeanour, Rabid appears plagued; troubled by a sense memory that bubbles and festers to the surface like turbulence across calm skies as "The Cell" by Gojira plays. The theme song of “The South Street Menace” Jayson Price.
Roy Speede: Princess should have stuck with “Get Down On The Ground” by Gillie Da Kid. Supporting a Philly icon at least showed some loyalty to his hometown.
John Rabid: That was ten years ago, Roy. There isn’t much of that Jay Price left. The man’s been in a coma, had his neck broken twice. Then there’s an IV full of piss running though his system like AW acid, porn addiction, alcoholism, riding a child’s tricycle naked on an L.A. freeway (actually happened). Not to mention random bouts of schizophrenia triggered by his desire to be noticed and or taken seriously. Shooting his clone in the face on live television because he’s such a fucking diva. The man has been pampered and spoiled since two thousand and nine, and now he just lives inside this reinforced bubble where he thinks the world actually revolves around him. But he’s thirty three years old, Roy. An old thirty three years, full of injury and substance abuse.
Roy Speede: Corey Black spoiled the jerk rotten. Princess was always told he was the second coming of Torture. He was going to be this messiah of a new Wrestling age. Instead Jay ends up surrounding himself with cameramen all day long, which triggers this crazed need to prove he’s not a homosexual by doubling down on hookers and blow. The man’s a freakshow that's crumbling under years of expectancy. The irony being all that hype evaporated a long time ago. Joey Flash took his place. Then Jared Holmes. Then you. Fuck, even Gemini Battle outshone him. While “King Internet” hid in the dot.com shadows licking his wounds and wondering how to stage a comeback after being decimated by a fucking Adele cover.
John Rabid: Howard Black was robbed.
Roy Speede: Blame Jayson for being such an easy target. What’s the point in holding every title there is, if it’s only for five minutes? How long did you carry that Television strap? Nine months?
John Rabid: Yeah, full term and Sidney ripped my child away from me. I’ll never forgive Seth for letting that happen. The skinny bastard’s revenge for Mexico.
Roy frowns as Rabid tries to look the other way, remembering Roy’s biological connection to a certain controversial figure. Verbal landmine triggered.
Roy Speede: Mexico? What happened in Mexico?
John Rabid: A photographic mishap.
Roy Speede: What?
John Rabid: Nothing. Forget it. Besides, Jayson is betting you’ll bring up his sixteen day WCF world title reign. Jayson can’t shut up about it. He keeps mentioning us in promos that have zero connection to our team.
Roy Speede: Obsessed much?
John Rabid: Like I said, he’s a fucking diva. I used to feel a twinge of respect for him once. Ever since I sold on my stake in the WCF Jayson has been something of a cart horse for Corey to exploit. But when I saw how utterly broken Jayson had become at the twenty eighteen “Of The Year” awards I gave up caring. What’s the fucking point? Price has no spine left, just a desire to self destruct and blame the world for it. Here look, see what I mean?
Rabid clicks on his smartphone and loads up the WCF.galaxy app, it plays Jayson Price’s tag match promo entitled “Therapy Session”. Roy watches on intently, attempting to hear over the booming sound of Price’s distracting gaelic metal theme music as it reverberates ever upwards.
Roy Speede: Did that little shit just say I couldn’t get it done against real competition? How was I gonna get a decent shake with the company in turmoil most of the time? This isn’t the first time we have Corey Black in charge. No one seems to remember the chaos that was Creepy Death’s first spell in the big boy’s chair. For two months Corey made bad call after bad call and the company flat-lined. How’s anyone gonna get a decent shot at the World title when the only man that gets a sniff is Donald Deruty? And the only reason that is, is so D-Day can be fed to Odin Balfore! Besides, where was Jay Price when I won my Hardcore title strap during the twenty twelve Ultimate Showdown match? Nowhere’s the answer, because that waste of fucking space, Jay Price wasn’t even on the card that night! I held that Hardcore belt for One Hundred and Eighty Two days, John. The longest Hardcore reign in history! And that was during a time when the WCF had the toughest competition on record, and all of them knocked on my door. All of them! And guess what? I answered them all with a superkick and just kept on truckin. When the door knocks for Jay Price though? He just shits the bed and cries about his heroin mom. He wants to cry about me calling him out? I call out Jay Price out because that's my job. I call him out because he’s a delusional prick that’s bitten every hand that fed him. He’s standing down there on that ramp like he owns the fucking place. Yet everything he is has been handed to him. Everything!
Boos and cheers in equal measure ring out around the tag team as they spy a familiar six foot five, two hundred and sixty pound figure emerging from behind gorilla. Price looks confident as he struts down to ringside while that pungency only intensifies for Rabid. Whatever it is, it’s beginning to make him snarl, his fangs almost protruding from his mouth.
Roy Speede: Hey, John. Probably not wise to fang up in a crowd. Y’know?
Rabid exhales as his razor sharp teeth recede back into their human facade.
John Rabid: Can you not smell it?
Roy shrugs
Roy Speede: Smell what? Hot dogs? Child sick? There’s definitely some ganja in the air. That’s all I got, bro.
Rabid shakes his head.
John Rabid: No, it’s bleach. Strong. Malodorous. Industry strength.
Jayson is staring out across the crowd in attendance as that smell only intensifies. Price can’t see John from The Serpent’s elevated position, but John can smell Jayson. Rabid’s acute senses insulted by the veterans flamboyant presence. It’s sickening.
John Rabid: They’ve been dipping Price in disinfectant since his “failed marriage” to Ursula Nabrow. Jay was basically gang banged at ONE by the entire ‘Stache clan. Masturbated over by Ulysses Nabrow, while fucking a ninety year old syphilis dripping maw that Jay actually used to call his home. That happened, Roy. At ONE. The biggest show on the WCF calendar. That’s what 2019 WCF has become. A fucking retarded joke. Nineteen years of blood, sweat and tears ruined by a man who isn’t even fit to lace the boots of the undercard anymore. WCF, poleaxed by that quivering shit down there, because if Jay can’t become the G.O.A.T, then he’ll damn well make sure nobody ever actually wants to.
Roy Speede: Wait, Jay Price slept inside a--
John nods as Roy exhales and shakes his head. Rabid shows “The Silver Lining” the ONE PPV footage just to underline everything.
Roy Speede: He’s gone full Logan. You never go full pops.
John Rabid: That stench of Bleach. It’s rancid. Like a field hospital triage under fire. Which is apt when you think about it, because Jayson Price has gone to war on us, he’s assaulted this company and it’s reputation with this Mustache shite. Price has turned the WCF into a laughing stock. A genocidal wasteland of piss and clit jokes that even ONE couldn’t save. Which means it’s down to us. We have to take a stand, Roy. Next week in our Block B match we’ll have to put “Mr. Every Title” in his place. Because If we don’t, that smell of bleach is only going to get stronger. Because a man like Jayson Price isn’t going to learn from his mistakes. No matter what the cost is to the company that protected him. He’s going to exploit them to fit his own twisted victim agenda. You can see it brewing in him. He’s looking for an excuse for another Chelsea Armstrong. Another price buster on some steel steps so he can congratulate himself on how irredeemable he’s become. And the worst part? Just like now. No one will give a shit. No one except us, when the doors of the old lady are shut.
Roy winces as he looks on at that footage, tilting his head as he tries to fathom what he’s witnessing.
Roy Speede: Yeah, I wish someone had shut her old doors. Yeesh.
Jayson Price and Vincent Augustine exchange tactics as Michael X and Jaice Wilds stand opposite, barely talking or making eye contact. A cult of disconnection that’s visible even from the gods.
Roy Speede: So Janice posted a promo for the wrong fed on WCF.com? Seriously, that happened?
John nods
John Rabid: ‘fraid so. Michael X’s weak link is weaker than Jayson’s it seems. Even a vacuous, meaningless cipher for banal behaviour like Vincent Augustine is capable of posting the right promo on the right site. I suppose we must have knocked the last brain cell out of the Extreme Aerialists noggin last week. He’s full stupid now. No way back.
Roy Speede: What is Vincent Augustine anyway? Some kind of Tom Ripley, American Psycho lite? He’s like a picture book Patrick Bateman. Only he never seemingly commits to anything. He just hovers around ideas so he can’t be pinned to any flag. Vincent is completely meaningless. Just a caddy for Price’s ego.
John Rabid: He has CIA connections I hear. But apart from that he’s a blank slate. He likes to mansplain basic psychology like he’s Moses with the tablets. Too bad his ring psychology is so banal. I’ve literally seen clowns fight in that ring with more heart and personality. Still, Jay must be loving this. For years he was carried by Corey Black and Jonny Fly. Now he gets to pretend to be an Alpha in a relationship of two beta cucks sleepwalking their way through matches like they actually fucking matter. Vincent Augustine is the perfect foil for a man like Jay, because Vincent Augustine has no goals, no ambition. Vincent just hangs about. Jay is used to being caught in another man’s shadow. Now Price probably thinks the tables have finally turned so he gets to be in the spotlight. True, but only to highlight how similar Price and Vincent actually are. Price has never had direction, he wastes his talents and flounders. He wins the big one, then fades away, receding like the tide. Vincent has one week of gold to his name in twelve months in the company. That’s unheard of. Even Hajeet has held more gold than this bellend.
Roy Speede: One week with an Alpha title, then it’s stripped away by Corey Black. He’s perfect for Price. A man who can’t keep hold of his gold, whose entire fate is cucked by a man named Creepy Death. It’s like they’re step brothers or something.
John yawns, throws popcorn at the rookie shitshow on display below.
John Rabid: For fucks sake, Price! Show us something! I’ve got a world champion to beat ya prick!
Roy Speede: You think you can best her? Noble?
John Rabid: Yeah, when you face a challenge to rise to it. It’s what I do. It’s what we do. When Black and Price made the draw for the Tag Tournament I knew I held aces. Half a year with the Hardcore title. A former United States Champion. A former Tag champion with Frank Patrick Venable. A match where you bested your own father, Logan. We’re the only tag team in this entire competition were there’s no weak link in the chain. Odin has a flake in Richards. Jaice doesn’t even know what Fed he’s in. And Vincent Augustine has been in more mental homes than title runs. We’re it, Roy. Me and you. The only team who can actually tag in a partner in they can rely upon.
Roy looks away for a second, contemplating his match.
Roy Speede: Speaking of partners. This match. Man,you know I never would have asked for this. You know that, right?
John smiles
John Rabid: Corey is fucking with us because he’s worried his pet gimp might lose. Bonnie is cool with the match tonight, as I am. She needs the best competition out there to push her if she’s going to successfully challenge Savage for that World title strap. And I know having tagged with you last week that she’s gonna face a serious threat. So don't hold back, Roy. Because she won’t. And that’s a frightening prospect to face if you’re in the opposite corner. Trust me, been there myself.
DING! DING! DING!
Roy Speede: Guess Price and Augustine won.
John shrugs.
John Rabid: I had this match go less than ten minutes. Fuck! Price has cost me twenty bucks on Bet365. This fool can’t do anything right.
Augustine skids under the bottom rope and is immediately hugged by a beaming Jayson Price as Vincent bounds back to his feet.
John Rabid: Great, now Corey’s little bitch thinks he’s Tom Brady.
Roy stands, check the time on his smartphone.
Roy Speede: I’m up. Good luck tonight, partner.
John Rabid: Yeah, you too.
The stench of disinfectant was ripe in the air as Jayson Price and Vincent Augustine celebrated their smash and grab victory in the centre of the ring. John Rabid’s nostrils flared once more as he raised his Smartphone and turned the lens on himself
John Rabid: I don't think I can honestly classify what I’ve just witnessed as a wrestling match. More an exhibition in futility. Janice Wilds sabotaged the contest like he meant it if you ask me. As for Price and Augustine? They’re weak and unorganised. Especially Price. Honestly...Wade. I don't know how you could let this beta cuck, Jayson Price best you at Fifteen. What was it? Pity? Remorse for Scarecrow’s dramatic plunge? The screams of Chelsea Armstrong still echoing in your mind as you rocked and salivated next to Crow’s warm corpse like a madman? Still, hate makes strange bedfellows of us all I suppose. I see you and Crow are on the same page now. I see you’re preparing to face me with McMorris’s help. Good. Go carve your wooden bullets, Godnilla. Make them sharp. I’m going to take them and press two into your fucking eye sockets and leave you blind, you miserable piece of shit...
….Go tell the Covenant and rest of the bloodsucking motherfuckers that I’m coming, And that when I’m done? The kraken will know a new master...fucboi. You and Crow are dead for what you did back in London. There’s no going back now...
...This is to the death. I’m gonna bleach this world clean of you, Wade. You, and every last cunt in my way.
Cut.
The block B match between Jayson Price and Vincent Augustine V Michael X and Jaice Wilds.
Unencumbered by the nation’s polar vortex, the Myrtle Beach Convention Centre sits around eight thousand in total. Most in attendance this Monday night are your prototypical casual wrestling fan. A condensed thrall of oversized and undernourished males have gathered, still sporting their fading #beachkrew or DRG shirts from a few years ago. They sing for Thomas Uriel Bates because they enjoy being annoying. They voted Republican because “reasons”. They think the flat Earth theory raises some “interesting points”. The MAGA contingent in row F laments the missing Logan, so they scream “Boudle” when the long suffering hot dog vendor makes her miserable, soul crushing rounds. A “Got your ticket?” chant eventually germinates from this, echoing around the jam packed arena as Roy Speede instinctively pulls down the brim of his blue “Silver Lining” baseball cap, shielding his rugged features from a nest of nearby fans perched like half starved vultures among the bleeds.
Sitting next to Roy is John Rabid; he’s wearing a pair of reading glasses and has his distinctive two-tone hair masked by a grey beanie hat. Rabid’s customary charcoal suit is a fading memory as he adopts a more casual appearance these days. “The Ripper” enjoys wearing a white David Bowie “Ziggy Stardust” tee with black skinny jeans and a pair of vintage chestnut lace up hiking boots. Yet for all of his casual hipster demeanour, Rabid appears plagued; troubled by a sense memory that bubbles and festers to the surface like turbulence across calm skies as "The Cell" by Gojira plays. The theme song of “The South Street Menace” Jayson Price.
Roy Speede: Princess should have stuck with “Get Down On The Ground” by Gillie Da Kid. Supporting a Philly icon at least showed some loyalty to his hometown.
John Rabid: That was ten years ago, Roy. There isn’t much of that Jay Price left. The man’s been in a coma, had his neck broken twice. Then there’s an IV full of piss running though his system like AW acid, porn addiction, alcoholism, riding a child’s tricycle naked on an L.A. freeway (actually happened). Not to mention random bouts of schizophrenia triggered by his desire to be noticed and or taken seriously. Shooting his clone in the face on live television because he’s such a fucking diva. The man has been pampered and spoiled since two thousand and nine, and now he just lives inside this reinforced bubble where he thinks the world actually revolves around him. But he’s thirty three years old, Roy. An old thirty three years, full of injury and substance abuse.
Roy Speede: Corey Black spoiled the jerk rotten. Princess was always told he was the second coming of Torture. He was going to be this messiah of a new Wrestling age. Instead Jay ends up surrounding himself with cameramen all day long, which triggers this crazed need to prove he’s not a homosexual by doubling down on hookers and blow. The man’s a freakshow that's crumbling under years of expectancy. The irony being all that hype evaporated a long time ago. Joey Flash took his place. Then Jared Holmes. Then you. Fuck, even Gemini Battle outshone him. While “King Internet” hid in the dot.com shadows licking his wounds and wondering how to stage a comeback after being decimated by a fucking Adele cover.
John Rabid: Howard Black was robbed.
Roy Speede: Blame Jayson for being such an easy target. What’s the point in holding every title there is, if it’s only for five minutes? How long did you carry that Television strap? Nine months?
John Rabid: Yeah, full term and Sidney ripped my child away from me. I’ll never forgive Seth for letting that happen. The skinny bastard’s revenge for Mexico.
Roy frowns as Rabid tries to look the other way, remembering Roy’s biological connection to a certain controversial figure. Verbal landmine triggered.
Roy Speede: Mexico? What happened in Mexico?
John Rabid: A photographic mishap.
Roy Speede: What?
John Rabid: Nothing. Forget it. Besides, Jayson is betting you’ll bring up his sixteen day WCF world title reign. Jayson can’t shut up about it. He keeps mentioning us in promos that have zero connection to our team.
Roy Speede: Obsessed much?
John Rabid: Like I said, he’s a fucking diva. I used to feel a twinge of respect for him once. Ever since I sold on my stake in the WCF Jayson has been something of a cart horse for Corey to exploit. But when I saw how utterly broken Jayson had become at the twenty eighteen “Of The Year” awards I gave up caring. What’s the fucking point? Price has no spine left, just a desire to self destruct and blame the world for it. Here look, see what I mean?
Rabid clicks on his smartphone and loads up the WCF.galaxy app, it plays Jayson Price’s tag match promo entitled “Therapy Session”. Roy watches on intently, attempting to hear over the booming sound of Price’s distracting gaelic metal theme music as it reverberates ever upwards.
Roy Speede: Did that little shit just say I couldn’t get it done against real competition? How was I gonna get a decent shake with the company in turmoil most of the time? This isn’t the first time we have Corey Black in charge. No one seems to remember the chaos that was Creepy Death’s first spell in the big boy’s chair. For two months Corey made bad call after bad call and the company flat-lined. How’s anyone gonna get a decent shot at the World title when the only man that gets a sniff is Donald Deruty? And the only reason that is, is so D-Day can be fed to Odin Balfore! Besides, where was Jay Price when I won my Hardcore title strap during the twenty twelve Ultimate Showdown match? Nowhere’s the answer, because that waste of fucking space, Jay Price wasn’t even on the card that night! I held that Hardcore belt for One Hundred and Eighty Two days, John. The longest Hardcore reign in history! And that was during a time when the WCF had the toughest competition on record, and all of them knocked on my door. All of them! And guess what? I answered them all with a superkick and just kept on truckin. When the door knocks for Jay Price though? He just shits the bed and cries about his heroin mom. He wants to cry about me calling him out? I call out Jay Price out because that's my job. I call him out because he’s a delusional prick that’s bitten every hand that fed him. He’s standing down there on that ramp like he owns the fucking place. Yet everything he is has been handed to him. Everything!
Boos and cheers in equal measure ring out around the tag team as they spy a familiar six foot five, two hundred and sixty pound figure emerging from behind gorilla. Price looks confident as he struts down to ringside while that pungency only intensifies for Rabid. Whatever it is, it’s beginning to make him snarl, his fangs almost protruding from his mouth.
Roy Speede: Hey, John. Probably not wise to fang up in a crowd. Y’know?
Rabid exhales as his razor sharp teeth recede back into their human facade.
John Rabid: Can you not smell it?
Roy shrugs
Roy Speede: Smell what? Hot dogs? Child sick? There’s definitely some ganja in the air. That’s all I got, bro.
Rabid shakes his head.
John Rabid: No, it’s bleach. Strong. Malodorous. Industry strength.
Jayson is staring out across the crowd in attendance as that smell only intensifies. Price can’t see John from The Serpent’s elevated position, but John can smell Jayson. Rabid’s acute senses insulted by the veterans flamboyant presence. It’s sickening.
John Rabid: They’ve been dipping Price in disinfectant since his “failed marriage” to Ursula Nabrow. Jay was basically gang banged at ONE by the entire ‘Stache clan. Masturbated over by Ulysses Nabrow, while fucking a ninety year old syphilis dripping maw that Jay actually used to call his home. That happened, Roy. At ONE. The biggest show on the WCF calendar. That’s what 2019 WCF has become. A fucking retarded joke. Nineteen years of blood, sweat and tears ruined by a man who isn’t even fit to lace the boots of the undercard anymore. WCF, poleaxed by that quivering shit down there, because if Jay can’t become the G.O.A.T, then he’ll damn well make sure nobody ever actually wants to.
Roy Speede: Wait, Jay Price slept inside a--
John nods as Roy exhales and shakes his head. Rabid shows “The Silver Lining” the ONE PPV footage just to underline everything.
Roy Speede: He’s gone full Logan. You never go full pops.
John Rabid: That stench of Bleach. It’s rancid. Like a field hospital triage under fire. Which is apt when you think about it, because Jayson Price has gone to war on us, he’s assaulted this company and it’s reputation with this Mustache shite. Price has turned the WCF into a laughing stock. A genocidal wasteland of piss and clit jokes that even ONE couldn’t save. Which means it’s down to us. We have to take a stand, Roy. Next week in our Block B match we’ll have to put “Mr. Every Title” in his place. Because If we don’t, that smell of bleach is only going to get stronger. Because a man like Jayson Price isn’t going to learn from his mistakes. No matter what the cost is to the company that protected him. He’s going to exploit them to fit his own twisted victim agenda. You can see it brewing in him. He’s looking for an excuse for another Chelsea Armstrong. Another price buster on some steel steps so he can congratulate himself on how irredeemable he’s become. And the worst part? Just like now. No one will give a shit. No one except us, when the doors of the old lady are shut.
Roy winces as he looks on at that footage, tilting his head as he tries to fathom what he’s witnessing.
Roy Speede: Yeah, I wish someone had shut her old doors. Yeesh.
Jayson Price and Vincent Augustine exchange tactics as Michael X and Jaice Wilds stand opposite, barely talking or making eye contact. A cult of disconnection that’s visible even from the gods.
Roy Speede: So Janice posted a promo for the wrong fed on WCF.com? Seriously, that happened?
John nods
John Rabid: ‘fraid so. Michael X’s weak link is weaker than Jayson’s it seems. Even a vacuous, meaningless cipher for banal behaviour like Vincent Augustine is capable of posting the right promo on the right site. I suppose we must have knocked the last brain cell out of the Extreme Aerialists noggin last week. He’s full stupid now. No way back.
Roy Speede: What is Vincent Augustine anyway? Some kind of Tom Ripley, American Psycho lite? He’s like a picture book Patrick Bateman. Only he never seemingly commits to anything. He just hovers around ideas so he can’t be pinned to any flag. Vincent is completely meaningless. Just a caddy for Price’s ego.
John Rabid: He has CIA connections I hear. But apart from that he’s a blank slate. He likes to mansplain basic psychology like he’s Moses with the tablets. Too bad his ring psychology is so banal. I’ve literally seen clowns fight in that ring with more heart and personality. Still, Jay must be loving this. For years he was carried by Corey Black and Jonny Fly. Now he gets to pretend to be an Alpha in a relationship of two beta cucks sleepwalking their way through matches like they actually fucking matter. Vincent Augustine is the perfect foil for a man like Jay, because Vincent Augustine has no goals, no ambition. Vincent just hangs about. Jay is used to being caught in another man’s shadow. Now Price probably thinks the tables have finally turned so he gets to be in the spotlight. True, but only to highlight how similar Price and Vincent actually are. Price has never had direction, he wastes his talents and flounders. He wins the big one, then fades away, receding like the tide. Vincent has one week of gold to his name in twelve months in the company. That’s unheard of. Even Hajeet has held more gold than this bellend.
Roy Speede: One week with an Alpha title, then it’s stripped away by Corey Black. He’s perfect for Price. A man who can’t keep hold of his gold, whose entire fate is cucked by a man named Creepy Death. It’s like they’re step brothers or something.
John yawns, throws popcorn at the rookie shitshow on display below.
John Rabid: For fucks sake, Price! Show us something! I’ve got a world champion to beat ya prick!
Roy Speede: You think you can best her? Noble?
John Rabid: Yeah, when you face a challenge to rise to it. It’s what I do. It’s what we do. When Black and Price made the draw for the Tag Tournament I knew I held aces. Half a year with the Hardcore title. A former United States Champion. A former Tag champion with Frank Patrick Venable. A match where you bested your own father, Logan. We’re the only tag team in this entire competition were there’s no weak link in the chain. Odin has a flake in Richards. Jaice doesn’t even know what Fed he’s in. And Vincent Augustine has been in more mental homes than title runs. We’re it, Roy. Me and you. The only team who can actually tag in a partner in they can rely upon.
Roy looks away for a second, contemplating his match.
Roy Speede: Speaking of partners. This match. Man,you know I never would have asked for this. You know that, right?
John smiles
John Rabid: Corey is fucking with us because he’s worried his pet gimp might lose. Bonnie is cool with the match tonight, as I am. She needs the best competition out there to push her if she’s going to successfully challenge Savage for that World title strap. And I know having tagged with you last week that she’s gonna face a serious threat. So don't hold back, Roy. Because she won’t. And that’s a frightening prospect to face if you’re in the opposite corner. Trust me, been there myself.
DING! DING! DING!
Roy Speede: Guess Price and Augustine won.
John shrugs.
John Rabid: I had this match go less than ten minutes. Fuck! Price has cost me twenty bucks on Bet365. This fool can’t do anything right.
Augustine skids under the bottom rope and is immediately hugged by a beaming Jayson Price as Vincent bounds back to his feet.
John Rabid: Great, now Corey’s little bitch thinks he’s Tom Brady.
Roy stands, check the time on his smartphone.
Roy Speede: I’m up. Good luck tonight, partner.
John Rabid: Yeah, you too.
The stench of disinfectant was ripe in the air as Jayson Price and Vincent Augustine celebrated their smash and grab victory in the centre of the ring. John Rabid’s nostrils flared once more as he raised his Smartphone and turned the lens on himself
John Rabid: I don't think I can honestly classify what I’ve just witnessed as a wrestling match. More an exhibition in futility. Janice Wilds sabotaged the contest like he meant it if you ask me. As for Price and Augustine? They’re weak and unorganised. Especially Price. Honestly...Wade. I don't know how you could let this beta cuck, Jayson Price best you at Fifteen. What was it? Pity? Remorse for Scarecrow’s dramatic plunge? The screams of Chelsea Armstrong still echoing in your mind as you rocked and salivated next to Crow’s warm corpse like a madman? Still, hate makes strange bedfellows of us all I suppose. I see you and Crow are on the same page now. I see you’re preparing to face me with McMorris’s help. Good. Go carve your wooden bullets, Godnilla. Make them sharp. I’m going to take them and press two into your fucking eye sockets and leave you blind, you miserable piece of shit...
….Go tell the Covenant and rest of the bloodsucking motherfuckers that I’m coming, And that when I’m done? The kraken will know a new master...fucboi. You and Crow are dead for what you did back in London. There’s no going back now...
...This is to the death. I’m gonna bleach this world clean of you, Wade. You, and every last cunt in my way.
Cut.
