Post by John Rabid on Feb 17, 2019 23:44:21 GMT -5
‘Haunted Williamsburg’
Williamsburg, Virginia
The ‘Colonial Williamsburg’ ghost tour weaves its way through a maze of competent set design and middling acting skills. It’s basically a PG waxwork museum without the addition of syrup for blood or offal for gore. Right now however it’s in a state of disused slumber as a drone camera glides over a deserted semi lit corridor. The ornate slender space eventually leads out into a larger circular hall as we’re greeted by a gallery that features watercolours by artists John White Abbott and Samuel Alken. As the 18th century expanse envelops us we see one solitary figure sitting under a blinking spotlight centre stage. The illumination gains cohesion and purpose as John Rabid address us. The Serpent’s charcoal suited exterior is content as he leans back inside an overly large wing chair. Carved serpents are weaved into the chair wooden arm rests as John’s hand casually beckons us forward. Rabid’s cold, icy vowels slither and coil inside our fracturing minds now as he begins to speak during the small hours before his tag match, draining sanity from the room as we slip into an untrustworthy mindscape.
John Rabid: Hello, Scott. I’m pleased to inform you that your ‘Three Days Grace’ period is about to expire. You no longer have to sit crying in the dark of your bedroom, mourning the sad passing of Kennedy Matthews from this sphere of influence. While her light has winked out, I’m sure in your heart a candle still burns for the Queen in keeping with your ‘anti authority’, ‘anarchist’ nature. You may want to revise that biog If I’m honest. Try, ‘Permanent Cuck’ or ‘Subservient Fool’ instead. More in keeping with your recent status.
Rabid holds up his mobile and shows off a ‘Revised edition’ of Scott’s bio.
John Rabid: Still, you have a chance to turn it all around this week, Scott. And against the best competition this federation has to offer no less. That’s not hyperbolic acid dripping from my words. Everything I say is true. The truth. That’s what’s actually terrifying about me. For all the times I’ve been accused of being a deceiver it’s my truth that kills you in the end. It’s my honesty that breaks the back of your convictions and leaves you lost and hollow. That's what I do. I’m very good at it. The best in fact.
What do you feel now I wonder? Is it trepidation? Perhaps excitement? Do you feel you’ll learn something from this encounter? Chances are you will, after all, you and that naive facepalming schizoid freakshow FarCry are about to face off against a former WCF World champion and a former AW World Champion. I was 2017’s WCF Wrestler of the year. A Television champion of the year. In Roy Speede you stand opposite a man that once dominated the Hardcore division in a fashion Jay Omega can only wish to emulate. Yes, chances are high you’ll learn...something. Probably how to crash to the mat quick if we’re honest.
While your down there on the mat, I imagine you could use a little bedtime story to keep you company. A distraction to drag you further under, lost and comatose away from the pain a ‘Time Splitter’ can deliver. So in keeping with my philanthropic promise I have a quick tale for you tonight, Scott. It’s about a man you resemble in a lot of ways. A man only a few truly remember...
The watercolours change and alter shape; now they resemble a certain WCF cult figure.
John Rabid: Once upon a time there used to be a professional wrestler in the WCF by the name of Marc Mayhem. Everyone liked Marc. Marc was brash and aggressive, often he would go out of his way to start fights with talent that frankly dwarfed him, both physically and mentally. Marc though, he didn’t care, big or small they were in his sights regardless. Like a plucky atomic powered Scrappy Doo, Marc used to deliver his “Cab Ride” manoeuvre to all and sundry on a whim. And yet in truth, Marc was more like a cute little mascot you could never justify being angry with. Marc Mayhem: a just hatched Pokemon, it’s eyes blinking to adjust to the light of it’s brave new world. So when Logan reverted back to his default settings and turned on tag partner Marc, the Hotdog Kings ended their run with Mayhem as the crowd’s firm fan favourite. The world was on Marc’s side as the knife was plunged into his back, after that he had all the momentum, all the good will the people could muster.
And yet, it didn’t do him any good, Scott. Marc was bested and broken by Logan in the long run. Marc might have been underdog star to the word, but that perception soon changed when the fans realised there was no happy ending for Mayhem on the horizon, they turned and moved on to the next great white hype. In truth, Marc was always destined to lose. To be forgotten. A man like Marc could only ever be a footnote in another man’s career. A minor player in a mid card crowd scene, hugging the periphery of the audiences vision, while never actually allowed close to stand centre stage and shine. Exit stage left, Marc Mayhem. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern send their regards.
Now, you’re probably wondering what this has to do with you. Good question, very perceptive! The answer is simple, Young Mister Slayer. For all of your whining and complaining. For all of your half hearted attempts to be this edgy anti hero, no one truly takes you seriously, Scott. It’s impossible, because you’re this year’s Marc mayhem. The gullible oaf who snarls with milk teeth and a pacifier. There’s no bite to your game, you’re just a hapless passenger in this tag match, anchored to the bottom of the card by a weaker sidekick. You’re lost, Scott, a shipwrecked fool clinging to the coattails of a dream that you can never make reality. You’re hampered this week by a partner whose biggest impact was when his face smashed against the ramp last week on Slam, courtesy of Samuel McPherson and Lord Raab.
Maybe it’s just as well you have FarCry in your corner. Think about it like this, everyone sees you as the perennial weak link, and for good reason. It’s you Scott that has taken the shine off the Golden God. You and a two time WCF world champion, a former Tag Team champion in Stephen Singh went into the Tag Team League with your chests out, proclaiming yourselves as the second coming. But it didn't take long for Singh to regret signing up; his legacy has forever been tarnished because of you, Scott. The man that once conquered Everest is now a vendor coordinator at Corey Black’s beck and call. Your team was reduced to absolute zero, while Odin and Richards reside at the summit of block A as a pair of three hundred pound flat track bullies because you had no fight in you. You caved in because you're not cut out for this. You’re weak inside, soft centred. You came into this fed with an edge, now you’re blunt and useless because Kennedy Matthews kept your johnson in a jar and robbed you of your ability to be a man.
Now, you have to crawl it all back, it’s just too bad that the fight this week to too great a climb. Still, WCF booking has been kind to you. Think of it as a free pass because in FarCry your feeble ‘failure to launch’ career has a slender chance to actually look halfway decent for a change. Corey has done you a solid because we both know it’s FarCry, and not you, whose probably destined to eat the pin and cover your lack of talent with a convenient excuse for the loss. The next day you’ll hit twitter blaming a man in FarCry who simply will not show because WCF is a steep a climb for his curtain jerking legs to reach. Two matches into his career and FarCry’s already a distant memory. So much so, even Samuel McPherson though he was facing the fucboi in the idiot’s debut match! That’s the impact FarCry has had on the fed. Absolute zero. In fact, I’ve been told that even mentioning FarCry could be counted as “Deadnaming” and my twitter account could be blocked.
For a man, “trying to fill in the missing parts of his life”, FarCry is a very strange piece of work. He gets involved in sleaze because it makes him whole; that sounds like Price’s M.O. until you realise how fucking low rent this “Rayne” guy actually is. Oh, but he has a secret split personality to blame for his sorrows, how edgy of him. Perhaps, “Dom” and “Scott Shadow” can team up and all four of you can kill each other for an existentialist snuff movie. That would be more exciting than your stalling career, Scott. Just.
My place in the Tag League final is already booked. Look around you, Scott…
The watercolours change into moments from history with John Rabid interwoven into them. Waterloo. Battle of Agincourt. The invasion of Normandy. Rabid leads the charge with Roy and Bonnie by his side. He is majestic and unstoppable. They’re the kind of arrogant visas only a megalomaniac mind could dream up s Rabid weaves himself into the very fabric of the walls.
John Rabid; I am too fast and too smart for you, Scott. Couple my skill with the effortless ability of a certain Roy Speede and you have the birth of something special. While you, Scott? You should have been aborted at birth. But in a way you already have been, because this whole Tag Team Tournament has proven to the world that you’re not capable of emerging out into the light. Your career is a stillborn nightmare. Now this week, In front of eleven thousand three hundred at the Kaplan Arena, they’re going to witness a true slice of art take place, one that cuts you Scott and your partner, out from existence.
The pictures change to loss after devastating loss for Scott Slayer as his team is trounced by The Enforces and then by Jazzy John McCarty and Matt Draven. The scoreboard on the Jumbotron after their last loss reads, “ZERO” as the look of disappointment on the face of Stephen Singh is both haunting and poignant. Finally we have Kennedy Matthews walking away from her perennial loser of a former partner as Rabid stands and walks away himself from the scene, just his shoes echoing on the marble floor as he marches to victory with a spring in his step.
CUT
