Post by John Rabid on Feb 24, 2019 23:02:53 GMT -5
Kingdom Pro Wrestling building, 2nd of February, 2019. Roy Speede was casual and laid back as he sat in his over large chair and waited for his tag partner, John Rabid to arrive with number one contender, Bonnie Blue in toe. The spacious Canary Wharf offices overlooked the Thames at midday, bestowing upon the silver lining a perfect view of the river. Through the large glass windows of the modernist building, a gleaming snake of water slithered its way through the heart of metropolitan London, leaving a trail of iridescent sunbeams in its wake. While inside on a flat screen mounted to a wall, a Youtube video was queued up of “Slam:1/21/19 Rabid DESTROYS Odin Balfore in the centre of the ring”
The footage showed Rabid stood hunched over the fallen and bleeding Odin Balfore, the Norseman’s long white mane falling into his bewildered eyes while writhing in agony beneath John. The Serpent’s white knuckles clenched the cricket bat like a katana as his eyes were alive with hatred. Once more Rabid brought the bat down over Balfore’s back with a sweeping arch of rage, over and over again as Bonnie kept Noble pinned to the mat.
Roy Speede observed the confrontation and sensed a deeper layer of intensity, Something was going on, a history seemed to exist beyond John’s simple desire to win the inaugural WCF Tag Team Tournament. A flash of personal disdain for the man he had so comprehensively beaten that night.
John Rabid: Some last minute data mining, Roy?
Rabid and Bonnie had arrived. They were casual and happy as they sat opposite Roy, slacks and tees were the order of the day as Rabid opened a bottle of 1841 Veuve Clicquot Champagne which had been left acclimatising on a coffee table and poured Roy a glass. Speede shook his head.
Roy Speede: Not before a PPV. Sorry.
John Rabid: It’s 1841, Roy.
Roy Speede: It’s the Tag Team Tournament finals, John.
John Rabid: Something troubling you?
The son of Logan rubbed his chin and considered his words carefully, after all the two vampires opposite were...well, vampires. What’s the protocol in a situation like this?
Roy Speede: When you attacked Odin in Pensacola, it seemed like there was a deeper issue at play. Something personal. I’ve looked though your records--
John Rabid: Thanks for asking--
Roy Speede: And there doesn’t seem to be any obvious connection. But I’ve been in this business long enough to know my gut is right.
Rabid sipped on his glass of Veuve Clicquot and contemplated a response.
John Rabid: You know what the connection is between an Odin Balfore and an Alex Richards? Their need for attention. They’re desperation to be loved. Odin can’t just be a man, he has to be an Asgardian. Alex has to believe he’s a comic book hero, not a drug addict. It’s their addiction.
Roy Speede: So what’s it for you? Being...you know…
Bonnie sipped her glass as she stood by the window, observing the midday panoramic.
Bonnie Blue: Different?
John Rabid: For me? It means, circumstance. Let me explain.
Baptism
Southern Carpathians, Romania. 1095. A twenty six year old Sir John Rushton is drunk, cold and alone. No squire accompanies him on this cold September night as his chestnut steed struggles to transverse the craggy, unforgiving tundra that separates Rushton from answering the call of Byzantine figurehead, Eudes of Châtillon AKA Pope Urban II and the era of the first crusade. Rushton is dressed in chainmail armour, the crest of his estate (A coiled yellow snake on a black holstered battle-standard) is flickering under duress from a gust of biting wind. John also carries his father’s broadsword, sheathed by his side; the metal chipped and scarred, yet reliable. Rushton is the son of a Knight, a second generation nobleman, entitled yet skilled. Right now however, John’s skills have been dulled by a fully drunk bottle of mead; home brewed courage to see Rushton through the small hours.
“In my youth I was a lot more arrogant, as hard as that is to believe. My days back home were exclusively spent drinking and fooling around, usually with the dull eyed wenches from the local inn. Thinking back, I spent a lot of pointless days back then, gambling away the purse from my winnings like it was a pantomime. More often than not I would lose at cards just to see the old man’s square jaw tense as he erupted with rage.”
“So, you were rich?”
“No Roy, I just knew I could coast on my talent. “The Rushton’s of Somerset” weren’t affluent, but we were skilled with a sword. The blade always felt natural in our hands, the discipline to weld it easy to come by. Even drunk it didn’t matter, I could face a Germanic berserker or a Frenchman with a rapier, but when it was time to joust for my supper? John Rushton drank. And sang. And fucked well. And that foregone conclusion just vexed the old man even more”
“So he sent you off to fight in the first Crusade?”
“It will make a man of you” he said. Yeah, It made me alright”
“And this all leads to, Odin?”
“Everything does, eventually.”
The first arrow sliced the reins from John’s grasp as he instinctively lowered himself to avoid the second shot aimed for his head. The Chesnut bolted and galloped as John was thrown clear, rolling down an embankment towards the icy canopy of a frozen lake. John shook off the effects of the ale as his heart began to race, adrenaline kicking in as Rushton stood and unsheathed his sword while three shapes leapt from the shadows, human...yet different.
The shapes snarled with eyes as black as pitch as their fangs emerged seeking a rich vein to plunder.
“Vampires?”
“Yeah, these are the last few moments of my human life. The one I lived with a beating heart, and a conscience. I went to fight a holy crusade, Roy, and yet here is where I found my baptism.”
The gypsies lurched forward, snarling as they swung their scythes with a burst of unfocused rage. Rushton parries the first, his feet still adjusting to the uneven, slippery surface as the business end of the scythe follows through and nicks the side of John’s chest. A trickle of blood intermixing with the bleached white surface of the lake.
With focused intent and years of training, John arched the broadsword and decapitated the first Gypsy with minimal effort. Waving on the second, John dodged and weaved past lunge and swipe as he searched patiently for his moment to swing the tip of the balanced sword upwards, slicing off the features of the second attacker, leaving the shocked, faceless gypsy without a mouth to scream.
A follow up flurry with the blade saw the second attacker’s head disembarked from it’s shoulders. But the third did not wait for John to regain his footing as it leapt into the air, spearing John through the ice into the lake.
“Arrogance, Roy. That’s what lead me into the water.”
Beneath the waves John and the Vampire fought, it’s strength overpowering the knight who still had one last card to play, a knife sheathed in a thigh holster. John slashed the creature across the throat as it’s blood inked the water with a wave of infected crimson, entering John’s bloodstream. Transforming him. Corrupting him.
“See, I was never turned. I was never sired. No one is the master of my fate, except me. When I emerged from that lake, I was reborn. In an image no human, nor Vampire could stand. I was free, and that made me dangerous. Even Gods would learn to fear me.”
A bloody hand exited the cold depths, it threw a decapitated Gypsies head onto the shore as the rest of Sir John Rushton...Jason Rush...John Rabid hauled himself up to the surface, the moon-glow glinting off his metallic chain mail tunic as his sleeveless cross of Saint George Tabard was ripped away as a new life began.
“After that night I went on a killing spree. I ripped the throat out of Europe for fun, just to see if I could. Nothing but the thirst mattered. Until a year later. Until 1066”
“The year of the conquest?”
“I had to get home.”
I killed your Gods. Your Guardians. Your Lies
Let’s start with the obvious, Odin. You’re fucking stupid. This Tag Team Tournament isn’t about a resurgence in a dead division, this is about the prize at the end of the struggle. A shot at any title of the winner’s choosing. You can conveniently forget that in Alex’s presence all you want, you can call yourselves “The Enforcers” as if it’s the age of the territories again, but even that Zim-Quila Sociopath knows better than to believe in a never never land where the two of you are equals. You’re a five time WCF world champion, Alex Richards is a UCI world champion; Alex knows he’s bush league, but the question is, do you know Alexander Richards?
Let’s cut to the chase, I’ve fought Alex before. I’ve beaten him comfortably at XIII. He’s never beaten me, hasn’t even come close. He’s a goofball most of the time, but not all of the time. He gave it his all at 2017’s Hellimination, tried out all his big moves. The Zim-Quila hangover, the Samoan Punch. I had an “Opportunist” buzzing around me trying to take credit for my eventual victory, but riddle me this. If any of Alex’s moves actually did damage, how did I end up being victorious? You can’t decide a match with your finishing move of your brain is scrambled. Well, not unless your Alex Richards. For him, having a scrambled brain is his default setting. If you conducted an autopsy on Richard’s mental state you’d discover a hall of mirrors where all the reflections are cracked and screaming. Richards self medicates to subdue the monster that lurks within, a mile high maze constructed from pills and alcohol. But what if one day, Richards decides to stop taking the pills, or at least lower the dosage? You belittle him, Odin. You talk down to him like a child even though he’s a formidable physical force in his own right. How long before he decides to miss a session or two at the Drunken Dragon just to get the edge back? Just enough to turn on you and make sure ‘Till Death Do Us Part’ has some literal meaning.
Think it can’t happen, Odin? Think again. Alexander Richards is as mean and as cunning as they come. His days as part of the Pack are catalogued with sadistic match after sadistic match. There’s a war within that man. Right now you’re dealing with a pacified version; muted and docile. But what if Alex was pushed, say, with a superkick? What If we woke poor, bullied Alex up, and he didn’t like the egomaniac shouting orders at him. Sometimes the house of cards needs a push, but sometimes it will collapse all on it’s own.
Unlike you and your week to week hell mary, Superkick Uncensored is a focused unified force. A team of equals. One of us isn’t a carer for a mentally unstable bulldozer primed by your own arrogance and entitlement to turn on you when you least expect it. But of course, you think it can’t happen, because how can a “spaz” like Alex bite the hand of a God, right? Of course you do. And this is why you’re going to lose, Odin. Because in truth? You’re the weak link.
Four cruise control wins over mismatched teams and once again, Odin Balfore considers himself the greatest of all time. “The King of Block A” with his impressive culling of superstar talents like...Scott Slayer and Matt Draven. Yeah, they have potential, but they’re not the finished article yet. Doesn’t matter to Odin Balfore though, the norse tank will big it up like it’s the second coming of ICE Beckman. But then, It’s the same old story with Odin, isn’t it? Always hypocritical, forever gasping for epithets to self congratulate himself without ever acknowledging his losses. Always heaping praise on his lukewarm successes while the failures are never addressed and so, Odin never learns, never grows. Isn’t that right, Odin? You simply stagnate and rot. And always so quick to judge others, because the All Father also happens to be an everyman that we should believe in and trust apparently. The man who dresses like a milwaukee truck driver slash serial killer so he can take potshots at Jay Omega for being an ubermensch, even though Odin’s entire schick is twice as ridiculous and half as layered.
You sleep on a couch like a slob with a racoon named Gillian, but you’re also supposed to be a high and mighty wizard and the Warden of Poon Guinea. Yeah really? Nah, fuck off with that shit! You have domestics with dear old daddy at thanksgiving, but we’re supposed to believe that you’re also a reincarnated deity that gets a Jam Will Hey-Zeus loot crate mid match with Stephen Singh and is brought back to life to win a WCF world championship?
But hey, you’re still believable, right? No, not really. Ya fucking dumb is what you are. Ya stoopid. You’re a Mustache family level retarded sideshow that’s been blessed with size and stamina in exchange for cunning and intelligence. The truth is Odin, you’ve never anchored yourself down to one reality, you never function in a believable way. In short, you’re fucking pointless. You’re the ramblings of an autistic child high on OJ and Quaalude, who circumvents facts because they carry that annoying sting of truth. And for Odin Balfore, the truth hurts. It hurts just like the first time you lost to Noble Savage on Slam, and you conveniently called it afterwards “a fluke” The next time the fluke became “begrudging respect” as you tried to pin your colors to your five foot nothing superior. Noble baulked, and you choked, and the winner of that tag match was me. Yeah, “the jobber” John Rabid. In a squared circle packed to the brim with WAR winners and multi time world champions, the three count belonged to the tag team of myself and Bonnie Blue. Not you. Not Noble. Not the entitled winners.
But you can’t see what went wrong, can you? It’s impossible for you to acknowledge that, because you’re such a fucking mark for yourself. So myopic that when a loss does happen, you simply ignore the “fake news” and carry on regardless. And that’s the crux of the matter with you, isn’t it? You’re contrary to a fault. Like a spoiled brat, obnoxious and nauseating, someone who will always see themselves as perfect, even when you’re getting your ass kicked in the centre of the playground by a kid tougher and smarter than you. But you’ll omit that fact because a God can’t lose to a five foot nothing girl and her dominatrix manager. A God can’t lose to a cynical Brit and a combat hardened woman. Nope. Didn’t happen if Odin’s head is buried in the sand like an ET cartage.
Keep it there, Odin. Keep your head below the dirt, because come The Smoothie King Centre In New Orleans I’m going to bury the rest of you and close the casket shut on your whole damn career. And no matter how much you ignore the loss that looms on the horizon this time I promise you you’ll never forget it. Because this is when your last chance at world title gold thunders out of the station and disappears from view, forever.
Odin, you can win a thousand championships, you can be proud of being the first man ever to win Ultimate Showdown and Alternate Showdown. You can be WARBalfore until the cows come home, but you’ll never be taken seriously, because your substance is play-dough. You’re a child in a seven foot tall body, running around on his first Shazam. That’s all you’ll ever be. An unstoppable juggernaut who couldn’t get over his own reflection long enough to have any substance and merit. Shallow to a fault, an exploit that was used to bury you, a blueprint for your downfall .
You better prepare for losses, Odin, because losses are coming. More than you’ve ever suffered before because there is no mystique surrounding you now, no aura of greatness. I am the reaper that scythed that lie right from under you. You’re a man of straw and I hold the torch. And when you burn, Odin Balfore, the stench will send tears running down the faces of absolutely nobody. There will be no minutes silence in Valhalla for your corpse. No Corey Black hosted retrospective. Nothing, not because you’re, “The Most hated man in the WCF”, but because no one needed another Oblivion there in the first place. And that’s exactly what you’ve become, a seven foot tall, three hundred pound joke that lumbers around in search of mid card upstarts to bully. WCF should have resigned Zombie McCuckold rather than you. At least that clown knows how to lose without spitting his retainer out on the canvass. And at least he has a girlfriend. What do you have, Odin? Oh yeah, a single man’s desperate, pathetic fantasies.
Tell me again, Odin, is Ariana Grande still on a leash tied up at Bobby Cairo’s pad? Your shared universe misogynistic crap is pitiful and sickening. You and Bobby once called yourselves “The Thickness” when the correct euphemism should have been “The Limpness”, limp and desperate; two middle aged hucksters conning a wrestling community into believing that victories over Jayden Thunder and Dez Angel, S-PAC, and the Angels of Death carry weight. They don't. They’re anorexic and embarrassing. You were pampered and spoiled by Sarah Twilight six years ago and yet it still wasn’t enough for you. You lauded over a win against Jonny Fly and Steve Orbit thinking the world owed you a blow job. When all you managed to do was pull back a win to make up for your embarrassing loss to the Homegrown players back at Payback 2013. That’s the problem with you, you always rewrite history to suit your own ends, you’ve been doing it since day one. You need to get over yourself, man; nine times out of ten you fought underwhelming talent during that Thickness run and yet it still wasn’t good enough for you, so you and Cairo threw a hissy fit at the Dunkin Donuts Center, caved Diablo Calzone’s head in for no good reason and dumped the tag team titles down the toilet. Yeah, way to go respecting the belts that night, prick.
It’s a shame Doctor Remus Micayle couldn’t build you an artificial sense of responsibility to go with Cairo’s cyborg spine. But doctor’s don’t work miracles. Even when you’re successful, you can’t help making it about you, and not the titles. Always has to be the great indestructible Odin Balfore. Not what's best for the company. Not what's best for the division. Odin Balfore only sees and hears Odin Balfore because only Odin Balfore matters. You’re worse than Jay Omega, Odin, at least Omega acknowledges he’s an asshole. You? You drink the kool aid and then bathe in it.
And that’s why The Enforcers will lose come February 25th at Till Death Do Us Part. Because you’re blindsided by your own arrogance. A loophole in the indestructible veneer of the Norse tank. A fissure that Superkick Uncensored will prise open into a gaping wound, that will eventually become a catastrophic structural failure in New Orleans. You’re one loss away from a full on meltdown and you know it. You can’t beat the world champion. You can’t beat the number one contender. You can’t beat the former AW world champion and you can’t beat the contender’s manager. This is your last shot to get back into the title scene, Corey Black promised the winner of this tournament their choice of any match and title they desired to battle over at the following PPV. You can sugar coat this however you want, but we all know that Alex Richards is this year’s Benjamin Atreyu. A means to an end that will eventually turn on you. He’ll jettison you when the time is right, which will be exactly one second after SKU easily surpasses you and wins the whole damn thing.
I know you can’t consider Alex as anything other than your caddy, but let’s think back. After that loss at Payback 2013, you and Benji lost again on the following Slam to a team named Prophecy. Steel Toe Joe and Tek are no slouches, so you’d be excused in dropping a win to them, if it wasn't for the fact that you’re supposed to be a God. And yet, once again, two weeks in a row, you couldn’t get it done. And here’s the best part, you couldn’t blame Benjamin Atreyu this time either, because you ate the pin. And again when Atreyu teamed with Gable, your shoulders on the mat for the one two three. Then came the Trinity Cup. You and Atreyu. And again you lost. To the better Tag Team partner. The one you let down. The one that surpassed you. And you couldn’t take it.
But in stepped Bobby Cairo to carry you. To be the true mastermind of The Thickness. Your title success has always hinged on a tag partner you can leech good fortune from. In Bobby C you gained an inexhaustible well that you’re still siphoning from today because you can’t move on and progress. You’re stranded in quicksand, waiting for another shining talent to come along and drag you out and pamper that ego. Think Alex has enough in the tank to carry you? Because deep down that has to be the endgame. Because you and I know you’ve never had enough to face me alone.
Remember, I am the one with the win over you, Odin. Not the other way around. you’re just a tag team with a plus sized hole where an actual partner should stand. All Alex has by his side is a walking liability standing as you two walk out to the ring to face a nine month Television champ and a Hardcore champion that held the honour for 192 days straight. You might see Alex as a Jabba the Hutt weebo cosplayer who’s about to hit the deck faster than a patriot missile on a Sudanese pirate ship. You might think that Alex Richards will eat the pin in the name of the all father, but he’s not your three hundred pound twink, he isn’t Varis the ridiculous. You are. You’re the armless, legless atrocity that he’s carrying around. But you haven’t got the speed anymore.
It’s obvious when you watch the footage back of ONE. There you are Odin, struggling to reach Alex in the ring, but you can’t. Your feet are like lead as the three count beats you and your title swans away on the shoulders of a ditzy goth. And again during our tag match, your legs give way. No impetus to kick into another gear, no bust of energy to salvage the match from loss. Nothing. Just a body that’s too big and unwieldy to keep up with the pace a silver lining and a Serpent can set. You’re strong, we’re fast. Combat sports always favours the larger opponent, but not this time. Because you have the handicap of hubris. You can’t avoid the blind side that’s built into your game. Just like Alex Richards can’t avoid me.
I scouted you at the Pensacola Bay Center the night I dismantled Odin Balfore and I have to say, all this talk of a new and improved Alex Richards proved to be absolutely groundless. I had to superkick Zach Davis off his chair just to inject your match with Samuel McPherson with a dose of entertainment! Final Enlightenment is anything but. But a well placed Kingdom Destroyer? Well, you already know how decisive that can be. And now you’re going to learn that lesson again. One more time. I wonder though, when you fall will Shaun Zach Richards, Steven Osbourne and sweet Rebecca Thatch be there for you? You remember Rebecca, your girlfriend? Not Bonnie, who you seem more fixated with.
Alex, you have this obsession with the Guardians that I don’t share. I honestly don't care about your tree house of terror book club. I don’t care about your past PG-13 adventures with Bonnie and how you think this match has some connection to her. It doesn’t. I didn’t rip her from your bosom, I didn’t spirit her away from you on the back of a winged serpent. But you can’t let that idea go, can you? For you, Alex; this has to be about a group that you never formed. That you only barely contributed to. The Guardians was your world. Your everything. The fulcrum of your bludgeoned existence. They represented the antithesis of the pack. A way to redeem yourself after your disastrous run in the worst reiteration of Pantheon yet conceived. The Guardians made you feel good, like a shot of heroin drilled into your quivering veins. And then I came along and stole it all away from you like a Stephen Singh in the night.
Only, I didn’t. The Guardians were dead before I arrived back. Bonnie wasn’t in a tag team with you, was she? She chose to side with David Sanchez in Civil Disobedience. She didn't want to know you. She didn't want to be with you. Think about it. She’d rather team with a corrupt politician you personally fought against to save Chicago than be your tag partner. Now, what does that say about you, Alex? Bonnie chose the leader of Everest over the foot-soldier of the Guardians. That was a choice Bonnie made before I arrived back on the scene for one very important and decisive reason: Bonnie wanted to win. And she can’t win with you. Because you self medicate to survive, because Alex Richards is a lie. Because you jail your true, violent personality within a cage of drugs and alcohol and pretend to be a good natured soul. But the truth is, you don't exist, Alex. Your just a figment of a guilty conscience that will one day snap and strangle itself. Why would Bonnie Blue want to associate herself with that?
And, to be honest, why would Rebecca? You know that one day the medication will wear off, you’ll become immune or your heart will give out with the constant abuse. Either way, Rebecca will be the victim, not you, because you’re too self absorbed in living a gonzo lifestyle to seek actual help.
In a way Alex, you’re just like Odin. Self absorbed in your own little universe that barely interests anyone. I killed the Guardians. Fine, I’ll take that privilege and run with it at Till Death Do Us Part when I officially finish the job you never had the balls to compete. That’s what this is all about, your world fails and you need a monster to finger point at. If the Guardians meant so much to you, why didn't you ever confront Jaice Wilds to save it’s legacy? Or don't you have the courage to face up to that problem either? Of course not. You never have. All throughout your career you get close to the prize and then you balk when the pressure is on. You win a world title in UCI, but you can’t again. You beat Bobby Cairo and everyone thinks you’re the second coming, a few weeks later you’re slumming it in the internet division where it’s safe and invisible. Until a Dune arrives and you have to find another rock to crawl under. Hiding, that’s what you’re best at, Alex. Only this Monday they’ll be no hiding place, just the glare of lights and the ring and Superkick Uncensored, squeezing the air from your lungs as our oppressive boots collapse your hopes and leave you high and dry.
Why We Don’t Talk About Loki Anymore
They called him “Lourdes” a second name was not forthcoming. All the subjugated villagers knew was that he had slain Sir Edward Rushton in cold blood and enjoyed greatly the beheading of his grieving wife the following morning. Lourdes seemed effete and spoke with a Norwegian accent that somewhat betrayed his credentials as a French nobleman. Most morning, Lourdes helped himself to the Rushtons pantry for some cured ham, when the stock ran out he had the resident maids flayed alive to satyr his need for entertainment.
The following morning, as the wrenched odour of human flesh charred the cold air, Lourdes wandered across the courtyard, he contemplated his father and how he could never measure up him, no matter what atrocity he undertook. He would always fall short. It bothered him. Until his focus was wrenched elsewhere.
“Killing the neighbouring Druids was Loki’s first mistake.”
“His Second?”
Lourdes/Loki looked up and saw an eclipse blotting out the sun, he drew his sword, conjuring the blade from thin air yet still unable to anticipate the swiftness of the attack as Rabid leapt from the barn and ripped out the Asgardian's throat, feasting on the fountain of blood that gushed from the Norseman’s severed neck.
“Not killing enough of them”
Rabid/Rushton, still dressed in his chainmail armour, staggered on the cobble stoned surface as he felt the power of an Asgardian flow now though his tainted veins. Rabid absorbing his quarry’s power with a newly acquired zeal for more. While above, the eclipse began to dissipate, yet the vampire had already departed within a layer of deep mist. Changed.
Cut.
The footage showed Rabid stood hunched over the fallen and bleeding Odin Balfore, the Norseman’s long white mane falling into his bewildered eyes while writhing in agony beneath John. The Serpent’s white knuckles clenched the cricket bat like a katana as his eyes were alive with hatred. Once more Rabid brought the bat down over Balfore’s back with a sweeping arch of rage, over and over again as Bonnie kept Noble pinned to the mat.
Roy Speede observed the confrontation and sensed a deeper layer of intensity, Something was going on, a history seemed to exist beyond John’s simple desire to win the inaugural WCF Tag Team Tournament. A flash of personal disdain for the man he had so comprehensively beaten that night.
John Rabid: Some last minute data mining, Roy?
Rabid and Bonnie had arrived. They were casual and happy as they sat opposite Roy, slacks and tees were the order of the day as Rabid opened a bottle of 1841 Veuve Clicquot Champagne which had been left acclimatising on a coffee table and poured Roy a glass. Speede shook his head.
Roy Speede: Not before a PPV. Sorry.
John Rabid: It’s 1841, Roy.
Roy Speede: It’s the Tag Team Tournament finals, John.
John Rabid: Something troubling you?
The son of Logan rubbed his chin and considered his words carefully, after all the two vampires opposite were...well, vampires. What’s the protocol in a situation like this?
Roy Speede: When you attacked Odin in Pensacola, it seemed like there was a deeper issue at play. Something personal. I’ve looked though your records--
John Rabid: Thanks for asking--
Roy Speede: And there doesn’t seem to be any obvious connection. But I’ve been in this business long enough to know my gut is right.
Rabid sipped on his glass of Veuve Clicquot and contemplated a response.
John Rabid: You know what the connection is between an Odin Balfore and an Alex Richards? Their need for attention. They’re desperation to be loved. Odin can’t just be a man, he has to be an Asgardian. Alex has to believe he’s a comic book hero, not a drug addict. It’s their addiction.
Roy Speede: So what’s it for you? Being...you know…
Bonnie sipped her glass as she stood by the window, observing the midday panoramic.
Bonnie Blue: Different?
John Rabid: For me? It means, circumstance. Let me explain.
Baptism
Southern Carpathians, Romania. 1095. A twenty six year old Sir John Rushton is drunk, cold and alone. No squire accompanies him on this cold September night as his chestnut steed struggles to transverse the craggy, unforgiving tundra that separates Rushton from answering the call of Byzantine figurehead, Eudes of Châtillon AKA Pope Urban II and the era of the first crusade. Rushton is dressed in chainmail armour, the crest of his estate (A coiled yellow snake on a black holstered battle-standard) is flickering under duress from a gust of biting wind. John also carries his father’s broadsword, sheathed by his side; the metal chipped and scarred, yet reliable. Rushton is the son of a Knight, a second generation nobleman, entitled yet skilled. Right now however, John’s skills have been dulled by a fully drunk bottle of mead; home brewed courage to see Rushton through the small hours.
“In my youth I was a lot more arrogant, as hard as that is to believe. My days back home were exclusively spent drinking and fooling around, usually with the dull eyed wenches from the local inn. Thinking back, I spent a lot of pointless days back then, gambling away the purse from my winnings like it was a pantomime. More often than not I would lose at cards just to see the old man’s square jaw tense as he erupted with rage.”
“So, you were rich?”
“No Roy, I just knew I could coast on my talent. “The Rushton’s of Somerset” weren’t affluent, but we were skilled with a sword. The blade always felt natural in our hands, the discipline to weld it easy to come by. Even drunk it didn’t matter, I could face a Germanic berserker or a Frenchman with a rapier, but when it was time to joust for my supper? John Rushton drank. And sang. And fucked well. And that foregone conclusion just vexed the old man even more”
“So he sent you off to fight in the first Crusade?”
“It will make a man of you” he said. Yeah, It made me alright”
“And this all leads to, Odin?”
“Everything does, eventually.”
The first arrow sliced the reins from John’s grasp as he instinctively lowered himself to avoid the second shot aimed for his head. The Chesnut bolted and galloped as John was thrown clear, rolling down an embankment towards the icy canopy of a frozen lake. John shook off the effects of the ale as his heart began to race, adrenaline kicking in as Rushton stood and unsheathed his sword while three shapes leapt from the shadows, human...yet different.
The shapes snarled with eyes as black as pitch as their fangs emerged seeking a rich vein to plunder.
“Vampires?”
“Yeah, these are the last few moments of my human life. The one I lived with a beating heart, and a conscience. I went to fight a holy crusade, Roy, and yet here is where I found my baptism.”
The gypsies lurched forward, snarling as they swung their scythes with a burst of unfocused rage. Rushton parries the first, his feet still adjusting to the uneven, slippery surface as the business end of the scythe follows through and nicks the side of John’s chest. A trickle of blood intermixing with the bleached white surface of the lake.
With focused intent and years of training, John arched the broadsword and decapitated the first Gypsy with minimal effort. Waving on the second, John dodged and weaved past lunge and swipe as he searched patiently for his moment to swing the tip of the balanced sword upwards, slicing off the features of the second attacker, leaving the shocked, faceless gypsy without a mouth to scream.
A follow up flurry with the blade saw the second attacker’s head disembarked from it’s shoulders. But the third did not wait for John to regain his footing as it leapt into the air, spearing John through the ice into the lake.
“Arrogance, Roy. That’s what lead me into the water.”
Beneath the waves John and the Vampire fought, it’s strength overpowering the knight who still had one last card to play, a knife sheathed in a thigh holster. John slashed the creature across the throat as it’s blood inked the water with a wave of infected crimson, entering John’s bloodstream. Transforming him. Corrupting him.
“See, I was never turned. I was never sired. No one is the master of my fate, except me. When I emerged from that lake, I was reborn. In an image no human, nor Vampire could stand. I was free, and that made me dangerous. Even Gods would learn to fear me.”
A bloody hand exited the cold depths, it threw a decapitated Gypsies head onto the shore as the rest of Sir John Rushton...Jason Rush...John Rabid hauled himself up to the surface, the moon-glow glinting off his metallic chain mail tunic as his sleeveless cross of Saint George Tabard was ripped away as a new life began.
“After that night I went on a killing spree. I ripped the throat out of Europe for fun, just to see if I could. Nothing but the thirst mattered. Until a year later. Until 1066”
“The year of the conquest?”
“I had to get home.”
I killed your Gods. Your Guardians. Your Lies
Vblog. 2/23/19
Let’s start with the obvious, Odin. You’re fucking stupid. This Tag Team Tournament isn’t about a resurgence in a dead division, this is about the prize at the end of the struggle. A shot at any title of the winner’s choosing. You can conveniently forget that in Alex’s presence all you want, you can call yourselves “The Enforcers” as if it’s the age of the territories again, but even that Zim-Quila Sociopath knows better than to believe in a never never land where the two of you are equals. You’re a five time WCF world champion, Alex Richards is a UCI world champion; Alex knows he’s bush league, but the question is, do you know Alexander Richards?
Let’s cut to the chase, I’ve fought Alex before. I’ve beaten him comfortably at XIII. He’s never beaten me, hasn’t even come close. He’s a goofball most of the time, but not all of the time. He gave it his all at 2017’s Hellimination, tried out all his big moves. The Zim-Quila hangover, the Samoan Punch. I had an “Opportunist” buzzing around me trying to take credit for my eventual victory, but riddle me this. If any of Alex’s moves actually did damage, how did I end up being victorious? You can’t decide a match with your finishing move of your brain is scrambled. Well, not unless your Alex Richards. For him, having a scrambled brain is his default setting. If you conducted an autopsy on Richard’s mental state you’d discover a hall of mirrors where all the reflections are cracked and screaming. Richards self medicates to subdue the monster that lurks within, a mile high maze constructed from pills and alcohol. But what if one day, Richards decides to stop taking the pills, or at least lower the dosage? You belittle him, Odin. You talk down to him like a child even though he’s a formidable physical force in his own right. How long before he decides to miss a session or two at the Drunken Dragon just to get the edge back? Just enough to turn on you and make sure ‘Till Death Do Us Part’ has some literal meaning.
Think it can’t happen, Odin? Think again. Alexander Richards is as mean and as cunning as they come. His days as part of the Pack are catalogued with sadistic match after sadistic match. There’s a war within that man. Right now you’re dealing with a pacified version; muted and docile. But what if Alex was pushed, say, with a superkick? What If we woke poor, bullied Alex up, and he didn’t like the egomaniac shouting orders at him. Sometimes the house of cards needs a push, but sometimes it will collapse all on it’s own.
Unlike you and your week to week hell mary, Superkick Uncensored is a focused unified force. A team of equals. One of us isn’t a carer for a mentally unstable bulldozer primed by your own arrogance and entitlement to turn on you when you least expect it. But of course, you think it can’t happen, because how can a “spaz” like Alex bite the hand of a God, right? Of course you do. And this is why you’re going to lose, Odin. Because in truth? You’re the weak link.
Four cruise control wins over mismatched teams and once again, Odin Balfore considers himself the greatest of all time. “The King of Block A” with his impressive culling of superstar talents like...Scott Slayer and Matt Draven. Yeah, they have potential, but they’re not the finished article yet. Doesn’t matter to Odin Balfore though, the norse tank will big it up like it’s the second coming of ICE Beckman. But then, It’s the same old story with Odin, isn’t it? Always hypocritical, forever gasping for epithets to self congratulate himself without ever acknowledging his losses. Always heaping praise on his lukewarm successes while the failures are never addressed and so, Odin never learns, never grows. Isn’t that right, Odin? You simply stagnate and rot. And always so quick to judge others, because the All Father also happens to be an everyman that we should believe in and trust apparently. The man who dresses like a milwaukee truck driver slash serial killer so he can take potshots at Jay Omega for being an ubermensch, even though Odin’s entire schick is twice as ridiculous and half as layered.
You sleep on a couch like a slob with a racoon named Gillian, but you’re also supposed to be a high and mighty wizard and the Warden of Poon Guinea. Yeah really? Nah, fuck off with that shit! You have domestics with dear old daddy at thanksgiving, but we’re supposed to believe that you’re also a reincarnated deity that gets a Jam Will Hey-Zeus loot crate mid match with Stephen Singh and is brought back to life to win a WCF world championship?
But hey, you’re still believable, right? No, not really. Ya fucking dumb is what you are. Ya stoopid. You’re a Mustache family level retarded sideshow that’s been blessed with size and stamina in exchange for cunning and intelligence. The truth is Odin, you’ve never anchored yourself down to one reality, you never function in a believable way. In short, you’re fucking pointless. You’re the ramblings of an autistic child high on OJ and Quaalude, who circumvents facts because they carry that annoying sting of truth. And for Odin Balfore, the truth hurts. It hurts just like the first time you lost to Noble Savage on Slam, and you conveniently called it afterwards “a fluke” The next time the fluke became “begrudging respect” as you tried to pin your colors to your five foot nothing superior. Noble baulked, and you choked, and the winner of that tag match was me. Yeah, “the jobber” John Rabid. In a squared circle packed to the brim with WAR winners and multi time world champions, the three count belonged to the tag team of myself and Bonnie Blue. Not you. Not Noble. Not the entitled winners.
But you can’t see what went wrong, can you? It’s impossible for you to acknowledge that, because you’re such a fucking mark for yourself. So myopic that when a loss does happen, you simply ignore the “fake news” and carry on regardless. And that’s the crux of the matter with you, isn’t it? You’re contrary to a fault. Like a spoiled brat, obnoxious and nauseating, someone who will always see themselves as perfect, even when you’re getting your ass kicked in the centre of the playground by a kid tougher and smarter than you. But you’ll omit that fact because a God can’t lose to a five foot nothing girl and her dominatrix manager. A God can’t lose to a cynical Brit and a combat hardened woman. Nope. Didn’t happen if Odin’s head is buried in the sand like an ET cartage.
Keep it there, Odin. Keep your head below the dirt, because come The Smoothie King Centre In New Orleans I’m going to bury the rest of you and close the casket shut on your whole damn career. And no matter how much you ignore the loss that looms on the horizon this time I promise you you’ll never forget it. Because this is when your last chance at world title gold thunders out of the station and disappears from view, forever.
Odin, you can win a thousand championships, you can be proud of being the first man ever to win Ultimate Showdown and Alternate Showdown. You can be WARBalfore until the cows come home, but you’ll never be taken seriously, because your substance is play-dough. You’re a child in a seven foot tall body, running around on his first Shazam. That’s all you’ll ever be. An unstoppable juggernaut who couldn’t get over his own reflection long enough to have any substance and merit. Shallow to a fault, an exploit that was used to bury you, a blueprint for your downfall .
You better prepare for losses, Odin, because losses are coming. More than you’ve ever suffered before because there is no mystique surrounding you now, no aura of greatness. I am the reaper that scythed that lie right from under you. You’re a man of straw and I hold the torch. And when you burn, Odin Balfore, the stench will send tears running down the faces of absolutely nobody. There will be no minutes silence in Valhalla for your corpse. No Corey Black hosted retrospective. Nothing, not because you’re, “The Most hated man in the WCF”, but because no one needed another Oblivion there in the first place. And that’s exactly what you’ve become, a seven foot tall, three hundred pound joke that lumbers around in search of mid card upstarts to bully. WCF should have resigned Zombie McCuckold rather than you. At least that clown knows how to lose without spitting his retainer out on the canvass. And at least he has a girlfriend. What do you have, Odin? Oh yeah, a single man’s desperate, pathetic fantasies.
Tell me again, Odin, is Ariana Grande still on a leash tied up at Bobby Cairo’s pad? Your shared universe misogynistic crap is pitiful and sickening. You and Bobby once called yourselves “The Thickness” when the correct euphemism should have been “The Limpness”, limp and desperate; two middle aged hucksters conning a wrestling community into believing that victories over Jayden Thunder and Dez Angel, S-PAC, and the Angels of Death carry weight. They don't. They’re anorexic and embarrassing. You were pampered and spoiled by Sarah Twilight six years ago and yet it still wasn’t enough for you. You lauded over a win against Jonny Fly and Steve Orbit thinking the world owed you a blow job. When all you managed to do was pull back a win to make up for your embarrassing loss to the Homegrown players back at Payback 2013. That’s the problem with you, you always rewrite history to suit your own ends, you’ve been doing it since day one. You need to get over yourself, man; nine times out of ten you fought underwhelming talent during that Thickness run and yet it still wasn’t good enough for you, so you and Cairo threw a hissy fit at the Dunkin Donuts Center, caved Diablo Calzone’s head in for no good reason and dumped the tag team titles down the toilet. Yeah, way to go respecting the belts that night, prick.
It’s a shame Doctor Remus Micayle couldn’t build you an artificial sense of responsibility to go with Cairo’s cyborg spine. But doctor’s don’t work miracles. Even when you’re successful, you can’t help making it about you, and not the titles. Always has to be the great indestructible Odin Balfore. Not what's best for the company. Not what's best for the division. Odin Balfore only sees and hears Odin Balfore because only Odin Balfore matters. You’re worse than Jay Omega, Odin, at least Omega acknowledges he’s an asshole. You? You drink the kool aid and then bathe in it.
And that’s why The Enforcers will lose come February 25th at Till Death Do Us Part. Because you’re blindsided by your own arrogance. A loophole in the indestructible veneer of the Norse tank. A fissure that Superkick Uncensored will prise open into a gaping wound, that will eventually become a catastrophic structural failure in New Orleans. You’re one loss away from a full on meltdown and you know it. You can’t beat the world champion. You can’t beat the number one contender. You can’t beat the former AW world champion and you can’t beat the contender’s manager. This is your last shot to get back into the title scene, Corey Black promised the winner of this tournament their choice of any match and title they desired to battle over at the following PPV. You can sugar coat this however you want, but we all know that Alex Richards is this year’s Benjamin Atreyu. A means to an end that will eventually turn on you. He’ll jettison you when the time is right, which will be exactly one second after SKU easily surpasses you and wins the whole damn thing.
I know you can’t consider Alex as anything other than your caddy, but let’s think back. After that loss at Payback 2013, you and Benji lost again on the following Slam to a team named Prophecy. Steel Toe Joe and Tek are no slouches, so you’d be excused in dropping a win to them, if it wasn't for the fact that you’re supposed to be a God. And yet, once again, two weeks in a row, you couldn’t get it done. And here’s the best part, you couldn’t blame Benjamin Atreyu this time either, because you ate the pin. And again when Atreyu teamed with Gable, your shoulders on the mat for the one two three. Then came the Trinity Cup. You and Atreyu. And again you lost. To the better Tag Team partner. The one you let down. The one that surpassed you. And you couldn’t take it.
But in stepped Bobby Cairo to carry you. To be the true mastermind of The Thickness. Your title success has always hinged on a tag partner you can leech good fortune from. In Bobby C you gained an inexhaustible well that you’re still siphoning from today because you can’t move on and progress. You’re stranded in quicksand, waiting for another shining talent to come along and drag you out and pamper that ego. Think Alex has enough in the tank to carry you? Because deep down that has to be the endgame. Because you and I know you’ve never had enough to face me alone.
Remember, I am the one with the win over you, Odin. Not the other way around. you’re just a tag team with a plus sized hole where an actual partner should stand. All Alex has by his side is a walking liability standing as you two walk out to the ring to face a nine month Television champ and a Hardcore champion that held the honour for 192 days straight. You might see Alex as a Jabba the Hutt weebo cosplayer who’s about to hit the deck faster than a patriot missile on a Sudanese pirate ship. You might think that Alex Richards will eat the pin in the name of the all father, but he’s not your three hundred pound twink, he isn’t Varis the ridiculous. You are. You’re the armless, legless atrocity that he’s carrying around. But you haven’t got the speed anymore.
It’s obvious when you watch the footage back of ONE. There you are Odin, struggling to reach Alex in the ring, but you can’t. Your feet are like lead as the three count beats you and your title swans away on the shoulders of a ditzy goth. And again during our tag match, your legs give way. No impetus to kick into another gear, no bust of energy to salvage the match from loss. Nothing. Just a body that’s too big and unwieldy to keep up with the pace a silver lining and a Serpent can set. You’re strong, we’re fast. Combat sports always favours the larger opponent, but not this time. Because you have the handicap of hubris. You can’t avoid the blind side that’s built into your game. Just like Alex Richards can’t avoid me.
I scouted you at the Pensacola Bay Center the night I dismantled Odin Balfore and I have to say, all this talk of a new and improved Alex Richards proved to be absolutely groundless. I had to superkick Zach Davis off his chair just to inject your match with Samuel McPherson with a dose of entertainment! Final Enlightenment is anything but. But a well placed Kingdom Destroyer? Well, you already know how decisive that can be. And now you’re going to learn that lesson again. One more time. I wonder though, when you fall will Shaun Zach Richards, Steven Osbourne and sweet Rebecca Thatch be there for you? You remember Rebecca, your girlfriend? Not Bonnie, who you seem more fixated with.
Alex, you have this obsession with the Guardians that I don’t share. I honestly don't care about your tree house of terror book club. I don’t care about your past PG-13 adventures with Bonnie and how you think this match has some connection to her. It doesn’t. I didn’t rip her from your bosom, I didn’t spirit her away from you on the back of a winged serpent. But you can’t let that idea go, can you? For you, Alex; this has to be about a group that you never formed. That you only barely contributed to. The Guardians was your world. Your everything. The fulcrum of your bludgeoned existence. They represented the antithesis of the pack. A way to redeem yourself after your disastrous run in the worst reiteration of Pantheon yet conceived. The Guardians made you feel good, like a shot of heroin drilled into your quivering veins. And then I came along and stole it all away from you like a Stephen Singh in the night.
Only, I didn’t. The Guardians were dead before I arrived back. Bonnie wasn’t in a tag team with you, was she? She chose to side with David Sanchez in Civil Disobedience. She didn't want to know you. She didn't want to be with you. Think about it. She’d rather team with a corrupt politician you personally fought against to save Chicago than be your tag partner. Now, what does that say about you, Alex? Bonnie chose the leader of Everest over the foot-soldier of the Guardians. That was a choice Bonnie made before I arrived back on the scene for one very important and decisive reason: Bonnie wanted to win. And she can’t win with you. Because you self medicate to survive, because Alex Richards is a lie. Because you jail your true, violent personality within a cage of drugs and alcohol and pretend to be a good natured soul. But the truth is, you don't exist, Alex. Your just a figment of a guilty conscience that will one day snap and strangle itself. Why would Bonnie Blue want to associate herself with that?
And, to be honest, why would Rebecca? You know that one day the medication will wear off, you’ll become immune or your heart will give out with the constant abuse. Either way, Rebecca will be the victim, not you, because you’re too self absorbed in living a gonzo lifestyle to seek actual help.
In a way Alex, you’re just like Odin. Self absorbed in your own little universe that barely interests anyone. I killed the Guardians. Fine, I’ll take that privilege and run with it at Till Death Do Us Part when I officially finish the job you never had the balls to compete. That’s what this is all about, your world fails and you need a monster to finger point at. If the Guardians meant so much to you, why didn't you ever confront Jaice Wilds to save it’s legacy? Or don't you have the courage to face up to that problem either? Of course not. You never have. All throughout your career you get close to the prize and then you balk when the pressure is on. You win a world title in UCI, but you can’t again. You beat Bobby Cairo and everyone thinks you’re the second coming, a few weeks later you’re slumming it in the internet division where it’s safe and invisible. Until a Dune arrives and you have to find another rock to crawl under. Hiding, that’s what you’re best at, Alex. Only this Monday they’ll be no hiding place, just the glare of lights and the ring and Superkick Uncensored, squeezing the air from your lungs as our oppressive boots collapse your hopes and leave you high and dry.
Why We Don’t Talk About Loki Anymore
They called him “Lourdes” a second name was not forthcoming. All the subjugated villagers knew was that he had slain Sir Edward Rushton in cold blood and enjoyed greatly the beheading of his grieving wife the following morning. Lourdes seemed effete and spoke with a Norwegian accent that somewhat betrayed his credentials as a French nobleman. Most morning, Lourdes helped himself to the Rushtons pantry for some cured ham, when the stock ran out he had the resident maids flayed alive to satyr his need for entertainment.
The following morning, as the wrenched odour of human flesh charred the cold air, Lourdes wandered across the courtyard, he contemplated his father and how he could never measure up him, no matter what atrocity he undertook. He would always fall short. It bothered him. Until his focus was wrenched elsewhere.
“Killing the neighbouring Druids was Loki’s first mistake.”
“His Second?”
Lourdes/Loki looked up and saw an eclipse blotting out the sun, he drew his sword, conjuring the blade from thin air yet still unable to anticipate the swiftness of the attack as Rabid leapt from the barn and ripped out the Asgardian's throat, feasting on the fountain of blood that gushed from the Norseman’s severed neck.
“Not killing enough of them”
Rabid/Rushton, still dressed in his chainmail armour, staggered on the cobble stoned surface as he felt the power of an Asgardian flow now though his tainted veins. Rabid absorbing his quarry’s power with a newly acquired zeal for more. While above, the eclipse began to dissipate, yet the vampire had already departed within a layer of deep mist. Changed.
Cut.
