Post by Deleted on Jan 14, 2010 4:42:17 GMT -5
Chapter I: Revelation
In modern times the Big Time Jerks have been rendered irrelevant. The Royal Family A.K.A. The Big Dick Superstars dominated the BTJ’s on Monday Night Slam, ending their tenure as credible tag team contenders. As the Jerks fell by the wayside, new contenders emerged in the form of Chad Evans and Prince Jimmy Dean, the number one contenders for the WCF Tag Team titles. At the present time Jimmy Dean is doing his thing in Papua New Guinea far away from the harsh glare of the American media spotlight. Evans and Dean have no connection when they’re not wrestling, and that’s for the best. These two men are kindred spirits and they share a bond that can never be broken, but even an unbreakable bond can be tested. There’s no reason to risk compromising their incredible in-ring chemistry by associating outside of a wrestling capacity, after all it’s not uncommon for grown men to engage in disputes. Some men will rival each other for the affections of a woman. Some men will develop a conflict of egos with regard to who is the superior grappler. Evans and Dean avoid each other altogether, and thus there is no chance for their partnership to be afflicted with jealousy and greed.
In addition to their incredible prowess inside of the wrestling ring, Evans and Dean share another important trait: they are unbound by the timidity and apprehension that handcuffs most members of modern society. The average man doesn’t have the guts to look into the mirror, envision himself as a world champion, and then act upon his ambition. The average man is content to dream: “Oh what would it be like if I were fucking Jessica Alba raw? Let me pull out my meat and play with it instead of walking up to Jessica Alba, asking her out on a date, and digging the bitch without a contraceptive.” A man is not a man if he refuses to act upon his basest impulses. Modern man is not civilized, he’s simply been deluded into believing that he is. The Big Dick Superstars hold no such misconceptions. These men with giant salamis dangling between their legs don’t care about society’s rules. If your girlfriend flirts with Chad Evans then she’s not going to be your girlfriend anymore, she’s going to be on her knees servicing Chad Evans until he’s satisfied. This is something that Brad Kane cannot begin to comprehend, but we digress.
There comes a time when everything must go, including false allusions of greatness and aspirations to the gods. There comes a time when a man must be realistic, never conceding his limitations but casting a watchful eye over his shoulder. There’s no telling when another man will try to jack you with a crowbar or a sock full of pennies. To accept our existence in this world is to embrace all of the evil, darkness and greed inside of mankind’s heart. We are a backstabbing creed with only a hypocritical mind for justice. We demand justice when we are wronged, but what about when others are wronged? If a bomb falls on a nursery school in Iraq then it’s written off as collateral damage by American profiteers. If a lunatic detonates a bomb on American school grounds then it’s condemned by the masses as an act of terrorism. Perspective is a revelation for the blind, and a lack of perspective paves a fast track to the great beyond.
One must keep his eye on the prize, always on the prize, with a single-minded focus toward success. Chad Evans is focused on a couple of things if he’s being honest with himself and others. Chad would like to tell anyone who's willing to listen that he only cares about snatching the tag titles from the New Confederacy, but that would be a heinous misnomer, with “heinous” being pronounced similar to “hyena” in a distinct Southern drawl. Chad cares about world events. As bad as things are today it’s amazing how modern crimes pale in comparison to the atrocities of yesteryear; the slave trade, Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and disco music to name a few. I suppose that James Cameron’s latest bloated spectacle is here to make up for lost time. We don’t know about you, but we’re still floating on cloud nine after seeing Celine Dion’s ribcage in the music video for the Titanic theme song more than a decade ago. That is a spry rib cage if we do declare.
We’re not here to discuss sprites today, we’re here to discuss spite. Spite is a very nasty deed yet it’s a deed that must be done. It must be done because it’s human nature that we do not like to be fucked over and we demand revenge when it happens. For nearly one year Chad Evans sacrificed his fledgling solo professional wrestling career to search for a pile of shit, a washed-up has-been with a hard-on for conspiracy theories named Bobby Cairo. Cairo wasn’t satisfied with being a wealthy and industrious young urban professional in modern day America. Cairo decided that he had to be president. He had to be president because he wanted to change the system. Cairo declared with a solemn voice “The system is a virus and I am the antidote!” Cairo thought he was a cleaner but he was really just a pawn in a sick political endgame.
When Cairo took a dive headfirst into a super-max federal prison in New Mexico, a place that isn’t located on any map, it was Evans who took it upon himself to track down Cairo and haul his ass back to safety. Cairo sacrificed nothing; he was a suicidal lunatic who was willing to throw away everything that he ever worked for, but that was his own decision. That was Cairo’s choice to appease his massive ego. Evans held no such lofty ambitions of martyrdom; he simply wanted to find his friend. It was Evans and Biohazard who sacrificed. Biohazard was anointed with debts into the millions of dollars based on his excursions to find Cairo. Evans did not make such financial contributions but he was the driving force behind the search mission, and he risked his dome and his career to find Cairo. When Chad returned home to Connecticut with Cairo in tow, it was Evans who lacked a clear direction. Biohazard returned to Mexico to entertain the masses, co-starring in blockbuster action movies with Erik Estrada, in addition to headlining the largest wrestling events south of the border.
Cairo spent a period of time licking his wounds and recovering from his prison stint while being treated at a hospital in Hartford. When Cairo was healthy enough to walk out of the hospital under his own volition, he took it upon himself to throw the working man a bone. With his audacity running high, Cairo pretended to be “one of the guys” by joining the workforce at Federal Express. It wasn’t enough for Cairo to patronize the true working men by shucking his ass in their faces and calling it cherry pie, Cairo upped the ante by falling in love with a gorgeous brunette woman who bears a striking resemblance to Zooey and Emily Deschanel, Katy Perry and Alexis Bledel, who are all the same woman. As if that weren’t enough Cairo plead his case to Seth Lerch, the indomitable WCF owner. Lerch, in his infinite wisdom, saw fit to entertain Cairo’s dream of becoming a professional wrestling announcer, no matter how fleeting such a dream might have been. All of this and more were rewards for Cairo, a man with no regard for those around him, a man whose hyper-inflated ego stands tall at the center of its own universe.
Cairo has been able to get his cake and eat it too. Cairo willingly played the role of self-sacrificing hero who stands up to the system, when in reality he sacrificed absolutely nothing and in fact destroyed the lives of countless people around him. During Cairo’s absence from free society, his assets were seized by the hawkish and opportunistic federal government. Dozens of Cairo’s employees lost their jobs, including all of the workers at his construction firm in Manhattan. Had Cairo remained on top of his game, and of sane mind, he would have been able to combat these dastardly efforts by the government, but alas Cairo fell from the back of the turnip truck during his ego trip.
Chad was also fucked. Due to Cairo’s bizarre and mysterious excursion Chad lost his direction, his ambition and his standing within the WCF locker room. Prior to Chad’s abrupt departure from WCF to rescue Cairo, he was considered a rising star. Chad was the man who nearly captured the white whale; the man who nearly defeated Torture in the WCF World title tournament. During this time Evans also enjoyed a thriving personal life, with multiple female lips wrapped around his throbbing cock at any given time. If there is one thing that Chad praises and holds dear on the same level as championship gold it is righteous punani. Sexual intercourse is the seed of life and Chad is a man willing to embrace life, even if it leads to his inevitable death. After all what is pleasure without pain?
Chad’s enjoyment of life’s basest pleasures was derailed by the delusions of a mentor-turned-monster named Cairo. The mentor is supposed to teach the pupil and guide him, but in this instance it was the mentor who lacked guidance and the pupil who blazed the path to sovereignty. Upon rescuing Cairo from his detour through hell, ensuring that Cairo was safe and secure in the arms of loved ones, and receiving quality medical care, Chad was forced to find a new ambition in his life. Chad's wrestling career was kaput and his romantic endeavors had been severed. What was young Chad to do?
Chad took up working as a grappling and striking coach at Ultra Nova Dojo in Brooklyn, New York. Chad worked with his trainer Bolts Quackenbush to teach young and aspiring fighters at the same academy where Chad himself was prepped for his professional wrestling career. Chad was happy to share his knowledge with those younger and less experienced than him, but at some point a man’s desire to compete rises to the surface like a boil on the snatch of a Hollywood whore. Chad desired to compete once again under the bright lights, in the proving grounds of WCF.
Chapter II: Resurgence
With a New Year and a pep in his step Chad arrived at Monday Night Slam in Bangor, Maine on January 4th, 2010. Chad was not an invited guest of the WCF establishment. Chad was not a competitor or a spokesman for the company; Chad was a patron who purchased his ticket to the show with a devious plot in mind: Chad Evans was going to assassinate Abraham Lincoln! Having suddenly remembered that John Wilkes Booth tackled that nasty deed nearly a century and a half earlier, Chad concluded that a new plan was necessary. Chad decided to put that slovenly ho-bag Brad Kane in his place. Chad snuck into the ring during Kane’s match, manhandled him with the greatest of ease, and impaled him upon the canvas with the force of a car accident. Brad Kane had been assassinated on live television with a worldwide audience bearing witness to his demise. It is only through the malady of modern science that Brad Kane still walks among the living. If 2010 had been 1865 then Brad Kane would have perished along with Abe Lincoln’s good eye.
Despite Brad Kane’s annoying insistence to exist, Chad had declared his triumphant return. Chad’s train had left the station and he was bearing down on all the stray wildlife in his path. Chad put a couple of foolish suckers in their place once again the following week on Slam when he teamed with Prince Jimmy Dean on January 11th in Providence, Rhode Island. Earlier in the evening Cairo tried to steal the thunder from Chad’s in-ring return by meeting with Lerch and declaring his intent to become Slam’s lead announcer. Chad would tolerate no such shenanigans from Cairo; Chad was going to establish himself by any means necessary. Chad cast down his furious reign upon the mortal souls of the Big Time Jerks. The Jerks had been world champions and competed against tough opposition before, but the tandem of Evans and Dean left the Jerks in a whirling dervish of pain and destruction.
Along with his rejuvenated wrestling career, Chad’s penis has also recovered from Cairo’s acts of heresy. In fact Chad’s penis has become a point of great jealousy and contention among his peers, due to the fact that Chad is viewed as a superior athlete and a buoyant lover, capable of balancing several women upon his knob at any given time. Of course there are detractors who contradict this point, but their statements are meaningless to the man himself. Viagra knows no place in Chad’s medicine cabinet; he’s 100% all-natural beef. It’s a wonder that some men can even call themselves men while lacking the sausage that Evans possesses. Johnny Reb certainly doesn’t pack the shotgun wallop contained in Chad’s pants, and don’t get us started on Dog Henry. Dog’s genitalia is comparable to that of a small rodent or a hamstrung eunuch and is not even worth mentioning.
It seems unbelievable that the WCF tag team division has reached such astounding lows. How is it that two hapless hoodlums such as Reb and Henry are now regarded as World champions in their own right? Who unleashed this experiment in mediocrity upon an unsuspecting public? Seth Lerch is to blame for this mess. Lerch will meet his end in due time, and it will be painful beyond reason, and agonizing to the point where time stands still.
There’s not even a question of whether The Royal Family is capable of attaining tag team gold. In fact the inevitably of their title reign is the only logical conclusion that can be reached when all of the facts are presented and reviewed. WCF’s tag team division is on life support and the only remedy, the only treatment that will lead to its survival and resurgence is big dicks up the ass. Take down Chad’s pants and you’ll see eight inches... when flaccid. As for Jimmy Dean? Ask them Papua New Guinean bitches what he’s packing in his royal trousers. Better yet listen to their lilting screams as they fill the balmy midnight air; it’s music to a straight man’s ears.
The sad part of the equation is that The Royal Family will have to jump through bureaucratic hoops before receiving their title shot at the “Ten” pay-per-view extravaganza in Reading, Pennsylvania. Chad and Jimmy are contractually obligated to compete in a series of tedious filler matches on Slam broadcasts, designed by the WCF braintrust to pad out the production sheet, before being granted their opportunity to purge the WCF tag division of its pollutants. In a day and age where “Change” has become codeword for the corporate elite who wish to maintain the status quo, the Big Dick Superstars are change that you can count on. If the working man is being held down, then the system is corrupt. If the system is corrupt, then everything must go and our society must be rebuilt from the ground up. The beauty of an anarchist workers state will be realized, but patience is a virtue.
Chapter III: The Serpentine Garden
Patience is vital toward achieving a meditative state. Harmony is also a seductive force. Three men are sitting in a meditative state, forming the basis of a circle on a mahogany floor, in the temple of the lords. “Breathe in, breathe out.” “Let the negativity depart from your mind and body.” “We are cleansing our souls.” These three men are kings in their own minds, times and dimensions. They control their destinies and their destinies are infinite. Their state is grace; the home of their harmony is the Ultra Nova lair. These three men are Chad Evans, Bobby Cairo and Bolts Quackenbush. Their respective histories are storied and rival most, but these men encounter no rivals. It is not possible to rival a man who is untarnished perfection in his own mind. That is the essence of meditation. When you achieve a perfect soul then you will achieve a perfect body and mind. There cannot be a crisis of faith when you place your faith in inner strength.
Some people think it’s crazy that these men travel from their home in Hartford, Connecticut to Ultra Nova Dojo in Brooklyn, New York and back again each and every day, but others have traveled much further along their journey to reach this temple. Eddie Vineland drove here all the way from his home in Wetteland, Texas. Young Eddie’s traverse was not irksome, in fact a rather worthwhile and valuable experience. Eddie appreciates the education and training that he’s receiving from the Ultra Nova staff. In due time Eddie will be prepared to take Anderson Silva’s UFC middleweight title away from him… in due time. Everything has its right time and its right place. Everything that should not be will be replaced, in due time. Some people think that a man’s conscience can be replaced and some people think it’s crazy to try. Proponents of the theory call it “rehabilitation”.
Ultra Nova Dojo can be classified as a rehabilitation clinic, after all it provides an oasis for the mind, body and soul. If the state of the art weight room, sauna and exercise equipment aren’t your speed then perhaps you would be interested in the yoga and Tai Chi classes that are offered? No? Fists and feet are more your speed? You’ve chosen some fine weapons to work with, let us commence upon the lavish 12000-square foot training center. Here we encounter wrestling and boxing rings and an MMA cage, along with punching and kicking bags and grappling dummies. Most importantly we note the presence of the world class Ultra Nova training staff. The headliners of this staff are the three men sitting and meditating on these hallowed grounds: Evans, Cairo and Quackenbush.
It was Cairo who built this place with hardwood, marble, linoleum, titanium and the sweat on his brow. Cairo never doubted that the project would be completed within his self-assessed deadline. Cairo also knew that, regardless of his construction work, Ultra Nova would never truly be his. Ultra Nova belonged to the man who taught Cairo. Ultra Nova belonged to the man who mentored Cairo, the man who took Cairo under his wing. Johnny Hotbody taught Cairo how to wrestle for a living, but Bolts Quackenbush instilled the values of being a fighter, a man and living a proper life, a foundation that had been laid by Cairo’s family throughout his youth, a foundation upon which Bolts filled in the columns and levels.
Unfortunately Cairo has strayed from this righteous path time and again, troubled by the burdens of fame, love and politics. Cairo recognized that he could never truly be the bearer of the Ultra Nova name and he supplanted the honor upon Bolts. It was a gesture that was greatly appreciated by the old man, a fitting tribute to a man of honor and integrity, a life well lived. Bolts looks like George Carlin and he has a story to match. Bolts grew up in a military family and learned to fight from a young age. He boxed in the Army during his station in Vietnam and knocked out street urchins for the prizes of the day: Asian punani, blow and greenbacks.
Nearly five decades later Bolts is surrounded by a cavalcade of prominent and emerging fighters. The marble walls of the training room are engraved with gold and decorated with framed photographs of champions who have spent time teaching and speaking at the Ultra Nova compound. Foremost among them are Bob Backlund, Antonio Margarito, Mirko Cro Cop, Sam Greco, Zab Judah, and Jérôme Le Banner. Each of these men has graced the hallowed halls of Ultra Nova with their greatness and their wisdom. Why have they done it? They’ve done it because of the unparalleled experience and knowledge that Bolts Quackenbush brings to the table, and their respect and admiration for this great man.
It almost wasn’t this way. As if by guided hand, Ultra Nova was the only of Cairo’s major assets that the federal government was unable to seize. Upon completing construction of the facility in 2007, Cairo succumbed to his innermost urge to place the deed in Bolts’ name, a gift to his mentor. It was a gesture of kindness and gratitude from protégé to mentor that was ultimately rewarded by the gracious hand of fate. Sometimes we write our own fate. Ultra Nova has prospered during tough economic times, not making its owners and proprietors wealthy men, but allowing them to keep roof over head, food on table and shirt on back.
The consensus of visitors to Ultra Nova is that it’s more than a training facility for fighters: it’s a home for ambitious young people, a school for those who are eager to learn, and a respite from the inequities of the modern world, untarnished by greed and corruption. Not everyone views Ultra Nova through such rose-colored lenses. A much different view is visible through the eyes of Chad Evans. Chad appreciates everything that Cairo, Bolts and Ultra Nova has contributed to his development as a man and fighter, but as he sits and meditates a horror story is running through his mind. Chad knows that Bobby Cairo is a slithering serpent who cannot be trusted. Cairo is the sweltering sun that melts Chad’s polar ice caps.
Chad Evans: “There is one place, one time, one opportunity for one man. Cairo claims to have turned over a new leaf. Cairo tells his friends that he wishes to make amends for his betrayal, yet his doesn’t even have the integrity to call it betrayal. He calls it his ‘indiscretions’. If Cairo detonated a nuclear bomb at the foot of Libertarian party headquarters, he wouldn’t call it betrayal, but rather ‘indiscretions’. Who does Cairo believe that he’s fooling? The mystique of Bobby Cairo has worn thin on my conscience. I cannot bear the weight of this man’s suffocating myth. Cairo must be destroyed, in due time, through a clear and concise rhythm. The rhythm of bones falling to calamitous misfortune is my kind of music. For now there is other business which must be tended. Cairo cannot rattle my cage and yank my chain any longer.
“I am a man of fortuitous benefit, grace and charm. I make bodies hit the canvas while resisting the urge to put a bullet in Cairo’s head. Cairo’s waifish and humbled body will be disengaged from the gathering of dead leaves and carried down the river, in due time. There is another order of business, before my mind drifts from its proper frame. The Royal Family is scheduled for competition on Monday Night Slam. We are competing in a pathetic and absurd abomination of a match. Why has Seth Lerch compiled such nonsense? Lerch will be destroyed like Cairo. Traitors lurk in our midst, and tyrants rest in their ivory towers. Ace Slaughter and D-Day comprise our tag team partners. Our opposition is facilitated by future ex-tag team champions The New Redneck Coalition, homeless lounge singer Kevin Hardaway, and talk radio host and noted conspiracy theorist Alex Jones.
“I hate Jones because his paranoid conspiracy theories reverberate with the essence of Cairo. I will take pride and joy in dissecting Jones and incapacitating vital organs contained within his torso. Hardaway is a man of unappreciable accomplishment. I’m not sure why an unemployable boozehound and homeless lounge singer has been invited to compete inside the circle of four sides, but his new career will expire in short order. As I rise above the flames of Cairo’s wreckage, I am reminded of the New Redneck Coalition. I find it irreconcilable that two men of questionable ilk who lack the ability to please the opposite gender have been tallied as World champions. The world is on fire, as Sarah McLachlan so eloquently stated in her hit song of the same title, and few embody this notion like the Redneck Coalition.
“I refuse to acknowledge the Rednecks as men because they possess neither the genitalia nor the fighting spirit of red-blooded American males. Johnny Reb sits and cries into his Dixie whiskey because of heartache and disappointments with the direction of his life. Dog Henry doesn’t even have the ability to ponder and lament, his brain cavity is occupied by guano and rat droppings. I’ve seen greater enlightenment in dust balls hiding behind the radiator than anything Dog Henry can muster. It seems inane that two unqualified, lactating and frustrated dumplings such as Reb and Henry can approach the heights of championship glory. I am convinced that the New Redneck Coalition’s title reign is a product of the lack of depth and competition present in WCF’s pre-Royal Family tag team division rather than any true talent and ingenuity exhibited by the rednecks.”
Chad is suddenly shaken from his stream of lucid and transcendent thought. A young man from the Ultra Nova office has appeared. He apologizes for committing the cardinal sin of interrupting the masters’ meditation but he has important news. The young man informs Cairo that he has received a phone call from WCF owner Seth Lerch. Cairo bounds to his feet in a fluid motion, his meditative posture undisturbed by his standing and walking. There is no emotion on Cairo’s face as he walks toward the office to receive his call. Bolts remains in his meditative trance, undisturbed by the interruption. Chad is not so focused and intent. Chad’s heart has sunken into his stomach, he fears that Cairo has been rewarded with more riches, an added bounty for a murderer with no soul. Chad does not wear his frustration on his face but still it eats his insides. Chad’s soul is disturbed by any possibility of success for Cairo.
When Cairo emerges from the office several minutes later there is no indication as to whether he received positive or negative information during his phone conversation with Lerch. Chad hates the fact that Cairo hides his emotions, but Chad plays the same game… neither man concedes an inch as tension permeates the air. Cairo breaks the silence with a calm yet firm tone in his voice.
Bobby Cairo: “You might be interested to know, Chad. You might be interested to know…”
There is no baited breath between these two men, only mutual animosity.
Bobby Cairo: “That Seth Lerch has proffered me a full-time color commentary position on all WCF broadcasts.”
Cairo licks his lips, tasting the salt of hatred coming from Chad’s direction as their four eyes remain locked.
Bobby Cairo: “I have accepted this employment opportunity. I will enjoy calling the action during your eight-man tag team contest on Slam. Good luck to you, Chad.”
There is no handshake, no congratulatory gesture, only the vacuum of enmity that resonates between former allies. Chad closes his eyes and returns to his meditative state, casting Cairo aside like much rubbish and ignoring his presence.
Chad Evans: “There will come a time when I will destroy Cairo. The power of a working man’s revolt will carry me to victory. Cairo bears the harbinger of asylum calls. His power comes from a thousand crippled empires. Cairo holds no match for Chad Evans and it’s pathetic that he even tries. There will come a time when Cairo will bear the brunt of a furious proletariat. Sleep well, fat man. Enjoy the fruits of your conniving. Your demise is imminent. The gusting winds of change have come and everything must go.”
