Post by Deleted on Jun 5, 2011 20:43:23 GMT -5
An old wooden door creaks open. The boot-clad, size fifteen feet of WCF Hardcore Champion Phillip Baines stumble forward onto the wood panels of a porch as the sun illuminates the dim early morning sky. It can't be more than 5AM, but Baines looks wide awake. He looks like a man who's primed and ready for action, a man who's rearing to explode from the restrictive denim of a modern day pair of blue jeans. Baines steps away from the old country home and strides into a field of things that need not be spoken. Perhaps they are cornstalks, perhaps wheat. Or perhaps they are stalks of Baines' very soul that are growing big and strong in the sprawling country field. Baines winds his way through the field of hearty crop and comes to a clearing whereupon he spots a crystal clear brook. Baines licks his lips and cocks his head to the side.
Phil: Let me get a drink of this soul-replenishing water.
Baines bends down to a kneeling position and leans over the edge of the brook. He uses two hands to cup the water into his eager mouth. Baines lets out a contented sigh after those first cold gulps of water hit his gullet, but he drinks more because his cup is still full. When Baines is satisfied, when he's had his fill, he returns to his feet and extends his arms to his sides like Christ. Baines contorts his nostrils and unleashes a venomous flare, something that would scare children, women and even grown men, but something that Baines does not have to even consider because it comes to him naturally. It is then that Baines unleashes a primal roar from the absolute depths of his soul, and the Amazon Rain Forest.
Phil: RRRRRAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Baines pounds his chest like a motherfucking King Kong for good measure and then drops his arms to his sides as if they were a pair of muscle-bound beanstalks. His eyes cast an icy glare as he lifts his head and torso into a stoic pose. Phil's words are strong and unwavering as he delivers his stream of shit to fuck you up if you're one of his opponents on Monday night.
Phil: Fools... they think that they can intimidate me with smoke and mirrors. These are empty parlor tricks. What is Oblivion but a false prophet, a dimestore fortune teller whose jig is up? Oblivion fancies himself a hell-demon, a monster from the Southernmost tip of Heaven whose powers far exceed those of mere mortal man. But you... you, Oblivion. What have you accomplished for all of your sputtering and demonstrative accoutrements? You attacked me two weeks ago on Slam following my title defense against Matt Storm. I can only presume that you did this to send me a message. But what was the message?
Baines casts an index finger to the dim, morning sky.
Phil: Ah yes... Oblivion tipped his hand. He showed me his weakness in glaring contrast to the unparalleled strength that I possess. A sneak attack, an ambush, it is the sign of a coward. It tells me that you can't stand with me, toe-to-toe as grown men do, and bring the shit that throws my system into a frenzied state of affairs. No, no... you act as you speak, and you speak as you walk, and you walk like a sissy with asshole projected upward to allow easy access for other grown men. This is not me casting you as a homosexual, this is me casting you as a bitch. Do not you wonder, Oblivion, why my dear friend, mentor and manager Bobby Cairo chose not to intervene while you were beating me to a pulp? After all, he was standing at ringside no more than ten feet away from us during the incident in question. He could have clobbered you from behind, laid you out with the Security Breach, and splooged on your masked, unconscious face if he so chose. Why didn't he?
A smug chuckle emanates from deep within Baines.
Phil: The answer is simple, oh Dark One. Bobby knew what I knew. He knew that you, Oblivion, are a desperate man, and moreover, a desperate coward. By attacking me you were condemning yourself to a very public execution befitting only a live, pay-per-view extravaganza such as Blast. At least Greenfever had the courage to face me head-on as a man faces another man. At least he was willing to lay his life on the line for a cause that he believed in. You... you would rather pick your shots and take the easy path, but that easy path will lead you straight to the gates of Hades, my friend. Fear is a powerful motivator and it has clearly motivated you to pick a fight with a man that you know, YOU KNOW you cannot beat. You should have run. You should have just tucked tail and run. Yes, I killed Greenfever. Yes I ended his life in Des Moines, Iowa, which is an indignity that no man deserves, but it was Greenfever's choice. If you were any kind of a friend to him you would have accepted that, but then what am I saying?
Baines furiously shakes his head while his disgust permeates in tiers.
Phil: You were never a friend to Greenfever. His blood is on YOUR hands, not mine. You pushed him to unprecedented heights of insanity with all of this talk about the Shadow Conspiracy and an indomitable reign of terror that would surely follow their ascent through the ranks of the tag team division. You and Dr. Heill. You planted the seeds inside of Greenfever's brain that made him think to create the Flatliner match, and made him think to challenge me to that very match at XIII. Greenfever is dead because of you!
Phil wipes the scowl from his accusatory mouth with a swipe of his hand. He turns his head and spots a flock of birds wobbling on the side of the brook. Phil actually manages to smile and appreciate this light-hearted sight, despite his killer's state of mind. Then he gets serious again.
Phil: I... you need to understand this, Oblivion. I live my life by a very simple philosophy: Do not fuck with Phillip Baines! Most people would call that common sense. Most people can understand it, reasonable people, but there's nothing reasonable about your kind, Oblivion. You will push a man to his limits until he lashes out at you and then you find that you have nothing left, no firepower in your arsenal to tame the beast that YOU have created. You refer to your victims as meatstacks, but in truth you're the meatstack, Oblivion. You're a meaty stack of dogshit and I will not hazard stepping on you. No, sir. I will not get my boots dirty, but I will scoop you up and bag you and toss you out to the rubbish bin because that's where you belong. You're trash. You're a fraud. Your entire persona is a sham. You're a big, bad serial killer? Is that so, Oblivion? Then how come you were teaming with Greenfever, the man that you once feuded with? The man that you once spilled blood with? How come you were teaming with him? Are you so weak that you needed Greenie to carry your big, fat, retarded ass?
Phil nods his head in affirmation.
Phil: You're jealous. You're jealous because I did what you couldn't do. I FINISHED The Omega Greenfever! That just eats you up inside, doesn't it? You were too weak to kill Greenie, so you joined him as his bitch, but I put an end to all of that. I did what you wanted to do, what you tried to do... what you failed to do. You've grown accustomed to failure, Oblivion. You've failed in your attempts to capture the WCF World Championship, against both Johnny Reb and Jay Williams. I can assure you of something else, Oblivion: You will fail to avenge Greenfever's death when you step into the ring with me at Blast. You will fail to capture the WCF Hardcore Championship from me. This isn't a fucking game, son. I want your skull on my mantel. I want to rip that mask from your face and then I want to rip the skin from your face and turn it into a mask!
Baines flicks his lip with the tip of his thumb. That scowl has returned and it means business.
Phil: Yeah, I'm in a foul mood and it's mostly because of you, Oblivion. I wasn't hardcore when I came to WCF, but after three months here I've become hardcore like the motherfucking nuclear bomb blasts on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I kill people, ya understand? I put people in bodybags, and I don't mean that as a line. I didn't want it to be like this. I would rather be a dignified World Champion like Jay Williams or a long-reigning United States Champion like Shane Borderland, but Markman threw me into the fire of the Hardcore division and here the fuck I motherfucking am. If you don't like the cursing then hit the mute button on your TV or computer and don't learn to read lips, because I really don't give a fuck. They got me killing people here in WCF, you think I'm worried about the consequences of dropping a few F-bombs? All bets are off. ALL BETS ARE OFF, BITCHES!!!!!
Phil shadowboxes and feigns dropping an imaginary foe to emphasize his point.
Phil: One thing that I know to be true is that Oblivion won't be the only asshole in my way on Monday Night Slam in Omaha, Nebraska. I know that I will be surrounded by enemies. D-Day and Doc Henry will be the only friendly faces in that ring, and Doc isn't even on my quote/unquote "team". This ain't gonna be like Survivor Series back in the day, good guys versus bad guys, this is gonna be the clusterfuck from Hell. Speaking of Hell, the last time that I was in Omaha that black bastard Chris Avery smacked me, Bobby Cairo and D-Day in the head with a chair. Do we think that Mr. Avery is going to get that shit paid back in full on Monday night? Yes, me think so!
Phil cackles wickedly and licks his chops as he thinks about what he's going to do to Chris Avery's bitch ass on Monday night.
Phil: Chris Avery, first of all, fuck you! Secondly, who the fuck do you think you are? You were a nobody for the last two years or whatever while you were sucking Torture's cock and carrying his bags and shit in This Is War, now you want to act hard? Come to Connecticut, bitch! Come to Hartford, where I train with my blood and sweat every day, every DAMN day! Bitches like you get beaten to shit and left for dead in the park! Don't believe me? Read a goddamn newspaper! And that's just the shit that THEY print in the paper! You think you're hard, Avery? Then why you bitchin' about gettin' held down by THE MAN? Do something about it! But you won't! Why? Cuz you a punk! You a tired, triflin'-ass nigga, Avery! You've done shit in this company because YOU ARE shit! You talk about the white man holding you down, well you're right about that, motherfucker, because I'm a white man and I'm gonna be holding your ass down while I proceed to beat the ever-loving shit out of you in that ring on Monday night!
Baines hocks a loogie into the dewy morning grass as his disdain for Avery boils to the surface.
Phil: You sucked a white man's dick for two years, sucked Torture's dick for two years, and now you want to talk about the white man holding you down? You've got some nerve, Avery. Some goddamn nerve. It was the white man that created Affirmative Action, and Affirmative Action is the only reason why you have a job, you talentless little shit! But, oh... you bad.
Baines raises his hands up in front of him, feigning fear with them and the expression on his face.
Phil: Don't hurt me, Chrissy! I'm the man who killed Greenfever, but clearly I should be afraid of a corny little bitch-ass ho like you! Fuck that...
Baines lowers his hands and his face turns to a smirk. He brushes Avery aside like he ain't shit.
Phil: You ain't even from the streets, sucka, you from the suburbs. You ain't even from the suburban ghetto like me. I grew up in a place where methheads and dope fiends populate the sidewalks, fuck with a young cracka while he's walking to school. But you... nah, you went to a private school in a nice neighborhood, bitch. Your dad was a doctor and your moms worked at a law firm. You ain't "The Truth", you're Theo Huxtable! Stop frontin' like you hard, g. Now you've aligned yourself with this other clown, Colt McFly, who I can only assume is Marty McFly's retarded step-nephew. Good for you, Avery. You finally got yourself a friend! Too bad he won't be able to save you from an overdue ass-whooping on Monday night. That's right, I'm-a take your ass back to the future, son! I'm talkin' Baines-style, and that means execution-style!
Baines glares ominously while doing the throat-slitting gesture with his hand.
Phil: I'm a stone cold killer, Chris. Don't ever forget it, bitch. One more thing I want you to remember: You are a black man and you have a black man's dick, bet your dick still does not measure up to mine. That is... THE TRUTH!!
As if on cue, the "Angel of the Morning" appears in the Northern skyline. Her silhouette is illuminated by the glistening rays of the morning sun. The Angel is in fact Phil's girlfriend, Gina. Gina hovers effortlessly in the sky, wearing a strapless dress that is cut-off at the thighs, and nothing else. Gina's goodies are on full display as the tight, white dress grips and accentuates each and every curve from her huge breasts, to her wide hips, and her bubble butt. Gina smiles as she plants her dainty bare feet onto a brilliant, white cloud, the only cloud in the sky, and bends over for Phil to get a good view. Phil adjusts the crotch of his blue jeans while gazing at Gina's exposed, apple-shaped posterior. He experiences a visible growth, the kind that is common for a man.
Our attention is diverted to the bubbling brook as an un-zipping sound can be heard, followed by a masculine groan. The sound of the brook grows louder and soon it is all that we can hear as our perspective draws nearer to the brook, to the point that we can see the fish and frogs and other little critters swimming inside of it.
When our perspective returns to Phillip we see that he is seated with his back against a tree. This is where he's resting, with a look of sheer satisfaction on his face.
Phil: Sorry for the distraction, folks. Had some, uh, "business" to which I had to attend. You know how it is in the morning!
Phil wipes the smirk from his face and suddenly gets serious again. He rises to his feet. The sense of purpose returns to his voice.
Phil: If there's one thing that I want the world to know about me, aside from the fact that I have a huge dick and enjoy a good orgasm, it's that I have... no fear. I knew when I signed my name on that WCF contract that blood would be shed. I knew that I would be risking life and limb every time I stepped into the ring, even if killing a man wasn't part of the match stipulation as it was at XIII. This match on Monday night, this eight-man clusterfuck, it presents a great deal of opportunity for injuries to take place, but it also presents a great opportunity for statements to be made. I've got my sights set on Oblivion and Avery, but there's another man that I have in my crosshairs.
Phil casts a glare as if he can see this unnamed individual standing in front of him, even though nobody is there.
Phil: Reckless... Jack. Two words that I did not think would be parting from my lips anytime soon, if you had asked me a few weeks ago. Yet here we are. What can I say about Reckless Jack? Well, Jack, you should know that I view you with contempt. I do have some regard for your wrestling accomplishments. You're a champion and a Hall of Famer in WCF. That's worth respecting. Unlike Tommy Knoxville, I am fully cognizant of who you are.
Phil bellows with uproarious laughter. He suddenly appears to be having a good ol' time.
Phil: Can you imagine that? Tommy Knoxville was booked into a Hardcore Championship eliminator match against Brad Kane-slash-Reckless Jack and had no idea who the man was! Hey Tommy, get your shit together, ya dumb motherfucker! I just saw my scantily clad girlfriend flash her sublime buttocks from up in the sky and even I'm not as out of it as you are! Pfft... enough about that burn-out. Brad Kane's Reckless Jack is the man, one of the men, that I will be facing at Slam and again at Blast, and my focus needs to be on him. Jack is on a mission to purge the WCF roster of all the dumb shit n00bs that are overpopulating WCF and making us look bad. Sounds like a plan to me! The problem is that you find yourself on the frontlines opposite Phil Baines, and that is a mighty frightful place to be. You don't have to be scared, you just have to be aware. Be aware that I am a man who will stop at nothing, including homicide, to win a wrestling match. Do I care about winning this eight-man tag on Monday night? Not really, but I'd really kinda like to just because it's kinda what I do since I am the undefeated and reigning WCF Hardcore Champion and all.
Phil bites his bottom lip and shrugs with an "Aw shucks" look on his face.
Phil: Plus, I wouldn't mind sending a message to you, Jack. I'm not talking about just softening you up physically, because it goes without saying that I'm going to hurt you if I get my hands on you. I'm talking about putting you in a world of hurt... psychologically.
Phil taps his noggin with the tip of his right index finger.
Phil: See what I'm saying? I want to fuck with your mind. It's nothing personal, homie. Nothing personal at all. You decided to attack Oblivion, and that's cool with me. The problem is that by attacking Oblivion you inserted yourself into a little feud with him that intersects with the little feud that I'm having with him, and now we find ourselves in a sort of non-sexual ménage à trois. That means that I must, and will and can and all that jazz, exact my wrath upon your cranium. It doesn't really matter to me if you're wearing a mask or exposing your ugly mug for the world to see. Reckless Jack IS Brad Kane, just as Seth Lerch IS gay, and as we know Brad Kane IS a pussy. We KNOW this. Stop trying to act hard, man. Reckless Jack used to be something, used to mean something, but you haven't been him in years and now you're trotting out the old mask and the old moveset and acting like you're Reckless again. It doesn't work that way, bud. You can't turn back the clock, no matter how hard you try. Reckless Jack is buried in the past and when you step into the ring with me, you're just gonna be plain, old buried. I'm done talking about Brad Kane's alter-ego.
Phil gestures with his hand, signaling for Reckless Jack to "be gone" from his conscious mind.
Phil: Who else is in this match?
Phil looks as if he's really straining to remember.
Phil: Haha, just kidding. I know that it's a clusterfuck, but that doesn't mean that anybody is getting over on Phillip Baines. Doc Henry is the final member of the opposing team, and I must admit that Doc is a guy that I have a lot of respect for. He has a way with the ladies, and some even say that Doc is the Devil himself. I don't know if that's true, but Doc Henry ain't a dude that I'm trying to fuck with. You heard me talking smack about Reckless Jack, Chris Avery and Oblivion, but I ain't saying shit about Doc Henry. If Doc does possess the unholy powers of the Dark Lord, then I don't want his hoodoo to be unleashed upon me. No, sir! I ain't fucking with that shit. I will say this about Doc: The man has all of the tools to become World Champion, and when it's all said and done I believe that history will judge Doc Henry kindly, just as history has judged the Confederate South kindly.
Phil nods his head, a knowing look on his face, as he extends his logic into your brain.
Phil: Think about it: America's greatest film and novel, Gone With The Wind, is a tribute to the Confederacy. Sure, Southern Rogues aren't popular with everybody, but they get the goddamn job done. John Wilkes Booth understood that action had to be taken, and Doc Henry understands this as well. Doc stepped up to the plate to challenge Logan inside of a steel cage, and he might have come out on top if not for outside interference. Regardless, Doc is writing his legacy here in WCF and when his story is finished, it is a story that will enamor the masses for generations to come. Doc Henry, you the man now, dawg!
Phil tips his imaginary Confederate officer's cap to Doc Henry.
Phil: Of course, I do want to devote a little bit of time to addressing my tag team partners, because, truth be told, I don't like some of these mofos. Jay Williams, don't get your cock up just because I called you a "dignified World Champion" earlier. I was being polite out of respect for the WCF World Championship. You're not dignified, you're a douchebag. You're a fraud. I have no respect for you. You're on such a lucky streak right now that my mind damn near combusts just from thinking about it. I don't know why you felt compelled to return to WCF. This company was doing record business without you. People were happy. Children were laughing. Women were dancing naked and carefree in the streets. Since you've returned a pall of mediocrity has been cast upon the Wrestling Championship Federation and it makes me sick. It makes me sick that you're dragging this company down by posing as its World Champion. It makes me sick that I have to team with you on Monday night when I would rather sever your spine from its skeletal encasement. You are a true piece of shit, Jay Williams, and for you I wish pain and suffering. Having said that, I will have your back on Monday night because we are tag team partners.
Phil snorts, a sour expression on his face as he makes this concession.
Phil: I am a man of honor and integrity and I will fulfill my obligations, even if I really don't want to.
Phil lets out a resigned, almost defeated sigh.
Phil: As if being paired with one piece of human excrement weren't enough, fate has seen fit to drop Creeping Death into my lap. Why did this have to happen to me? Why couldn't I have been killed by Greenfever at XIII? It would be better than having to fight on the same team as Jay Williams and Creeping Death. Why is Creeping Death even in this match? How many main events does this guy get based on reputation? Granted, I have a slight amount of respect for Creeping Death's legacy, but take a look at his recent performances. By "recent performances" I mean the last three years. He's done jack shit to justify a spot on the roster, much less a spot in the main event. Why does CD keep coming back to WCF? Why doesn't he just leave? Doesn't he understand that everybody hates him?
Phil drops to his knees and raises his clenched fists to the sky. A look of scorn and sadness is etched across his face.
Phil: Die, asshole! Just fucking die already, you pathetic, old bastard!
Phil's entire body slumps to the ground. His head bobs up and down rhythmically upon the palms of his hands, and he sounds as though he's weeping. After a few moments Phil lets out another strained sigh. He pulls himself together, both mentally and physically, and rises to his feet.
Phil: I'm sorry that the WCF Universe had to witness that, but sometimes I let my emotions get the better of me. I might not think very highly of Creeping Death or Jay Williams, but I have the utmost respect for my other partner. D-Day, Donald Deruty, you are THE MAN!! I have no doubt in my mind that you will soundly defeat Jay Williams at Blast to capture the WCF World Championship. In fact I guarantee that Donald Deruty will be our next WCF World Champion!
Phil pumps his fist in a salute to D-Day while nodding his head empathically.
Phil: A lot of people have been asking me why I haven't cashed in my World Title shot yet, the one that I captured by winning the WCF Classic, and the reason for that is quite simple: It's because I don't want to steal D-Day's thunder. That young man has earned the right to call himself a World Champion. He's earned the right to be the face of WCF. I have not. Not yet anyway. My time will come, and I will relish working my way to the top of the ladder, but right now is D-Day's time. Even Torture realized that towards the end!
Phil flashes a smirk, but his good vibrations are thwarted as his attention is drawn elsewhere in the vicinity. Phil observes a crazy old man with a graying, bushy beard preaching a sermon of ill virtue from high on Candlelight Hill. The darkness that surrounds this man's specter is foreboding. It beckons to Phillip. It calls to him in no uncertain terms. Phil cracks his knuckles. His expression turns deathly serious.
Phil: Goddamn... it looks like Oblivion will still be up to his old tricks in fifty years if I don't put a stop to him. Back to the future, but goddamn... the Apocalypse is upon us now!
Phil wipes his eyes with his hands, as if not entirely believing what he's seeing.
Phil: Oh yes, I know what I must do. Oblivion must be vanquished. Make no mistake, I harbor no ill will towards the man, but this is gruesome work that must be done. Some people are content to live in spiritual cages, but my spirit is one that cannot be subverted by manic preaching from the lunatic fringe. On Monday night I will deliver a firm and unyielding statement to all seven men who stand in the ring with me, whether they be friend or foe. Oblivion, you will hear me loudest and clearest of all. Your gospel of the grotesque may have struck an attentive audience with The Congregation, but I am no sheep and I will not join your flock. I will bathe your sins in blood at Slam before I lead you to the sweet salvation that comes only with death... at Blast!
A congruous volume of cracking sounds occur as Phil adjusts his neck column into place with his hands. His eyes... those fiery eyes turn into an inferno that sets the entire scene ablaze. The preacher's sermon turns to a tortured scream, followed by the fierce growl of a young lion.
