Post by Drakz on Mar 2, 2015 18:28:19 GMT -5
Daniel
Adapt. Evolve. Survive.
When an animal is backed into a corner it’s at it’s most dangerous.
I am reborn.
Etc etc etc.
You’ve heard it all before. You’ve been subjected to so many speeches telling of a new and improved version of the speaker, rising form the ashes like a phoenix. It’s more played out than the whole ‘trademark smile’ sh*t.
What’s usually missing from these tales though is real change. Most of the time it’s a story spun out of desperation. A last ditch attempt at regaining relevance after swan diving into the sh*t stained abyss of a losing streak. I am a different beast to most though. I am a law unto myself, and my journey to this very moment is testament to that.
The metamorphosis of the world’s greatest villain into the world’s greatest hero has to be seen to be believed. Don’t worry if you’re new here, I’ve got a DVD coming out before the year is out. For those that are privy to my evolution though I have become a benchmark.
How many have achieved what I have in so short a space of time? Granted I’ve had 10 years to work up to it, but the last year has undoubtedly been mine. WFWF Superstar of the Year 2014. You had better believe there was no other nominee that came close.
Return from a devastating spinal injury. Check.
Beat a man many deemed unbeatable on the biggest stage this business has to offer. Check.
Maintain a clean record. Check.
Win the WFWF World Heavyweight Championship. Check.
Defend it in my home country in front of 84,000 people. Cheque please.
There’s little left to say about my achievements of late, and the loving embrace of the fans has come as a shock to much of the locker room, however it is not this change I am referring to. Moustache twiddler to damsel saver is impressive yes, but no obstacles were overcome to achieve it. The change I speak of is one I am about to embark on.
I am already a legend. That’s not just my ego talking, that’s the word used by countless sports publications, fans, fellow wrestlers and promoters alike. I reached this so called status of ‘legend’ years ago. Becoming a legend is easy, but for the most part it’s grandeur lies in ones past. I am ready to show the world that I am not simply the greatest professional wrestler of my time, or even the greatest active today. What I intend to do is lay waste to any doubt that I will ever be surpassed.
I will never be eclipsed.
I told you I would eat the sun back in England, and I did. Now, I must replace it.
Fall to your knees because the goodest good guy of all good days past, present and future is about to good all over your f*cking face, neck and chest.
Are you ready for me to begin?
Good.
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And the Winner is...
“Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the 2014 WFWF awards!”
Oh Alecia. How my nuts yearn for you. Our chemistry is undeniable yet you still manage it……somehow.
Unlike the rest of the roster, who are buddied up in groups reminiscent of the school playground, I’m sat on my own towards the edge. A whole table to myself, adorned with a few plates of hors d'oeuvres and a bottle of Bollinger on ice. I say ‘to myself’ because I don’t want to give the game away.
My four legged companion sits patiently under the table, shrouded by the flowing white cloth that trails on the floor. His nose is continually jabbed into my crotch, begging for more food, and he’s eating like a damn king tonight. Needless to say smoked salmon will probably have him sh*tting through the eye of a needle before the night’s through, but it’s not my job to clean this place up after we’re done. Hmmmm, that’s not the most good guy thing to say is it? Law unto myself etc etc.
I spend the majority of the next 45 minutes gazing into the rest of the crowd, as opposed to the stage. I watch as Joshua Dean laughs at every cotton wool joke fed into the mic. I watch Jayson Garrett playing on his f*cking smart phone. I watch Joe Bishop doing the same as myself, unaware of his being watched. I watch as Dave Demento’s balls bulge when Lila Sleater takes the stage.
There is much to be seen, but more to be ignored in this circus, and I grow bored. Lifting the table cloth a degree I look down at the dog, his eyes staring back at me, and can’t help but laugh out loud. I cover it with a cough and no one seems to notice. It strikes me that the only creature worth talking to in this whole room is canine. We’ve been cohabiting now since May of last year and I think we’re on the cusp of telekinesis through osmosis. We’ve absorbed one another’s mannerisms and fully fledged communication is just around the corner. We just need more practice.
“Don’t we kiddo?”
“I don’t think we’re doing so badly.”
“I suppose. How’s the food?”
“Pretty decent I suppose. You should probably eat something as well. At least to soak up the booze?”
He’s probably right. As always I neglect my self through lack of appetite when I’m not training. My spine pain meds keep it at a long enough arm’s reach to ensure hunger is always a peripheral problem. Dropping the curtain on my friend I begin to force some of the food down me when my ears prick to the sound of:
“And the winner is... WFWF SuperBrawl VIII! It was a hell of a show for those involved.”
And the reason? Drakz vs. Phillip Schneider. The main event was an over hyped snooze fest. The money in those tickets was drawn from our effort. Me and Phillip Snide-c*nt did a lot of people a favour that night when we tore down the Sun Devil Stadium. The exposure some of the roster has received in the fall out of that match is insane. Granted you have tens of thousands in attendance, and millions watching from their homes, but as word has spread telling the enormity of Drakz/Schneider, tens; if not hundreds of millions have seen that show. I am owed by every man and woman sat around me. Haha.
“A man who likes to call himself “THE GOOD GUY!” please give a round of applause to two time Hall of Famer and your current WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, Drakz!”
What? Oh, I’m presenting aren’t I? I toss a couple more shrimp rolls onto the floor to keep the dog busy as I get up to bring some life to this funeral.
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“And the winner is... Daniel Kirkbride.”
It is only Joe Bishop’s final words that I really catch, but that name alone has sharpened my attention. Mr Kirkbride. Darling Kirkbride.
He takes the stage and accepts his award for ‘rookie of the year’ with humility and a genuine sense of pride, something that I’ve not seen around these parts for some time. As he talks I zone him out and begin to formulate a detailed opinion of the man for the very first time.
He’s as clean cut as they come. That’s a given even within a moment of setting eyes on him. That shouldn’t be misconstrued as a forgettable character though. Maybe if he’d graced us at another period in time, but right now his straight down the middle mentality comes as quite a refreshment. To say he’s made a lasting impression on the company right now would be stretching it, but his imprint thus far has been a near perfect one. He’s impressed the right people and has very naturally climbed the totem, albeit quicker than most, but he’s still his own man. He’s not bowed to the pressures that recognition can bring. His ego is in check and his mind set seems unwavering. Bowing out of the seemingly now snuffed idea of a ‘stable war’ was a bold move that in the long run should prove to be his making. Going at it alone may seem like a harder path to tread but it’s much easier to go places when you’re not trying to keep pace with a group of friends. Leave the faction thing alone when you’re a new blood. If you just wait, you can join a super-group later on. Take it from me.
He’s all red cheeks and smiles up on the podium and I can see how much this means to him, to be selected from a roster like this is unthinkable to this young man, and again it’s his humility that may have blinded him to his own momentum. I feel like a proud Father. A proud Father who f*cked off before d-day and is now anonymously watching his grown up son from the corner of the room.
He’s a man of few words. Not the strong silent type. More in the ‘doesn’t wish to impeach’ way. I’d be interested to get him on his own and see what he really thought of all this. How does a man of such level head wind up working amongst sociopaths and nihilists? More so what does he make of such a melting pot of disfunction and chaos? How does he keep that level head above water?
As Daniel is applauded off of the stage I can only wonder how he’ll fair in the upper echelon of the card as the water deepens. It’s all well and good being the rookie of the year but it’s the next step that’s the most important, but I think he knows that. If he doesn’t, I can only hope he knows someone that can tell him so.
Someone besides his God. Someone who actually knows what they’re talking about.
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After my little Kirkbride epiphany I find it hard to concentrate on proceedings and, in between sips of champagne, I construct multiple threads of possible futures that involve each person in the WFWF.
In one Penny Shannon renounces her gaydom……is that a word?………and we marry. In another Ante Whitner announces his gaydom and we marry. The weirdest of the lot though, and one that makes me smile is a reality in which Daniel Kirkbride beats me for my World Heavyweight Championship. I hand it over to him, finally defeated after 6 long years, and with it I pass the good guy torch. It’s fair to say he does a better job of it than me anyway. He’s really nailed the whole genuine side of things, something I’m still struggling with. During my six year reign I’ve had the belt modded. The original gold face plate, replaced by a solid gold c*ck that juts out from the wearer’s crotch. No longer known as the World Heavyweight Champion but as “The F*cker”. Now Daniel Kirkbride, though approaching the age of 30, is “The F*cker”.
Just like that though I’m brought back to my senses as that crusty f*ck Percy Jackson opens his mouth centre stage. I’ve no problem with Percival. He’s shown in recent weeks that even he thinks Phillip Schneider is a d*ck. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
“The winners for the 2014 WFWF Match of the Year... are Drakz and Phillip Schneider, from Superbrawl.”
Classic. Well I suppose seeing as I won that son’va b*tch I better go up there and collect the glassware.
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Almost everything after that thought is gone to be honest. Blunt force trauma will do that to you.
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I wake with a start, feeling as though I’m falling, and I’m somewhat confused to find myself back in a f*cking hospital bed. Needless to say during the early days of my recovery, post world’s most famous stage dive, I grew to loath the very feeling of even touching one. Unlike before though I’m in a room of other bedridden and it isn’t long before the ward nurse, a male of about 38, comes over to me. I sit up.
“How are you sir?”
My head throbs, but the pain itself is swamped by good old US of A issue medicated relief.
“When did I get here?”
“Oh only a couple of hours ago. You were semi responsive when you were brought in so we were able to stem the bleeding from your wound and close you up.”
“Close me up? I assume you mean my head?”
“You’re correct.”
No f*cker closes this third eye, although I suspect he means my skull rather than my mind.
“We just let you sleep after that. Can I get you some water?”
“Please.”
He scoots off and I try to piece together what happened. I remember being on the stage again. Was I presenting another award?
“Here you are sir.”
The nurse hands me a plastic cup of water and I sip it tentatively.
“How bad do I look then?”
He chuckles. I wasn’t aware this was funny myself.
“It’s a big gash but your hair line will hide a lot of it. The doctor did a neat job of stitching you up. I think the most time consuming part was cleaning the shards of glass out.”
Did some f*cker glass me? It would explain the cut but I doubt I would have blacked out if it were the legacy of a discarded drink that caused this. Ashtray? It was no smoking. F*cking nazis.
Haha. No way.
Some sly sh*t smashed me up with their award!
“The winners for the 2014 WFWF Match of the Year... are Drakz and Phillip Schneider, from Superbrawl.”
Some sly sh*t smashed me up with my own award! Wow, that’s almost impressive, if it wasn’t so f*cking desperate. Spotlight whoring in the highest degree. I’d like to play the game of who dunnit? But it’s glaringly obvious this is the work of the biggest prostitute in the business, Phillip. It almost makes the hospital trip worth while knowing that Schneider has once again proven how jealous he is of me going over. Poor guy. It’s sad really, but I’ve got little sympathy for sore losers. Left in the dust, slicing up women’s faces like a scorned lover.
Phillip “Bunny Boiler” Schneider.
“Any chance you could call me a taxi brother?”
“I wouldn’t recommend leaving just yet but I have no right to keep you here. Are you sure you won’t rest some more?”
I spent 2013 resting. I think one year is enough.
“Just a cab please.”
He walks to the other end of the ward, picks up the phone and passes on the message to reception.
The ceremony will be long done by now and to be honest that’s the reason I’m a little annoyed.
My head got caved in. This is a blood sport, it comes with the territory.
I missed all of the sub-humorous goings on of the award giving and receiving. More concerned about the dog to be honest.
The one thing I was waiting for was picking up my Superstar of the Year award. Is that assuming of me? I guess it could be seen that way, and to a certain extent it’s true. I don’t think anyone would argue with me though. I wonder how that went down?
“And the winner is Drakz! Drakz couldn’t be here tonight due to contractual obligations however his close friend “Dog” is here to say a few words on his behalf.”
Go team.
I swing myself out of bed and slip my shoes back on, laces untied. My bloody shirt is buttoned back up and grabbing the tie from the bed post I winchester knot it around the collar. As I rise, slowly so as not to lose my head, the nurse kindly hands me my suit jacket, which I’m afraid to say is also stained with my vital fluids.
This is a gorgeous suit.
Can you dry clean blood?
I should ask Phillip really.
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Soapbox I
As a preacher man I wander the waste land of the concrete jungle. Everyone is dead. Everyone is moving.
The tools of my trade are all I have, and for their modest exterior, they are all I need. Reclaiming the minds of those that wander so numb is more than a mission, it is a birth rite.
One hand clutches a plastic milk crate, the other hangs by my side, my canine familiar it’s neighbor.
To the square we go, unnoticed by the undead that mill around us. I turn to my friend.
“This time? Do you think they’ll listen?”
The dog looks straight ahead and without a waver replies;
“Do you think they ever will?”
Reaching the “Benches Triangle” I stop to consider the significance of the parks central point. The milk crate is set down, and with a brief word to the man upstairs one foot, then the other, mounts the holy “soap box”. A name that is earned by those that speak from it.
“I know this all seems in vein but I owe it to you all to help. If we are to regain what we’ve lost then we must not waver. Follow me, put your faith in me, and I will guide us. I am returned from my pilgrimage across the sea, and I can tell you with some certainty that those from my home land are not coming to your aid.”
The lifeless carcasses stagger on by without a hint of acknowledgement.
“You must ask Him to help lift the veil on depravity. On evil. On mind numbing boredom. You must ask to be saved for I can not do His work without your approval.”
Glancing at the dog I see him shaking his head, both eyes closed.
This is hopeless.
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The dog opens his eyes and I can tell the poor f*cker is hungry again. If it weren’t for my meds no doubt I’d be ravenous as well.
We’ve been at this lark for 3 hours now, wandering the streets of Boise, shouting down the sinners. It’s all a bit of fun really. Between us we decided we could convince at least 10 people that we were legit. So far that number is closer to 0 though, in that it is indeed 0.
“You want something to eat pal?”
His eyes widen and as far as I can tell that’s an emphatic yes. Stepping down from the crate I unzip the backpack, trying to keep the dog’s nose out of it before I say so. Got to teach the lad some manners. I bat him away whist unwrapping the boiled chicken breasts, and then force him to wait a minute which gets him salivating heavily.
Ripping a couple of shreds off for myself I toss them both to him and watch as he insatiably finishes both breasts in 30 seconds flat. I on the other hand am having a hard time forcing down a fraction of the same meal. I sit on one of the three benches and begin to talk in between tiny bites of meat.
“I think we underestimated how tough this is boy. Seems to me that Mr Kirkbride’s dedication to the cause is made of more than just shouting at morons in the park. Who’d have thought it ey?”
He necks back the last mouthful and then I’ve got his undivided attention, or at least my remaining chicken has.
“I assumed people would just listen. I suppose my world consists of arenas, stadiums, packed full of those that hang off of my every word. Out here in the bad lands I guess I don’t have as much sway.”
I look up at a couple walking past, arm in arm.
“I could offer them absolute divinity and yet I know I would be less than heckled for it. Simply ignored. Written off as a mad man. Perhaps that’s why I thrive so readily in the environment the WFWF creates. My madness is celebrated. My passion is catered to. I am revered for it instead of reprimanded. All of this….”
I wave my hand, gesturing to our surroundings.
“This is fake. This is orchestrated reality by those that wish to control it and obeyed by those that wish to be controlled.”
I chew on a new ribbon of chicken.
“I suppose there are a lot of similarities…….between them and us. Many lambs just want to be lead. The number of groups in the WFWF through the years that have spearheaded the ideologies of a singular leader, a definitive figure head, are countless. Perhaps that’s why The New Epoch was so successful? Because we weren’t all blindly following one man’s march. There’s a lot to be said for having your own identity when you’re a part of a group.”
The dog is seriously eying this chicken. I’m enjoying cutting loose and he’s listening well. I continue, having discarded the remainder of my meal to the floor for him.
“Who was I? I was the architect. I was the unpredictable brains of the operation. Keeping us on track but never allowing those around us to see where that track was heading. I, for the most part, took a back seat and allowed folks to harp on about Michael’s leadership, and his place at the top of the totem. We used to joke about it. I was the all seeing evil standing just out of shot, whilst he was the scapegoat. A position in which he thrived. Bizzarely the fans never warmed to Michael as they did to me. Even before this whole leaf turning episode of mine they would cheer me. Kyzer however would be screamed at and booed with an extreme vitriol. When we appeared together the noise was an unsettling blend.”
I begin petting the satisfied dog’s head, not really speaking to him anymore, just thinking aloud.
“Michael’s position in the company at the time allowed for him to play the bad guy with ease. He essentially held the World Title hostage, but the sap was unable to keep it that way. Now to my mind that’s where the difference in our identities lies. Michael was always capable of creating this shroud. The mystique of Michael Kyzer. A man of mythological stature. When it came to backing it up though, in the later years, he couldn’t quite match the man his mouth was moulding. Match the man his mouth was moulding. Match the man his mouth was moulding. Match the man his mouth was moulding. That’s a pretty good tongue twister. No?”
I glance at the dog before realising my idiocy.
“I doubt you know what that means. It is after all a somewhat trivial thing.”
I continue to stroke back the scraggy fur atop the dog’s head and he seems enamoured by it all.
“Regardless of our egos though there was more than simply Drakz and Michael Kyzer in The New Epoch. There was of course a man who has inadvertently shown up in my life again recently.
Brennan. David Brennan.
Similarly to James Bond this cat (the dog’s ear’s prick at the word) liked a drink. Unlike Bond though he, like everyone else in the ‘real world’, felt the effects of this exuberant vice. You would never see Bond crashed out in a f*cking bush covered in his own fluids. Brennan however. Well. Let’s just say I think he’s slept outside of his bed more times than in. I think that about covers what I’m getting at.
I can’t speak for his current state, but as I knew him David was a strong willed man, but like all of us, he had his demons.
F*ck that’s a terrible cliche.
Let me give it to you straight. He had the aptitude for great, great things but his failure to show a modicum of control in his more, recreational moments, was undoubtedly his undoing. He was a genuine friend of mine. One of only two.
Unlike Joe Bishop to Trace Demon, he was no pawn.
Unlike Zmey to Donnie, he was no drone.
Regardless of what he may say now, he and myself were close friends at a time when neither of us had many to choose from. People may accuse me of manipulating this man. People may say it is on my head that he faltered from his sobriety. People are free to do so, but they need to understand that the only manipulation I did was convincing a friend that he was capable of competing in the big time, and it nearly worked too. Had Michael not made his decision to break up The Beatles, Brennan may well have had the necessary support system to will him on to great things, things he deserved. He let me down though. He was unresponsive when I attempted to reach out. He has dwelt on the errors both he and the group made for so long that it has manifested in an unreasonable aversion to ME. I tried in Arizona. I tried in New York. The first lead to my sleeping on the floor of the locker room whilst the second ended with me funding an alcoholic’s habit. Both failures in anyone’s mind.”
I get a couple of strange looks from runners as they make their way past me. Understandable as I am seemingly talking to myself. F*ck it. I may as well make it official.
I stand back on the milk crate and continue my one sided conversation, now directed even less at the dog and more into the openness of the Idaho sky.
“So where does Daniel Kirkbride come into this? Has this man of such meek age been able to oust the darkness from our skin headed friend’s heart? Has His word been enough to quench an eternal thirst? I doubt it. I may be labelled a pessimist of the highest for that, but I don’t truly believe his soul was salvageable. Daniel Kirkbride may well be enjoying his new school project of build your own brother, but that is likely to change the moment aforementioned brother gets a hold on a bottle neck. I hope Daniel is feeling forgiving because I don’t doubt that any kind of relationship they have built will be tested to breaking point, and soon. I may well have been an enabling force in the downward spiral of David Brennan but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish him well. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss talking to the man.”
Someone stops. A woman, old beyond her years, pulling a cart seemingly loaded with p*ss filled receptacles. By the smell of it they’ve all sprung leaks.
“It doesn’t mean……”
I, myself falter. The overwhelming stench of this creature has made my lip curl. I don’t want to risk further talking in the fear that soon I’ll be able to taste her. This observer is indeed my first breakthrough in the world of soap box preaching but she alone has enforced the premeditated view I already had. Nutters who shout from rostrums are undoubtedly only listened to by nutters. Like attracts like. No matter what they tell you in school.
The dog has already taken the initiative and I can hear his pads scraping the floor as he trots off to somewhere a little more, sanitary. Is it terrible of me that regardless of this cretins obvious need of some guidance, I am set to take flight the moment my senses are soured by her? To find myself now running to catch up with the dog, milk crate in hand, is a sure sign that maybe I’m not as good of a guy as I thought I was. Is this show of selfish escape enough to prove I’m a fraud? If only to myself?
No.
And why?
Because it would have been much crueler of me to make the dog stay.
The poor boy’s snout is 1000 times more sensitive than mine!
Isaac Cray.
Friend to the animals.
Hater of stinking witches.
Good Guy.
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Papers Served
Medical run ins of the last weeks:
20.01.15
WFWF 2014 Award Ceremony
Portland, Oregon
Blunt force. 12 stitches.
26.01.15
WFWF Homecoming
Moda Centre, Portland, Oregon
Dragon. Loss of consciousness.
26.01.15
WFWF Homecoming
Moda Centre, Portland, Oregon
Jew. Reopening of stitches.
1 hour previous
WFWF Big Trouble in Little Seattle
Key Arena, Seattle, Washington
Messiah. Head f*ck.
To no one’s surprise a couple of the stitches need tarting up, and for extra spice my right ear won’t stop ringing. F*cking Michael.
I’m holding an ice pack to my face to keep any swelling to a minimum, but something tells me a Dragon’s boot will leave a mark regardless.
The WFWF doctor’s office isn’t a place anyone likes to visit. The rest of the roster know you’re in there and people start to talk. I’m not one for listening to whispers though. I’m the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion.
I watch a replay of the last 15 minutes of the show and smile at how well put together the video package is. Kyzer put a lot of hours into making me look like a million dollars. So I took a tumble at the end of it? I still rocked the f*cking boat for the other 95% of the flashbacks.
The video ends and the arena goes dark and as soon as I here that music I realise just how foolish I’ve been.
When I was standing in that ring at first I hoped this was just some sh*t thrown together my Donnie, to distract me and somehow nab a victory, but I very quickly realised the perfection of this plan was too great to be the work of a gun touting loud mouth.
Of my own accord I walked into Seattle to compete. I went to the place most likely to lure Michael Kyzer out and yet I was so caught up in my own sh*t that I didn’t even realise it. The hunter was jumped by it’s prey.
Clever Girl.
The subsequent beat down is irrelevant really. This was never an opportunity to physical incapacitate me. This was a simple statement of “I’m Back!”. The emotional and mental turmoil that this return was supposed to cause far outweighs a little ground and pound. What’s strange though is how I feel about it. I’m nothing like as angry as I expected to be. When Michael took the stage I wasn’t fuming with rage. There’s no denying I felt an overbearing emotional weight, but raw, aggressive fury was not it.
I was stunned and felt my stomach drop in the first instant of realisation, but then my gut filled with a nauseating sensation of relief knowing that whatever happens now, and whatever happens down the road, I WILL face Michael Kyzer. He has reared his head at last, after a year of my proving his actions of betrayal were in vain, and now I know his pride won’t let him leave again. He has watched from the shadows as I have outshone his legacy. Beating Phillip Schneider, winning the World Heavyweight Championship and remaining undefeated. All of this after having my body broken in two?
I’m not surprised he’s hungry. I would be too.
Watching your quarry getting fatter and stronger, whilst licking your lips, thinking of how much tastier the meal will be because of it.
On the screen I’m flat out in the ring, surrounded by the cast of The Hobbit. Michael speaks:
“I have a present for you. I was inspired by a mutual friend.”
He then stuffs some papers into my trunks and I wonder where they’ve gone. Who’s this mutual friend? Was that a contract? Has Mike decided to jump the queue?
He can f*ck off. I’ll make him wait, because that’s what friends are for.
The door opens and in walks one of my “bosses”. The one who’s hair I’d like to pull. Hmmm that was ambiguous. I could easily mean Trace Demon, not that I want to f*ck Trace Demon, but I suppose it could be misconstrued as referring to him. To hell with it. It’s Lila Sleater everybody, come on put your hands together for this beautiful woman.
The people at Big Teeth Studios never did call me back about recording the next episode of An Audience with……me. D*cks.
“Drakz.”
“Yes miss?”
“We need to talk.”
Goodie.
“I need to know you’re not about to go postal on me now that Michael Kyzer is back.”
“I’m not going to go postal on you now that Michael Kyzer is back.”
I shrug.
“I also need to hear you say that if by some twisted version of fate you two patch things up you’re not going to f*ck me.”
F*ck her? I’ll f*ck her right now if she wants. I might be a bit stiff (in the joints) but I’d happy to lay waste to this lady. It might get me a pay rise. Truth be told I know she doesn’t mean it like that, but I had to squeeze that bit of misogyny out before I opened my mouth to reply. Through bouts of laughing I eventually do.
“I think you’re pretty safe there Lila. Can I call you Lila?”
She nods.
“Me and Mike have burned our bridges.”
“Good, because whether it’s an unconvincing act or just a very weird truth your whole good guy thing is selling merchandise, which has its mutual benefits.”
DVD. End of 2015.
“Benefits like me telling you that Daniel Kirkbride didn’t just spontaneously walk out there tonight and ask to face you. He came to HQ the other day and discussed it with us first.”
Sh*t. The kid shows a serious amount of respect. Clearing the idea of calling me out with top brass first. He’s allowed to chose anyone he wants yet he still has the humility to check it’s okay with Mum and Dad before he does it. Haha.
“Maybe that would be juicy had you told me it before he walked out there and let me know himself. Come on give me something exciting.”
“How about the fact that an old friend of yours was with him?”
“David? Now again, Kirkbride already eluded to the fact that he has somehow ended up as a care in the community worker, why would your telling me it again count as exciting?”
”I’ve got something you’ll want, but it can wait until you’ve answered everything I want to know. Give and take Drakz.”
Sex.
“Fine.”
“Like I said, you’re making us a huge amount of money as WFWF Champion. You’ve got the people on your side but you’ve got the mind to stop it being boring. It’s the perfect balance.”
I feign a curtsy.
“You did me a huge favour disposing of Trace Demon the way you did.”
Did I?
“Your victory has torn a hole in The Final Revolution and it’s collapsed in on itself. Thank you.”
“You realise I was never fighting for a cause don’t you? I was just making sure I left with that belt. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed putting Trace down, but only because he thought a score of 1 - 1 made us equals. Lila I am not your knight in shining armour. Don’t get too caught up in this Game of Thrones sh*t.”
I still laugh about the fact Michael used to have that ridiculous throne of swords in his front room. It’s all fun and games until a hooker loses an eye. Hmmmmm.
“Well, whatever your motives, you helped steady the boat. The point I was trying to make is that with my help we can solidify your legacy.”
“How will you help?”
“I book the matches.”
“You’d give me whatever I asked for anyway. You gave me Phillip Schneider. You gave me Joshua Dean. You gave me Cameron Stone. You gave me Jayson Garrett. You gave me a title shot. You gave me your wonder kid Dave Demento. You gave me f*cking Shapiro. I’m still annoyed about that one. You gave me Wembley Stadium. You gave me Trace Demon, and then of course, you gave me Donnie Monty Kent. Now all but one of those matches were booked by me. You may have filed the paper work but I told you who I wanted and you stamped it, every time. Because you think I deserve it? Because you think I’ve earned it? Nope. It’s the logical reason, because I’m the provider.”
“I can’t deny that we have been very flexible with regards to your television appearances but there is another opponent you want now isn’t there?”
Michael.
“Michael.”
“Well if you want that to happen you’re going to need to play ball a little more readily.”
“Are you threatening me Lila?”
“Nope.”
She pulls 2 sheets of folded paper from her pocket and hands them over. Michael’s documents.
I snatch them from her and begin to read:
By order of the federal court of the United States Government
Isaac Cray
Is not to encroach on
Michael Kyzer
and must maintain a distance of 50 feet at all times.
50 feet? That’s just far enough for me to see his middle finger. C*nt.
“Do you understand now Drakz?”
I understand that I can’t beat the p*ss out of someone from 50 feet away. Maybe if I work on my pitching? What a f*cking devious move. Stand in front of me with total impunity.
“He’s got balls I’ll give him that.”
“A restraining order is no laughing matter. If you want this match to ever happen you’re going to need mine and the WFWF legal team’s help.”
Wrong again.
“I just need to wait for him. This isn’t a permanent thing. It’s just a wind up, but a very bloody clever one. Don’t worry yourself though Lila, because right now what’s good for you is good for me. Embrace it. Enjoy it. You don’t have to align yourself with Genghis Khan Jnr, but you can come along for the ride. It seems like a win/win for you, no?”
She cocks an eye brow.
“Just don’t f*ck me.”
Sex.
“I’ll do my best.”
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Soapbox II
And so again I wander the streets of Idaho. Streets ravaged by normality. This time though my mind’s eye is filled with a sense of finality. I have a definitive destination and with it, a confidence in my probability of success. This has been planned in such a way that those who wander aimlessly will race to heed my words. My companion is as sure as I that this time, this time we will succeed.
The mass of my pulpit rises over the brow of the hill. Dauntingly massive in stature, but standing in it’s shadow is my key to victory. It is here that my message will be adopted.
We approach, and as it blocks the sun, the structure seems to assure us that this is the only way. The signage above it’s main entrance reads:
“Century Link Arena”
Dropping my milk crate to the frosted ground I exchange a look of hope with the dog. A look which, for once, is reciprocated.
Arise Sir Isaac.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I speak to you today with optimism in my heart. I speak to you today assured that my words will not go unheard.”
Already a young man has stopped after a double take, and is now listening intently.
“I bring to you His word. I bring to you a promise that He will forever fight for your best interests. He has told me that a new beginning is upon us, one in which the purity and solidarity of righteousness will elevate us to heights previously unknown.”
Another joins the congregation.
“I am merely a vessel for his words, but with my own voice I ensure you that any doubt is unfounded. He has never let us down before and He has promised that there is no intention of doing so. You are not alone. You do not have to suffer, voiceless, with only the mundane reality of your existence as a talking point. Welcome Him, for He is the light. He is the reason that everything is about to change, and we, we are the reason He, Himself, is changing with it.”
A group of 4 now stands meters away, seemingly all individual entities, unknown to one another, but united under our banner.
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I can’t f*cking believe this is actually working. I’m well aware that the only reason it is comes down to the fact that I am on hallowed ground as it were. In this very arena, in a number of hours I will be wrestling David Brennan…………sorry. In this very arena, in a number of hours I will be wrestling Daniel Kirkbride.
Freudian slip.
The Century Link Arena in Boise, Idaho is the location for Paradigm and the crowds are already starting to form. Perhaps because of this my garnering a crowd is a little falsified. The original idea myself and the dog had was to go out into the world and, through nothing but nonsense, gather a legion of followers. All of this to prove, with ease, the ability to manipulate through language and faith. All of this to undermine Daniel Kirkbride.
That’s not the way things have unfolded though as time and time again we were ignored, ostracised amongst even the busiest of station platforms.
Wether this was due to my inability to talk sh*t to people I don’t know, or simply because the world has wised up to such tactics is anyone’s guess, but personally I like to think I’ve had my fair share of practise at the former. Right now though, this location has leant itself to our idea. An idea which has now outgrown itself. An Audience with Isaac……LIVE!
“Ladies and gentlef*cks, you may well be here tonight, having spent your hard earned money to see Samael Ahriman. You may well be here to witness Joshua Dean in action. You could even have travelled to this spot to see Axel Thornstowe, however I know that in your heart of hearts that is not true. Tonight you all gather here for a baptism! A baptism of fire. One Daniel Kirkbride will be tested to his limits. Is he worthy of your adoration? Is he worthy of a spot at the top of the card? I expect to answer all of these questions myself as the master of ceremonies. I have been hand selected by the man himself and I need you to heed my word when I tell of the respect I have for this man.”
8 has quickly turned into 10.
10 into 12.
“It could be said that he intends on using me as a stepping stone. A spring board to the big time. It would be lies though. Daniel Kirkbride does not intend on using this match to further his career. If it serves that purpose then it is merely a side effect. Daniel Kirkbride is testing himself, his own ability to rise to the occasion. The fallout from the match itself is of little interest to him. It is exclusively about the time between those bells. That is why I respect him. He has however let on that there may be some kind of ulterior motive as well. To call it revenge, or retribution, would be ignorant. The man simply wants to prove to his alcoholic friend that I am not invincible. A noble idea, but a foolish one.”
25 strong.
“Daniel Kirkbride’s rigid idea of what God is, or indeed whom God is, has granted him the ability to see all men for what they truly are……equals. He meets a spiteful and wretched man and sees his own likeness in him, thus allowing him to empathise in a way most of us can only dream. His infinite kindness is born of this very ability. This same set of ideas though may well have blinded him. Eyes. Wide. Shut.”
40 sets of eyes and ears.
“Where he sees another man of flesh and blood like himself, where he sees no accolades or egos, I see disparity. His own readiness to level the playing field of humanity, regardless of the virtuous rationale, has allowed me to creep within his blind spot. When this boy of only 24 years first sets his hand upon me, then, and only then, will the crushing realisation lay waste to what he calls hope. I inhabit the body of a mere man and yet I am so much more than that. My pockets are lined with scalps. The left, that of a man who calls himself ‘God’. The right torn from ‘The King of Demons’. What does that make me? It is not for me to say, but I am sure that after we meet, after we trade everything we have, Daniel Kirkbride will know what I am.”
The crowd cheers. I can safely use the word crowd as the congregation has risen to almost 80 strong, all of course wearing their WFWF merchandised t-shirts. These may not be my people, but I am certainly their leader.
“This boy seeks to dethrone me. To usurp me. His single goal is to prove to himself and to my own former ally, David Brennan, that I am merely close to indomitable, as apposed to indomitable itself. My single goal………..”
A member of the crowd shouts out of turn;
“to prove him wrong!”
My face lights up with a smile of sympathy.
“You would be forgiven for jumping to that conclusion…………..but I am not one for forgiveness……..”
He doesn’t seem to cotton on to what I’m implying.
“What I mean sir is get the f*ck out of my sight.”
I stare him down with my greatest mad man act and he shuffles on the spot, half hoping I’ll start laughing and tell him it’s all okay. F*ck him though. Let’s test the power of the mob.
“C*nt!”
I shout, pointing right at him. I then begin to repeat the sordid word, over and over, and it doesn’t take long for the group surrounding him to take up the chant as well.
“C*nt! C*nt! C*nt! C*nt! C*nt! C*nt!”
The intensity rises and I start to worry that the group may come to blows. Before this can come to fruition though the young man runs from the scene, red in the face and limp in the pants. The crowd, now over 100 in number, cheers his departure and I continue to preach.
“As I was saying, my goal is simple. Make Daniel Kirkbride. Is it arrogant of me assume I have that power? We shall see once the dust has settled. I can guarantee though that whatever the outcome of the match Master Kirkbride will be a different man. His baptism will allow him second life, a rebirth into a new position within the industry as a whole. I can only ask of you, my people, to act accordingly. If he fails in miserable fashion then let him know of your discontent. If he flourishes and lays waste to me then carry him as your new idol. This match will be the turning point in this gentleman’s career, a moment that he will tell his grandchildren about, because my friends………that is the new age which I wish to lead you all into. The future. The far future. A future in which I am no longer active, but through huge achievement am still remembered. Still talked about every single day.”
The crowd of WFWF loyals has become a magnet now. Those who don’t know me are stopping to try and understand the spectacle I am creating.
Moths to the flame.
“There are those who wish to cement their status in this same way, but there can be only one.”
Mike. Phil. F*ck them both.
“Follow me and I will lead you into a chapter that is still untitled. People see my position as the apex, but truthfully my climb has only just begun. If you come with me now, and support my actions, then I promise tedium shall never tread your lives again.”
By your powers combined I am Captain Planet!
“Scream when I enter, and I boo when I leave. Feed me with your voices. It is through you that I shall ascend. It is through you that I shall show my true self.”
I think this holy man schtick is going to my head a little.
“I am ‘Sol Inviticus’, the undefeated sun! His word is my own! Praise me and you shall know no weakness! Scorn me and you shall know only darkness!”
Definitely gone to my head. Need to pull back. You’re the good guy remember.
“My friends. Tonight I give you something to celebrate. Tonight I give you the truth about Daniel Kirkbride. A truth I am unsure of myself right now. I am prepared for any outcome, as a man should be. Some claim that even considering defeat is a sign of weakness, a minor issue that could well be embellished into something of worth. I however say that if a man falls and can not lift himself back up, he is forever fallen. Tonight, whatever happens, one hand will be raised.”
I raise my right arm into the sky above me;
“The Lord’s right hand is lifted high; the Lord’s right hand has done mighty things!”
Daniel.
I’m waiting for you.
Adapt. Evolve. Survive.
When an animal is backed into a corner it’s at it’s most dangerous.
I am reborn.
Etc etc etc.
You’ve heard it all before. You’ve been subjected to so many speeches telling of a new and improved version of the speaker, rising form the ashes like a phoenix. It’s more played out than the whole ‘trademark smile’ sh*t.
What’s usually missing from these tales though is real change. Most of the time it’s a story spun out of desperation. A last ditch attempt at regaining relevance after swan diving into the sh*t stained abyss of a losing streak. I am a different beast to most though. I am a law unto myself, and my journey to this very moment is testament to that.
The metamorphosis of the world’s greatest villain into the world’s greatest hero has to be seen to be believed. Don’t worry if you’re new here, I’ve got a DVD coming out before the year is out. For those that are privy to my evolution though I have become a benchmark.
How many have achieved what I have in so short a space of time? Granted I’ve had 10 years to work up to it, but the last year has undoubtedly been mine. WFWF Superstar of the Year 2014. You had better believe there was no other nominee that came close.
Return from a devastating spinal injury. Check.
Beat a man many deemed unbeatable on the biggest stage this business has to offer. Check.
Maintain a clean record. Check.
Win the WFWF World Heavyweight Championship. Check.
Defend it in my home country in front of 84,000 people. Cheque please.
There’s little left to say about my achievements of late, and the loving embrace of the fans has come as a shock to much of the locker room, however it is not this change I am referring to. Moustache twiddler to damsel saver is impressive yes, but no obstacles were overcome to achieve it. The change I speak of is one I am about to embark on.
I am already a legend. That’s not just my ego talking, that’s the word used by countless sports publications, fans, fellow wrestlers and promoters alike. I reached this so called status of ‘legend’ years ago. Becoming a legend is easy, but for the most part it’s grandeur lies in ones past. I am ready to show the world that I am not simply the greatest professional wrestler of my time, or even the greatest active today. What I intend to do is lay waste to any doubt that I will ever be surpassed.
I will never be eclipsed.
I told you I would eat the sun back in England, and I did. Now, I must replace it.
Fall to your knees because the goodest good guy of all good days past, present and future is about to good all over your f*cking face, neck and chest.
Are you ready for me to begin?
Good.
——————————————————————————————————————————
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And the Winner is...
“Welcome ladies and gentlemen to the 2014 WFWF awards!”
Oh Alecia. How my nuts yearn for you. Our chemistry is undeniable yet you still manage it……somehow.
Unlike the rest of the roster, who are buddied up in groups reminiscent of the school playground, I’m sat on my own towards the edge. A whole table to myself, adorned with a few plates of hors d'oeuvres and a bottle of Bollinger on ice. I say ‘to myself’ because I don’t want to give the game away.
My four legged companion sits patiently under the table, shrouded by the flowing white cloth that trails on the floor. His nose is continually jabbed into my crotch, begging for more food, and he’s eating like a damn king tonight. Needless to say smoked salmon will probably have him sh*tting through the eye of a needle before the night’s through, but it’s not my job to clean this place up after we’re done. Hmmmm, that’s not the most good guy thing to say is it? Law unto myself etc etc.
I spend the majority of the next 45 minutes gazing into the rest of the crowd, as opposed to the stage. I watch as Joshua Dean laughs at every cotton wool joke fed into the mic. I watch Jayson Garrett playing on his f*cking smart phone. I watch Joe Bishop doing the same as myself, unaware of his being watched. I watch as Dave Demento’s balls bulge when Lila Sleater takes the stage.
There is much to be seen, but more to be ignored in this circus, and I grow bored. Lifting the table cloth a degree I look down at the dog, his eyes staring back at me, and can’t help but laugh out loud. I cover it with a cough and no one seems to notice. It strikes me that the only creature worth talking to in this whole room is canine. We’ve been cohabiting now since May of last year and I think we’re on the cusp of telekinesis through osmosis. We’ve absorbed one another’s mannerisms and fully fledged communication is just around the corner. We just need more practice.
“Don’t we kiddo?”
“I don’t think we’re doing so badly.”
“I suppose. How’s the food?”
“Pretty decent I suppose. You should probably eat something as well. At least to soak up the booze?”
He’s probably right. As always I neglect my self through lack of appetite when I’m not training. My spine pain meds keep it at a long enough arm’s reach to ensure hunger is always a peripheral problem. Dropping the curtain on my friend I begin to force some of the food down me when my ears prick to the sound of:
“And the winner is... WFWF SuperBrawl VIII! It was a hell of a show for those involved.”
And the reason? Drakz vs. Phillip Schneider. The main event was an over hyped snooze fest. The money in those tickets was drawn from our effort. Me and Phillip Snide-c*nt did a lot of people a favour that night when we tore down the Sun Devil Stadium. The exposure some of the roster has received in the fall out of that match is insane. Granted you have tens of thousands in attendance, and millions watching from their homes, but as word has spread telling the enormity of Drakz/Schneider, tens; if not hundreds of millions have seen that show. I am owed by every man and woman sat around me. Haha.
“A man who likes to call himself “THE GOOD GUY!” please give a round of applause to two time Hall of Famer and your current WFWF World Heavyweight Champion, Drakz!”
What? Oh, I’m presenting aren’t I? I toss a couple more shrimp rolls onto the floor to keep the dog busy as I get up to bring some life to this funeral.
——————————————————————————————————————————
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“And the winner is... Daniel Kirkbride.”
It is only Joe Bishop’s final words that I really catch, but that name alone has sharpened my attention. Mr Kirkbride. Darling Kirkbride.
He takes the stage and accepts his award for ‘rookie of the year’ with humility and a genuine sense of pride, something that I’ve not seen around these parts for some time. As he talks I zone him out and begin to formulate a detailed opinion of the man for the very first time.
He’s as clean cut as they come. That’s a given even within a moment of setting eyes on him. That shouldn’t be misconstrued as a forgettable character though. Maybe if he’d graced us at another period in time, but right now his straight down the middle mentality comes as quite a refreshment. To say he’s made a lasting impression on the company right now would be stretching it, but his imprint thus far has been a near perfect one. He’s impressed the right people and has very naturally climbed the totem, albeit quicker than most, but he’s still his own man. He’s not bowed to the pressures that recognition can bring. His ego is in check and his mind set seems unwavering. Bowing out of the seemingly now snuffed idea of a ‘stable war’ was a bold move that in the long run should prove to be his making. Going at it alone may seem like a harder path to tread but it’s much easier to go places when you’re not trying to keep pace with a group of friends. Leave the faction thing alone when you’re a new blood. If you just wait, you can join a super-group later on. Take it from me.
He’s all red cheeks and smiles up on the podium and I can see how much this means to him, to be selected from a roster like this is unthinkable to this young man, and again it’s his humility that may have blinded him to his own momentum. I feel like a proud Father. A proud Father who f*cked off before d-day and is now anonymously watching his grown up son from the corner of the room.
He’s a man of few words. Not the strong silent type. More in the ‘doesn’t wish to impeach’ way. I’d be interested to get him on his own and see what he really thought of all this. How does a man of such level head wind up working amongst sociopaths and nihilists? More so what does he make of such a melting pot of disfunction and chaos? How does he keep that level head above water?
As Daniel is applauded off of the stage I can only wonder how he’ll fair in the upper echelon of the card as the water deepens. It’s all well and good being the rookie of the year but it’s the next step that’s the most important, but I think he knows that. If he doesn’t, I can only hope he knows someone that can tell him so.
Someone besides his God. Someone who actually knows what they’re talking about.
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After my little Kirkbride epiphany I find it hard to concentrate on proceedings and, in between sips of champagne, I construct multiple threads of possible futures that involve each person in the WFWF.
In one Penny Shannon renounces her gaydom……is that a word?………and we marry. In another Ante Whitner announces his gaydom and we marry. The weirdest of the lot though, and one that makes me smile is a reality in which Daniel Kirkbride beats me for my World Heavyweight Championship. I hand it over to him, finally defeated after 6 long years, and with it I pass the good guy torch. It’s fair to say he does a better job of it than me anyway. He’s really nailed the whole genuine side of things, something I’m still struggling with. During my six year reign I’ve had the belt modded. The original gold face plate, replaced by a solid gold c*ck that juts out from the wearer’s crotch. No longer known as the World Heavyweight Champion but as “The F*cker”. Now Daniel Kirkbride, though approaching the age of 30, is “The F*cker”.
Just like that though I’m brought back to my senses as that crusty f*ck Percy Jackson opens his mouth centre stage. I’ve no problem with Percival. He’s shown in recent weeks that even he thinks Phillip Schneider is a d*ck. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
“The winners for the 2014 WFWF Match of the Year... are Drakz and Phillip Schneider, from Superbrawl.”
Classic. Well I suppose seeing as I won that son’va b*tch I better go up there and collect the glassware.
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Almost everything after that thought is gone to be honest. Blunt force trauma will do that to you.
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I wake with a start, feeling as though I’m falling, and I’m somewhat confused to find myself back in a f*cking hospital bed. Needless to say during the early days of my recovery, post world’s most famous stage dive, I grew to loath the very feeling of even touching one. Unlike before though I’m in a room of other bedridden and it isn’t long before the ward nurse, a male of about 38, comes over to me. I sit up.
“How are you sir?”
My head throbs, but the pain itself is swamped by good old US of A issue medicated relief.
“When did I get here?”
“Oh only a couple of hours ago. You were semi responsive when you were brought in so we were able to stem the bleeding from your wound and close you up.”
“Close me up? I assume you mean my head?”
“You’re correct.”
No f*cker closes this third eye, although I suspect he means my skull rather than my mind.
“We just let you sleep after that. Can I get you some water?”
“Please.”
He scoots off and I try to piece together what happened. I remember being on the stage again. Was I presenting another award?
“Here you are sir.”
The nurse hands me a plastic cup of water and I sip it tentatively.
“How bad do I look then?”
He chuckles. I wasn’t aware this was funny myself.
“It’s a big gash but your hair line will hide a lot of it. The doctor did a neat job of stitching you up. I think the most time consuming part was cleaning the shards of glass out.”
Did some f*cker glass me? It would explain the cut but I doubt I would have blacked out if it were the legacy of a discarded drink that caused this. Ashtray? It was no smoking. F*cking nazis.
Haha. No way.
Some sly sh*t smashed me up with their award!
“The winners for the 2014 WFWF Match of the Year... are Drakz and Phillip Schneider, from Superbrawl.”
Some sly sh*t smashed me up with my own award! Wow, that’s almost impressive, if it wasn’t so f*cking desperate. Spotlight whoring in the highest degree. I’d like to play the game of who dunnit? But it’s glaringly obvious this is the work of the biggest prostitute in the business, Phillip. It almost makes the hospital trip worth while knowing that Schneider has once again proven how jealous he is of me going over. Poor guy. It’s sad really, but I’ve got little sympathy for sore losers. Left in the dust, slicing up women’s faces like a scorned lover.
Phillip “Bunny Boiler” Schneider.
“Any chance you could call me a taxi brother?”
“I wouldn’t recommend leaving just yet but I have no right to keep you here. Are you sure you won’t rest some more?”
I spent 2013 resting. I think one year is enough.
“Just a cab please.”
He walks to the other end of the ward, picks up the phone and passes on the message to reception.
The ceremony will be long done by now and to be honest that’s the reason I’m a little annoyed.
My head got caved in. This is a blood sport, it comes with the territory.
I missed all of the sub-humorous goings on of the award giving and receiving. More concerned about the dog to be honest.
The one thing I was waiting for was picking up my Superstar of the Year award. Is that assuming of me? I guess it could be seen that way, and to a certain extent it’s true. I don’t think anyone would argue with me though. I wonder how that went down?
“And the winner is Drakz! Drakz couldn’t be here tonight due to contractual obligations however his close friend “Dog” is here to say a few words on his behalf.”
Go team.
I swing myself out of bed and slip my shoes back on, laces untied. My bloody shirt is buttoned back up and grabbing the tie from the bed post I winchester knot it around the collar. As I rise, slowly so as not to lose my head, the nurse kindly hands me my suit jacket, which I’m afraid to say is also stained with my vital fluids.
This is a gorgeous suit.
Can you dry clean blood?
I should ask Phillip really.
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Soapbox I
As a preacher man I wander the waste land of the concrete jungle. Everyone is dead. Everyone is moving.
The tools of my trade are all I have, and for their modest exterior, they are all I need. Reclaiming the minds of those that wander so numb is more than a mission, it is a birth rite.
One hand clutches a plastic milk crate, the other hangs by my side, my canine familiar it’s neighbor.
To the square we go, unnoticed by the undead that mill around us. I turn to my friend.
“This time? Do you think they’ll listen?”
The dog looks straight ahead and without a waver replies;
“Do you think they ever will?”
Reaching the “Benches Triangle” I stop to consider the significance of the parks central point. The milk crate is set down, and with a brief word to the man upstairs one foot, then the other, mounts the holy “soap box”. A name that is earned by those that speak from it.
“I know this all seems in vein but I owe it to you all to help. If we are to regain what we’ve lost then we must not waver. Follow me, put your faith in me, and I will guide us. I am returned from my pilgrimage across the sea, and I can tell you with some certainty that those from my home land are not coming to your aid.”
The lifeless carcasses stagger on by without a hint of acknowledgement.
“You must ask Him to help lift the veil on depravity. On evil. On mind numbing boredom. You must ask to be saved for I can not do His work without your approval.”
Glancing at the dog I see him shaking his head, both eyes closed.
This is hopeless.
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The dog opens his eyes and I can tell the poor f*cker is hungry again. If it weren’t for my meds no doubt I’d be ravenous as well.
We’ve been at this lark for 3 hours now, wandering the streets of Boise, shouting down the sinners. It’s all a bit of fun really. Between us we decided we could convince at least 10 people that we were legit. So far that number is closer to 0 though, in that it is indeed 0.
“You want something to eat pal?”
His eyes widen and as far as I can tell that’s an emphatic yes. Stepping down from the crate I unzip the backpack, trying to keep the dog’s nose out of it before I say so. Got to teach the lad some manners. I bat him away whist unwrapping the boiled chicken breasts, and then force him to wait a minute which gets him salivating heavily.
Ripping a couple of shreds off for myself I toss them both to him and watch as he insatiably finishes both breasts in 30 seconds flat. I on the other hand am having a hard time forcing down a fraction of the same meal. I sit on one of the three benches and begin to talk in between tiny bites of meat.
“I think we underestimated how tough this is boy. Seems to me that Mr Kirkbride’s dedication to the cause is made of more than just shouting at morons in the park. Who’d have thought it ey?”
He necks back the last mouthful and then I’ve got his undivided attention, or at least my remaining chicken has.
“I assumed people would just listen. I suppose my world consists of arenas, stadiums, packed full of those that hang off of my every word. Out here in the bad lands I guess I don’t have as much sway.”
I look up at a couple walking past, arm in arm.
“I could offer them absolute divinity and yet I know I would be less than heckled for it. Simply ignored. Written off as a mad man. Perhaps that’s why I thrive so readily in the environment the WFWF creates. My madness is celebrated. My passion is catered to. I am revered for it instead of reprimanded. All of this….”
I wave my hand, gesturing to our surroundings.
“This is fake. This is orchestrated reality by those that wish to control it and obeyed by those that wish to be controlled.”
I chew on a new ribbon of chicken.
“I suppose there are a lot of similarities…….between them and us. Many lambs just want to be lead. The number of groups in the WFWF through the years that have spearheaded the ideologies of a singular leader, a definitive figure head, are countless. Perhaps that’s why The New Epoch was so successful? Because we weren’t all blindly following one man’s march. There’s a lot to be said for having your own identity when you’re a part of a group.”
The dog is seriously eying this chicken. I’m enjoying cutting loose and he’s listening well. I continue, having discarded the remainder of my meal to the floor for him.
“Who was I? I was the architect. I was the unpredictable brains of the operation. Keeping us on track but never allowing those around us to see where that track was heading. I, for the most part, took a back seat and allowed folks to harp on about Michael’s leadership, and his place at the top of the totem. We used to joke about it. I was the all seeing evil standing just out of shot, whilst he was the scapegoat. A position in which he thrived. Bizzarely the fans never warmed to Michael as they did to me. Even before this whole leaf turning episode of mine they would cheer me. Kyzer however would be screamed at and booed with an extreme vitriol. When we appeared together the noise was an unsettling blend.”
I begin petting the satisfied dog’s head, not really speaking to him anymore, just thinking aloud.
“Michael’s position in the company at the time allowed for him to play the bad guy with ease. He essentially held the World Title hostage, but the sap was unable to keep it that way. Now to my mind that’s where the difference in our identities lies. Michael was always capable of creating this shroud. The mystique of Michael Kyzer. A man of mythological stature. When it came to backing it up though, in the later years, he couldn’t quite match the man his mouth was moulding. Match the man his mouth was moulding. Match the man his mouth was moulding. Match the man his mouth was moulding. That’s a pretty good tongue twister. No?”
I glance at the dog before realising my idiocy.
“I doubt you know what that means. It is after all a somewhat trivial thing.”
I continue to stroke back the scraggy fur atop the dog’s head and he seems enamoured by it all.
“Regardless of our egos though there was more than simply Drakz and Michael Kyzer in The New Epoch. There was of course a man who has inadvertently shown up in my life again recently.
Brennan. David Brennan.
Similarly to James Bond this cat (the dog’s ear’s prick at the word) liked a drink. Unlike Bond though he, like everyone else in the ‘real world’, felt the effects of this exuberant vice. You would never see Bond crashed out in a f*cking bush covered in his own fluids. Brennan however. Well. Let’s just say I think he’s slept outside of his bed more times than in. I think that about covers what I’m getting at.
I can’t speak for his current state, but as I knew him David was a strong willed man, but like all of us, he had his demons.
F*ck that’s a terrible cliche.
Let me give it to you straight. He had the aptitude for great, great things but his failure to show a modicum of control in his more, recreational moments, was undoubtedly his undoing. He was a genuine friend of mine. One of only two.
Unlike Joe Bishop to Trace Demon, he was no pawn.
Unlike Zmey to Donnie, he was no drone.
Regardless of what he may say now, he and myself were close friends at a time when neither of us had many to choose from. People may accuse me of manipulating this man. People may say it is on my head that he faltered from his sobriety. People are free to do so, but they need to understand that the only manipulation I did was convincing a friend that he was capable of competing in the big time, and it nearly worked too. Had Michael not made his decision to break up The Beatles, Brennan may well have had the necessary support system to will him on to great things, things he deserved. He let me down though. He was unresponsive when I attempted to reach out. He has dwelt on the errors both he and the group made for so long that it has manifested in an unreasonable aversion to ME. I tried in Arizona. I tried in New York. The first lead to my sleeping on the floor of the locker room whilst the second ended with me funding an alcoholic’s habit. Both failures in anyone’s mind.”
I get a couple of strange looks from runners as they make their way past me. Understandable as I am seemingly talking to myself. F*ck it. I may as well make it official.
I stand back on the milk crate and continue my one sided conversation, now directed even less at the dog and more into the openness of the Idaho sky.
“So where does Daniel Kirkbride come into this? Has this man of such meek age been able to oust the darkness from our skin headed friend’s heart? Has His word been enough to quench an eternal thirst? I doubt it. I may be labelled a pessimist of the highest for that, but I don’t truly believe his soul was salvageable. Daniel Kirkbride may well be enjoying his new school project of build your own brother, but that is likely to change the moment aforementioned brother gets a hold on a bottle neck. I hope Daniel is feeling forgiving because I don’t doubt that any kind of relationship they have built will be tested to breaking point, and soon. I may well have been an enabling force in the downward spiral of David Brennan but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish him well. It doesn’t mean I don’t miss talking to the man.”
Someone stops. A woman, old beyond her years, pulling a cart seemingly loaded with p*ss filled receptacles. By the smell of it they’ve all sprung leaks.
“It doesn’t mean……”
I, myself falter. The overwhelming stench of this creature has made my lip curl. I don’t want to risk further talking in the fear that soon I’ll be able to taste her. This observer is indeed my first breakthrough in the world of soap box preaching but she alone has enforced the premeditated view I already had. Nutters who shout from rostrums are undoubtedly only listened to by nutters. Like attracts like. No matter what they tell you in school.
The dog has already taken the initiative and I can hear his pads scraping the floor as he trots off to somewhere a little more, sanitary. Is it terrible of me that regardless of this cretins obvious need of some guidance, I am set to take flight the moment my senses are soured by her? To find myself now running to catch up with the dog, milk crate in hand, is a sure sign that maybe I’m not as good of a guy as I thought I was. Is this show of selfish escape enough to prove I’m a fraud? If only to myself?
No.
And why?
Because it would have been much crueler of me to make the dog stay.
The poor boy’s snout is 1000 times more sensitive than mine!
Isaac Cray.
Friend to the animals.
Hater of stinking witches.
Good Guy.
——————————————————————————————————————————
——————————————————————————————————————————
Papers Served
Medical run ins of the last weeks:
20.01.15
WFWF 2014 Award Ceremony
Portland, Oregon
Blunt force. 12 stitches.
26.01.15
WFWF Homecoming
Moda Centre, Portland, Oregon
Dragon. Loss of consciousness.
26.01.15
WFWF Homecoming
Moda Centre, Portland, Oregon
Jew. Reopening of stitches.
1 hour previous
WFWF Big Trouble in Little Seattle
Key Arena, Seattle, Washington
Messiah. Head f*ck.
To no one’s surprise a couple of the stitches need tarting up, and for extra spice my right ear won’t stop ringing. F*cking Michael.
I’m holding an ice pack to my face to keep any swelling to a minimum, but something tells me a Dragon’s boot will leave a mark regardless.
The WFWF doctor’s office isn’t a place anyone likes to visit. The rest of the roster know you’re in there and people start to talk. I’m not one for listening to whispers though. I’m the WFWF World Heavyweight Champion.
I watch a replay of the last 15 minutes of the show and smile at how well put together the video package is. Kyzer put a lot of hours into making me look like a million dollars. So I took a tumble at the end of it? I still rocked the f*cking boat for the other 95% of the flashbacks.
The video ends and the arena goes dark and as soon as I here that music I realise just how foolish I’ve been.
When I was standing in that ring at first I hoped this was just some sh*t thrown together my Donnie, to distract me and somehow nab a victory, but I very quickly realised the perfection of this plan was too great to be the work of a gun touting loud mouth.
Of my own accord I walked into Seattle to compete. I went to the place most likely to lure Michael Kyzer out and yet I was so caught up in my own sh*t that I didn’t even realise it. The hunter was jumped by it’s prey.
Clever Girl.
The subsequent beat down is irrelevant really. This was never an opportunity to physical incapacitate me. This was a simple statement of “I’m Back!”. The emotional and mental turmoil that this return was supposed to cause far outweighs a little ground and pound. What’s strange though is how I feel about it. I’m nothing like as angry as I expected to be. When Michael took the stage I wasn’t fuming with rage. There’s no denying I felt an overbearing emotional weight, but raw, aggressive fury was not it.
I was stunned and felt my stomach drop in the first instant of realisation, but then my gut filled with a nauseating sensation of relief knowing that whatever happens now, and whatever happens down the road, I WILL face Michael Kyzer. He has reared his head at last, after a year of my proving his actions of betrayal were in vain, and now I know his pride won’t let him leave again. He has watched from the shadows as I have outshone his legacy. Beating Phillip Schneider, winning the World Heavyweight Championship and remaining undefeated. All of this after having my body broken in two?
I’m not surprised he’s hungry. I would be too.
Watching your quarry getting fatter and stronger, whilst licking your lips, thinking of how much tastier the meal will be because of it.
On the screen I’m flat out in the ring, surrounded by the cast of The Hobbit. Michael speaks:
“I have a present for you. I was inspired by a mutual friend.”
He then stuffs some papers into my trunks and I wonder where they’ve gone. Who’s this mutual friend? Was that a contract? Has Mike decided to jump the queue?
He can f*ck off. I’ll make him wait, because that’s what friends are for.
The door opens and in walks one of my “bosses”. The one who’s hair I’d like to pull. Hmmm that was ambiguous. I could easily mean Trace Demon, not that I want to f*ck Trace Demon, but I suppose it could be misconstrued as referring to him. To hell with it. It’s Lila Sleater everybody, come on put your hands together for this beautiful woman.
The people at Big Teeth Studios never did call me back about recording the next episode of An Audience with……me. D*cks.
“Drakz.”
“Yes miss?”
“We need to talk.”
Goodie.
“I need to know you’re not about to go postal on me now that Michael Kyzer is back.”
“I’m not going to go postal on you now that Michael Kyzer is back.”
I shrug.
“I also need to hear you say that if by some twisted version of fate you two patch things up you’re not going to f*ck me.”
F*ck her? I’ll f*ck her right now if she wants. I might be a bit stiff (in the joints) but I’d happy to lay waste to this lady. It might get me a pay rise. Truth be told I know she doesn’t mean it like that, but I had to squeeze that bit of misogyny out before I opened my mouth to reply. Through bouts of laughing I eventually do.
“I think you’re pretty safe there Lila. Can I call you Lila?”
She nods.
“Me and Mike have burned our bridges.”
“Good, because whether it’s an unconvincing act or just a very weird truth your whole good guy thing is selling merchandise, which has its mutual benefits.”
DVD. End of 2015.
“Benefits like me telling you that Daniel Kirkbride didn’t just spontaneously walk out there tonight and ask to face you. He came to HQ the other day and discussed it with us first.”
Sh*t. The kid shows a serious amount of respect. Clearing the idea of calling me out with top brass first. He’s allowed to chose anyone he wants yet he still has the humility to check it’s okay with Mum and Dad before he does it. Haha.
“Maybe that would be juicy had you told me it before he walked out there and let me know himself. Come on give me something exciting.”
“How about the fact that an old friend of yours was with him?”
“David? Now again, Kirkbride already eluded to the fact that he has somehow ended up as a care in the community worker, why would your telling me it again count as exciting?”
”I’ve got something you’ll want, but it can wait until you’ve answered everything I want to know. Give and take Drakz.”
Sex.
“Fine.”
“Like I said, you’re making us a huge amount of money as WFWF Champion. You’ve got the people on your side but you’ve got the mind to stop it being boring. It’s the perfect balance.”
I feign a curtsy.
“You did me a huge favour disposing of Trace Demon the way you did.”
Did I?
“Your victory has torn a hole in The Final Revolution and it’s collapsed in on itself. Thank you.”
“You realise I was never fighting for a cause don’t you? I was just making sure I left with that belt. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed putting Trace down, but only because he thought a score of 1 - 1 made us equals. Lila I am not your knight in shining armour. Don’t get too caught up in this Game of Thrones sh*t.”
I still laugh about the fact Michael used to have that ridiculous throne of swords in his front room. It’s all fun and games until a hooker loses an eye. Hmmmmm.
“Well, whatever your motives, you helped steady the boat. The point I was trying to make is that with my help we can solidify your legacy.”
“How will you help?”
“I book the matches.”
“You’d give me whatever I asked for anyway. You gave me Phillip Schneider. You gave me Joshua Dean. You gave me Cameron Stone. You gave me Jayson Garrett. You gave me a title shot. You gave me your wonder kid Dave Demento. You gave me f*cking Shapiro. I’m still annoyed about that one. You gave me Wembley Stadium. You gave me Trace Demon, and then of course, you gave me Donnie Monty Kent. Now all but one of those matches were booked by me. You may have filed the paper work but I told you who I wanted and you stamped it, every time. Because you think I deserve it? Because you think I’ve earned it? Nope. It’s the logical reason, because I’m the provider.”
“I can’t deny that we have been very flexible with regards to your television appearances but there is another opponent you want now isn’t there?”
Michael.
“Michael.”
“Well if you want that to happen you’re going to need to play ball a little more readily.”
“Are you threatening me Lila?”
“Nope.”
She pulls 2 sheets of folded paper from her pocket and hands them over. Michael’s documents.
I snatch them from her and begin to read:
By order of the federal court of the United States Government
Isaac Cray
Is not to encroach on
Michael Kyzer
and must maintain a distance of 50 feet at all times.
50 feet? That’s just far enough for me to see his middle finger. C*nt.
“Do you understand now Drakz?”
I understand that I can’t beat the p*ss out of someone from 50 feet away. Maybe if I work on my pitching? What a f*cking devious move. Stand in front of me with total impunity.
“He’s got balls I’ll give him that.”
“A restraining order is no laughing matter. If you want this match to ever happen you’re going to need mine and the WFWF legal team’s help.”
Wrong again.
“I just need to wait for him. This isn’t a permanent thing. It’s just a wind up, but a very bloody clever one. Don’t worry yourself though Lila, because right now what’s good for you is good for me. Embrace it. Enjoy it. You don’t have to align yourself with Genghis Khan Jnr, but you can come along for the ride. It seems like a win/win for you, no?”
She cocks an eye brow.
“Just don’t f*ck me.”
Sex.
“I’ll do my best.”
——————————————————————————————————————————
——————————————————————————————————————————
Soapbox II
And so again I wander the streets of Idaho. Streets ravaged by normality. This time though my mind’s eye is filled with a sense of finality. I have a definitive destination and with it, a confidence in my probability of success. This has been planned in such a way that those who wander aimlessly will race to heed my words. My companion is as sure as I that this time, this time we will succeed.
The mass of my pulpit rises over the brow of the hill. Dauntingly massive in stature, but standing in it’s shadow is my key to victory. It is here that my message will be adopted.
We approach, and as it blocks the sun, the structure seems to assure us that this is the only way. The signage above it’s main entrance reads:
“Century Link Arena”
Dropping my milk crate to the frosted ground I exchange a look of hope with the dog. A look which, for once, is reciprocated.
Arise Sir Isaac.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I speak to you today with optimism in my heart. I speak to you today assured that my words will not go unheard.”
Already a young man has stopped after a double take, and is now listening intently.
“I bring to you His word. I bring to you a promise that He will forever fight for your best interests. He has told me that a new beginning is upon us, one in which the purity and solidarity of righteousness will elevate us to heights previously unknown.”
Another joins the congregation.
“I am merely a vessel for his words, but with my own voice I ensure you that any doubt is unfounded. He has never let us down before and He has promised that there is no intention of doing so. You are not alone. You do not have to suffer, voiceless, with only the mundane reality of your existence as a talking point. Welcome Him, for He is the light. He is the reason that everything is about to change, and we, we are the reason He, Himself, is changing with it.”
A group of 4 now stands meters away, seemingly all individual entities, unknown to one another, but united under our banner.
——————————————————————————————————————————
——————————————————————————————————————————
I can’t f*cking believe this is actually working. I’m well aware that the only reason it is comes down to the fact that I am on hallowed ground as it were. In this very arena, in a number of hours I will be wrestling David Brennan…………sorry. In this very arena, in a number of hours I will be wrestling Daniel Kirkbride.
Freudian slip.
The Century Link Arena in Boise, Idaho is the location for Paradigm and the crowds are already starting to form. Perhaps because of this my garnering a crowd is a little falsified. The original idea myself and the dog had was to go out into the world and, through nothing but nonsense, gather a legion of followers. All of this to prove, with ease, the ability to manipulate through language and faith. All of this to undermine Daniel Kirkbride.
That’s not the way things have unfolded though as time and time again we were ignored, ostracised amongst even the busiest of station platforms.
Wether this was due to my inability to talk sh*t to people I don’t know, or simply because the world has wised up to such tactics is anyone’s guess, but personally I like to think I’ve had my fair share of practise at the former. Right now though, this location has leant itself to our idea. An idea which has now outgrown itself. An Audience with Isaac……LIVE!
“Ladies and gentlef*cks, you may well be here tonight, having spent your hard earned money to see Samael Ahriman. You may well be here to witness Joshua Dean in action. You could even have travelled to this spot to see Axel Thornstowe, however I know that in your heart of hearts that is not true. Tonight you all gather here for a baptism! A baptism of fire. One Daniel Kirkbride will be tested to his limits. Is he worthy of your adoration? Is he worthy of a spot at the top of the card? I expect to answer all of these questions myself as the master of ceremonies. I have been hand selected by the man himself and I need you to heed my word when I tell of the respect I have for this man.”
8 has quickly turned into 10.
10 into 12.
“It could be said that he intends on using me as a stepping stone. A spring board to the big time. It would be lies though. Daniel Kirkbride does not intend on using this match to further his career. If it serves that purpose then it is merely a side effect. Daniel Kirkbride is testing himself, his own ability to rise to the occasion. The fallout from the match itself is of little interest to him. It is exclusively about the time between those bells. That is why I respect him. He has however let on that there may be some kind of ulterior motive as well. To call it revenge, or retribution, would be ignorant. The man simply wants to prove to his alcoholic friend that I am not invincible. A noble idea, but a foolish one.”
25 strong.
“Daniel Kirkbride’s rigid idea of what God is, or indeed whom God is, has granted him the ability to see all men for what they truly are……equals. He meets a spiteful and wretched man and sees his own likeness in him, thus allowing him to empathise in a way most of us can only dream. His infinite kindness is born of this very ability. This same set of ideas though may well have blinded him. Eyes. Wide. Shut.”
40 sets of eyes and ears.
“Where he sees another man of flesh and blood like himself, where he sees no accolades or egos, I see disparity. His own readiness to level the playing field of humanity, regardless of the virtuous rationale, has allowed me to creep within his blind spot. When this boy of only 24 years first sets his hand upon me, then, and only then, will the crushing realisation lay waste to what he calls hope. I inhabit the body of a mere man and yet I am so much more than that. My pockets are lined with scalps. The left, that of a man who calls himself ‘God’. The right torn from ‘The King of Demons’. What does that make me? It is not for me to say, but I am sure that after we meet, after we trade everything we have, Daniel Kirkbride will know what I am.”
The crowd cheers. I can safely use the word crowd as the congregation has risen to almost 80 strong, all of course wearing their WFWF merchandised t-shirts. These may not be my people, but I am certainly their leader.
“This boy seeks to dethrone me. To usurp me. His single goal is to prove to himself and to my own former ally, David Brennan, that I am merely close to indomitable, as apposed to indomitable itself. My single goal………..”
A member of the crowd shouts out of turn;
“to prove him wrong!”
My face lights up with a smile of sympathy.
“You would be forgiven for jumping to that conclusion…………..but I am not one for forgiveness……..”
He doesn’t seem to cotton on to what I’m implying.
“What I mean sir is get the f*ck out of my sight.”
I stare him down with my greatest mad man act and he shuffles on the spot, half hoping I’ll start laughing and tell him it’s all okay. F*ck him though. Let’s test the power of the mob.
“C*nt!”
I shout, pointing right at him. I then begin to repeat the sordid word, over and over, and it doesn’t take long for the group surrounding him to take up the chant as well.
“C*nt! C*nt! C*nt! C*nt! C*nt! C*nt!”
The intensity rises and I start to worry that the group may come to blows. Before this can come to fruition though the young man runs from the scene, red in the face and limp in the pants. The crowd, now over 100 in number, cheers his departure and I continue to preach.
“As I was saying, my goal is simple. Make Daniel Kirkbride. Is it arrogant of me assume I have that power? We shall see once the dust has settled. I can guarantee though that whatever the outcome of the match Master Kirkbride will be a different man. His baptism will allow him second life, a rebirth into a new position within the industry as a whole. I can only ask of you, my people, to act accordingly. If he fails in miserable fashion then let him know of your discontent. If he flourishes and lays waste to me then carry him as your new idol. This match will be the turning point in this gentleman’s career, a moment that he will tell his grandchildren about, because my friends………that is the new age which I wish to lead you all into. The future. The far future. A future in which I am no longer active, but through huge achievement am still remembered. Still talked about every single day.”
The crowd of WFWF loyals has become a magnet now. Those who don’t know me are stopping to try and understand the spectacle I am creating.
Moths to the flame.
“There are those who wish to cement their status in this same way, but there can be only one.”
Mike. Phil. F*ck them both.
“Follow me and I will lead you into a chapter that is still untitled. People see my position as the apex, but truthfully my climb has only just begun. If you come with me now, and support my actions, then I promise tedium shall never tread your lives again.”
By your powers combined I am Captain Planet!
“Scream when I enter, and I boo when I leave. Feed me with your voices. It is through you that I shall ascend. It is through you that I shall show my true self.”
I think this holy man schtick is going to my head a little.
“I am ‘Sol Inviticus’, the undefeated sun! His word is my own! Praise me and you shall know no weakness! Scorn me and you shall know only darkness!”
Definitely gone to my head. Need to pull back. You’re the good guy remember.
“My friends. Tonight I give you something to celebrate. Tonight I give you the truth about Daniel Kirkbride. A truth I am unsure of myself right now. I am prepared for any outcome, as a man should be. Some claim that even considering defeat is a sign of weakness, a minor issue that could well be embellished into something of worth. I however say that if a man falls and can not lift himself back up, he is forever fallen. Tonight, whatever happens, one hand will be raised.”
I raise my right arm into the sky above me;
“The Lord’s right hand is lifted high; the Lord’s right hand has done mighty things!”
Daniel.
I’m waiting for you.
I dont know good luck 
