Post by Drakz on Feb 18, 2019 15:25:10 GMT -5
”The Last of Us”
(A.K.A. Even YOU can't keep us from the main event)
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Well now. This isn’t a position we’ve found ourselves in before is it? Me talking as the fallen champion. The usurped king.
I’m not sure what you want to hear from me really. That I’m a broken man? A tired old wreck? Finally bested, and now lost in the wilderness.
But I don’t feel as though I’ve been bested. I don’t feel as though somebody worthy has finally taken the torch from me. I was hoping when the day finally came that I’d be able to breathe with ease. Walk upright, without that weight on my back. But instead I feel as though we’ve all been cheated. Penny Shannon isn’t the brave new world. She’s not the person who can take this sport forward into a new epoch……
I haven’t found the shining light. I can’t give you your future.
No.
I was beaten by a bum.
A bum who took a shot and it just happened to be a lucky one. At least for my sake…..I hope it was.
And yet, just as it is after every match, I’m bombarded with questions. Questions I don’t care to answer. Questions I don’t feel even require an answer. Not when my reply is standing naked in the light of day. I don’t need to vocalise it. Or at least, I shouldn’t have to. But it seems as though the masses can’t see the wood for the trees, so why not indulge?
Why did I choke Penny out? Why did I stomp on her and spit in her face?
Because I’m the bad guy. Right?
I don’t see her as deserving of her spot. She was awarded a title shot she didn’t earn, and now we’re all paying for it. I’m just doing the right thing by undoing my own mistakes. I lost. I unwittingly handed her the title. That’s on me. But I’ll be damned if I’ll let that mistake stand. I choked her to remind her I’m still here. Seconds after her victory, back to my feet and coiled like a snake. Not looking around asking “what happened?”. Not bandy legged, and glassy eyed. No. I was, and still am, right behind her, and now she won’t forget that. But sure, if it serves your narrative to just assume I did it because I’m the villain, go ahead.
The spit? Oh well, someone had to remind her that even in victory I don’t respect her. I don’t respect anyone that can’t cut off the head after stunning the beast. Finish the f*cking job you started. It’s just poor craftsmanship.
So is that answer enough?
I hope this information coupled with your new, albeit temporary, overlord puts a smile on your faces. Enjoy it…..while it lasts. It must be liberating to finally have a champion you want. A champion you all think you can be proud of? A champion you can all relate to? Pot fairies, family values and hokey 'it's all come full circle' scenes, akin to the worst episode of Dawson's Creek with a Riot Grrrl soundtrack? If that's what you always wanted then I'm happy to have denied you all these f*cking years.
You’re welcome to, but I’m not the kind of person who lies to himself. I’ve always talked a lot of sh*t. But none of you can deny that it wasn’t all true. Even now I refuse to sink to kidding myself. Penny Shannon pinned me. She rang my bell and took advantage. Congratulations.
Penny you’re the first person to ever beat me for that title, and you should be proud of that at the very least. Hold onto that notion for years to come, even when the doubts start to creep in about that new woman of yours. When you’re clinging to her sleeping body, late at night. Unable to sleep because you swore she smelled of someone else’s perfume when she got in from work. Pacify those fears with the soft, milky goodness of Drakz. You finally have something important you can add to your resumé, and don’t you ever let it go. It’s a kindness……….and a curse. Because now I’m coming right back after you. Previously I’ve beaten fools because they stood in my way. Or because they looked like fun sport to hunt. Now though? Now you’ve got something that belongs to me, and I don’t take kindly to being stolen from. It’s why I put it in the commandments.
I know right? I look good for my age.
I digress.
Penny, even if you believe you’re the rightful owner of that championship I still have my doubts about your ability to carry it long term. Not when it took a series of lectures from washed up schmucks of yesteryear to rally you. Not when you look so close to walking into the sunset with your first attempt at a steady girlfriend. This is merely a moment for you. A glorious moment, sure. But a moment none the less…..and it will end. You’ll move on. You’ll decide to do something else. That’s just the kind of person you are. Don’t take this personally though, because it’s the kind of person almost everyone is.
Not me though. I can’t let things lie. I can’t walk away.
Why do you think I drag my busted body back to this place time and time again? Why do you think I enacted my rematch clause so immediately?
I NEED to be the best. It’s my life blood. In my mind it’s the things that separates me from the Ahrimans of this world.
Right now? Right now I’m everything I’ve always hated. I’m playing second fiddle to someone else, and it turns my stomach. I’ve only done it once before, and that was to give Michael Kyzer his time in the sun. But this time? This is very different. I didn’t choose this situation. I didn’t volunteer to step back. It’s out of my control and Penny…….I like control. I like to be the one with all the pieces on the board. The real question that everyone should be asking, myself included, is can I claw them all back?
Can I move past this setback in time for Superbrawl? And honestly? All this bravado is great and all, but if I’m really being honest…….
Urgh.
I feel like a f*cking loser.
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Jail Bird
“Empty your pockets into the tray please sir, then turn and walk towards my colleague for a pat down.”
It’s like being at airport security all over again. About to be gripped up by a hulking stranger twice my size. Or am I thinking of fighting Zmey? Either choice left me weak at the knees.
I walk through the metal detector and we’re all good, then spread ‘em and hold my hands out wide, like I’m about to hug the guy. He gives me what can only be described as a piss poor excuse for a search, barely so much as wiping the grease from his fingers onto my trousers. Note that I said barely. There’s still a visible series of sausage stains on my thigh. Fried chicken eating f*ck wit.
“Okay, off you go.”
It’s negligent police work like this that leaves me pining for the days I’d have booty bumped an 8 ball just because I could. What? You don’t get your kicks by stuffing illicit substances up your arse hole?
By the way if you’re wondering why I’m so chipper, it has a lot to do with the fact I’m paying a visit to a man *ahem*, that is best kept on the other side of a bullet proof pane of glass to me. After starting to unpick the fact that I’m not feeling quite so able to bounce back after losing my championship, I figured it was time for a morale boost. Time to lighten my mood. What better way to do that than by laughing at those less fortunate?
“Good afternoon sir. If you could fill out a couple of details for us we’ll have the inmate brought into the visitation room shortly.”
Shortly indeed.
“Name? Well that’s easy. I can do that one.”
’Michael Kyzer’.
“Inmate’s name:”
’Donald Kent’
“Relation to inmate? Oooh, spicy.”
I wonder if she’s getting annoyed at my reading aloud yet? I’m mostly doing it for dramatic effect. For my own sake….of course. By the way, for the last question I maintained my cover. ’Brother in law’. I really want him to get as riled up as possible before he makes it into the same, sort of, room as me. If I put my own details in there he’d probably just no show. That’s the kind of emotional relationship we’ve always maintained.
“Personal Criminal Record? No thank you.”
But only because I’ve never been caught. It pays to be smart AND lucky as f*ck in this life. Okay, the rest of these questions are pretty mundane. I’ll save you the energy.
Pen on paper. Scribble scribble. ‘This way please sir’. A few more ‘sirs’. A few heavy doors open and close and then….
Boom. I’m sat on a plastic chair, faced with what looks like a set piece you see in the movies. Separate booths, 1980s looking telephones on either side of the divide and of course a nice, thick pane of glass for us to place our open palms onto, in a show of undying love. This is gonna be the t*ts.
I hear a door open and slam closed on the con’ side of things and my c*ck swells a bit when I realise my visit-ee has arrived. He hops up onto the chair and only then does he properly look through the glass, expecting Kyzer, but instead getting his sh*t mouthed ex-lover. To be fair, until he was on that chair he physically couldn’t see me. Wait. I need to save all these stature based quips for my mouth.
“What in the f*ck are you doing?”
I can’t help but smile. I’m really trying hard not to, but this is just too much.
“Hey Donnie. How are ya?”
His eyes narrow, though I must say he’s keeping his cool, which is……disappointing.
“Just thought I’d come and see my little buddy.”
He already knows I’m just here to f*ck with him. He grits his teeth, trying to hide it with his lips, but I can see the bulge in his jawline.
“Honestly I’m surprised you didn’t wind up in a young offenders institute though.”
That infamous vein in his head makes a cameo. The live studio audience applauds.
He takes a deep breathe and, even though his ever massive head has turned a shade of crimson, manages to keep his emotions in check.
“You’ve taken to roleplaying as Mike now then?”
“Only when it suits me. Aren’t you relieved it’s not him though? I mean surely you’ve got to believe he’s part of the reason you’re in here at all?”
I don’t know if there’s any truth in that but it’s nice to speculate.
“Honestly? Anyone but you?”
Anyone?
“And what the f*ck have I done? Jeez.”
“What haven’t you done?”
Not a lot, but I do know I didn’t put his midget arse in prison.
“Urgh. Well this is no fun. What happened to the guy I knew who would have put a loaded gun in my mouth by now? You’ve not even raised your f*cking voice!”
Hell, I’m talking louder than he is.
“Look around you f*ck face. Do you see what this place is? Do you see where I’m sitting? Which side of the glass I’m on? You think I want to give them any reasons to add to my sentence?”
That’s very……..sensible of him. What the f*ck is going on?
“Besides, having a f*cking heart attack in here isn’t on my to do list. I’m stressed out enough as it is. My lawyer’s a f*cking idiot.”
If you’re an avid follower of Michael Kyzer myth and lore you can probably guess who he’s referring to.
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“I wasn’t listening.”
“WHAT IN THE….”
A brief peak in volume before a pause as he reigns it back in, half spitting the remaining words out through his teeth.
“….f*ck are you doing here?”
He’s definitely walking a fine line. I know full well he’s no changed man or anything. Just self preservation. He wouldn’t even have to blink between my arrival and skull f*cking me if we were on the outside. If we were both on the outside. Heh.
“I just came to see my little buddy. You know. Cheer him up a bit. Seeing you smile makes me smile, and God knows I need that.”
He’s had enough and drops his phone onto the table top, before turning and moving to jump down from his poorly scaled chair. I don’t know if all his internalised rage jumped the coop via osmosis, but suddenly something snaps in me…….momentarily of course. I blast the glass with the phone in my hand.
“DON’T WALK AWAY FROM ME YOU LITTLE C*NT!”
This attracts a lot of attention, with both guards walking towards where I’m sat, whilst other visitors and their cons peer around the dividers for a good look at proceedings. I wave off the guard with the most charming of smiles and a softly spoken apology. He doesn’t look impressed but seems to be giving me at least one more chance.
DMK has stopped a few steps from the chair and turns back to me. A little smile cracking across his enormous head. He knows something’s up. Why else would I be here, screaming like a spoiled child. I hold the phone up and gesture to it, signalling that I just want to talk. His eyes narrow. What is it I want from him? He shouldn’t feel bad for not knowing. I’m making this up as I go along. I usually am.
I have a reputation as a mastermind in this business, but really I just happen to have good mental reactions to a change in wind direction.
He’s back on the chair and lifts his receiver.
“Something eating at you?”
His glassy, snake like eyes look into me. He might be a maniac, a dangerous maniac, but he has a good sense for reading people. Knowing when someone’s lying probably comes with the territory when you’re an organised criminal. I’m not people though.
“What makes you say that?”
He tilts his head, looking more composed than I’ve perhaps ever seen him.
“Oh I don’t know. The hissy fit? The whole f*cking visiting me in the pen schtick? What the f*ck are you really up to? What are you trying to get out of me?”
I had hoped I just wanted to poke the bear and get a kick out of it while doing so. Seeing him caged up like an animal was supposed to raise my spirits.
“I suppose……..I guess I was hoping you’d be able to offer me some advice.”
Jesus f*cking christ, saying that nearly made me gag. He’s relishing this.
“I need to lure Kyzer out.”
His smile doesn’t go away, it just becomes a little more subtle.
“I want to retire that piece of sh*t at Superbrawl.”
“So do it. I don’t understand what advice I can give.”
“I’ve got nothing to offer him it seems. Nothing he wants. I was all set to fight him and then David threw himself into the mix. I won that match, and Dave’s belt, safe in the knowledge I’d get my chance to destroy Michael on his own. No distractions. And yet now he claims he’s retired. I’ve even had Tugarin telling me as much. I can’t let it end this way though. I need to get my pound of f*cking flesh.”
“So appeal to his greedy, self worshiping side then. He’s a f*cking walking ego. Offer him that shiny belt of yours. Surely he’d love to take it off you on the biggest stage possible? All eyes on him.”
First of all, does he not think I’d have already tried that? Offer him a title shot? Are you kidding me? Maybe people don’t think I’m a mastermind after all?
“Wow, I hadn’t thought of that. F*cking hell Donnie……..besides I don’t even…..”
Should I be telling him that? Too late.
“Hello. What’s this? You haven’t gone and lost the f*cking thing already have you?”
He’s got his claws in now. F*ck it. What’s he going to do? He’s in prison. This momentary pause on my part though prompts further response from everyone’s least favourite of the seven dwarfs.
“You have, haven’t you? Haha. So someone’s finally managed it? Someone’s finally knocked the cardboard king off his gay old throne? How does it feel to be mortal again sh*t for brains? Hahaha.”
His laugh has always been nauseating, but never more so than now.
“So, who? Who did it? Mike didn’t come back and take it before retiring did he? Brennan? Did he enact that f*cking rematch thing they do? Did he finally win the p*ssing contest?”
F*ck sake.
“Well? Oh f*ck, it wasn’t either of them was it? You let some unassociated worm get in? Let me guess? Trace Demon? I suppose it was eventually your turn to suck him off, right? Quid pro quo, or however you f*cking say it. No? Come on, enough of this **** footing around. Who?”
I came here to feel better about all this, and yet the next word I utter is going to bring that crashing down like a tonne of Penny Shannon branded sex toys. I should just get up and leave, for my peace of mind. But then, I do kind of think he might know something I don’t about Kyzer. Something juicy. A real wriggler on the hook to bait the f*cker back up stream. Here goes.
“Shannon.”
“Who?”
“Penny Shannon.”
His eyes bulge, wide like a spooked rabbit. I can almost hear the cogs working in his head, followed by sirens and choirs singing. This is the moment he’s always waited for. To finally have a very tangible upper hand over me, even given his current living arrangements. The bottom lid of his right eye trembles, and then the dam opens. The flood of laughter.
“HAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh my f*cking…….HAHAHA…..are you for real? Penny……hahahaha. Penny f*cking Shannon? Hahahaha. Are you? Hahahahahaha.”
He’s kicking his little legs around, nigh on having a seizure at this realisation.
“Hahahaha. I always knew you where a f*cking sub. Hahaha Jesus Christ. Thank you! Hahahaha. You?! You lost to a lesbian?! Hahahaha.”
That shade of deep red rises up the length of his face, and I can see he’s getting short on breath. This really is like watching a child. Completely out of control of the bodily functions he takes for granted. Eventually he starts coughing, which at the very least means he can’t talk for a moment, giving me some much needed time for a composure reset.
“She got lucky.”
He’s wiping the tears from his eyes and breathing deeply.
“She got lucky did she? That sounds like a poor excuse if you ask me, which it seems you have, seeing as you’ve come here.”
I stand resolute in my assertion that I don’t lie to myself……………
“You want to know what I really think? I think you’ve f*cking lost it. You’ve peaked. All these years you’ve been riding high, your head up your own ass, not looking more than 2 steps ahead. Coasting. But it’s crept up on you hasn’t it? You’re not the stallion you thought anymore. You’re head’s been up there so f*cking long, the smell of your own sh*t’s rotted your brain. Rotted it out so badly, you missed the fact your body is nothing but a sack of sh*t slung over a drying rack. You’re done Mr Cray. You’ve been left behind.”
I almost make a mistake, and move to walk away, but that would only add fuel to the fire. Just sit here and take your lashings Isaac.
“No wonder Mike’s no where to be seen. You think he’s ever going to show now that you’ve gone and dragged your own name through the sh*t? You’ve made every one of you look like chumps. Mike, Dave AND you. The New Epoch. This is it. You’re f*cking bums.”
“So one loss makes us all bums then?”
“One loss? No. One loss in the first scene of Act 5 though? Yup. You’ve fallen on your face when the finish line was in sight. The whole f*cking audience has just written you off as a minor player. Someone completely f*cking redundant to the closing moments.”
Since when has this man-goblin had any kind of working knowledge of the theatre?
“This loss has cost you more than just a bit of shiny shiny. This has cost you everything you’ve been obsessing over for years. You don’t get your fairytale ending anymore. No Michael Kyzer. No redemption story. You’ve f*cked it. Royally. And for people like me? All the people you’ve sh*t on this entire time? This smacks of karma.”
Karma? F*cking karma?! That’s what this is? There’s no way I’m having the outcome of any part of my life reduced to an act of a higher power. I’m in control! ME!
“So what the f*ck do I do? You might hate me. You might be loving every moment of this, but surely you still want me to f*cking skin Kyzer? You of all people want that man’s head on a pike, and I’m the only one who can give that to the world. How the f*ck do I get to him if you really think losing that title has veered me off piste? I need something. Anything. I’m willing to make this as personal as it has to be if it means he pokes his head above the castle wall. I only need one shot. You’re his family!”
“Was.”
“For long enough. You have to know something that will rile him. Pique his interest. Because I’ve got nothing over here.”
And after this loss, for the first time, I can really feel this all running away from me. I can try to catch up, but my body’s just not able to keep the pace anymore.
“Are you being honest?”
What?
“For once, yes.”
“Because you seem like you don’t even remember what started this.”
“Started what?”
“Your f*cking lovers tiff.”
Am I supposed to know? It sounds as though he’s referring to a particular moment in time. Some butterfly effect starting gun to this entire mess.
“Should I?”
He doesn’t look impressed.
“I should f*cking think so. Something like that? I’m surprised you can sleep at night.”
Am I missing something here?
“No? You’re more screwed up in the head than I thought then. I’m not spelling it out for you. You don’t f*cking deserve my help. Go see a quack or something. Trust me, once you remember, then you’ll have a hook to drag Mike back in on. Because right now? Right now you’re a f*cking sham.”
“You can’t just tell me and make this whole thing a lot easier?”
He smirks. That’s answer enough. You total b*stard.
“Kent. Time’s up.”
An officer, out of my sight, shouts to DMK and he just shrugs at me. I can’t leave it like this. Bested and humiliated.
“Just for the record, I intend on snatching that championship right back again. I’ve already got my rematch.”
“Hey, if the only way you can get off these days is taking a beating from a dyke, who am I to judge?”
And before I have even half a chance to answer back he hangs up the phone, winks at me and then waddles back off toward his cell. And that’s it. That’s where I stand at this moment in time. My championship taken from me by Penny, my dignity stretched out like a post scene p*ssy in a porno, all at the hands of Donnie Monty Kent, and now the news that I have apparently always been well aware of why Mike stabbed me in the back all those years ago.
So much for some light hearted jabbing of the midget.
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Well.
If I lose again, that’s it.
I’m done.
There really is no coming back from a second.
No Kyzer.
No Superbrawl.
No championship.
No WFWF.
I simply walk away. Tail between my legs.
And I realise just saying that is going to put some serious wind in the sails of my detractors, who it must be noted are greater in number now than perhaps ever before. Knowing this could be the last they ever see of me will surely prompt a whole lot of bass in their voices come show time. I’m the unifier of the people. Those who love Penny, and those who don’t. All standing together under one umbrella. Just to jeer me all the way out of the building and into the stud field.
It is nice to know I’m universally reviled though. It goes to show I’m as good now as I’ve ever been at baiting the moronic unwashed. The question is though, am I still any good at wrestling?
I like to think so, but it doesn’t really matter what I think, does it? It matters only what I do, and I’ve got just the one shot at it.
And as if that weren’t pressure enough, I stand here outnumbered. Not literally. That just wouldn’t be fair now would it? I’m talking with regards to my support system, compared to that of Shannon.
Penny Shannon has the entire world behind her.
The entire fan base. Clamouring for feel good moment after feel good moment. Send them home happy. That’s the way right?
The McGurks. Somehow still considered to be people worth talking about, even though every last one of them has retired and taken up motivational speaking. I for one don’t know how qualified any of them really are to be so much as considering saying my f*cking name. But you know….Wayne beat a drug addled Drakz doppleganger about 10 years ago, so that’s…….a thing.
The Ahrimans. A family so dead set on learning to self felatiate they make a point of not winning any titles because, and I quote, they ‘just get in the way’.
The Deans. My favourite tag team partners, and the only marriage I can truthfully say I’ve been f*cked by both sides of.
Even our mutual employer, Lila Sleater, stands firmly on Penny’s side, which to my mind stinks of a conflict of interest, but hey. I’m the bad guy…….right?
And me? My corner men? All begrudging, for one. Let’s take a look see.
An imprisoned midget who wants me dead.
A ‘friend’ who’s withdrawn from general populous and may as well be dead.
A soothsaying Dog……..who is dead. Allegedly.
And a frenemy with a habit for hiding and playing dead.
World. The zombie apocalypse is upon us.
What I do have though, that no one else does, are my awards……..heh.
Match of the Year. My return to form and now worthless coronation.
Return of the Year……and it may as well already be over.
Great stuff.
About the only thing either of these trophies are good for now is doorstops, and lord knows I need those to keep the air flowing through my appartment. The cocktail of bleach and wet mammal has brought it one step from being condemned by the federales.
Oh and whilst we’re passing over the subject of giving me trophies, I want to take this opportunity to say; f*ck Joe Bishop. You’re a footnote in that title’s history, so the next time you want to start bad mouthing me maybe consider the fact that you’ve walked away from this place the moment the going got tough. You can’t just turn on your heel and wax lyrical from the sidelines. No. You had a run of good showings and then all it took was being put on your arse and you took your ball and went home with it. That’s what p*ssies do…..not champions.
Wait…..hold on a minute……
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Witch
I take a deep breath through my nose and do you know what? I think I might have finally sorted out the stink in this place. I’ve had the windows open for about 3 months, which during a Chicago winter has been less than ideal. The bleach has stained just about every soft furnishing in the place, and I’ve had to grow used to almost daily headaches from the fumes, but I think I’ve actually managed to restore some kind of pre-animal equilibrium in here.
*Bzzzzzz Bzzzzzzz Bzzzzzz*
Urgh. Why can’t I be left in peace? I pick my phone up from my new coffee table (some idiot broke the last one) but don’t answer the call in time anyway.
Huh. Would you look at that. 3 missed calls from Joshua Dean. He must really want me to take that pencil pushing job. Maybe I will if this all goes t*ts up? Haha. Yeah right. Besides, it makes a whole lot more sense that he’d just be calling to get his digs in about my losing to, in his mind at least, a second of the Salvation cuckolds. Well, I shan’t be giving him the opportunity. Not after already suffering at the tongue of Donnie. I need some r&r before my next hit of that sh*t.
Who knew my skin had gotten so thin?
*DING DONG*
‘’Jesus!”
The shock of someone actually ringing my doorbell makes me drop the phone and actually shout out loud. Who the f*ck is this? The last time I had a visitor here was………..you know I can’t actually tell you the answer to that. F*cking hell it better not be Josh. Coming to check I’ve not choked on my own vomit. That’d be just perfect. Being revived by a guy who would never let me forget about it. I suppose at least I’d get to kiss him. Might cause some trouble at home? That’s a stretch even by my standards.
Do I even answer? I suppose I should at least have a look.
I approach the door and the bell rings again. Impatient aren’t we?
I put my eye to the spy hole and…..oh for f*ck sake! Are you kidding me?! Is someone actually doing all of this just to f*ck with me? Of all the people in the world, even if I’d been given advance warning on both the gender and approximate age, I would never have expected this. I can just ignore her. Pretend there’s no one here, but it turns out I did the whole “oh for f*ck sake” thing with my mouth instead of my mind because….
“Isaac. I know you’re in there you f*cking ingrate. I just heard you. Open this God damned door right now. It’s freezing out here.”
Maybe I could just…..not?
“Isaac! Let me in! Let your Mother in before she drops dead of pneumonia! Not that you’d care.”
I don’t think pneumonia works like that, but regardless, she’s not likely to leave is she? She’s the source of all of my awful personality traits, stubbornness included. What the f*ck is she doing here? I thought I’d made myself pretty clear when she flash mobbed me in that graveyard?
*DING DONG DING DONG DING DONG*
She’s finger blasting the bell push now. Punctuating the shrieks.
“ISAAC! Let me in, or I’m taking a sh*t on your doorstep.”
Christ all mighty. I’m not having that. I fling the door open.
“What in the f*ck are you doing?!”
That sounded familiar.
“Is that really any way to greet your own f*cking flesh and blood?”
And with that she’s already pushed past me, suitcase in tow. I turn to remonstrate her, my p*ss boiling at a high 100, but then feel a nudge against my legs and am stunned into silence as I realise she’s not alone.
“Jesus.”
He’s come up a lot recently.
“What the f*ck happened in here?”
I’m still processing all of this. My Mother, assumed dead until my last business trip to the UK, has just turned up and destroyed my inner sanctum…..and as if that’s not enough? She’s got a f*cking dog with her!?!
I finally snap out of it as I see her starting to unpack her case.
“Hey. HEY! What the f*ck is this? What are you doing? Are you f*cking crazy?”
She’s clearly choosing not to listen, so I grab her by the wrist and, with her now wide eyed and looking right back at me, tell her calmly.
“You can’t stay here.”
She looks shell shocked. As though she didn’t expect that kind of response from her only offspring with a well documented hatred for her. For the record, that made it sound as though I have siblings who actually like this succubus. I’m an only child. Always have been, and given the state of this crone’s dust filled, heavily post menopausal baby gear, I can’t see that changing.
“And that….thing.”
I gesture toward the four legged sh*t demon.
“That thing definitely can’t stay here.”
It’s not so much that it closely resembles Dog, as that it itself is a dog. Close enough, and in this unravelling mind’s case, too close for comfort. She wrenches her gnarled, branch like arm out of my grip and simply gets back to unpacking her things.
“Are you not listening? Have you finally lost your f*cking mind? You. Me. Us.”
I’m gesticulating wildly.
“This has never, and will never work. I thought we were in agreement about that? I thought……well I thought you were cold and in the ground, and therefore didn’t even have to give this any thought. BUT I thought you at the very least understood where you stood with me? The eldest, youngest and most spiteful of your kids.”
Again. There’s only me.
“So, what? You’re just going to clam up and not say anything now? Since when have you ever been able to keep that tongue still?”
And now the dog jumps up onto the sofa.
“The f*ck is this?!”
I grab the dog by the scruff of the neck and finally this warrants a response of sorts. A good, hard belt in the face. Not a slap. She doesn’t, and never has done slaps. No. I get a right straight, with rings adorning the fingers, courtesy of the woman who death forgot.
“Get your hands off him.”
Obviously I already have, and she’s now fussing over him….whoever he is.
I think she’s drawn blood from my cheek. Less through ferocity of the punch thrown, and more from the scrape of her cheap, imitation, bejewelled rings. I’m surprisingly calm about it though. I mean, what am I going to do about it? Stick her in a reverse dragon sleeper until she taps?
“Are you alright sweetheart? Did the bad man hurt you?”
The bad man? I’ve been sarcastically called ‘The Good Guy’, but ‘the bad man’? That’s a bit on the f*cking nose isn’t it? Her pet voice immediately turns to bile again as she addresses me instead of the f*cking animal.
“Where’s your yellow wh*re? I’ve got some washing that needs doing.”
Wow. I’m not even going to begin to try and pick that one apart. It’s honestly a miracle I turned out as nice as I did, because regardless of what anyone in the WFWF might think, I could have been a whole lot worse. Thankfully, whilst the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, it did roll about a kilometre before rotting and taking root.
She pulls out a packet of smokes and just lights it inside, without so much as asking.
“Nope.”
I snatch the lit cigarette out of her mouth, burning the palm of my hand, but I just squash it and drop it to the floor in bits.
“Not in here.”
“For f*ck sake. Okay you mincer. I could use some fresh air anyway.”
And she pulls another tab out, puts it between her painted red lips and waltzes out through the double doors, onto the balcony. Leaving me to try and work out how my life has just been turned on its head in a matter of minutes. I glance down at the animal on the sofa.
“How the f*ck do you live with that?”
“I eat my own sh*t. Dealing with people like her is second nature to me.”
For those among you who just took a jump back…..a talking dog? ANOTHER talking dog? It’s actually just me this time. Talking on his behalf to amuse myself.
Aaaaaand breathe.
“People like us learn to live with other people’s imperfections.”
“Like us? That’s a bit familiar don’t you think? We’ve only just met mate.”
“You don’t hide the strain very well, that’s all.”
He’s right. Or at least very observant.
“You know, I’ve been really struggling these last few days with my own ever growing list of imperfections. It’s not really something I’ve had to deal with before. I’ve always been…..you know…..without fault.”
“Without fault? You’re sure about that?”
F*cking right I am.
“F*cking right I am.”
“So what’s changed? Why are things crumbling now?”
As if to punctuate the question he starts licking his own cock and balls, and yet I still find myself replying.
“Honestly? I wish I knew. Every day something new seems to surface. Some new inadequacy that until now simply didn’t exist. Or maybe I’ve been able to brush it off and stay the course before now?”
“And….*schlop schlop shurlpp*…..you really don’t….*schlop schlop*….know why?”
“Listen, if you’re going to talk to me, at the very least take a break from eating yourself.”
Apparently this conversation isn’t as one sided as I thought, because he actually does. This is still me doing the talking right?
“Better?”
“Much.”
“It seems to me you’ve just hit a slump. A slight knock on your confidence is simply causing you to spiral a bit. Besides we all know you weren’t out done. She just got lucky….”
How the f*ck do you know anything?
“……and took the opportunity as it presented itself. Your mind was firmly fixed on the target down the road. A misstep on your part. There’s definitely no one to blame but yourself for not taking her seriously, but that said, you shouldn’t waste another f*cking second moping over it.”
Potty mouthed little fella.
“Are you really going to let this undo all the hard work you’ve already done? So f*cking what? You didn’t win Superstar of the Year for a 4th time in a row? So f*cking what? You lost one singles match clean in how many years? So f*cking what? The fans have been quick to turn on you?
You’re the Superstar of the Decade!
You’ve got the best win/loss record in the history of this business!
You’ve never liked the inbred c*nts who consume this product anyway!
Strap some balls on and get to f*cking work!”
“I’m assuming you don’t mean fitting these new, strapped on b*llocks, into my own mouth? I see you’ve got quite a taste for that is all.”
And he’s at it again. This little pep talk though has my chest puffed. I might just throw that old hag off the balcony to celebrate getting my mojo back.
“Owww! F*ck! What in the hell is that doing there!?!”
I turn to look, if only to make a mental note of which inanimate object I need to thank for its service in hurting that woman. HA! Excellent.
“Who the f*ck props a door open with a God damn trophy!?!”
The f*cking best in the world. That’s who.
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So now I can add a ‘F*ck C*nt Witch’ and a testicularly obsessed dog to that list of people I’ve got in my corner. The freak show rolls on from town to town, and I’m at the head of it all. Lashing the horses and keeping us on schedule.
You know, I’ve never claimed to be perfect……….actually I did that in the last scene didn’t I? Hmmmmm. Okay yes, I’ve claimed many things over the course of my seemingly never ending career. But that said I’ve mostly been able to back it all up. I say mostly because recently I’ve made a liar of myself, which has me thinking maybe what they’re all saying is true? Maybe I really am past my prime? Those halcyon years of being unbeaten already seem so long ago as I’ve now lost to David Brennan, Tugarin Zmey AND Penny Shannon.
A recovering drunk, a Dragon and a cougar lesbian. Not exactly a who’s who of the fighting world when you put it like that right?
But with that in mind I’d like to address something I heard said about ‘people like me’ recently. Apparently the select few of us who’ve dominated the main event of this place for the last 10 years have made it less than fun for those who’ve dipped their toe in the water, only to be forgotten when they decide this isn’t what they signed up for. Now bear with me, because that statement was made as a complaint. I for one wear that like a f*cking badge of honour though. This game isn’t played for fun. It’s played so we can find out who really is the f*cking best in the world, and guess what? It’s mostly been me. If the vanguard of the mid-card can’t break through our ranks then they simply never had what it takes.
Your Ace Bennetts. Your Cameron Stones. Your Jayson Garrets.
All perfectly adequate hands. But adequate doesn’t cut it when you’re dancing among the swinging d*cks of Babylonia.
I’m sure they’ll all be pleased to hear of my fading flame though. At last they can see it burn out from the comfort of their trailer park homes. My downfall has more than its fair share of cheering onlookers.
Maybe Trace Demon had the right idea? Turn your back for a moment and get murdered. No chance to fade away. Just WHAM! You’re gone.
No. Don’t be silly now Isaac.
Trace Demon has never done anything right. I bet he hasn’t even mastered the use of his colostomy bag yet. Get well soon buddy.
Penny. I said before our last match that you were the last of a dying breed, but I’m starting to think that perhaps it’s I who am the sole survivor of that aforementioned main event fun police.
Phillip Schneider.
Michael Kyzer.
Trace Demon.
David Brennan.
All gone.
So I suppose Penny, given that you’re the champion, maybe me and you ARE the same species. An endangered species. Next thing you know people will be hunting us down to cut off our d*cks, dry them out and powder them down as a medicine for the measles.
I’m not extinct yet though. I’ve still got fight left in me.
I’ve still got work to finish, and whilst I’ve already decided to talk away if I lose, I’ve got a list the length of my arm of people to murder if I win.
So let’s just win, yes?
For the first time in a long, long time I need to win this match more than my opponent does. I’m the one with something to prove. I’m the one looking down the loaded barrel.
I’ve got an ultimatum. A clock with its hands at a minute to midnight, and only a win can stop them.
Respect. Legacy. Revenge.
All of it cast to the wind and p*ssed up a wall if this goes t*ts up. And that’s why I’ll win. That’s why I HAVE to win. I’m the hungry dog. For the first time in 13 years, it’s me. Ribs half puncturing my war torn skin.
Penny. Satiate this old mongrel with one last meal before his heart gives out.
Feed me Penny.
Don’t let me die off stage left. I need to be under the spotlight, while the cameras are still rolling.
(A.K.A. Even YOU can't keep us from the main event)
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Well now. This isn’t a position we’ve found ourselves in before is it? Me talking as the fallen champion. The usurped king.
I’m not sure what you want to hear from me really. That I’m a broken man? A tired old wreck? Finally bested, and now lost in the wilderness.
But I don’t feel as though I’ve been bested. I don’t feel as though somebody worthy has finally taken the torch from me. I was hoping when the day finally came that I’d be able to breathe with ease. Walk upright, without that weight on my back. But instead I feel as though we’ve all been cheated. Penny Shannon isn’t the brave new world. She’s not the person who can take this sport forward into a new epoch……
I haven’t found the shining light. I can’t give you your future.
No.
I was beaten by a bum.
A bum who took a shot and it just happened to be a lucky one. At least for my sake…..I hope it was.
And yet, just as it is after every match, I’m bombarded with questions. Questions I don’t care to answer. Questions I don’t feel even require an answer. Not when my reply is standing naked in the light of day. I don’t need to vocalise it. Or at least, I shouldn’t have to. But it seems as though the masses can’t see the wood for the trees, so why not indulge?
Why did I choke Penny out? Why did I stomp on her and spit in her face?
Because I’m the bad guy. Right?
I don’t see her as deserving of her spot. She was awarded a title shot she didn’t earn, and now we’re all paying for it. I’m just doing the right thing by undoing my own mistakes. I lost. I unwittingly handed her the title. That’s on me. But I’ll be damned if I’ll let that mistake stand. I choked her to remind her I’m still here. Seconds after her victory, back to my feet and coiled like a snake. Not looking around asking “what happened?”. Not bandy legged, and glassy eyed. No. I was, and still am, right behind her, and now she won’t forget that. But sure, if it serves your narrative to just assume I did it because I’m the villain, go ahead.
The spit? Oh well, someone had to remind her that even in victory I don’t respect her. I don’t respect anyone that can’t cut off the head after stunning the beast. Finish the f*cking job you started. It’s just poor craftsmanship.
So is that answer enough?
I hope this information coupled with your new, albeit temporary, overlord puts a smile on your faces. Enjoy it…..while it lasts. It must be liberating to finally have a champion you want. A champion you all think you can be proud of? A champion you can all relate to? Pot fairies, family values and hokey 'it's all come full circle' scenes, akin to the worst episode of Dawson's Creek with a Riot Grrrl soundtrack? If that's what you always wanted then I'm happy to have denied you all these f*cking years.
You’re welcome to, but I’m not the kind of person who lies to himself. I’ve always talked a lot of sh*t. But none of you can deny that it wasn’t all true. Even now I refuse to sink to kidding myself. Penny Shannon pinned me. She rang my bell and took advantage. Congratulations.
Penny you’re the first person to ever beat me for that title, and you should be proud of that at the very least. Hold onto that notion for years to come, even when the doubts start to creep in about that new woman of yours. When you’re clinging to her sleeping body, late at night. Unable to sleep because you swore she smelled of someone else’s perfume when she got in from work. Pacify those fears with the soft, milky goodness of Drakz. You finally have something important you can add to your resumé, and don’t you ever let it go. It’s a kindness……….and a curse. Because now I’m coming right back after you. Previously I’ve beaten fools because they stood in my way. Or because they looked like fun sport to hunt. Now though? Now you’ve got something that belongs to me, and I don’t take kindly to being stolen from. It’s why I put it in the commandments.
I know right? I look good for my age.
I digress.
Penny, even if you believe you’re the rightful owner of that championship I still have my doubts about your ability to carry it long term. Not when it took a series of lectures from washed up schmucks of yesteryear to rally you. Not when you look so close to walking into the sunset with your first attempt at a steady girlfriend. This is merely a moment for you. A glorious moment, sure. But a moment none the less…..and it will end. You’ll move on. You’ll decide to do something else. That’s just the kind of person you are. Don’t take this personally though, because it’s the kind of person almost everyone is.
Not me though. I can’t let things lie. I can’t walk away.
Why do you think I drag my busted body back to this place time and time again? Why do you think I enacted my rematch clause so immediately?
I NEED to be the best. It’s my life blood. In my mind it’s the things that separates me from the Ahrimans of this world.
Right now? Right now I’m everything I’ve always hated. I’m playing second fiddle to someone else, and it turns my stomach. I’ve only done it once before, and that was to give Michael Kyzer his time in the sun. But this time? This is very different. I didn’t choose this situation. I didn’t volunteer to step back. It’s out of my control and Penny…….I like control. I like to be the one with all the pieces on the board. The real question that everyone should be asking, myself included, is can I claw them all back?
Can I move past this setback in time for Superbrawl? And honestly? All this bravado is great and all, but if I’m really being honest…….
Urgh.
I feel like a f*cking loser.
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Jail Bird
“Empty your pockets into the tray please sir, then turn and walk towards my colleague for a pat down.”
It’s like being at airport security all over again. About to be gripped up by a hulking stranger twice my size. Or am I thinking of fighting Zmey? Either choice left me weak at the knees.
I walk through the metal detector and we’re all good, then spread ‘em and hold my hands out wide, like I’m about to hug the guy. He gives me what can only be described as a piss poor excuse for a search, barely so much as wiping the grease from his fingers onto my trousers. Note that I said barely. There’s still a visible series of sausage stains on my thigh. Fried chicken eating f*ck wit.
“Okay, off you go.”
It’s negligent police work like this that leaves me pining for the days I’d have booty bumped an 8 ball just because I could. What? You don’t get your kicks by stuffing illicit substances up your arse hole?
By the way if you’re wondering why I’m so chipper, it has a lot to do with the fact I’m paying a visit to a man *ahem*, that is best kept on the other side of a bullet proof pane of glass to me. After starting to unpick the fact that I’m not feeling quite so able to bounce back after losing my championship, I figured it was time for a morale boost. Time to lighten my mood. What better way to do that than by laughing at those less fortunate?
“Good afternoon sir. If you could fill out a couple of details for us we’ll have the inmate brought into the visitation room shortly.”
Shortly indeed.
“Name? Well that’s easy. I can do that one.”
’Michael Kyzer’.
“Inmate’s name:”
’Donald Kent’
“Relation to inmate? Oooh, spicy.”
I wonder if she’s getting annoyed at my reading aloud yet? I’m mostly doing it for dramatic effect. For my own sake….of course. By the way, for the last question I maintained my cover. ’Brother in law’. I really want him to get as riled up as possible before he makes it into the same, sort of, room as me. If I put my own details in there he’d probably just no show. That’s the kind of emotional relationship we’ve always maintained.
“Personal Criminal Record? No thank you.”
But only because I’ve never been caught. It pays to be smart AND lucky as f*ck in this life. Okay, the rest of these questions are pretty mundane. I’ll save you the energy.
Pen on paper. Scribble scribble. ‘This way please sir’. A few more ‘sirs’. A few heavy doors open and close and then….
Boom. I’m sat on a plastic chair, faced with what looks like a set piece you see in the movies. Separate booths, 1980s looking telephones on either side of the divide and of course a nice, thick pane of glass for us to place our open palms onto, in a show of undying love. This is gonna be the t*ts.
I hear a door open and slam closed on the con’ side of things and my c*ck swells a bit when I realise my visit-ee has arrived. He hops up onto the chair and only then does he properly look through the glass, expecting Kyzer, but instead getting his sh*t mouthed ex-lover. To be fair, until he was on that chair he physically couldn’t see me. Wait. I need to save all these stature based quips for my mouth.
“What in the f*ck are you doing?”
I can’t help but smile. I’m really trying hard not to, but this is just too much.
“Hey Donnie. How are ya?”
His eyes narrow, though I must say he’s keeping his cool, which is……disappointing.
“Just thought I’d come and see my little buddy.”
He already knows I’m just here to f*ck with him. He grits his teeth, trying to hide it with his lips, but I can see the bulge in his jawline.
“Honestly I’m surprised you didn’t wind up in a young offenders institute though.”
That infamous vein in his head makes a cameo. The live studio audience applauds.
He takes a deep breathe and, even though his ever massive head has turned a shade of crimson, manages to keep his emotions in check.
“You’ve taken to roleplaying as Mike now then?”
“Only when it suits me. Aren’t you relieved it’s not him though? I mean surely you’ve got to believe he’s part of the reason you’re in here at all?”
I don’t know if there’s any truth in that but it’s nice to speculate.
“Honestly? Anyone but you?”
Anyone?
“And what the f*ck have I done? Jeez.”
“What haven’t you done?”
Not a lot, but I do know I didn’t put his midget arse in prison.
“Urgh. Well this is no fun. What happened to the guy I knew who would have put a loaded gun in my mouth by now? You’ve not even raised your f*cking voice!”
Hell, I’m talking louder than he is.
“Look around you f*ck face. Do you see what this place is? Do you see where I’m sitting? Which side of the glass I’m on? You think I want to give them any reasons to add to my sentence?”
That’s very……..sensible of him. What the f*ck is going on?
“Besides, having a f*cking heart attack in here isn’t on my to do list. I’m stressed out enough as it is. My lawyer’s a f*cking idiot.”
If you’re an avid follower of Michael Kyzer myth and lore you can probably guess who he’s referring to.
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“I wasn’t listening.”
“WHAT IN THE….”
A brief peak in volume before a pause as he reigns it back in, half spitting the remaining words out through his teeth.
“….f*ck are you doing here?”
He’s definitely walking a fine line. I know full well he’s no changed man or anything. Just self preservation. He wouldn’t even have to blink between my arrival and skull f*cking me if we were on the outside. If we were both on the outside. Heh.
“I just came to see my little buddy. You know. Cheer him up a bit. Seeing you smile makes me smile, and God knows I need that.”
He’s had enough and drops his phone onto the table top, before turning and moving to jump down from his poorly scaled chair. I don’t know if all his internalised rage jumped the coop via osmosis, but suddenly something snaps in me…….momentarily of course. I blast the glass with the phone in my hand.
“DON’T WALK AWAY FROM ME YOU LITTLE C*NT!”
This attracts a lot of attention, with both guards walking towards where I’m sat, whilst other visitors and their cons peer around the dividers for a good look at proceedings. I wave off the guard with the most charming of smiles and a softly spoken apology. He doesn’t look impressed but seems to be giving me at least one more chance.
DMK has stopped a few steps from the chair and turns back to me. A little smile cracking across his enormous head. He knows something’s up. Why else would I be here, screaming like a spoiled child. I hold the phone up and gesture to it, signalling that I just want to talk. His eyes narrow. What is it I want from him? He shouldn’t feel bad for not knowing. I’m making this up as I go along. I usually am.
I have a reputation as a mastermind in this business, but really I just happen to have good mental reactions to a change in wind direction.
He’s back on the chair and lifts his receiver.
“Something eating at you?”
His glassy, snake like eyes look into me. He might be a maniac, a dangerous maniac, but he has a good sense for reading people. Knowing when someone’s lying probably comes with the territory when you’re an organised criminal. I’m not people though.
“What makes you say that?”
He tilts his head, looking more composed than I’ve perhaps ever seen him.
“Oh I don’t know. The hissy fit? The whole f*cking visiting me in the pen schtick? What the f*ck are you really up to? What are you trying to get out of me?”
I had hoped I just wanted to poke the bear and get a kick out of it while doing so. Seeing him caged up like an animal was supposed to raise my spirits.
“I suppose……..I guess I was hoping you’d be able to offer me some advice.”
Jesus f*cking christ, saying that nearly made me gag. He’s relishing this.
“I need to lure Kyzer out.”
His smile doesn’t go away, it just becomes a little more subtle.
“I want to retire that piece of sh*t at Superbrawl.”
“So do it. I don’t understand what advice I can give.”
“I’ve got nothing to offer him it seems. Nothing he wants. I was all set to fight him and then David threw himself into the mix. I won that match, and Dave’s belt, safe in the knowledge I’d get my chance to destroy Michael on his own. No distractions. And yet now he claims he’s retired. I’ve even had Tugarin telling me as much. I can’t let it end this way though. I need to get my pound of f*cking flesh.”
“So appeal to his greedy, self worshiping side then. He’s a f*cking walking ego. Offer him that shiny belt of yours. Surely he’d love to take it off you on the biggest stage possible? All eyes on him.”
First of all, does he not think I’d have already tried that? Offer him a title shot? Are you kidding me? Maybe people don’t think I’m a mastermind after all?
“Wow, I hadn’t thought of that. F*cking hell Donnie……..besides I don’t even…..”
Should I be telling him that? Too late.
“Hello. What’s this? You haven’t gone and lost the f*cking thing already have you?”
He’s got his claws in now. F*ck it. What’s he going to do? He’s in prison. This momentary pause on my part though prompts further response from everyone’s least favourite of the seven dwarfs.
“You have, haven’t you? Haha. So someone’s finally managed it? Someone’s finally knocked the cardboard king off his gay old throne? How does it feel to be mortal again sh*t for brains? Hahaha.”
His laugh has always been nauseating, but never more so than now.
“So, who? Who did it? Mike didn’t come back and take it before retiring did he? Brennan? Did he enact that f*cking rematch thing they do? Did he finally win the p*ssing contest?”
F*ck sake.
“Well? Oh f*ck, it wasn’t either of them was it? You let some unassociated worm get in? Let me guess? Trace Demon? I suppose it was eventually your turn to suck him off, right? Quid pro quo, or however you f*cking say it. No? Come on, enough of this **** footing around. Who?”
I came here to feel better about all this, and yet the next word I utter is going to bring that crashing down like a tonne of Penny Shannon branded sex toys. I should just get up and leave, for my peace of mind. But then, I do kind of think he might know something I don’t about Kyzer. Something juicy. A real wriggler on the hook to bait the f*cker back up stream. Here goes.
“Shannon.”
“Who?”
“Penny Shannon.”
His eyes bulge, wide like a spooked rabbit. I can almost hear the cogs working in his head, followed by sirens and choirs singing. This is the moment he’s always waited for. To finally have a very tangible upper hand over me, even given his current living arrangements. The bottom lid of his right eye trembles, and then the dam opens. The flood of laughter.
“HAHAHAHAHAHA! Oh my f*cking…….HAHAHA…..are you for real? Penny……hahahaha. Penny f*cking Shannon? Hahahaha. Are you? Hahahahahaha.”
He’s kicking his little legs around, nigh on having a seizure at this realisation.
“Hahahaha. I always knew you where a f*cking sub. Hahaha Jesus Christ. Thank you! Hahahaha. You?! You lost to a lesbian?! Hahahaha.”
That shade of deep red rises up the length of his face, and I can see he’s getting short on breath. This really is like watching a child. Completely out of control of the bodily functions he takes for granted. Eventually he starts coughing, which at the very least means he can’t talk for a moment, giving me some much needed time for a composure reset.
“She got lucky.”
He’s wiping the tears from his eyes and breathing deeply.
“She got lucky did she? That sounds like a poor excuse if you ask me, which it seems you have, seeing as you’ve come here.”
I stand resolute in my assertion that I don’t lie to myself……………
“You want to know what I really think? I think you’ve f*cking lost it. You’ve peaked. All these years you’ve been riding high, your head up your own ass, not looking more than 2 steps ahead. Coasting. But it’s crept up on you hasn’t it? You’re not the stallion you thought anymore. You’re head’s been up there so f*cking long, the smell of your own sh*t’s rotted your brain. Rotted it out so badly, you missed the fact your body is nothing but a sack of sh*t slung over a drying rack. You’re done Mr Cray. You’ve been left behind.”
I almost make a mistake, and move to walk away, but that would only add fuel to the fire. Just sit here and take your lashings Isaac.
“No wonder Mike’s no where to be seen. You think he’s ever going to show now that you’ve gone and dragged your own name through the sh*t? You’ve made every one of you look like chumps. Mike, Dave AND you. The New Epoch. This is it. You’re f*cking bums.”
“So one loss makes us all bums then?”
“One loss? No. One loss in the first scene of Act 5 though? Yup. You’ve fallen on your face when the finish line was in sight. The whole f*cking audience has just written you off as a minor player. Someone completely f*cking redundant to the closing moments.”
Since when has this man-goblin had any kind of working knowledge of the theatre?
“This loss has cost you more than just a bit of shiny shiny. This has cost you everything you’ve been obsessing over for years. You don’t get your fairytale ending anymore. No Michael Kyzer. No redemption story. You’ve f*cked it. Royally. And for people like me? All the people you’ve sh*t on this entire time? This smacks of karma.”
Karma? F*cking karma?! That’s what this is? There’s no way I’m having the outcome of any part of my life reduced to an act of a higher power. I’m in control! ME!
“So what the f*ck do I do? You might hate me. You might be loving every moment of this, but surely you still want me to f*cking skin Kyzer? You of all people want that man’s head on a pike, and I’m the only one who can give that to the world. How the f*ck do I get to him if you really think losing that title has veered me off piste? I need something. Anything. I’m willing to make this as personal as it has to be if it means he pokes his head above the castle wall. I only need one shot. You’re his family!”
“Was.”
“For long enough. You have to know something that will rile him. Pique his interest. Because I’ve got nothing over here.”
And after this loss, for the first time, I can really feel this all running away from me. I can try to catch up, but my body’s just not able to keep the pace anymore.
“Are you being honest?”
What?
“For once, yes.”
“Because you seem like you don’t even remember what started this.”
“Started what?”
“Your f*cking lovers tiff.”
Am I supposed to know? It sounds as though he’s referring to a particular moment in time. Some butterfly effect starting gun to this entire mess.
“Should I?”
He doesn’t look impressed.
“I should f*cking think so. Something like that? I’m surprised you can sleep at night.”
Am I missing something here?
“No? You’re more screwed up in the head than I thought then. I’m not spelling it out for you. You don’t f*cking deserve my help. Go see a quack or something. Trust me, once you remember, then you’ll have a hook to drag Mike back in on. Because right now? Right now you’re a f*cking sham.”
“You can’t just tell me and make this whole thing a lot easier?”
He smirks. That’s answer enough. You total b*stard.
“Kent. Time’s up.”
An officer, out of my sight, shouts to DMK and he just shrugs at me. I can’t leave it like this. Bested and humiliated.
“Just for the record, I intend on snatching that championship right back again. I’ve already got my rematch.”
“Hey, if the only way you can get off these days is taking a beating from a dyke, who am I to judge?”
And before I have even half a chance to answer back he hangs up the phone, winks at me and then waddles back off toward his cell. And that’s it. That’s where I stand at this moment in time. My championship taken from me by Penny, my dignity stretched out like a post scene p*ssy in a porno, all at the hands of Donnie Monty Kent, and now the news that I have apparently always been well aware of why Mike stabbed me in the back all those years ago.
So much for some light hearted jabbing of the midget.
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Well.
If I lose again, that’s it.
I’m done.
There really is no coming back from a second.
No Kyzer.
No Superbrawl.
No championship.
No WFWF.
I simply walk away. Tail between my legs.
And I realise just saying that is going to put some serious wind in the sails of my detractors, who it must be noted are greater in number now than perhaps ever before. Knowing this could be the last they ever see of me will surely prompt a whole lot of bass in their voices come show time. I’m the unifier of the people. Those who love Penny, and those who don’t. All standing together under one umbrella. Just to jeer me all the way out of the building and into the stud field.
It is nice to know I’m universally reviled though. It goes to show I’m as good now as I’ve ever been at baiting the moronic unwashed. The question is though, am I still any good at wrestling?
I like to think so, but it doesn’t really matter what I think, does it? It matters only what I do, and I’ve got just the one shot at it.
And as if that weren’t pressure enough, I stand here outnumbered. Not literally. That just wouldn’t be fair now would it? I’m talking with regards to my support system, compared to that of Shannon.
Penny Shannon has the entire world behind her.
The entire fan base. Clamouring for feel good moment after feel good moment. Send them home happy. That’s the way right?
The McGurks. Somehow still considered to be people worth talking about, even though every last one of them has retired and taken up motivational speaking. I for one don’t know how qualified any of them really are to be so much as considering saying my f*cking name. But you know….Wayne beat a drug addled Drakz doppleganger about 10 years ago, so that’s…….a thing.
The Ahrimans. A family so dead set on learning to self felatiate they make a point of not winning any titles because, and I quote, they ‘just get in the way’.
The Deans. My favourite tag team partners, and the only marriage I can truthfully say I’ve been f*cked by both sides of.
Even our mutual employer, Lila Sleater, stands firmly on Penny’s side, which to my mind stinks of a conflict of interest, but hey. I’m the bad guy…….right?
And me? My corner men? All begrudging, for one. Let’s take a look see.
An imprisoned midget who wants me dead.
A ‘friend’ who’s withdrawn from general populous and may as well be dead.
A soothsaying Dog……..who is dead. Allegedly.
And a frenemy with a habit for hiding and playing dead.
World. The zombie apocalypse is upon us.
What I do have though, that no one else does, are my awards……..heh.
Match of the Year. My return to form and now worthless coronation.
Return of the Year……and it may as well already be over.
Great stuff.
About the only thing either of these trophies are good for now is doorstops, and lord knows I need those to keep the air flowing through my appartment. The cocktail of bleach and wet mammal has brought it one step from being condemned by the federales.
Oh and whilst we’re passing over the subject of giving me trophies, I want to take this opportunity to say; f*ck Joe Bishop. You’re a footnote in that title’s history, so the next time you want to start bad mouthing me maybe consider the fact that you’ve walked away from this place the moment the going got tough. You can’t just turn on your heel and wax lyrical from the sidelines. No. You had a run of good showings and then all it took was being put on your arse and you took your ball and went home with it. That’s what p*ssies do…..not champions.
Wait…..hold on a minute……
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Witch
I take a deep breath through my nose and do you know what? I think I might have finally sorted out the stink in this place. I’ve had the windows open for about 3 months, which during a Chicago winter has been less than ideal. The bleach has stained just about every soft furnishing in the place, and I’ve had to grow used to almost daily headaches from the fumes, but I think I’ve actually managed to restore some kind of pre-animal equilibrium in here.
*Bzzzzzz Bzzzzzzz Bzzzzzz*
Urgh. Why can’t I be left in peace? I pick my phone up from my new coffee table (some idiot broke the last one) but don’t answer the call in time anyway.
Huh. Would you look at that. 3 missed calls from Joshua Dean. He must really want me to take that pencil pushing job. Maybe I will if this all goes t*ts up? Haha. Yeah right. Besides, it makes a whole lot more sense that he’d just be calling to get his digs in about my losing to, in his mind at least, a second of the Salvation cuckolds. Well, I shan’t be giving him the opportunity. Not after already suffering at the tongue of Donnie. I need some r&r before my next hit of that sh*t.
Who knew my skin had gotten so thin?
*DING DONG*
‘’Jesus!”
The shock of someone actually ringing my doorbell makes me drop the phone and actually shout out loud. Who the f*ck is this? The last time I had a visitor here was………..you know I can’t actually tell you the answer to that. F*cking hell it better not be Josh. Coming to check I’ve not choked on my own vomit. That’d be just perfect. Being revived by a guy who would never let me forget about it. I suppose at least I’d get to kiss him. Might cause some trouble at home? That’s a stretch even by my standards.
Do I even answer? I suppose I should at least have a look.
I approach the door and the bell rings again. Impatient aren’t we?
I put my eye to the spy hole and…..oh for f*ck sake! Are you kidding me?! Is someone actually doing all of this just to f*ck with me? Of all the people in the world, even if I’d been given advance warning on both the gender and approximate age, I would never have expected this. I can just ignore her. Pretend there’s no one here, but it turns out I did the whole “oh for f*ck sake” thing with my mouth instead of my mind because….
“Isaac. I know you’re in there you f*cking ingrate. I just heard you. Open this God damned door right now. It’s freezing out here.”
Maybe I could just…..not?
“Isaac! Let me in! Let your Mother in before she drops dead of pneumonia! Not that you’d care.”
I don’t think pneumonia works like that, but regardless, she’s not likely to leave is she? She’s the source of all of my awful personality traits, stubbornness included. What the f*ck is she doing here? I thought I’d made myself pretty clear when she flash mobbed me in that graveyard?
*DING DONG DING DONG DING DONG*
She’s finger blasting the bell push now. Punctuating the shrieks.
“ISAAC! Let me in, or I’m taking a sh*t on your doorstep.”
Christ all mighty. I’m not having that. I fling the door open.
“What in the f*ck are you doing?!”
That sounded familiar.
“Is that really any way to greet your own f*cking flesh and blood?”
And with that she’s already pushed past me, suitcase in tow. I turn to remonstrate her, my p*ss boiling at a high 100, but then feel a nudge against my legs and am stunned into silence as I realise she’s not alone.
“Jesus.”
He’s come up a lot recently.
“What the f*ck happened in here?”
I’m still processing all of this. My Mother, assumed dead until my last business trip to the UK, has just turned up and destroyed my inner sanctum…..and as if that’s not enough? She’s got a f*cking dog with her!?!
I finally snap out of it as I see her starting to unpack her case.
“Hey. HEY! What the f*ck is this? What are you doing? Are you f*cking crazy?”
She’s clearly choosing not to listen, so I grab her by the wrist and, with her now wide eyed and looking right back at me, tell her calmly.
“You can’t stay here.”
She looks shell shocked. As though she didn’t expect that kind of response from her only offspring with a well documented hatred for her. For the record, that made it sound as though I have siblings who actually like this succubus. I’m an only child. Always have been, and given the state of this crone’s dust filled, heavily post menopausal baby gear, I can’t see that changing.
“And that….thing.”
I gesture toward the four legged sh*t demon.
“That thing definitely can’t stay here.”
It’s not so much that it closely resembles Dog, as that it itself is a dog. Close enough, and in this unravelling mind’s case, too close for comfort. She wrenches her gnarled, branch like arm out of my grip and simply gets back to unpacking her things.
“Are you not listening? Have you finally lost your f*cking mind? You. Me. Us.”
I’m gesticulating wildly.
“This has never, and will never work. I thought we were in agreement about that? I thought……well I thought you were cold and in the ground, and therefore didn’t even have to give this any thought. BUT I thought you at the very least understood where you stood with me? The eldest, youngest and most spiteful of your kids.”
Again. There’s only me.
“So, what? You’re just going to clam up and not say anything now? Since when have you ever been able to keep that tongue still?”
And now the dog jumps up onto the sofa.
“The f*ck is this?!”
I grab the dog by the scruff of the neck and finally this warrants a response of sorts. A good, hard belt in the face. Not a slap. She doesn’t, and never has done slaps. No. I get a right straight, with rings adorning the fingers, courtesy of the woman who death forgot.
“Get your hands off him.”
Obviously I already have, and she’s now fussing over him….whoever he is.
I think she’s drawn blood from my cheek. Less through ferocity of the punch thrown, and more from the scrape of her cheap, imitation, bejewelled rings. I’m surprisingly calm about it though. I mean, what am I going to do about it? Stick her in a reverse dragon sleeper until she taps?
“Are you alright sweetheart? Did the bad man hurt you?”
The bad man? I’ve been sarcastically called ‘The Good Guy’, but ‘the bad man’? That’s a bit on the f*cking nose isn’t it? Her pet voice immediately turns to bile again as she addresses me instead of the f*cking animal.
“Where’s your yellow wh*re? I’ve got some washing that needs doing.”
Wow. I’m not even going to begin to try and pick that one apart. It’s honestly a miracle I turned out as nice as I did, because regardless of what anyone in the WFWF might think, I could have been a whole lot worse. Thankfully, whilst the apple didn’t fall far from the tree, it did roll about a kilometre before rotting and taking root.
She pulls out a packet of smokes and just lights it inside, without so much as asking.
“Nope.”
I snatch the lit cigarette out of her mouth, burning the palm of my hand, but I just squash it and drop it to the floor in bits.
“Not in here.”
“For f*ck sake. Okay you mincer. I could use some fresh air anyway.”
And she pulls another tab out, puts it between her painted red lips and waltzes out through the double doors, onto the balcony. Leaving me to try and work out how my life has just been turned on its head in a matter of minutes. I glance down at the animal on the sofa.
“How the f*ck do you live with that?”
“I eat my own sh*t. Dealing with people like her is second nature to me.”
For those among you who just took a jump back…..a talking dog? ANOTHER talking dog? It’s actually just me this time. Talking on his behalf to amuse myself.
Aaaaaand breathe.
“People like us learn to live with other people’s imperfections.”
“Like us? That’s a bit familiar don’t you think? We’ve only just met mate.”
“You don’t hide the strain very well, that’s all.”
He’s right. Or at least very observant.
“You know, I’ve been really struggling these last few days with my own ever growing list of imperfections. It’s not really something I’ve had to deal with before. I’ve always been…..you know…..without fault.”
“Without fault? You’re sure about that?”
F*cking right I am.
“F*cking right I am.”
“So what’s changed? Why are things crumbling now?”
As if to punctuate the question he starts licking his own cock and balls, and yet I still find myself replying.
“Honestly? I wish I knew. Every day something new seems to surface. Some new inadequacy that until now simply didn’t exist. Or maybe I’ve been able to brush it off and stay the course before now?”
“And….*schlop schlop shurlpp*…..you really don’t….*schlop schlop*….know why?”
“Listen, if you’re going to talk to me, at the very least take a break from eating yourself.”
Apparently this conversation isn’t as one sided as I thought, because he actually does. This is still me doing the talking right?
“Better?”
“Much.”
“It seems to me you’ve just hit a slump. A slight knock on your confidence is simply causing you to spiral a bit. Besides we all know you weren’t out done. She just got lucky….”
How the f*ck do you know anything?
“……and took the opportunity as it presented itself. Your mind was firmly fixed on the target down the road. A misstep on your part. There’s definitely no one to blame but yourself for not taking her seriously, but that said, you shouldn’t waste another f*cking second moping over it.”
Potty mouthed little fella.
“Are you really going to let this undo all the hard work you’ve already done? So f*cking what? You didn’t win Superstar of the Year for a 4th time in a row? So f*cking what? You lost one singles match clean in how many years? So f*cking what? The fans have been quick to turn on you?
You’re the Superstar of the Decade!
You’ve got the best win/loss record in the history of this business!
You’ve never liked the inbred c*nts who consume this product anyway!
Strap some balls on and get to f*cking work!”
“I’m assuming you don’t mean fitting these new, strapped on b*llocks, into my own mouth? I see you’ve got quite a taste for that is all.”
And he’s at it again. This little pep talk though has my chest puffed. I might just throw that old hag off the balcony to celebrate getting my mojo back.
“Owww! F*ck! What in the hell is that doing there!?!”
I turn to look, if only to make a mental note of which inanimate object I need to thank for its service in hurting that woman. HA! Excellent.
“Who the f*ck props a door open with a God damn trophy!?!”
The f*cking best in the world. That’s who.
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So now I can add a ‘F*ck C*nt Witch’ and a testicularly obsessed dog to that list of people I’ve got in my corner. The freak show rolls on from town to town, and I’m at the head of it all. Lashing the horses and keeping us on schedule.
You know, I’ve never claimed to be perfect……….actually I did that in the last scene didn’t I? Hmmmmm. Okay yes, I’ve claimed many things over the course of my seemingly never ending career. But that said I’ve mostly been able to back it all up. I say mostly because recently I’ve made a liar of myself, which has me thinking maybe what they’re all saying is true? Maybe I really am past my prime? Those halcyon years of being unbeaten already seem so long ago as I’ve now lost to David Brennan, Tugarin Zmey AND Penny Shannon.
A recovering drunk, a Dragon and a cougar lesbian. Not exactly a who’s who of the fighting world when you put it like that right?
But with that in mind I’d like to address something I heard said about ‘people like me’ recently. Apparently the select few of us who’ve dominated the main event of this place for the last 10 years have made it less than fun for those who’ve dipped their toe in the water, only to be forgotten when they decide this isn’t what they signed up for. Now bear with me, because that statement was made as a complaint. I for one wear that like a f*cking badge of honour though. This game isn’t played for fun. It’s played so we can find out who really is the f*cking best in the world, and guess what? It’s mostly been me. If the vanguard of the mid-card can’t break through our ranks then they simply never had what it takes.
Your Ace Bennetts. Your Cameron Stones. Your Jayson Garrets.
All perfectly adequate hands. But adequate doesn’t cut it when you’re dancing among the swinging d*cks of Babylonia.
I’m sure they’ll all be pleased to hear of my fading flame though. At last they can see it burn out from the comfort of their trailer park homes. My downfall has more than its fair share of cheering onlookers.
Maybe Trace Demon had the right idea? Turn your back for a moment and get murdered. No chance to fade away. Just WHAM! You’re gone.
No. Don’t be silly now Isaac.
Trace Demon has never done anything right. I bet he hasn’t even mastered the use of his colostomy bag yet. Get well soon buddy.
Penny. I said before our last match that you were the last of a dying breed, but I’m starting to think that perhaps it’s I who am the sole survivor of that aforementioned main event fun police.
Phillip Schneider.
Michael Kyzer.
Trace Demon.
David Brennan.
All gone.
So I suppose Penny, given that you’re the champion, maybe me and you ARE the same species. An endangered species. Next thing you know people will be hunting us down to cut off our d*cks, dry them out and powder them down as a medicine for the measles.
I’m not extinct yet though. I’ve still got fight left in me.
I’ve still got work to finish, and whilst I’ve already decided to talk away if I lose, I’ve got a list the length of my arm of people to murder if I win.
So let’s just win, yes?
For the first time in a long, long time I need to win this match more than my opponent does. I’m the one with something to prove. I’m the one looking down the loaded barrel.
I’ve got an ultimatum. A clock with its hands at a minute to midnight, and only a win can stop them.
Respect. Legacy. Revenge.
All of it cast to the wind and p*ssed up a wall if this goes t*ts up. And that’s why I’ll win. That’s why I HAVE to win. I’m the hungry dog. For the first time in 13 years, it’s me. Ribs half puncturing my war torn skin.
Penny. Satiate this old mongrel with one last meal before his heart gives out.
Feed me Penny.
Don’t let me die off stage left. I need to be under the spotlight, while the cameras are still rolling.