Post by thedeadidol on Feb 26, 2008 10:01:02 GMT -5
xXx Dead xXx
Suicide.. It’s an interesting prospect. When one feels they serve a purpose on this earth no longer.. When they no longer feel as if they are of worth to this planet, they choose to make the exit by their own hand. Not by the hand of another or the strike of a false God through disease.. But by their own hand.. Through a modern era man made weapon..
xXx Idol xXx
Through self deprivation, mutilation, and annihilation, I disappeared from this component of the earth we call the WFWF, removed simply for sanctimony, sent to the concentration camp of my own mind. Through manipulation.. Pulling the strings of society.. I am sent elsewhere, sent to starve from the light, sent to bask in the glory of perpetual silence.
xXx Dead xXx
Opening your mind to new ideas and philosophies would be too much to ask from this federation. But you should be rewarded. For sending away this plague known as The Dead Idol, you should be rewarded. You should be rewarded with my exit, as I am punished with the same. For your intolerance, you should be remunerated.
xXx Idol xXx
Peculiar, in that my suffering provides such joy to the masses. I should be a comedian. My whole act could consist of me falling on sharp things, getting hit with glass, getting tossed into explosions, and getting poked with AIDS filled needles. Then, at the end of the day, instead of going to a home and trying to resume a normal life, I could go jump into a pond filled with dirty water and attempt to drown myself, all for the entertainment of some mindless drones in cyber land who, at the end of the day, I couldn’t care to any extent about anyways. This is my life. This is my journey. This perpetual fall.. This is my legacy.
xXx Dead Idol xXx
Nothing suffocates you more than;
The passing of everyday human events..
Isolation is the oxygen mask you make;
Your children breath into survive..
But I'm not a slave to a god,
That doesn't exist..
But I'm not a slave to a world,
That doesn't give a crap..
And when we were good,
You just closed you eyes..
So when we are bad,
We'll scar your minds..
Pain is temporary, pride is forever. The glass, the barbed wire, it's all a mirage, a shield to hide the true emotion. I'd rather feel pain than nothing at all, and when pain is the salvation to the future of fighting the still life, sometimes, you must opt for the pain. Sometimes, a lash from a kendo stick seems like the easiest way out. Sometimes, it's the blade that causes the relief to flow from a tortured soul, the plasma flowing like a river of emotion, like the tears that have been held back for years.
- Pseudo Jake Slash
-Pseudo Dead Idol
-Pseudo Dead Idol
God gives you water, and you have to make wine. God gives you sand, and you have to make glass. A horrible booker gives you a ersatz championship, you have to take a real one.. By force, if needed.. Jake Slash.. Understand this.. This doesn’t need to be a genocide. This can end peacefully. Project stop Dead Idol.. Project assassin’s creed.
_____________________
With the possession of value back in it’s rightful hands, our hero was content with living a simple life. Content on sitting around a fire, sipping cocoa, and dream of yesteryear. In comparison, days past were perhaps simpler than any time before, a handler had been helping him with everything for the last couple weeks, from cooking and cleaning down to simply making his bed. Despite wrestling being lodged as a second nature and a given ratability, most other simple tasks are still lost in translation, a mind dream between reality and actuality.
From the time of the incident, he seemed paralyzed of the body, despite his physical attributes and no real mutilation beyond the damage to the eyes and cosmetic damage. The mask in place as a guard for both of these disfigurements, he seemed content with a life of unpretentiousness, yet the handler seems ready to change everything he knows.
_____________________
A screech is heard in the distance followed by a blood curdling scream. It is the twilight but movement is minimal. The streets are stained with various patches of crimson ooze. Laying in the middle of the street is a middle aged man. He is wearing a pair of black dress pants and a tattered and blood stained white shirt. The shirt is torn down the middle with a gaping hole right in the center. Entering through this gaping hole is a scarred, burnt, and very dirty arm. The arm is going all the way into the chest of the man on the ground, the obvious source of the agony. The arm pulls out of the chest with a handful of guts in hand. He shoves these cuts into his mouth a bits down, causing a small fountain of blood and other juices to leak from his mouth and down his chin. The attacker stands up, leaving his victim behind to bleed to death. He runs down the street in the most awkward of ways. His feet never land correctly onto the ground. One time, they will land with the toes straight down, the next they will land directly on the ball of the ankle. The man never stops running despite the hell he is putting on his legs. The flesh eater finds another prey, this time a young woman. She cannot be more than twenty years old. Her hair is a golden blonde and it lays over her shoulder carelessly. Her face is etched with pain and agony and her arm is bloody. The flesh eater comes from behind her and immediately latches onto her neck. He takes a large bite out of the neck and blood begins to pour out like a faucet. Literally buckets of blood pour from the newly created hole in her neck. The blood loss is too much for her and she falls to the ground as her attacker stands over her, licking the blood off his own hands with a delighted look on his face. The zombie pulls himself from the crimson pool that once resembled the young blonde haired girl. He licks the blood from his hands as he gets into another sprint, this time coming up from behind a man in a suit. His clothes are not stained in blood like the previous two victims, because over a nice brown suit, he has on a plastic poncho. The poncho has several droplets of dried blood on it, but none is actually on the man’s clothes. The man stands with a walkie talkie in hand and he is speaking into it. Words are not audible but he is definitely sending a message into this machine. His message is cut off, however, when the flesh eating thing comes from behind him and attacks. The killing machine sinks his arm deep into the back of the poncho clad man, drawing a handful of flesh out. He eats his new tasty treat as his victim falls to the street. The poncho man’s face bangs off the concrete as he falls. The zombie is not done, however. He sees an open mouth and salivates at the opportunity. He stuffs his hand into the mouth of the fallen hero. When he removes his hand, he has a piece of pink flesh in hand, the tongue. The zombie bits down on the tongue, biting the tip clean off. He swallows this but barely gets it swallowed before he is distracted. A gun shot in the distance causes the zombie to quickly turn around. The zombie’s primal intelligence is not enough to actually distinguish where the shot came from, but when a second shot echoes out, he definitely knows where it is coming from. The zombie begins a trek in route to the shot, running with a general dragging effect, a hinder in any true success. He rounds a corner and sees the noise maker. It is a young man, no older than twenty five. He is clad in a long black trench coat that is sporadically stained with blood. He stands dominantly upon a tall hill. The zombie spots him and runs towards him, not realizing that this man is dangerous. His prehistoric mindset is programmed for one thing: death. Without fear, he runs towards the gun wielding madman and without hesitation, the trench coat man wastes no motion, immediately lifting his gun and firing just one shot. The shot is a dead ringer and it hits the zombie right between the eyes. The shot has such force that it not only blows into the zombie’s head, but it blows out the other side, blowing bits of flesh and brain matter with it. The zombie quickly falls to the ground, the newly created hole on his head bouncing off the cement.
Zombies.. Yeah
ZombiesJake Slash, there comes a time in every man’s life where he gets in too deep. He gets himself into a scenario that he cannot get out of, a loser plummets to an inevitable death scenario. Where everything is on the line, and he’s destined for failure. Unfortunately for you, this is your’s. Razor blades, light bulb tubes, thumbtacks, guitars filled with cocaine.. You’re the king of all that.. But with a jaded sense of inquisitiveness I plead, what does any of that have to do with wrestling? The fine art of catch as catch mat work. Despite my withstanding as the reigning and defending Fighting Ultimate Crazy Kicks champion, I am a firm supporter of the art of professional wrestling, and Hack-N-Slash, from everything I’ve seen, you’re not much there.. Blood and gore has it’s place and when done correctly, can achieve unrivaled success. Unfortunately, you’re a clueless backyard wrestler that is about to be another tragedy in the saga of everyone’s Idol.
This disdain I have for everything wrestling is growing. I’ve said to a bunch of people and they think it’s just a big work.. It’s not.. I’m seriously beginning to hate wrestling. Sports entertainment sucks. That’s a long established point, but now I’m beginning to think that wrestling in general as I knew it is dead. I hate everything that is wrestling. It really sucks, because I am a professional wrestler for a living. In fact, I’m a champion, granted a faux idol, but still a champion. I’m carrying a national company on my back and I despise professional wrestling. I just completed a nationally televised Pay Per View, looked on by thousands and seen as the metaphorical idol that has always been preached, yet I’m still miserable.
I get to shows early and sit in the back with headphones blaring and just chill out, because I can’t stand to even see the ring being assembled.. To socialize with the group of carnival acts for which I am associated with. To shoot, the out of character
ing sucks. Rapists, drug addicts, Yukio, and pedophiles running amuck, doing as they please within a state of anarchy, a self indulged movement among the gnarly, the final bell tolling before the plummet to Armageddon.I hate everything about wrestling. I hate putting together matches. I hate watching matches. I hate reading reviews for matches.. Wrestling sucks. Sports entertainment sucks. I hate my job. I hate traveling from show to show and I hate Justin Tyme. Jesus I hate Justin Tyme. The dude just doesn’t get it. I punched him in the head and broke my hand and he asked for a second match..
This week, I go for Jake Slash.. Again.. The perpetual fall of the almighty? Or simply the demise that was always planned. Essentially, it’s a fight for the uncaring. Jake Slash is unknowing of what he’s in for, the beast unleashed and ready to ravage his carcass, mangle and mutilate him. But why? For what purpose? To become the HARDCORE CHAMPION! A belt recognized and touted as legitimate, yet still tainted with the finger prints of the malevolence and the fetid.
Jake Slash, this week and forever, I will be your superior. Knowledge is power.. And not understanding is not an excuse.
@ you.
