Post by Drakz on Jun 27, 2016 19:04:29 GMT -5
The Running Man
(A.K.A. A Thousand F*cks)
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F*ck Sam Ahriman.
That’s how you start a diatribe folks.
F*ck Samael Ahriman, and f*ck his friends, family and fans.
I’m not talking about making love, or even a step beyond that, some passionate cloth tearing festival of fluids. This wouldn’t even be a hate f*ck. I’d pay someone else to f*ck him. F*ck him in a freshly cut hole. Swiss cheese back.
Wow. I’ve not even started and I’m already off on a tangent. That spill from the cage might have scrambled me a little more than the doctors seem to think.
Where was I?
Oh yeah.
F*ck Samael Ahriman!
I shut that cosplaying milk drinker down. I know there’s a lot of you claiming my methods weren’t the most humble or honourable, but when you’ve been riding the wave as long as I, you have to do everything in your means to maintain that momentum. Sometimes you have to dig a little deeper than you’d like to ensure you keep on chugging down the track. Sometimes you have to enlist the help of others and I’ve always relied on the kindness of strangers.
Wait? Lucas Crowe? No, no, no. I’m talking about the fans who tossed the steel chairs, more specifically the one who managed to clear the top of the cage. Double thumbs up and a kiss on the cheek for you buddy. Listen I know I may have gone a little far with my use of said chair but it got the job done, didn’t it?
Have I watched the match back? Why would I? Okay granted, I can’t remember anything after diving from the top of the cage, but when I landed back on planet earth the next morning I still had the title belt. My ballsy leap of faith paid dividends, and thus I have nothing else to gain from watching Sam trying his best to scratch and scrape into the big leagues.
The party’s over. No more false claims of grandeur and taking what you’re ‘owed’. The line starts here guys and dolls, so form an orderly queue and wait your f*cking turn. I say that, but here I am now made privy to the knowledge that Trace Demon may be granting yet another usurper a chance he hasn’t earned. Cameron Stone? Didn’t he just top off a rather lacklustre career with a loss to my mercenary? Is that the kind of curriculum vitae we’re offering interviews to now? Is that really how bad it’s got? I don’t trust Trace Demon as a person but usually his business savvy is second to none, or at least second to three…….possibly four. I’d like to think he has a game plan here but this just feels like clutching at straws, something I don’t want to see in the lead up to the biggest event in this company’s history.
I need an opponent that shakes the foundations. I need a billing at the top of that card that makes people think holy sh*t I can NOT miss that. Drakz vs. Cameron Stone? Come on. We gave that away on TV 2 years ago.
This is all theoretical mind you. Until something is set in stone (do I get charged for royalties when I say that?) I’m going to pay the idea no mind.
When I look at it though something in me does groan. There’s an anxiety present as I have to question who really is there? Who is on a level with me to headline the largest Superbrawl event of all time? If I had a pick of the crop I’d be getting my hands on Kyzer, that would put arses in seats and help me deal with my pent up emotional fervour. The man’s in a coma though and I don’t think we could really book me just wailing on an unconscious man for 10 minutes. There’s probably all sorts of legal issues with that, let alone the morality of the thing.
So Michael Kyzer not withstanding………….I’ve beaten Schneider into retirement…………..Samael Ahriman just sh*t out of luck only 2 weeks ago. Joshua Dean? Again? He’s 0 - 2 in his last couple of Pay Per View outings. It’s a similar situation to Stone. How does a man who couldn’t follow through justify his place in my wheel house? What is a wheel house?
I’m out of ideas. For the first time in my life I haven’t got the answers people. Some may find that hard to believe and assume I’m just pulling your collective puddings, messy as that may be, but no, I honestly can’t think of anyone not only capable of testing me in the ring but selling this event. That’s the important thing here, the main event of Superbrawl is THE selling point of the show……..well unless you’ve got the very first Drakz/Schneider showdown on there, but that’s simply not a fallback we’ve got this time around. This time the onus of those Pay Pew View buys falls directly to me. I’m the champion. I’m the main event. I’m the man the shareholders are looking at when it comes to closing out the biggest payday of their entire lives.
It’s food for thought, but I’d better get a wriggle on with eating it. The event looms ever closer.
Right now though I’d like to pen an open letter to my frenemy and fellow Tag Team Champion Mr Josh Dean.
Who in the seven seas of sh*t do you think you are to go around accepting title challenges on my behalf? Sorry, our behalf? If memory serves, which it does, I won these belts on my own. You were a necessary addition to the formula further down the line. Given that fact why do you consider yourself in a position to be speaking for the two of us? Oh you’ve helped me defend the championships? That’s lovely and all but I still think as the senior member of D&D I should at least have had this decision run by me first no? Before you go getting all firm in the grundies, that’s Drakz & Dean, not Dungeons & Dragons. We’re not fags.
Not only am I now being forced into a match I never agreed to, but I have to fight Gerry Anderson and his army of undead puppets. Oh, it’s not? Frank and Mike who? Frank Lynn and Mike Jette? I didn’t even know this company had anyone by those names on their pay roll. That’s not me cussing them out, I honest to God have never heard of either of them. Sorry guys. Am I though?
Nope.
F*ck The Thunderbirds.
In fact I might pay them to do the dirty on Ahrmian. Roast him like a suckling pig.
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Marriage Councillor
We travelled here together, and yet ever since we left the car I’ve been a good 10 paces behind him. F*ck him. He’s done nothing but get under my skin ever since I beat the sh*t out of Josh Dean and formed a working relationship with Trace. I’m walking down the street in downtown Seattle with Dog trotting along ahead of me. Even the gate of his walk pisses me off these days. Self righteous, four pawed little prick.
Why are we in Seattle you ask? Thank you because I needed distracting from the winking canine anus up ahead.
Donnie asked me to come and meet him, insisted it was of the utmost importance. He probably threw a few more expletives in for good measure, but I’m tired and can’t face imitating him right now.
I’ve not even the slightest inkling as to what this is about as he’s been off the radar since before Black Hole Sun but, at the risk of sounding like a puss, when Donnie tells you to do something it tends to be a good idea to listen. Now don’t get the wrong idea, it’s not him I’m scared of, oh no, it’s the luger he has a habit of keeping in his waistband. Couple that with his absolute lack of respect for consequence and it’s fair, I’m sure you’ll agree, to feel obliged to at least hop when he says “jump”.
Not only that but I’m a curious cat with nothing better to do. Dog? Yeah I have no idea why he’s here. I think he’s simply following me to annoy me at this stage. We had another blow out regarding his new girlfriend and the way he’s been treating my apartment as his own. It got messy, and yes I mean that quite literally. He took a sh*t on my floor in protest. Dirty little…….argh I’ve spent too long dwelling on it already. I don’t want to waste any more energy on animal faeces. Hmmmm, that would make for a good t-shirt slogan actually. Trace has been hassling me to come up with more merch for the WFWF.com store.
Wait……what?
“It’s closed.”
“It’s closed?”
I catch up with Dog and snatch the note down that’s pinned to the front door of The Badabing II.
“It’s been repossessed by the bank?!”
Things must be pretty bad for the little guy if he’s had to liquidate his assets. I hope I haven’t come this far to be asked for a hand out.
“It’s got to be a scam, surely?”
I wouldn’t put something like this out of Monty Kent’s remit but this letter looks pretty legit. I start to give it another read when the sound of a car slowing behind us lifts my head. It stops and the window rolls down. It’s Midget Maniac time.
“Whatcha reading for? Get the f*ck in you pair of dykes.”
How is he…….?
I crane my neck.
doing that? HAHA! He’s got little peddle extensions!”
I stick my head through the window.
“Loving the Wee Man Wagon mate.”
Oh sh*t. I nip my beautiful head back out of the car as he tries to close the window on my trachea.
“You shouldn’t wind him up.”
Shut the f*ck up dog. I shoot him a disparaging look and then knock on the now closed window.
“Come on Donovan. Open up!”
I can barely hear him through the glass but his gesticulating gives enough away about his mood. This is going to be exhausting, I know it. I walk around the car, reach down and open the door, as he hasn’t bothered to lock it, and the relative quiet of the street is drowned by the sound of the word f*ck, over and over, with a variety of verbs, nouns and adjectives thrown in at random. Such a delight.
I get into the passenger’s seat and somehow Dog manages to let himself in on the same side. These feats of dexterity always seem to happen when he’s just out of sight.
“So are we gonna start again, or do I have to get viscera on my new interior?”
I have to fight the urge to answer back as though it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’m so used to having the last word that I don’t know when to stop, even if keeping my mouth shut guarantees all of my organs making it home.
“What’s the story? Why aren’t we meeting in the club like you said on the phone?”
“The club is……..closed for refurb.”
“That’s not what the rather authoritative note pinned to the door said.”
He can’t look me in the eye and I swear I can smell his suppressed embarrassment. He starts to drive and I have to make a point of not looking down at his legs and those damn pedals. I can’t afford to die in this car.
“Enough about me and my extracurricular activities, I asked you here to discuss you and what lies ahead. Oh and by the way I want a damn good explanation as to why you still tried to find my sister, even after I promised I’d f*cking kill you if you tried……..”
Did Tugarin tell him? What the f*ck man?!
“How do you know? I mean, I didn’t, but how did you come to that conclusion?”
Smooth.
“He has a tracker on your car.”
Donnie, while still looking straight ahead can’t hold his grin back. How the f*ck does Dog know about this and I don’t?
“And you chose to withhold this information from me because?”
“Do I really need to answer that?”
“Eat a sack of d*cks Dog. You know what, why are you even here? What the f*ck has this got to do with you? Wouldn’t your time be better spent convincing more women that sucking your red little cock is a great idea?”
“At least I can get laid Isaac.”
F*ck this. I turn around and reach behind me in an attempt to grab Dog and everything gets messy. He yelps and barks like the dog he is and as I make a second snatch at the scruff of his neck he turns and bites me………like the dog he is.
“HEY! What the f*ck is going on you two?!”
Donnie slams on the brakes and I barrel forward from my seat, still facing the wrong way, hitting the back of my shoulder on the dash board. I feel the joint come close to dislocating but, thanks to years of getting to know where every pain in the body stems from, I’m able to roll my arm a little and keep things from worsening.
“This sh*t ends now! I’m not having a meeting with two people who can’t keep their hands off each other. That’s just good business sense. No f*cking. No fighting. Not when court is in session. Drakz, apologise to your f*cking dog.”
I wince as I start to reply, squeezing my bitten hand to stem the blood flow.
“Apologise? For what? Getting bitten?” Jesus!
“Do I look like a f*cking marriage councillor to you? I don’t give a f*ck who bit who……f*ck it don’t apologise. I don’t care. Just stop your b*tching and focus on me.”
I can see his point. That’s a scary thought isn’t it? I can actually empathise with Donnie Monty Kent. That’s not a good sign. My window rolls down through no action of my own.
“Hang your sh*tty hand out of the car, I don’t want your blood staining anything.”
Isn’t this the man who moments ago had little issue with gutting me in here? Whatever. The hand’s out the car, hopefully p*ssing blood down the side panel.
“You need to stop wasting your juices on arguing with Dog and start focusing on what matters.”
“Which is what?”
“Am I the only one who pays any f*cking attention to the goings on in the company you work for? You have a f*cking Tag Team Championship match on the horizon and, correct me if I’m wrong, tensions between you and your fellow champion have never been higher. You could be standing on the brink of your near perfect record, about to nose dive off the edge, and who pushes you? A pair of nobodies in their second match as a team. Can you even imagine the fallout from that version of events? Sh*t would hit the fan. The locker room would be over the moon. The media would eat you alive. F*ck only knows what would happen inside your head. I think we’d have to put you on suicide watch. Your ego couldn’t take it.”
He makes a dangerously valid point. He also forgets who I am and what I’ve done.
“Donovan, thanks for caring but this match is NOT important. We’re up against the Thunderc*nts. You said it yourself, they’re a pair of no name curtain jerkers who only 6 months ago probably got told to eat sh*t when asking Ante Whitner for a photo. So me and Josh don’t see eye to eye? What’s new? Since the inception of our team we’ve been at each other’s throats. That’s our thing man. That’s what makes us tick. We hate each other so much that we don’t want to give the other man so much as an inch. Whoever takes that eventual pin fall is up sh*t creek. That’s why we don’t lose, because neither of us can afford to be ‘that guy’.”
Maybe that’s an arrogant way to look at it? Maybe our lack of team work in a tag TEAM division will indeed be our doing, and for all intents and purposes I think it should be, but none the less I don’t see this next match as anything but a test of how healed up I am post Black Hole Sun.
“Do you know what is important though? Maybe this is something you can help me with because I’ve got nothing.”
“Go on?”
“Superbrawl IX.”
“Of course.”
“That’s what is important Donnie. That is going to be my legacy. The highest buy rate of any Pay Per View sports event ever. That is my intention. They call me ‘The Man the People Paid to See’. I want to back that up with fact so undeniable that it will be carved on my headstone.”
“You realise it was you that came up with that monicker?”
I’m going to be the bigger man and just ignore him.
“So what do you want from me?”
“I need an opponent worthy of that spot. Across the ring from me is a lucrative place to stand. What I want to know Donnie is who the f*ck can fill those golden boots? Don’t say Michael Kyzer either, because we both know that’s not happening, as much as we’d like it to.”
Things go weirdly quiet in the car for a good 30 seconds as the cogs in Donnie’s head begin to grind. He doesn’t want to come up short (WHEEEEY MIDGET JOKES!!!!!) and look like a fool in front of me, because in his world he’s on another pain of intelligence to me. He can’t let that curtain come down. In my world it’s a curtain that doesn’t even exist. He’s not a fat old man hiding behind a wizard, he is just a fat old man. I see him for what he is. I see…..my stupid thoughts are interrupted……
“Trace Demon.”
“Trace Demon?”
“Trace Demon.”
Wow. I never even made that connection. Here I am looking at all of my enemies, and perhaps the money is with the man I now consider an ally…………sort of.
“That’s………….you know that’s not bad actually.”
Wait. Is he actually smarter than me?
“Will people buy it though given our current ‘relationship status’? They hate us both. Why should they care who wins?”
“Because it’s not always about great stories of redemption and revenge. Some people just want to see two of the best beat the ever living sh*t out of each other.”
“Did you just call me one of the best? I think you’re going soft in your twilight years Donnie.”
I’m assuming they’re his twilight years? Do you get old midgets? I’ve never seen one. I assume they die young, especially with his blood pressure.
“You’re still a f*cking ****, but yes, in the current climate you are the best they’ve got.”
A backhanded compliment, but I can’t expect much more than that given that the nicest thing Donnie has said to me before now is that he won’t rape me if I help him destroy Samael.
“The real cincher though is where do Lucas Crowe’s loyalties lie in all of this? I know you’re 2 to 1 against Trace but that man is 7 feet of game changer. He’s already proven he can alter the outcome of your title matches. You up against Trace though? Crowe might not be in your corner that go around. Who knows?”
“Hold on, back track a little there. Crowe has altered the outcome of my matches? What do you mean?”
Donnie shoots me a glance and laughs only to see I’m not laughing with him.
“Are you serious? Holy f*ck you’re serious aren’t you? Wow! That tumble totally f*cked you up didn’t it?”
What is he talking about?
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s referring to the fact that if Lucas Crowe hadn’t bailed you out at Black Hole Sun then Samael Ahriman might be the World Heavyweight Champion right now.”
My brain melts.
“C*NT! F*CK! F*CK YOU! F*CK YOU! crap! C*NT! F*CCCCCCCKKKKK!!!!!”
I bounce my already bruised head off of the dash board, splitting the scab over my right eye.
“Hey!”
“YOU’VE GOT TO BE F*CKING ME!!!?!?!?”
BANG. Again with the head, this time spattering blood.
“Hey f*cker! You’re getting blood everywhere!”
BANG. BANG. BANG. Over and over. I can’t stop myself. I’m f*cking incensed!
“Are you listening to me!? What’s wrong with you?”
“He’s lost it.”
F*ck this! I go for the door handle and Donnie tries to stop but I’m out before he can. He’s slowed enough that I bail out of the car and manage to keep my footing, running down the street like a maniac.
“F*UUUUUCK!”
I don’t know what else to say. Expletives are about the only words that will do how I feel justice. All this time I thought I’d shut down the Ahriman party on my own, and now I learn what everyone else has known all along. Two Pay Per Views in a row. Josh pins me. Lucas saves me. I’m a f*cking sham. I know I shouldn’t give a f*ck because hell, I’m a piece of sh*t, but even pieces of sh*t have certain standards to uphold. What am I worth now? What is my stock worth? I can’t go into Superbrawl with Donnie’s idea simply because the people don’t see me as ‘the best’. They see me as a scum bag. They want me to lose. They want me to get my comeuppance, and that’s all well and good but I need a hero to fill that role, and Trace is no hero.
I’m still running, bleeding from my hand and face. A dog bite and head-butting a car. So f*cking chic, I know. I’m just going to keep on going.
“C*NT!”
I’m going to have to change all of my f*cking aliases!
The Man the People Paid to See (lose)
The Artist Formerly Known as “Worth Watching”
Mr President……of Liberia, or some other country no one in the western world gives a sh*t about.
“TWAT!”
I can feel the aggression waining, if only a little. I’m just going to have to run this off. I’m going to have to run until I pass out. At least I can do that on my own.
I AM THE RUNNING MAN!!! FEAR ME!
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You Thunderbirds have timed this goofy challenge bull sh*t terribly. I mean just the worst timing. Understand I’m talking from your perspective here, not mine. You could have tried to fell us only a few weeks ago and you would have stood more of a chance, but now? Now you’re doomed. I’m so f*cking furious. Hell, you don’t know if I’ve even stopped running yet. I could still be running right now. I could have run from Seattle back to Chicago. How would you know any different? I’m crazy enough to do it. F*ck it.
Since learning how things really unfolded at Black Hole Sun I’ve gone back and watched the match, and guess what? It’s done nothing but instil a blood thirsty rage in me. I don’t usually use pathetic fantasy language like that, but I can’t think of a better way to put it. F*ck your little agreement with Joshua Dean, it’s going to be ME that squashes your knackers like old fruit. It’s going to be ME that starts the match and it’s going to be ME that ends it.
I need to remind the world the real reason I’m feared. It’s not because I’ve got friends in high places. It’s not because I’ve got mercenaries to do my bidding. It’s not even because of everything I’ve achieved, no, it’s because even after all this time, even with all of my accolades and awards I’m still the hungriest man at the table. I’m still the man who strives for perfection even though I’ve come within a hair’s breadth on a number of occasions.
Thunderbirds (I’m honestly not even going to address you as individuals) you may think you’ve wormed your way into the biggest opportunity of your lives, you may think I’ll go easy on you because of your happy go lucky faux celebration at New Nebula, but I’m afraid you’ve got it all wrong. You have fallen into my pit and I’ve had nothing to eat in weeks. I’m going to go full scale Schneider on the pair of you. For the benefit of those new to the club, such as yourselves, let me explain what that means. It’s essentially what happens when a man like me, or indeed traditionally Phillip Schneider, loses his temper on a truly incredible scale and decides the best way to force a meditative state, to recover from all of this emotional trauma, is to do really terrible things to young bloods like yourself. The pair of you will be my stress toys and I will squeeze you until you burst.
I’m usually pretty thick skinned but right now I find the entire idea of your challenge f*cking insulting. Do you even know what I’ve done to get here? I was paired with a man who wanted to kill me and yet somehow won a tournament to become the Tag Team Champions. I won the finals on my own. I went up against Trace Demon and Josh Dean’s own wife in a handicap match and I f*cking won! I then got paired with another man who, while he doesn’t want me dead, still hates the very ground I walk on, and yet somehow we’ve defended the titles on a number of occasions, even when the meat between our Tag Team Championship defence shaped buns was kicking each other’s teeth in. It’s been a long, hard road to get here and I’m not about to let it end at Tracy f*cking Island.
I refuse to lose to a pair of BDSM gimps who battered and cut each other up only to then decide to get married. I mean who shacks up with someone they met at a swingers meet?
It doesn’t matter if you’ve wrestled one match together or one hundred, you’re going up against the World Heavyweight Champion, in fact it doesn’t even matter that I’m the champ. You’re going up against a man with something to prove. I don’t need anyone’s help to eat the world. My mouth is plenty big enough to swallow the whole f*cking lot in one go. The gnashing of teeth is deafening as we approach the starting line of the sprint towards Superbrawl.
I hope you boys have private health insurance because I can’t imagine WFWF has you covered when you’re still so fresh. You know what, consider this an olive branch of sorts. After I smash your faces in and leave you eating, pissing and sh*tting through a tube I’ll cover the hospital bills, and if they can’t help you I’ll be sure to send you to the nicest glue factory Minnesota has to offer.
5
4
3
2
1
Thunderbirds are f*cked.
(A.K.A. A Thousand F*cks)
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F*ck Sam Ahriman.
That’s how you start a diatribe folks.
F*ck Samael Ahriman, and f*ck his friends, family and fans.
I’m not talking about making love, or even a step beyond that, some passionate cloth tearing festival of fluids. This wouldn’t even be a hate f*ck. I’d pay someone else to f*ck him. F*ck him in a freshly cut hole. Swiss cheese back.
Wow. I’ve not even started and I’m already off on a tangent. That spill from the cage might have scrambled me a little more than the doctors seem to think.
Where was I?
Oh yeah.
F*ck Samael Ahriman!
I shut that cosplaying milk drinker down. I know there’s a lot of you claiming my methods weren’t the most humble or honourable, but when you’ve been riding the wave as long as I, you have to do everything in your means to maintain that momentum. Sometimes you have to dig a little deeper than you’d like to ensure you keep on chugging down the track. Sometimes you have to enlist the help of others and I’ve always relied on the kindness of strangers.
Wait? Lucas Crowe? No, no, no. I’m talking about the fans who tossed the steel chairs, more specifically the one who managed to clear the top of the cage. Double thumbs up and a kiss on the cheek for you buddy. Listen I know I may have gone a little far with my use of said chair but it got the job done, didn’t it?
Have I watched the match back? Why would I? Okay granted, I can’t remember anything after diving from the top of the cage, but when I landed back on planet earth the next morning I still had the title belt. My ballsy leap of faith paid dividends, and thus I have nothing else to gain from watching Sam trying his best to scratch and scrape into the big leagues.
The party’s over. No more false claims of grandeur and taking what you’re ‘owed’. The line starts here guys and dolls, so form an orderly queue and wait your f*cking turn. I say that, but here I am now made privy to the knowledge that Trace Demon may be granting yet another usurper a chance he hasn’t earned. Cameron Stone? Didn’t he just top off a rather lacklustre career with a loss to my mercenary? Is that the kind of curriculum vitae we’re offering interviews to now? Is that really how bad it’s got? I don’t trust Trace Demon as a person but usually his business savvy is second to none, or at least second to three…….possibly four. I’d like to think he has a game plan here but this just feels like clutching at straws, something I don’t want to see in the lead up to the biggest event in this company’s history.
I need an opponent that shakes the foundations. I need a billing at the top of that card that makes people think holy sh*t I can NOT miss that. Drakz vs. Cameron Stone? Come on. We gave that away on TV 2 years ago.
This is all theoretical mind you. Until something is set in stone (do I get charged for royalties when I say that?) I’m going to pay the idea no mind.
When I look at it though something in me does groan. There’s an anxiety present as I have to question who really is there? Who is on a level with me to headline the largest Superbrawl event of all time? If I had a pick of the crop I’d be getting my hands on Kyzer, that would put arses in seats and help me deal with my pent up emotional fervour. The man’s in a coma though and I don’t think we could really book me just wailing on an unconscious man for 10 minutes. There’s probably all sorts of legal issues with that, let alone the morality of the thing.
So Michael Kyzer not withstanding………….I’ve beaten Schneider into retirement…………..Samael Ahriman just sh*t out of luck only 2 weeks ago. Joshua Dean? Again? He’s 0 - 2 in his last couple of Pay Per View outings. It’s a similar situation to Stone. How does a man who couldn’t follow through justify his place in my wheel house? What is a wheel house?
I’m out of ideas. For the first time in my life I haven’t got the answers people. Some may find that hard to believe and assume I’m just pulling your collective puddings, messy as that may be, but no, I honestly can’t think of anyone not only capable of testing me in the ring but selling this event. That’s the important thing here, the main event of Superbrawl is THE selling point of the show……..well unless you’ve got the very first Drakz/Schneider showdown on there, but that’s simply not a fallback we’ve got this time around. This time the onus of those Pay Pew View buys falls directly to me. I’m the champion. I’m the main event. I’m the man the shareholders are looking at when it comes to closing out the biggest payday of their entire lives.
It’s food for thought, but I’d better get a wriggle on with eating it. The event looms ever closer.
Right now though I’d like to pen an open letter to my frenemy and fellow Tag Team Champion Mr Josh Dean.
Who in the seven seas of sh*t do you think you are to go around accepting title challenges on my behalf? Sorry, our behalf? If memory serves, which it does, I won these belts on my own. You were a necessary addition to the formula further down the line. Given that fact why do you consider yourself in a position to be speaking for the two of us? Oh you’ve helped me defend the championships? That’s lovely and all but I still think as the senior member of D&D I should at least have had this decision run by me first no? Before you go getting all firm in the grundies, that’s Drakz & Dean, not Dungeons & Dragons. We’re not fags.
Not only am I now being forced into a match I never agreed to, but I have to fight Gerry Anderson and his army of undead puppets. Oh, it’s not? Frank and Mike who? Frank Lynn and Mike Jette? I didn’t even know this company had anyone by those names on their pay roll. That’s not me cussing them out, I honest to God have never heard of either of them. Sorry guys. Am I though?
Nope.
F*ck The Thunderbirds.
In fact I might pay them to do the dirty on Ahrmian. Roast him like a suckling pig.
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Marriage Councillor
We travelled here together, and yet ever since we left the car I’ve been a good 10 paces behind him. F*ck him. He’s done nothing but get under my skin ever since I beat the sh*t out of Josh Dean and formed a working relationship with Trace. I’m walking down the street in downtown Seattle with Dog trotting along ahead of me. Even the gate of his walk pisses me off these days. Self righteous, four pawed little prick.
Why are we in Seattle you ask? Thank you because I needed distracting from the winking canine anus up ahead.
Donnie asked me to come and meet him, insisted it was of the utmost importance. He probably threw a few more expletives in for good measure, but I’m tired and can’t face imitating him right now.
I’ve not even the slightest inkling as to what this is about as he’s been off the radar since before Black Hole Sun but, at the risk of sounding like a puss, when Donnie tells you to do something it tends to be a good idea to listen. Now don’t get the wrong idea, it’s not him I’m scared of, oh no, it’s the luger he has a habit of keeping in his waistband. Couple that with his absolute lack of respect for consequence and it’s fair, I’m sure you’ll agree, to feel obliged to at least hop when he says “jump”.
Not only that but I’m a curious cat with nothing better to do. Dog? Yeah I have no idea why he’s here. I think he’s simply following me to annoy me at this stage. We had another blow out regarding his new girlfriend and the way he’s been treating my apartment as his own. It got messy, and yes I mean that quite literally. He took a sh*t on my floor in protest. Dirty little…….argh I’ve spent too long dwelling on it already. I don’t want to waste any more energy on animal faeces. Hmmmm, that would make for a good t-shirt slogan actually. Trace has been hassling me to come up with more merch for the WFWF.com store.
Wait……what?
“It’s closed.”
“It’s closed?”
I catch up with Dog and snatch the note down that’s pinned to the front door of The Badabing II.
“It’s been repossessed by the bank?!”
Things must be pretty bad for the little guy if he’s had to liquidate his assets. I hope I haven’t come this far to be asked for a hand out.
“It’s got to be a scam, surely?”
I wouldn’t put something like this out of Monty Kent’s remit but this letter looks pretty legit. I start to give it another read when the sound of a car slowing behind us lifts my head. It stops and the window rolls down. It’s Midget Maniac time.
“Whatcha reading for? Get the f*ck in you pair of dykes.”
How is he…….?
I crane my neck.
doing that? HAHA! He’s got little peddle extensions!”
I stick my head through the window.
“Loving the Wee Man Wagon mate.”
Oh sh*t. I nip my beautiful head back out of the car as he tries to close the window on my trachea.
“You shouldn’t wind him up.”
Shut the f*ck up dog. I shoot him a disparaging look and then knock on the now closed window.
“Come on Donovan. Open up!”
I can barely hear him through the glass but his gesticulating gives enough away about his mood. This is going to be exhausting, I know it. I walk around the car, reach down and open the door, as he hasn’t bothered to lock it, and the relative quiet of the street is drowned by the sound of the word f*ck, over and over, with a variety of verbs, nouns and adjectives thrown in at random. Such a delight.
I get into the passenger’s seat and somehow Dog manages to let himself in on the same side. These feats of dexterity always seem to happen when he’s just out of sight.
“So are we gonna start again, or do I have to get viscera on my new interior?”
I have to fight the urge to answer back as though it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’m so used to having the last word that I don’t know when to stop, even if keeping my mouth shut guarantees all of my organs making it home.
“What’s the story? Why aren’t we meeting in the club like you said on the phone?”
“The club is……..closed for refurb.”
“That’s not what the rather authoritative note pinned to the door said.”
He can’t look me in the eye and I swear I can smell his suppressed embarrassment. He starts to drive and I have to make a point of not looking down at his legs and those damn pedals. I can’t afford to die in this car.
“Enough about me and my extracurricular activities, I asked you here to discuss you and what lies ahead. Oh and by the way I want a damn good explanation as to why you still tried to find my sister, even after I promised I’d f*cking kill you if you tried……..”
Did Tugarin tell him? What the f*ck man?!
“How do you know? I mean, I didn’t, but how did you come to that conclusion?”
Smooth.
“He has a tracker on your car.”
Donnie, while still looking straight ahead can’t hold his grin back. How the f*ck does Dog know about this and I don’t?
“And you chose to withhold this information from me because?”
“Do I really need to answer that?”
“Eat a sack of d*cks Dog. You know what, why are you even here? What the f*ck has this got to do with you? Wouldn’t your time be better spent convincing more women that sucking your red little cock is a great idea?”
“At least I can get laid Isaac.”
F*ck this. I turn around and reach behind me in an attempt to grab Dog and everything gets messy. He yelps and barks like the dog he is and as I make a second snatch at the scruff of his neck he turns and bites me………like the dog he is.
“HEY! What the f*ck is going on you two?!”
Donnie slams on the brakes and I barrel forward from my seat, still facing the wrong way, hitting the back of my shoulder on the dash board. I feel the joint come close to dislocating but, thanks to years of getting to know where every pain in the body stems from, I’m able to roll my arm a little and keep things from worsening.
“This sh*t ends now! I’m not having a meeting with two people who can’t keep their hands off each other. That’s just good business sense. No f*cking. No fighting. Not when court is in session. Drakz, apologise to your f*cking dog.”
I wince as I start to reply, squeezing my bitten hand to stem the blood flow.
“Apologise? For what? Getting bitten?” Jesus!
“Do I look like a f*cking marriage councillor to you? I don’t give a f*ck who bit who……f*ck it don’t apologise. I don’t care. Just stop your b*tching and focus on me.”
I can see his point. That’s a scary thought isn’t it? I can actually empathise with Donnie Monty Kent. That’s not a good sign. My window rolls down through no action of my own.
“Hang your sh*tty hand out of the car, I don’t want your blood staining anything.”
Isn’t this the man who moments ago had little issue with gutting me in here? Whatever. The hand’s out the car, hopefully p*ssing blood down the side panel.
“You need to stop wasting your juices on arguing with Dog and start focusing on what matters.”
“Which is what?”
“Am I the only one who pays any f*cking attention to the goings on in the company you work for? You have a f*cking Tag Team Championship match on the horizon and, correct me if I’m wrong, tensions between you and your fellow champion have never been higher. You could be standing on the brink of your near perfect record, about to nose dive off the edge, and who pushes you? A pair of nobodies in their second match as a team. Can you even imagine the fallout from that version of events? Sh*t would hit the fan. The locker room would be over the moon. The media would eat you alive. F*ck only knows what would happen inside your head. I think we’d have to put you on suicide watch. Your ego couldn’t take it.”
He makes a dangerously valid point. He also forgets who I am and what I’ve done.
“Donovan, thanks for caring but this match is NOT important. We’re up against the Thunderc*nts. You said it yourself, they’re a pair of no name curtain jerkers who only 6 months ago probably got told to eat sh*t when asking Ante Whitner for a photo. So me and Josh don’t see eye to eye? What’s new? Since the inception of our team we’ve been at each other’s throats. That’s our thing man. That’s what makes us tick. We hate each other so much that we don’t want to give the other man so much as an inch. Whoever takes that eventual pin fall is up sh*t creek. That’s why we don’t lose, because neither of us can afford to be ‘that guy’.”
Maybe that’s an arrogant way to look at it? Maybe our lack of team work in a tag TEAM division will indeed be our doing, and for all intents and purposes I think it should be, but none the less I don’t see this next match as anything but a test of how healed up I am post Black Hole Sun.
“Do you know what is important though? Maybe this is something you can help me with because I’ve got nothing.”
“Go on?”
“Superbrawl IX.”
“Of course.”
“That’s what is important Donnie. That is going to be my legacy. The highest buy rate of any Pay Per View sports event ever. That is my intention. They call me ‘The Man the People Paid to See’. I want to back that up with fact so undeniable that it will be carved on my headstone.”
“You realise it was you that came up with that monicker?”
I’m going to be the bigger man and just ignore him.
“So what do you want from me?”
“I need an opponent worthy of that spot. Across the ring from me is a lucrative place to stand. What I want to know Donnie is who the f*ck can fill those golden boots? Don’t say Michael Kyzer either, because we both know that’s not happening, as much as we’d like it to.”
Things go weirdly quiet in the car for a good 30 seconds as the cogs in Donnie’s head begin to grind. He doesn’t want to come up short (WHEEEEY MIDGET JOKES!!!!!) and look like a fool in front of me, because in his world he’s on another pain of intelligence to me. He can’t let that curtain come down. In my world it’s a curtain that doesn’t even exist. He’s not a fat old man hiding behind a wizard, he is just a fat old man. I see him for what he is. I see…..my stupid thoughts are interrupted……
“Trace Demon.”
“Trace Demon?”
“Trace Demon.”
Wow. I never even made that connection. Here I am looking at all of my enemies, and perhaps the money is with the man I now consider an ally…………sort of.
“That’s………….you know that’s not bad actually.”
Wait. Is he actually smarter than me?
“Will people buy it though given our current ‘relationship status’? They hate us both. Why should they care who wins?”
“Because it’s not always about great stories of redemption and revenge. Some people just want to see two of the best beat the ever living sh*t out of each other.”
“Did you just call me one of the best? I think you’re going soft in your twilight years Donnie.”
I’m assuming they’re his twilight years? Do you get old midgets? I’ve never seen one. I assume they die young, especially with his blood pressure.
“You’re still a f*cking ****, but yes, in the current climate you are the best they’ve got.”
A backhanded compliment, but I can’t expect much more than that given that the nicest thing Donnie has said to me before now is that he won’t rape me if I help him destroy Samael.
“The real cincher though is where do Lucas Crowe’s loyalties lie in all of this? I know you’re 2 to 1 against Trace but that man is 7 feet of game changer. He’s already proven he can alter the outcome of your title matches. You up against Trace though? Crowe might not be in your corner that go around. Who knows?”
“Hold on, back track a little there. Crowe has altered the outcome of my matches? What do you mean?”
Donnie shoots me a glance and laughs only to see I’m not laughing with him.
“Are you serious? Holy f*ck you’re serious aren’t you? Wow! That tumble totally f*cked you up didn’t it?”
What is he talking about?
“What are you talking about?”
“He’s referring to the fact that if Lucas Crowe hadn’t bailed you out at Black Hole Sun then Samael Ahriman might be the World Heavyweight Champion right now.”
My brain melts.
“C*NT! F*CK! F*CK YOU! F*CK YOU! crap! C*NT! F*CCCCCCCKKKKK!!!!!”
I bounce my already bruised head off of the dash board, splitting the scab over my right eye.
“Hey!”
“YOU’VE GOT TO BE F*CKING ME!!!?!?!?”
BANG. Again with the head, this time spattering blood.
“Hey f*cker! You’re getting blood everywhere!”
BANG. BANG. BANG. Over and over. I can’t stop myself. I’m f*cking incensed!
“Are you listening to me!? What’s wrong with you?”
“He’s lost it.”
F*ck this! I go for the door handle and Donnie tries to stop but I’m out before he can. He’s slowed enough that I bail out of the car and manage to keep my footing, running down the street like a maniac.
“F*UUUUUCK!”
I don’t know what else to say. Expletives are about the only words that will do how I feel justice. All this time I thought I’d shut down the Ahriman party on my own, and now I learn what everyone else has known all along. Two Pay Per Views in a row. Josh pins me. Lucas saves me. I’m a f*cking sham. I know I shouldn’t give a f*ck because hell, I’m a piece of sh*t, but even pieces of sh*t have certain standards to uphold. What am I worth now? What is my stock worth? I can’t go into Superbrawl with Donnie’s idea simply because the people don’t see me as ‘the best’. They see me as a scum bag. They want me to lose. They want me to get my comeuppance, and that’s all well and good but I need a hero to fill that role, and Trace is no hero.
I’m still running, bleeding from my hand and face. A dog bite and head-butting a car. So f*cking chic, I know. I’m just going to keep on going.
“C*NT!”
I’m going to have to change all of my f*cking aliases!
The Man the People Paid to See (lose)
The Artist Formerly Known as “Worth Watching”
Mr President……of Liberia, or some other country no one in the western world gives a sh*t about.
“TWAT!”
I can feel the aggression waining, if only a little. I’m just going to have to run this off. I’m going to have to run until I pass out. At least I can do that on my own.
I AM THE RUNNING MAN!!! FEAR ME!
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You Thunderbirds have timed this goofy challenge bull sh*t terribly. I mean just the worst timing. Understand I’m talking from your perspective here, not mine. You could have tried to fell us only a few weeks ago and you would have stood more of a chance, but now? Now you’re doomed. I’m so f*cking furious. Hell, you don’t know if I’ve even stopped running yet. I could still be running right now. I could have run from Seattle back to Chicago. How would you know any different? I’m crazy enough to do it. F*ck it.
Since learning how things really unfolded at Black Hole Sun I’ve gone back and watched the match, and guess what? It’s done nothing but instil a blood thirsty rage in me. I don’t usually use pathetic fantasy language like that, but I can’t think of a better way to put it. F*ck your little agreement with Joshua Dean, it’s going to be ME that squashes your knackers like old fruit. It’s going to be ME that starts the match and it’s going to be ME that ends it.
I need to remind the world the real reason I’m feared. It’s not because I’ve got friends in high places. It’s not because I’ve got mercenaries to do my bidding. It’s not even because of everything I’ve achieved, no, it’s because even after all this time, even with all of my accolades and awards I’m still the hungriest man at the table. I’m still the man who strives for perfection even though I’ve come within a hair’s breadth on a number of occasions.
Thunderbirds (I’m honestly not even going to address you as individuals) you may think you’ve wormed your way into the biggest opportunity of your lives, you may think I’ll go easy on you because of your happy go lucky faux celebration at New Nebula, but I’m afraid you’ve got it all wrong. You have fallen into my pit and I’ve had nothing to eat in weeks. I’m going to go full scale Schneider on the pair of you. For the benefit of those new to the club, such as yourselves, let me explain what that means. It’s essentially what happens when a man like me, or indeed traditionally Phillip Schneider, loses his temper on a truly incredible scale and decides the best way to force a meditative state, to recover from all of this emotional trauma, is to do really terrible things to young bloods like yourself. The pair of you will be my stress toys and I will squeeze you until you burst.
I’m usually pretty thick skinned but right now I find the entire idea of your challenge f*cking insulting. Do you even know what I’ve done to get here? I was paired with a man who wanted to kill me and yet somehow won a tournament to become the Tag Team Champions. I won the finals on my own. I went up against Trace Demon and Josh Dean’s own wife in a handicap match and I f*cking won! I then got paired with another man who, while he doesn’t want me dead, still hates the very ground I walk on, and yet somehow we’ve defended the titles on a number of occasions, even when the meat between our Tag Team Championship defence shaped buns was kicking each other’s teeth in. It’s been a long, hard road to get here and I’m not about to let it end at Tracy f*cking Island.
I refuse to lose to a pair of BDSM gimps who battered and cut each other up only to then decide to get married. I mean who shacks up with someone they met at a swingers meet?
It doesn’t matter if you’ve wrestled one match together or one hundred, you’re going up against the World Heavyweight Champion, in fact it doesn’t even matter that I’m the champ. You’re going up against a man with something to prove. I don’t need anyone’s help to eat the world. My mouth is plenty big enough to swallow the whole f*cking lot in one go. The gnashing of teeth is deafening as we approach the starting line of the sprint towards Superbrawl.
I hope you boys have private health insurance because I can’t imagine WFWF has you covered when you’re still so fresh. You know what, consider this an olive branch of sorts. After I smash your faces in and leave you eating, pissing and sh*tting through a tube I’ll cover the hospital bills, and if they can’t help you I’ll be sure to send you to the nicest glue factory Minnesota has to offer.
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Thunderbirds are f*cked.
Call it my revenge for the Thunderc*nts remark - that one hurt.
