Superbrawl RP - "Alles Kapot"

Alles Kapot
(A.K.A. Everything Broken)


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It’s that time again folks. The biggest show the WFWF boasts, and this one perhaps the grandest so far? Superbrawl IX is upon us and guess who is sitting on the top of that card with his feet dangling over the edge? Of course it’s me. Who else? You want to put arses in seats? You want to create a buzz that permeates the media in its entirety? I’m the only man for the job. Naturally.

I may have a 1 next to my previously perfect record of 19 now, but I think it would be unfair to say that’s taken the sheen off of my title reign. I’m surprised at how well I’ve dealt with the loss in fairness. I was so convinced that when that loss inevitably came it would shut me down, and yet here I am, bright eyed and bushy tailed. It probably helps that my coping mechanism is paying dividends.

Blame Josh Dean.

It’s worked out for me so far, mind you there’s still a week to go until Superbrawl. Anything could happen in those seven days to change all this, but that sounds to me like paranoia talking. Don’t you think?


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Blood on My Hands

Oh sh*t. Oh sh*t.

This is bad. This is really bad.

What have I f*cking done?! No one can know about this. I need to make sure no one sees this.

“F*CK!”

As though they deserve any more punishment, I drive a stiff boot into the ribs of the body at my feet. As though it’s their fault I’m officially a murderer. Is it official if it’s not been reported? Does it need officiating? By an aficionado? I suppose right now I’m an undercover murderer, but if I stand around like this for much longer that’s out the window. Think Isaac. Think!

“F*CK!”

Another hard kick to a ribcage that doesn’t rise and fall like it should. This time the connection prompts a sickening crack and a very visible abnormality. A recess in the side that makes me close my eyes searching for whatever composure I still have, hidden away. Vomit rises from my stomach but, while my mouth does that weird excess saliva thing, I manage to keep it down.

“I need to hide this.”

I pace up and down a little, trying hard not to laugh or cry, pinching the bridge of my nose because television has taught me that it helps with the scheming process. Out of the blackness of a mind overwhelmed with adrenalin swims a single idea, albeit not one I’m particularly happy about. Once again my only source of inspiration is the silver screen, and once again my guts try to force their contents up, out of the wrong hole. The acidic taste of digestion catches the back of my throat but I swallow it back down and take the deepest of breaths.

Dismemberment has never been a favourite past time of mine if I’m honest, and the thought of doing it in (almost) public is giving me a case of stage fright. It’s like being at school and having to read in front of the class when you know you’re not great at doing it solo, let alone with an audience. Yeah it’s totally like that, only with more sinew and coagulating blood. What the f*ck am I talking about? Time’s a wasting.

“Okay. Isaac. Let’s get a move on pal.”

I think I saw a small hardware shop back down the street, but maybe that’s just wishful thinking on my part? I can’t just leave this here though while I go window shopping. I squat next to the cadaver and try to get my arms underneath but a sudden noise shocks me off my feet and onto my backside, scrambling away from the body. It transpires that in fact the body has just relinquished its last meal, so now I not only have to move it somewhere more inconspicuous but also avoid getting sh*t all over me.

“Jesus.”

I move back into position and manage to forklift my arms underneath the cargo. Brace. Clean & jerk. Okay, I’m clearly not going to lift this above my head, but the thought process is there. Bend the knees, keep the back straight and……..f*ck me this is heavier than I expected. Dead weight, pun very much intended, is a b*tch. I make it to my feet, cradling what is now only a sack of meat, albeit a big one, and stagger to the bins further down the alley. I’m talking industrial bins here. Dumpsters. Urgh, I’m so f*cked I’m using American terminology. Luckily for little old me the lid is already open and up against the wall. All I have to do is:

1

2

3!

I twist to throw my burden and, to my credit, it mostly ends up inside, but like everything this week things don’t go as smoothly as I’d like. The jaw bounces off the solid metal rim and a couple of teeth jump ship. I clench mine and another deep breath helps me rationalise the situation. I close the lid, scoop up the awol incisors and double check my person for sh*t stains. All clear.

Lucky for me a brisk walk back down the street proves I’m one observant mother f*cker. Berryman’s Hardware. Give me the goods.

The arrival announcing, old fashioned metal bell above the door is enough to give someone in my profession Viet Nam like flash backs. I wonder if PTSD is common in retired wrestlers? I’ll have to ask Phil during our next skype session…………….that was a joke, Schneider and I don’t skype, we Facetime……….that was also a joke. Listen, I’m panicked okay?

“Good afternoon sir, let me know if there’s anything I can help you with today.”

American customer service is fascinating, but I don’t have time to delve into the falsities of his niceties. No. I need hardware Mr Berryman!

“Yeah, maybe you can save me some time.”

“Of course.”

The apron wearing smile servant puts down whatever he was doing and gives me, the murderer trying to dispose of evidence, his undivided attention.

“I need a hacksaw, some rubble sacks, duct tape and a tarpaulin.”

F*ck me that is the most suspicious sounding list of items anyone has ever ordered anywhere, ever.

“Of course sir, if you would like to follow me. We’ve got a range of saws so we need to make sure we get you the right one.”

Which one cuts through bones with the least resistance?

“Cheers mate.”

Did that sound relaxed and normal? To my ears everything I say stinks of “hurry up or you’re next”.

“Here we are, now I’ll just leave you to look at these for a moment while I go and grab the other items on your list.”

“Okay, will do.”

“By the way, your English is excellent I must say.”

He bolsters that statement with a reassuring smile and I’m queasy again as the adrenalin starts to wear thin. Good English? We f*cking invented it mate.

I have to stay on task.

As Mr Berryman (I’m sure that’s not his name) goes on his reconnaissance mission for the good of the paying public, I turn to the display of saws and my mind is made up fairly sharpish. I’m no DIY savant but I figure the big, sturdy looking one with spare blades (incase they dull halfway through) is probably the kid for the job. I reach out and press my index finger against one of the teeth. The skin on the tip punctures and I turn it round to see a claret swelling, focusing hard on the drop as the sound of blood pumping rings in my ears. That sick feeling starts to rear its head again…..

“Okay, here we are sir. Have you chosen one yet?”

I somehow manage to cover any physical signs that he just scared the t*ts off of me and, because I can’t be bothered getting into a conversation about where I’m actually from, I just point at the one who drew first blood.

“Okie doke. Let me just take all of this to the checkout for you.”

I follow him back through the shop, nervously picking at the skin around my bitten nails. Stop it. Play it cool.

“You’ve chosen a nice day for it.”

He smiles at me while packing each of the items into a bag. Nice day for what? I’m not sure butchery necessarily requires sunshine, but yes, I suppose doing this in the rain would suck even more.

“Where are you from sir? That’s no L.A. accent I heard.

Just serve me and let me get the f*ck out of your shop.

“Chicago.”

He looks puzzled by my response, clearly expecting something more exotic but I think the one word curtness of the thing helped him realise we’re not having a conversation right now.

“Okay that’ll be $23.45 please. Cash or card?”

“Cash.”

I’m already rifling through my pockets as I say the word and eventually hand him enough screwed up notes to cover the cost and then some, the last of which gets a lovely smear of blood across it from my hand. I’ve probably just infected my entire bloodstream. F*ck it.

“Thank you sir and…..”

I’m already out of the door as his voice fades behind me, no doubt waving his middle finger, which to be honest is fair enough. I’m walking faster than any comfortable person would and, combined with the way I was during that transaction, I come to the realisation that I’m not that great of an actor. I know right? It surprised me as well. Stone’s prospective Hollywood career will live to fight another day.

Okay. Back to the alley. Back to the scene of the crime. Back to the dustbin.

I lift the lid with my one free hand and immediately regret every decision I’ve made today up to this point. My stomach lurches and finally empties itself across the floor, leaving me gasping for air, spit dripping from my moustache. I slump against the wall next to the bin and my head is spinning. What now?

“F*ck, F*ck, F*ck, F*ck, F*ck, F*ck, F*ck, F*ck, F*ck.”

The muttered words bubble through the remaining vomit and I make a fist, trying to at least convince myself of my own resilience. Grabbing the edge of the bin I haul myself upright and take another look.

Nope.

Still missing.

Still just a bin with no body/nobody inside it.

Needless to say I puke again.

And again.

And again.

Welcome to Sh*t Creek, population…….just this c*nt.


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K is for Koshinuke

Here is a man who honestly, in 2016, describes himself as “The Ronin”. It’s not just a fun little nickname either, like Genghis Khan Jnr. No Samael Ahriman actually carries a f*cking toy sword! Why does no one pick him up on this? He’s been carrying this sword, wait does he have two? I can’t say I ever paid enough attention to notice. Anyway, he’s been carrying this sword for years now and for some reason no one has told him how f*cking lame it is. None of his friends have pulled him to one side and said;

“Listen Sam, you’re really embarrassing us with this samurai sh*t. We all grew out of cosplaying in our early 20s, so why can’t you?”

The only person who would actively pursue a position in society so out dated, that every f*cking manga ever written seems to mention how obsolete it is, will always be a white man with the personality of a soft c*ck.

Ahriman. You are not a samurai. You’re just another westerner with a penchant for hentai, underage girls and little f*cking trees. All of this and I haven’t even touched on the fact he claims to be a Satanist. Yes that’s right, a fully grown man who actively praises ‘the dark lord’. As though one hobby, that on paper could be cool as sh*t but in reality is laughable, isn’t enough.

There’s a reason you’re still one title away from your little Grand Slam, and it’s not just because I’m the current champion and no f*cker can beat me. You’re just not main event material. You never have been. The only reason you are where you are now is because I wanted an opportunity to knock you around like the little tea-leaf that you are. If your way into the Superbrawl main event is taking a beating and then crying about it then I don’t see much chance of gold in your future mate.

You took from me. We’ve covered that. But what we didn’t cover is the reasons you did it. In your head you deemed it your duty to take out Michael Kyzer as penance for his sins. What sins were they? Did he kill a loved one? Did he rape and pillage your town? Oh, you say he kind of had a sort of rivalry with your dead mate? A rivalry that never so much as registered on Kyzer’s radar. A rivalry that for all intents and purposes was actually just Shawn Malakai sweating over the fact that he too was just a mid carder. Samael you decided to attack and injure Michael Kyzer after his match with Ante Whitner for one reason and one reason only, to try and trick the world into thinking you mattered. At this point putting Mike on the shelf is the most impressive thing you’ve ever done, which considering the way you went about it doesn’t really paint your career in the best of lights now does it?

Ever since you stopped talking sh*t behind that commentary desk and started spouting it in the ring instead you’ve done nothing but pull the wool over eyes. Donnie’s, Tugarin’s, Ante’s, the fans’, Cameron Stone’s, I could keep going and going and my doing so might make you feel accomplished, but it shouldn’t. You’re not a master manipulator, you’re just a tired old man behind a curtain, pulling levers and spinning wheels in the hope that the smoke and mirrors they create is enough to keep people from finding out you’re a f*cking mook. But I see through all that sh*t Sam.

When I look at you I don’t see the badass who murdered the “God of F*ck”. I don’t see Baphomet’s swordsman. I see an entitled p*ssy who thinks that just because his friend died he has the right to make everything about him. No one is buying this Pay Per View to see the climax of the Samael Ahriman story except maybe your daughter, but even then, like the rest of the world she’s probably more interested to find out if Frank Lynn will win his first WFWF accolade?

You’re a sham Ahriman and your ‘win, lose or draw, this is my final match’ schtick only cements the fact that you have never once tried to work for something the hard way. You’ve lied and stolen your way into the biggest cluster f*ck main event in WFWF history and now you announce that afterwards you’re calling it quits.

Koshinuke.

As someone gay for everything Japanese I’m sure you already know what that means but for those that don’t………..look it up.

You lose this match? You never get that record time Grand Slam you were after. You never make it to the top of the mountain. Do you suck it up and try again? Nope, you run away like the coward you are.

And what if you win? Sure you’ll have the notch on your bed post and your name in the history books, but let’s be honest you can never call yourself a real champion. You’ll be relegated to the same pathetic bracket previously reserved for those suffering from diseases pertaining to abnormal cell growth. Shots fired. Yes, I just called out your bff Shawn Malakai for the same sh*t you’re trying to pull here. If you never so much as try to defend your title then you’re a f*cking sham, and that’s eactly what will happen if you some how do the unthinkable and wind up as the last man in that ring. Seeing as it’s me and you starting proceedings though I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen. My title reign has instilled too much prestige into this belt for a f*cking chump to come along and play hot potato with it. I’m aiming to f*cking destroy you in that chamber Ahriman, not because I hate you, because I don’t, but because this sport demands it of me.

You know what? I genuinely didn’t even remember who you were when the whole KoKaine Konspiracy thing started. I thought you were some lacky Donnie had found to fill out the numbers. But the you started banging on about how Michael and I had taken the Tag Team Titles from you, and I was scratching my head trying to figure out when Raider or Ace Bennett got a sex change. Then it dawned on me. Ace no showed his title defence and you actually got up from the commentary desk and got into the ring! Why? To help an outnumbered man in his time of need? Because of your sense of honour and duty? Nope. In retrospect I now see that once again the sole reason for your involvement was a ploy. Yet another attempt to confuse the world into thinking you were worth their time. And? You weren’t.

You lost.

Then years later you and your lesbian hair cut turned up again to face me and what happened?

You lost.

Now you’ve thrown your toys out of the pram and said ‘Right! After this one I’m going home!’ Bravo Sam. Bravo. This is going to be an ending fitting of such a forgettable career. I’ll do you a favour and speed up the process. Let’s see if we can get you out of there before any of the others have even left their pods shall we? That way you can beat the crowds and just about catch the last bus home.

I might be deemed ‘the bad guy’ in all of this, but at least I’m not a f*cking coward.

I might bend the rules from time to time but I don’t run.

Not with a back like mine.


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An Apple a Day

“I suppose I should ask, ignoring any concrete fact, how do you feel?”

That’s Dr Hershel’s way of saying, “I’ve got your most recent set of results and you’re f*cked……..but how are things?

“You mean in general? Or are we talking exclusively about my adamantium spine?”

“How about both?”

I think that reference went right over his head.

“Okay then, well my back……I mean, I don’t really understand the fuss you’ve been making about it during our time together. It feels fine. Well…..not fine, but I don’t think anyone in my industry has a back that feels ‘fine’. It certainly doesn’t feel as though it’s hanging by the thread you’re no doubt going to remind of though.”

Hershel is looking over the top of the rims of his glasses at me and sighs a little. He knows I refuse to heed any warnings and up to this point I’ve had no reason to. In fact every step of the way I’ve been quite literally told to stop or wind up on wheels, and what’s happened? I’ve been better than ever. I’ve had a keener mind and reflexes than I ever did before my little accident. It’s as though the constant threat of paraplegia has inadvertently become my greatest strength. The back of my mind is floor to ceiling with ideas that ‘this match might be the one’ or ‘I may not get up from this’, but the front, well the front of my brain appears to be the dominant side. I don’t work with right and left. No. The front of my brain is the one that tells me to leap from the cage. To defend two championships at once. To welcome 5 other men into my house.

“And your state of mind? Regardless of how you feel, you know the truth. That’s got to weigh heavy on your mind no?”

“I make a point of not allowing the dirty water into my mouth. When your head is only just breaking the surface of the sea of sh*t you can’t go thinking about what ifs doc. You’re right, I do know what’s at stake, but what reason have I got to care? I’ve got no wife and kids. No parents to worry for my safety. No friends. Even my Dog couldn’t really give a sh*t. It doesn’t add up to the greatest support system, so what do I do? I do what ever I want on any given day. If I wake up tomorrow and decide I don’t want this anymore, that I want to retire to some island in the Indian Ocean, I’ll do it. Same goes if I wake up the day after, when I’m sat on the beach of said island, and I decide I want to ruin Cameron Stone’s acting career by picking up the phone and telling all of Hollywood that I’m available instead. I’m not bound by honour to finish what I’ve started. I keep putting myself at risk because I f*ckin’ enjoy it. I love being the best, but most of all I love reminding people I’m the best, by stomping on their heads until there’s no chance of the fact falling out.”

Needless to say my outward pouring of aggression doesn’t go over too well with him, but Dr Hershel has clearly decided he’s got a duty, and in this instance (and every one of our instances for that matter) it’s to warn me to do anything but what I enjoy.

“Mr Cray.”

“F*ck. The news must be really bad if you’re calling me that.”

He doesn’t smile, which only corroborates my statement.

“I’ve given you warnings. I’ve shown you X-Rays. I’ve tried to explain the seriousness of your situation every time you’ve been in my office. I’m not sure what else I can do within my professional remit to make you see that things need to change.”

“And outside your professional remit?”

Start taking hostages until your medical demands are met? He bats the question aside.

“I can’t in good faith keep seeing you, letting you leave my office in the knowledge that you’re not making any alterations to your life style.”

“Are you breaking up with me?”

The f*ck is this?

“Mr Cray I will share your most recent test results with you, your reaction to them will determine how I want to proceed.”

Strap yourself in homeslice. This sounds like it’s going to be a real trip.

“These are the results of your most recent CAT Scan…..”

He brings up skeletal images on his computer screen.

“I don’t think it requires an iota of medical know how to be able to look at that and realise something’s wrong. Don’t you think?”

F*ck. That does look bad. Like a jigsaw made up of all the wrong pieces.

“Now these….”

He runs his finger down a series of vertebrae.

“…..should all be in a smooth curvature. As you can see they’re definitely not. And this….”

Now he’s prodding at a lop sided blob.

“is the disk I’ve mentioned God knows how many times. It is honestly about as close to herniation as it could get, at which point you’ll have no choice but to step out of the ring because you’re going to be in constant pain, and more than likely loose sensation in one of your hands.”

Oh joy.

“Now none of this is really news to you and admittedly things haven’t deteriorated at the rate I initially assumed they would in your line of work, but the deterioration of the damaged bone is now at a point where they’ll fracture at will or even simply crumble away. In all honesty, I wouldn’t be surprised if it happened later today.”

He’s got his serious face on and I’m just kind of sat quietly, like a good little boy, but I think he’s still failing to see my side of things.

“No, today is out of the question. Give it a week and that’s fine.”

His mouth hangs open and I sense the despair that fills the room…..his side at least.

“I’ve got the largest obstacle of my career to overcome in 6 days doc, so if you can write me a prescription for some hard as nails painkillers and keep your fingers crossed that my spinal column doesn’t go all Ranza Plaza before then that would be capital.”

Hershel takes his glasses off of his face and just blankly stares at me before, in a cracked voice, near pleading with me:

“Did you not hear me Isaac?”

“Did you not hear me? I don’t care about all of this medical bull sh*t. So I end up in a wheel chair? What’s wrong with that? You got a problem with cripples Hershel?”

“Oh for f*ck sake.”

The first time I’ve ever seen him drop his professional guard. It happened folks, and all it required was nearly two years of grinding him down to a nub with my indifference.

“I can’t do this anymore Mr Cray. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to find yourself another doctor, that is if you even want to see one.”

“Of course I do. This is the easiest and most legalist way of obtaining stiff pain relief. It feels classier getting a fix here than it does on a street corner.”

“Okay, I think we’re done here.”

“So are you going to write me the prescription? I’ve got a flight to Pasadena to catch in three hours and kind of need this sorting before I hit the road……..hit the air? Before I go.”

“I will be writing you A prescription yes. You remember we took some blood tests yesterday? Well the results are back.”

Wow, that was insanely quick. I suppose the WFWF medical insurance isn’t f*cking around. Who says the USA’s health system isn’t incredibly efficient? Almost unbelievably so. That was almost quick enough to make one think it were a trope for moving along a story of some kind whilst still fitting within the boundaries of what the teller was trying to achieve. Almost. But not quite.

“Do I have cancer doc? I could really do with cancer right now!”

That sh*t gives you the edge at Superbrawl. The most secret of secret weapons. The super hero serum.

“What?! Why would you say that? No you don’t have cancer. You’ve got chlamydia.”

Not so super hero………Although it does mean I got laid……..or it’s been festering away for a loooooong time. Did I get laid recently?

Oh sh*t.

I’d just about forced that from memory.


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A is for Apathy

The next on our list of no hopers falls under the ‘How did this get in here?’ category. Seriously, what is it with this bull sh*t main event? Alongside Samael, Cameron Stone is yet another commentator who for some reason decided to get back in the ring. Two damn commentators in one match? Not only that but ‘The Cam & Sam Express’ also share a love for running off. Just like his buddy, Cameron Stone is up and leaving after this match. Now I’ve already told you why that is some f*cking bull sh*t right there but I would just like to confirm my feelings by saying:

That is some f*cking bull sh*t right there.

Let’s forget about his star studded future for now and look at why on earth someone as useless and down right boring as Mr Stone has ended up with a spot in Superbrawl IX’s main event. Cam has teased us with his retirement quite a few times now, in fact there was a time where I thought I had retired him myself, but like an aggressive case of chlamydia (so I’m told), he just won’t go away.

Some might see Cam’s rise from legit mid carder to completely out of his depth mid carder as a Cinderella story of sorts, but I think that’s looking through a rose tinted lens at best. Up until this year his entire career consisted of only a single title reign that lasted less than a month. Hardly surprising then that he threw in the towel and moved to the commentary desk, yet another area he criminally underachieved in. I suppose him getting here is tantamount to finding out your foot fits in a shoe…….not all that exciting. Not yet anyway. Not until he finds the left foot.

I paid no mind to Cameron for the longest of times, but then he did something only one other man in this chamber match has ever done. He pinned me. He pressed my shoulders to the mat for long enough to pick up a damn pin fall. Now that folks, that is his glass slipper. That eclipses his 27 day National Title reign. That certainly eclipses his victory over Ahriman and subsequent uneventful International Championship reign. I think even if he wins this match at Superbrawl it still won’t mean as much, that is unless he’s the one to get rid of me…….. There’s a thought ey?

What’s important though is that Stone’s never beaten me. 1 fall in a best of 3 is nice and everything, but it doesn’t add you to that upper echelon of folks who can walk with their chests puffed out. He’s still got a lot further to go before he reaches those dizzying heights, and it’s going to take more than being Trace’s lapdog for a few weeks to get him there.

People have a habit of sticking so resolutely to their moral compass that they end up missing their goal by hundreds of miles, luckily for Stone though he’s managed to wash himself clean of any moral fibre and done what needed doing to get himself where he is today. Sure he’s probably misplaced a couple of friends along the way, and in the end he’s going to lose anyway, but good on him for at least trying, instead of just whinging and moaning until the powers that be cave and give you a title shot for no reason, as seems to be the norm around here at the moment. What ever happened to fighting to become the number one contender? Climbing the ranks until there was no other choice but you in that spot as challenger. I digress.

Stone has taken matters into his own hands, quite literally, by punching his apparent ally Joshua Dean in the face. I don’t think I’ve shown my gratitude enough for that Cam. I owe you a drink or some of those f*cking disgusting cheese curd, gravy abominations. You da man Cam.

Seriously though, anyone willing to do whatever it takes to get a shot at greatness has at least a pinch of my respect, more than pretty much anyone else in this thing. Respect isn’t the same as fear though. I’m not scared of losing to Stone. I don’t think there’s any chance of it personally. I mean I’m nigh on certain I’m leaving the Rose Bowl the same way I arrived, with a f*cking big ol’ piece of gold hanging on a leather strap, but if things really do go t*ts up then I’d say Stone, you’re not even the 3rd favourite to usurp me.

See, you’re getting called ‘The Underdog’ for a reason. It’s because compared to someone like me you simply aren’t in the same league and underdog sounds nicer than ‘no f*cking chance’. People like to root for the underdog because, in the rare event that they come through for you, the endorphin release is the greatest. The celebrations mean the most. The thing is, when has someone people refer to as the underdog ever come close to f*cking with me? That’s what you have to remember, I’m the man to beat in this match. It’s all well and good being the underdog when you’re against the likes of Joshua Dean or Penny Shannon, but it’s a different game altogether when I’m the one sitting on your face Cam.

So I’m going to make this last little match of yours as worthwhile as possible for you. I’ll make sure the people get to see a fair share of your face before it’s hidden under a storm trooper’s mask, albeit while it’s bouncing off the chains surrounding the ring. This can be the final match (for real this time) that you’ll tell your grandchildren about. Forget about your acting career, forget about your time as a sports commentator. The kids aren;t interested in that. They just want you to tell their favourite story again, the one where the greatest WFWF World Heavyweight Champion of all time put his foot through your face.


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If You Lie Down with Dog's, You Wake Up with Fleas

“Are you just going to stay in there crying all night?”

No reply. As to be expected I suppose. It’s hard enough to breath when you’re sobbing as hard as that, nevermind formulate a sentence of any substance.

“F*cking loser.”

That last one was less for her ears and more an outward expression of how I feel about the way she’s acting. F*ck her. Again? Nope. That was a mistake not worth the payoff. For a delusional, and quite possibly psychotic, girl she gives terrible head. I’m all for corrupting that which is pure, leading them astray etcetera etcetera, but when I go into a situation such as this, with a girl such as her, I expect her to lose her tongue up my ass without a moment’s notice from me. Giving instructions kind of ruins the moment for me.

F*ck.

They don’t make them like they used to.

*Beep Beep*

My phone pipes up from somewhere in the room and, after rummaging around for a couple of minutes, I fish it out of her shoe. What the f*ck was it doing in there? Okay, two unread messages. Must have missed that first one while I was…..preoccupied.

Dear Mr Cray…..blah blah blah……blood tests…….tomorrow. Okay that wasn’t worth the energy it took to read it, next. Ah Donnie. You sure know when to rescue me from the boredom of a weeping woman.

“CALL ME YOU F*CKING WORM!”

He texts just like he speaks. It’s adorable.

I press dial and keep the phone away from my head, in anticipation of a screaming barrage of expletives the moment he answers. I won’t bore you with what he actually said, but my decision was the correct one.

“Donnie, calm the f*ck down. What is it?”

He lambasts me further but I just about catch the important words, sieving them from the soup of violent, sexual imagery.

“Ahriman? You think I’m working with Samael f*cking Ahriman? I can’t even say his name without rolling my eyes at how sh*t it is, and you think I’ve climbed into bed with him?”

He’d probably be a better ride than the moron in the bathroom.

“Donnie for f*ck sake mate, where has this come from?”

More rambling and I start to grow bored of holding this phone to my ear, that is until he actually makes some sense.

“Wait, what? Who told you?……….Dog?”

F*cking piece of sh*t. Why is he trying to have me killed? He has no reason to take it as far as stirring the pot that is DMK’s kidney bean skull. Well………not yet anyway. My attention piques at the sound of glass smashing in the next room.

“Listen, calm down. He’s talking sh*t. He doesn’t know what I get up to.”

That’s an understatement.

“Let’s talk face to face……..or face to crotch at least…………I’m sorry! You know how hard it is for me to resist the midget jokes. I said I’m sorry! F*ck. Donnie, I’m hanging up now. I’ll see you in a couple of days when we get to Pasadena. Don’t have an aneurysm before then.”

“Who are you talking to?”

She has risen!

“Yeah f*ck you too.”

“Me?”

“No, not you.”

Not after that performance.

“Who are you talking to then? I heard you mention him!”

“Bye Donovan!”

I hang up and drop the phone, taking a split second to psych myself up for this.

“I was trying to talk to my good friend Donnie Monty Kent, but what pray tell has that got to do with you?”

“His name’s not Dog, I wish you wouldn’t call him that!”

She seems to completely ignore my answer and in turn I get up and saunter past her, sticking my head into the bathroom.

“You smashed my mirror!”

“His name’s Fernando and he deserves better than both of us!”

Okay, you remember that risk vs. payoff ratio I mentioned previously, well that scale continues to tip in the wrong direction.

“Daphne, why are you smashing my place up?”

“And it’s not your place, it’s his! I’ve seen the certificate!”

Seen the certificate?! She hasn’t even seen what species her boyfriend is, let alone his credentials.

“Okay then, why are you smashing his place up?”

As if I need an answer. Crystal clear clarity wouldn’t hurt though, certainly not me anyway. Her on the other hand…..

“I couldn’t look at myself.”

“Then don’t. There’s no need to break the mirror you maniac.”

That does it, she’s howling like a sh*t demon again, and honestly she looks great when she’s upset. That’s weird isn’t it? Not that she looks good, but that I think she does. Oh man.

“Why…..have we…..done….this?!”

Her breathing is all over the place as she cries, but she continues to force out total word porn to my ears.

“This….is going to…break his heart.”

That’s it, keep going.

“Especially…..if he finds out….what…..you….did to me.”

What I did to her? Come on darling. It takes two to tango, which funnily enough is also the exact same number required for anal sex.

“If you’re so bothered why did you do it? I for one couldn’t care less about……Fernando’s feelings, so I’ve got nothing to apologise for. You though? You’re acting like this effects the rest of your life! He’s a boyfriend……”

A dogfriend

“…..a flash in the pan. He’s a piece of sh*t and a manipulative one at that. Maybe this is exactly what you needed? Now you can have a nice clean break and walk off into your next inter-species relationship. Lincoln Park Zoo is walking distance from here.”

She doesn’t seem to understand the animal references, but her lip’s trembling and I can feel my d*ck getting hard again. What is wrong with me?

“Use me the way I just used you. Use me to get out of this before you do something f*cking stupid like get knocked up.”

Full scale waterworks again………and then the penny drops.

“Oooooooooooooooh. Oh no. No, no, no.”

All she can do is nod her head as she does that weird thing where you cry and no noise comes out. It’s as though someone hit the mute button, which frankly is for the best.

“You’re f*cking pregnant?!”

More nodding from her and much less tangible arousal from me.

“Is that even possible? How does…..? I mean, this is some messed up sh*t. We need to take you to a science lab or something. I’d suggest running away with the freak show once it miscarriages but I don’t think they exist anymore.”

As you probably guessed I’m not helping things. Even less so when I burst out laughing.

“Do you even understand what you’re saying? Dog…..sorry, Fernando has fertilised a human egg?!”

Does she even know he walks on four legs and cocks the back one to piss? I’ve always wondered but been too unnerved by her to ask.

“You know what? F*ck the pair of ya. You deserve each other and whatever hideously disfigured pup-child crawls out of your snatch. Woooooo! That thing is going to be a f*cking monster.”

I start putting my clothes back on while I continue making fun.

“Also, tell Ferrrrrrnando he can have the flat, I don’t want it.

I’m done with Chicago.

Too many f*ck ups.”

She’s since collapsed on the bed, smothering her wails in the duvet. I on the other hand am up, dressed and walking out the door with the only thing I need. My World Heavyweight Championship.

“Oh and Daphne…..”

She looks up for just a moment before I close the door.

“….he never even had his shots.”

Close door. Mic drop.


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P is for Persistent

There comes a time after spending so long caught up in someone else’s business that you become part of the furnishings. A permanent fixture that eventually just blends in with everything else, so much so that is winds up going unnoticed. This was the situation Joshua Dean very nearly found himself in up until a couple of weeks ago. I had reached a point where I’d almost forgotten he hated me because it had plateaued into a dull hum instead of the fired up onslaught it began as.

Once upon a time Joshua Dean was steadily rising through the ranks of this here company, until he reached a point where he was offered a chance to slay the big bad champ. To his credit he earned that chance, but it turned out to be just another stretch of road for me to roll over on my way to this very moment.

He’s fought tooth and nail to remain in the spotlight ever since I cut him down and again, credit where it’s due, Josh is still here. Still harping on about his supposed rematch, which I still don’t understand. It’s the champion who is allowed to enact a rematch clause, not the challenger.

People still talk as though Dean is the biggest threat to my reign. That he has my number. I’m yet to see evidence that backs that up though. What has Dean done since I pushed him aside? Lost in dramatic fashion to Trace Demon? Lost to his own friend Cameron Stone? Bravo. That’ll show me. It seemed to impress Lila though as it’s somehow leapfrogged him back into title contention. Josh is the first in a string of confusing anomalies that have some how formed the grandest challenge of my career thus far.

I beat Dean. He’s getting a title shot.
I beat Ahriman. He’s getting a title shot.
I beat Stone. He’s getting a title shot.
I beat Trace. He’s getting a title shot.
I probably beat Yukio somewhere along the line, I can’t remember. Even he’s getting a title shot?!

Who am I to question the decisions of those that govern the small council though? Well, I’ll tell you. I’m the f*cking champion. Surely that stands for something right? Apparently not though. I’ve had little say in this other than choosing the match type, which is kind of like picking out which pile of dog sh*t is going in your sandwich really.

The thing about Josh though is that we’ve had a……special relationship over the last year. He thought it would be smart to step in as my tag team partner, something he justified as ‘keeping me in good shape’ ahead of our match. He can’t have thought it through too much though as his decision meant he had to stand at my side, as my ally, on 3 more occasions, torn as to whether he preferred being a Tag Team Champion or throwing me to the wolves. In the end the lure of gold fever was too much for him and he just had to keep going out there with me, trying his very best not to grow to enjoy himself. I’ve got one of those contagious personalities where you just can’t help but love me.

Josh started to drift into the realm of ‘he had so much potential’ though and like I already said, I started to forget he was even there………until he f*cked me. The very title reign he jumped into, glory stealing sh*t bag that he is, ended thanks to his inability to watch my f*cking back! That’s tag team 101: ‘Don’t let the more talented partner get blindsided’. As that referee’s hand hit the mat for the third time, ending my Tag Team Championship reign and my undefeated streak, I suddenly remembered who Josh Dean was. His face rose from the quagmire and it dawned on me that it was about time I squashed him before he f*cked up anything else for me.

There are those that believe Joshua Dean ended my WFWF World Heavyweight Championship reign back at Show Time, but I simply asked him to hold it for 2 minutes during the interval so I could go and take a p*ss. None the less I’m informed the official record has my title reign split in two now, which means he’s tried to take the grandeur of yet another record away from me.

There are a lot of things Joshua Dean isn’t:

A fighting champion.
A good tag team partner.
A loving husband.
An inspirational father figure.
A loyal friend.

But he is, above all else, persistent. He simply won’t go away, no matter how terrible of a job he’s doing he refuses to clear out his locker and f*ck off back to Atlanta. Some might respect him for that notion, showing an unbreakable resolve in the face of adversity. Refusing to stay down. I just see it as stupidity. Someone who doesn’t realise when they’re beat. Someone who doesn’t understand that, no matter how much more practise they get in, they lack the required natural skills to make it beyond the glass ceiling that’s damn near flattened the top of their skull. If you run head first into a brick wall and the wall doesn’t budge do you try again? Or do you learn from it and find another way?

Am I talking nonsense? I feel like this is making perfect sense but, as always, I doubt it’s going to change anything.

Josh, I could sh*t talk you for hours. I could go back to square one and rip apart your family life. I could hold a magnifying glass over your Saviours of Salvation and inspect the fact that you are the only one left! I could do all of this, but I won’t. Why? Because I’m tired of it. I’m tired of you. This has gone on long enough. You following me around like a f*cking stray dog (trust me I know a thing or two about that), and me politely asking you to run across the nearest interstate.

I’m done with asking nicely Josh.

At Superbrawl you’re going into the furnace along with all the other broken toys. I’ll make a point to hit you extra hard though, just to make sure that THIS time you don’t come back sniffing around.

It’s time to go home and practise being a family man Mr Dean. Maybe that’s something practise might help with?


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A Short Goodbye

So Pasadena’s not what I was expecting. It’s actually really…….nice? It doesn’t seem like the place you’d host an event of this magnitude though. F*ck knows what Trace & Sleater were thinking.

As I’m sure you’ve gathered I’ve made it here alive, although that f*cking doctor didn’t give me sh*t for my back. I’m hoping Donnie got my message and has had the decency to speak with his ‘pharmacist’ on my behalf.

I’m waiting for him in a Mom & Pop style diner, gazing out the window trying to pretend this is going to go smoothly, politely and professionally. Yeah I know……..but I’m trying to be optimistic. Who knows Donnie might surprise me and use his inside voice the entire time…….Hahaha. I nearly convinced myself then, but this isn’t a glass half full situation. With Donnie it’s always more of a glass half in your face.

“Good morning sir, how are you today?”

I look up from my table to the waitress and smile.

“Marvellous. And you?”

“I can’t complain, thanks. What can I get you?”

I’ve not even bothered to look at the menu yet so I quickly snatch one up and scan it double time so as not to cause a nuisance. See I can be a lovely human being when I’m not antagonised.

“Erm I’ll take…..”

Not pancakes. Only nonces eat pancakes.

“….the omelette and an orange juice please.”

“Anything else?”

“I’ve got a friend joining me but I’m not sure he even eats.”

She chuckles but I can see a hint of confusion in her face. She’ll soon see what I mean. Donnie doesn’t generate energy from digestion like most humans, instead he just mainlines jet fuel. She takes the menu from the table as she leaves and I spot Donnie climbing down from his car across the road. He’s got sunglasses on, perhaps to hide the fact he’s staring at me through the window. Nevertheless though he actually looks sedate which as far as I’m concerned is a victory for optimism. The same waitress greets him on his way in but he flat out ignores her and makes his way straight to my table, no flicker of acknowledgment in his expression until he hops up onto the bench across from me, shuffles into place and then slips the shades off his nose and into his top pocket. He just looks at me and smiles. I don’t f*cking trust him one bit. I nod at him.

“Donnie.”

Still just smiling.

“Not in the mood for pleasantries then no? In that case I’ll skip straight to the meat of the situation.”

Still smiling.

“Who the f*ck do you think I am? Siding with Samael Ahriman? Are you really that stupid?”

He looks down at the table top and snorts a a single laugh through his nose.

“Taking Dog’s word over mine as well. I thought we were supposed to be in some kind of business together here?”

Donnie reaches under the table now and before I have a chance to react to what’s going on he’s aiming a Glock 19 directly in my face, probably around about my right cheek bone, but let’s be honest I don’t think it matters where exactly in my head he shoots.

“Woah! Donnie!”

I put both hands up next to my head, a knee jerk reaction given that he still hasn’t said a word.

“Donnie for f*ck sake man, we’re sat in a diner. Put the gun away!”

The waitress is coming back over with my orange juice and she can’t even see Donnie until she’s right next to us, his tiny frame hidden behind the back of the booth seat.

“Here’s your ora…….OH MY GOODNESS!”

She backs up with her hand covering her mouth and I speak to her, without turning my head of course.

“Don’t panic. This is under control.”

I can hear her nearly hyperventilating to the side of me.

“If you could just put the juice down on the table and leave us that would be great. Do NOT create a scene and do NOT call the police.”

She gingerly puts the glass right on the edge of the table and then sidles backward away from us. I’m not so confident she’ll follow those instructions.

“Donnie she’s probably going to call them anyway you know. Put the gun back in your pants and let’s talk.”

Finally he replies.

“Do I look like a f*cking **** to you?”

“Donnie I….”

“Do I look like a **** TO YOU!”

If there has ever been a time to resist making jokes at his expense this would be it. I’ve had him seething with rage before now, the veins in his head pulsing like alien eggs. I’ve had knives pressed up against all sorts of places, and yet this is the most dangerous he’s ever seemed. He appears calm and that’s far more terrifying than when he’s about to burst a blood vessel.

“No?”

“Then what makes you think you can double cross me?”

He’s still eerily calm about the whole thing.

“I just told you! I haven’t so much as spoken to Ahriman, let alone tried to side with him. Is this because we’re starting off the Superbrawl match? What, you think we’re going to team up and just pick everyone else off one by one as they exit their respective pods?”

Now I think about it that would be an excellent idea. Maybe I should call him? Hey! Back to the problem at hand. Gun. In. Face.

“Sam may have betrayed you but he took from me as well, and I don’t take kindly to that. What makes you think he’d trust me anyway? There’s just no logic to this idea.”

Stupid f*cking Dog. Mind you, Donnie seems to have taken it hook, line and sinker. It’s done enough for him to do something as dramatic as all this!

“I’m going to put my hands down now okay? I’m going to pick up my orange juice and have a sip. Please don’t f*cking shoot me. Can we at least agree to that?”

He blinks and I can only assume that’s code for yes, so I take my hands back to rest on the table top, little by little, being sure not to make any sudden movements that might have him squeeze that trigger by accident. Pick up the juice. Take a sip. Throw it in his eyes temporarily blinding him?

“Did you get hold of my meds?”

He nods and, with his free hand, reaches under the table again and passes me an envelope that rattles as it goes from hand to hand.

“Are you going to shoot me?”

He’s clearly decided against the idea, or at least postponed it, as he gun begins to lower and eventually winds up back in his waistband.

“Thank you.”

“Seeing as you’ve spoiled my f*cking fun, how about you now try and convince me that I’m betting on the winning horse. It’s one thing to betray me, it’s another to humiliate me by just being a f*cking loser.”

I’m not a loser. Daphne’s a f*cking loser. I’m not. Am I?

“I lost one of my titles, I don’t plan on losing another.”

“Yeah, about that, why the f*ck didn’t you let Dean eat the pin?”

“You think I had any choice in the matter? I couldn’t even see for about 8 seconds after that can wrapped itself round the back of my head.”

“Then why did you let it happen? Why did you let a f*cking drunk like that Brennan get the upper hand on you? It must feel great knowing you were outsmarted by a chump who was quite literally drinking on the job!”

At first, terrible. Now I know the truth? Just pretty bad.

“He’s on the straight and narrow.”

“Horse sh*t. Did that shot scramble your brains or something? He was knocking back tallboys in the f*cking ring!”

The waitress peeks out of the kitchen, with the chef stepping out as well. Her nervous eyebrows arch as she catches my eye, but a single wave of my hand puts her at ease. Her’s reaches for her chest as she sighs, before disappearing back in to the kitchen. Donnie better not have f*cked up my omelet.

“I saw him last night. Trust me on this, he’s not drinking.”

“Well f*ck. I suppose that sweeps at least a fraction of the embarrassment under the p*ss soaked carpet of your life.”

Thanks Donnie.

“It doesn’t change the fact that he beat you though.”

“You think I don’t understand that? Do you know how long it had been since I last lost a match? Well?”

“You think I’m f*cking counting?”

“1490 days! That’s over four years Donnie. I hadn’t lost a f*cking match in four years!”

F*cking tag matches!

“Don’t raise your voice at me baby d*ck.”

“Do you have any idea how it feels to be told you’re no longer sailing on the longest unbeaten streak in history?”

“Sh*tty?”

“F*cking yes sh*tty! Not only that but the belts I won on my own, after you and your megalodon left me high and dry, have now been swiped from under my nose. So you’ll have to excuse me if I get a little riled talking about it.”

Calm down now, otherwise the staff really will call the police, if they haven’t already.

“Not only that but it’s Dave who winds up being the one to do it. The man I’ve beaten twice before, the man I personally selected as the third member of The New Epoch. He’s shown me up just two weeks before I main event Superbrawl. How can I go into a match like this and feel as confident as ever?”

“Because you’re not facing Brennan, you’re facing 4 f*ck pigs and Trace Demon.”

“I make that 5 f*ck pigs.”

“You and Trace had a lover’s tiff or some sh*t?”

“Am I the only one that saw him position himself perfectly to win this match, whilst putting me right in front of a puckering arsehole about to blow?”

“He’s given you the opportunity we’ve wanted. When that bell rings it’s you and Ahriman in that ring. If you’re a girl of your word, and there’s no skullf*ckery going on between the pair of you, then this is our chance to rip Ahriman’s arms off and beat him with them!”

“My number one concern isn’t destruction of any one man Donnie. I’ve got a long road to run in 3 days time and I’m just planning on making it to the end by any means possible. I’m still the man to beat. Getting pinned by Brennan has just put blood in the water, and believe me I taste good. The only way anyone walks out of that chamber as the legit champion is if they have beaten me to do it. It’s as simple as that and they all know it.

I’ve always been a marked man. Now though I’m a marked man with a tangible mortality. Now more than ever those f*cking schmucks are going to believe I’m beatable, and I’m starting to wonder if I can stand up to that.”

“F*cking hell. Cry me a river you f*cking ****. So what? Our deal is off then? You’re not going to bring me Ahriman’s head?”

“I can’t waste my time and effort on making sure I ruin him. I’ve not got enough sets of eyes. I’m still going to slap the taste out of his mouth, but if someone else gets rid of him then that’s fine by me. I’m playing to survive at this point Donnie, so no, I’m not going out of my way to crucify Ahriman and Ahriman alone.”

“If he could see you now.”

“Shut the f*ck up.”

“If Michael Kyzer could see you right now he’d wonder why the f*ck he was ever your friend in the first place. In fact he’d probably be straight on the look out for something tall enough to throw you off and finish the job.”

Finally my omelet arrives but it’s the chef who brings it over, no doubt the waitress refusing to come down this end of the diner when she knows there’s a midget with a loaded pistol. Smart woman.

“You’re playing the Kyzer card? You think I give a sh*t what he would think? I’m more accomplished than that sack of sh*t will ever be. He should be vying for my approval, not the other way around.”

“I’m just trying to find something to kickstart you out of f*ggot mode, but I guess I was right all along. I had to ignore my gut when I first came to you. I had to ignore the fact that I’ve always looked at you as a f*cking b*tch, but it looks like I was right all along.”

Donnie slides off of the seat and stands next to the table, looking at me as he backs away toward the door.

“Maybe Trace can crush Ahriman for me? After all, he’s the one in control. Peace the f*ck out.”

He turns and waddles his way back toward the door, the glock very visible through his tight shirt. I shout after him:

“Hey Donnie…..”

He looks over his shoulder.

“You’re still just a f*cking midget.”

“Nice. Even your f*ckin’ insults have lost their lustre.”

Aaaaaand he’s gone.

Now I’m left contemplating the fact that maybe I have lost it, staring down at an omelette I don’t even want.

F*ck omelettes.

God that’s pathetic.


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O is for Oh He's Not Dead?

So it turns out Yukio Blaze is still a thing in 2016. He’s on his farewell tour, which admittedly given the number of pussies advertising this as their ‘last match’, doesn’t feel quite as important as he’d like. Of all the f*cking ridiculous ways the other entrants in this match have made it to where we are now I think this one takes the biscuit, chews it up and spits it in my face.

Samael Ahriman - Loses and then complains.
TITLE SHOT!
Cameron Stone - Tries to retire 14 times. Does Trace Demon’s bidding.
TITLE SHOT!
Joshua Dean - Loses. Loses. Loses.
TITLE SHOT!
Yukio Blaze - Rubs his magic lamp and makes his 3rd wish?!?!
TITLE SHOT!

What in the bluest blue of f*cks is going on around here? You know we’re all on thin ice when you have someone putting their milk teeth under their pillow and just hoping a completely unwarranted title shot will materialise………..and it does.

Yukio Blaze must have s*cked some serious corporate c*ck to shoehorn his way into a matter completely unrelated to him. Not only that but when has Yukio even been close to the f*cking level I operate on? I’m not even angry, I’m just incredulous and have nothing more to say on the matter.

Yukio.

Take your list of sh*t pseudonyms, your willingness to underachieve and your 3 f*cking wishes and have yourself a long walk off a short pier.

I’ve already wasted enough breath on you.


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Friends are Great

“No offence man but you don’t look like you’re 48 hours away from the main event of Superprawl.”

My continued inability to hide my lack of enthusiasm is starting to annoy me. It just takes too much energy to act like I f*cking care right now though.

“Cheers, I needed that.”

Lucas Crowe might think he’s got my best interests at heart, but a little subtlety and ego-massaging goes a long way. I’ve come to meet him in the bar at his hotel in an attempt to squeeze any information I can about his recent meetings with Trace Demon. I don’t trust Trace’s intentions one bit going into this chamber match but I want to make doubly sure that my concerns are justified. Stripping away any distractions can only serve to help me at a time where my concentration is waining.

“I said no offence.”

“That’s doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to take any.”

An awkward silence follows that’s broken only by an anonymous set of hands placing our drinks on the table beside us. I don’t bother to look up, knowing that Crowe’s enough of a human being to say thanks on my behalf. To my surprise, he doesn’t?

“Hey what was that?”

“What was what?”

“You didn’t say thank you.”

“Did you?”

While he’s got a point, it’s kind of to be expected from me at this point. He on the other hand still has most of his decency left, even if Justin Tyme has been latched on like the lamprey he is, trying to drain those juices.

“That’s not an answer. What I do has f*ck all to do with you. So tell me, why did, or I suppose didn’t, you do that?”

There’s a brief pause as though he’s trying to work out whether to tell me whatever it is he’s thinking or not. I smell the garbage Trace baits his hooks with.

“Trace Demon said…..”

Bingo.

“If I want to be respected and thought of as a champion I need to act like one.”

“And you think real champions lack the courtesy to show gratitude?”

“Well no, I suppose…….f*ck man, what about you? What am I supposed to think when I’m sat with the Heavyweight Champion of the world and he does the same?”

“I’m not rude because I’m the champion Lucas.”

“Then what?”

“I’m rude because I’m f*cking wiped out. I figured I’d save myself the energy and let you do the deed. Besides what the f*ck does Trace know about being a champion? Last time I checked he hasn’t held a belt in well over two years.”

Crowe smirks and then sits quietly reevaluating things. I wonder how deep these hooks are sunk? Is there still hope for him, or is he a Trace devotee? He might be a sh*tty wrestler but Demon’s pretty good at the whole brainwashed follower thing.

“You want people to respect you as a champion? Destroy everyone in your path. Trust me, you’ll get treated accordingly.”

“You sure about that?”

I pick up my tumbler and nose the scotch.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it’d be a stretch of the imagination to count everyone in your end of the Superbrawl card as…..respectful.”

He’s got a point there.

“That’s why I plan on putting them all to bed without their dinner. I can’t tolerate anymore of this f*cking uppity bull sh*t. Besides, I’d class your match at ‘my end of the card’. What does that say about you? Do you respect me Crowe?”

I make a point of looking him right in the eyes as I say it, hoping that even if his words don’t betray him his body language will. There’s already too long of a pause for my liking.

“Of course I do. I respect that title, so whoever’s holding it deserves that respect by association.”

Whoever? That was the wrong answer mate. I don’t respond, just narrow my eyes at him and finally take a sip from the glass.

“Obviously I respect you either way though. You and Trace personally chose me as your representative.”

He continues to say all the wrong things, belying any sense of allegiance by making it all seem like a way up the totem. Trace’s hooks are in deeper than I think even he knows.

“Do you respect David Brennan?”

Let’s see what we can do here.

“I can’t imagine you’d underestimate him, so I guess there has to be a certain degree of it present?”

“You think I respect him because he’s pinned me before?”

“If not him, then at least what he’s capable of?”

“What? Like pinning you?”

Watch it big lad.

“Is that what this is about? Are you here to give me a pep talk because now you’re not so sure you’ve bet on the right f*ckin’ horse?”

“I just want to make sure you’re in the right mindset This is the biggest match of your career Lucas, and as someone with your best interests at heart I just want to make sure you’e ready.”

I hope that didn’t sound as insincere as it felt.

“You’re starting to sound like Tyme.”

Okay, I’m not having that.

“Do you want this tumbler in your face? Because you’re going the right way about it mate.”

Yet another of those silences, with both of us staring the other out, both well aware that neither of us can afford to be anything but 100% going into Superbrawl, regardless of how much we openly admit it. I break the tension by laughing, something I pleased to see Crowe joins me in. Nothing like a bit of light hearted character assassination to get things back on track, especially when it’s Justin Tyme your sights are set on.

“Listen, truth be told, and I hope you appreciate my honesty here and don’t take offence, I couldn’t give any f*cks about your match. I’d like you to put a stop to Brennan’s current trajectory, sure, but not for your benefit, for mine. Either way though the eventual outcome doesn’t matter a sh*t to me. If Brennan gets too big for his boots I’ll just flatten him myself. I’d like to think your capable of getting the job done but, like I say, I don’t really care if you prove me wrong. All I care about is my match, which is the way everyone should be thinking, up and down the card. If you’re worried about what happens elsewhere then you’re dooming yourself to failure. Take that as gospel from a man who knows how to f*cking win. Why am I here talking to you? Legit? Because I want to know what Trace Demon’s been saying. I’ll level with you. F*ck, it’s not like I care if you tell him. By the time he finds out it won’t even matter anyway.

So Crowe, are you going to share with me, champion to champion, or are you going to drink the Coolaid the boss has been mixing up?”

He laughs, shaking his head a little before taking a sip of his own drink.

“And here I was thinking the two of you had worked out your differences?”

“There are too many of those to count. I’ve got no plan to undermine our professional working relationship………unless it means beating him to the punch. He hasn’t given me much in the way of reasons to trust him, not after that sh*t he pulled with Sleater the other day. Now thanks to him and this facade of fairness, the mountain I have to climb in 2 days time is now a damn sight taller than it should be. Sending me out first while het gets to watch from the sidelines for 20 minutes? I don’t remember the vultures in the f*cking Jungle Book singing about that.”

“Isn’t he just doing the same thing you are? Looking out for number one, and number one alone?”

“Maybe so, but if that’s the case drop the poor imitation of what he thinks a friend looks like.”

“Friends are great, championships are better.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing. Just a thought.”

Trace Demon was practically in the room for that moment and if you ask me that one telltale line is all the assurance I need. Trace Demon is going to f*ck me, and possibly Crowe too.

“Then say it again.”

“Really, it was nothing.”

I rise from my seat and, for perhaps the only time in my life, I stand looking down at the International Champ.

“If you so much as entertain the thought that this belt of mine is in your wheelhouse I’ll show the world just how f*cking clueless you are boy. People don’t say sh*t like that to me and get off scot-free. I don’t give a f*ck if it was Trace Demon who said it first, you keep your eyes on your business and cherish my offer of tutelage as the golden fleece that it is.”

Having heard enough Crowe decides to stand to meet me and once again I’m near enough looking at his chest.

“F*ck you. I’m sick of hearing how I NEED other people’s advice to succeed. Do you know who won the International Championship? Lucas Crowe. The same Lucas Crowe that’s going to beat your old bosom buddy into the dirt, something it seems you’re incapable of doing these days. You used to be the king Drakz, but now? You’d have already lost that title if it wasn’t for me. I saved your ass at Black Hole Sun, Trace saved your ass at Show Time, as a matter of fact, when was the last time you won a match single handedly? I make it well over a year ago.”

The f*ck is this?

“You want to know if I respect you? I used to, but you’re a shell of your former self. Almost everyone in that Elimination Chamber has your number. They’ve nearly all either had you beaten dead to rights or in fact pinned you before. You’re done. There’s a new era arriving in this business, one that everyone’s been waiting on for a long, long time. The lumbering, seemingly never ending reign of Drakz is over, and if it isn’t one of the men in that chamber that puts it down I’ll be waiting in the wings to do it myself.”

……………………..

“Nothing to say? Figures. It’s about time someone told you how it really is.”

He downs the last of his drink before leaving, shoulder checking me on his way past, but I’m too dazed to even begin to respond until well after he’s gone. I’m standing, on my own, in the centre of the bar and I have to finish my own drink just to steady my nerve. Why didn’t I just make him eat the rim of this glass? Why didn’t I say anything to a man so many miles out of line?

All that sh*t Trace Demon has been feeding him has clearly gone to his head, but somehow that’s bled over into my own.

I think it’s time I went and paid the red haired f*ck a visit.


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T is for Treachery

So last but not least, not while Yukio is in the conversation anyway, comes the man who embarrassingly calls himself ‘The King of Demons’. Trace and I have a storied past to say the least, I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to go to great lengths telling you all about it. It’s been an ongoing issue ever since the International Championship tournament back in 2012. People thought the Mayan’s predicted the end of the world for that ver year, but what was lost in translation was that it was actually a prediction of far greater importance and consequences that far outweigh the complete destruction of the human race. In 2012 Trace Demon ended my International Championship reign. I understand that there could be some confusion between ‘title reign’ and ‘world’ but none the less those Mayans were right.

I don’t feel I need to fill in the blanks as to what has happened since, partially because most of you already know, but mostly because I know history lessons are more his thing, so chances are he’ll do the work for me.

I instead want to focus on whatever the f*ck has been going on for the better part of this year. Ever since the forming of The Super Best Friends people have done nothing but speculate on who was in who’s pocket? Who has the launch codes? Who’s pulling the strings? The answer is neither of us. We’ve never purported to being a team in the traditional sense. Have we so much as fought alongside one another in a tag match? I’ve done more of that with Josh and no one asks which one of us is the leader of the gang.

The thing is with Trace and I that I was practically forced into taking sides with him. Hell, the man threatened to cost me in my title defence as the time unless I accepted his offer. What was I going to say? The fact that we’ve both played relatively nicely together since is mere coincidence. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and the pair of us have our fair share of those, of course there’s going to be some cross over. Someone should draw a venn diagram of that. Drakz enemies, Trace’s enemies and those that fall into both camps, which arguably is most of them.

Everyone keeps banging on saying things like “Drakz is Trace’s b*tch“ and “Trace is playing Drakz for a fool”, but people never stop to consider the fact that if that latter fact is plain for them to see, then it’s damn sure not going unnoticed by the smartest man in wrestling. If I’m a puppet then I’m a fairly autonomous one, when you consider the fact that I’m the one walking into this match as the champion. This isn’t a Dex situation. I wasn’t just handed this title for showing up on time. I earned it, and I’ve defended it against all comers, Trace Demon himself included.

Things have started to come to a head though as Trace shuffles his hand, getting his cards in order. We’ve been allies because he’s wanted it that way. It was always going to be easier for him to slink back into the title picture than to come at it head on. Forcibly align with me to make all of the other options seem inadequate and then when he gets his opportunity use his privileges as owner to skew the odds heavily, if not wholly, in his favour. It’s one thing to dump me in the starting spot, but your true colours really hang out the bottom of your skirt when you put yourself as the guaranteed final pod release.

The thing about Trace is that he has always had a very high opinion of himself. He overestimates his cunning and wiles, always pinning himself as the sharpest knife in the back, but I’m fine with that. The further Trace falls into his own stew of self gratifying back slaps the lower his guard is. When you think you’ve got everyone figured out and cornered you’re not thinking enough about your own safety anymore. Give Trace all of the chips so it takes blunt force trauma for him to see I’m not even playing anymore.

His focus has been solely on getting back into position to take this World Heavyweight Championship from me, or whoever holds it. He’s been taking his time, waiting for all of the pieces to fall into place, but during this down time I’m afraid everyone’s forgotten about you mate. As I said to Crowe it’s been over two years since Trace Demon last held a title and do you know why? He’s too proud to take a step down. He wants my title or nothing. Now this is all well and good when you’re talented enough to remain that blinkered, but Trace just isn’t. He could have been International Champion this entire time if he’d just swallowed that pride for a moment and accepted that maybe the main event isn’t such a great place to be when it’s being held up by my monolithic gonads.

Hell you could even have had a run at the Tag Team Titles Trace, oh no wait, I had those as well. ‘Had’ being the operative word there as Trace also took it upon himself to ruin that for me. Of course he made sure to make it look completely innocent and harmless but what reason did he have to hobble down to ringside. Shouldn’t he have been resting his poorly little foot? Instead he does an excellent job of confusing our under qualified special guest referee and gets me brained in the process.

Now Trace’s d*ck-headdery, yes that’s a word, can’t be held completely to blame for my loss. I was at fault for not keeping my eye on an old friend’s drinking habits, but nonetheless it’s yet another tick in the ‘yes’ column when the question is asked; ‘Is Trace moments away from sexually assaulting me and taking what’s mine?’ Because at the end of the day I don’t think Trace hates me anymore, not like he used to. Equally I don’t hate him, and perhaps that’s the problem. Maybe this lack of any real abhorrence is the reason I’ve let this go on as long as it has instead of dropping him on his head? Trace only wants one thing, the World Heavyweight Championship. He lost it, his last title, at Superbrawl all that time ago, and now he thinks this will count as some form of redemption, that people will forget the fact that he lost to a man in the midst of chemotherapy. He wants to reinstate his namesake as royalty because he knows as well as I do that putting a crown of tin foil and make believe on your head does not make you a king.

I want to hear all of this from his mouth though, in his words, or at the very least watch him try and squirm his way out of it. That’s why I’m making the trip from Pasadena to Los Angeles so close to game day.

That’s why I’m willing to show him my hand at a time that might cost me.

I’m the king, but not of something gay like demons. I’m the king of the f*cking world.

I figure if I say that enough times I’ll start to believe it again.

Sh*t.


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A Death in the Family

This place still stinks of p*ss, which to me says only one thing. Trace needs to choose. Is he a bar manager or a wrestler? Because splitting his time between both is just lowering his overall standards. He can’t wrestle, and he can’t keep his premises free of urine. I may be about to make that decision for him though as I don’t think he’ll even be able to get through the ropes of a ring with broken legs.

“What do you mean he’s not available right now?”

A familiar voice comes from around the corner that stops me in my tracks. What’s he doing here?

“I mean he’s not available right now. I can’t make that much clearer I’m afraid.”

I’ve now got eyes on the conversation and I was right about the voice. Still though;

“What the f*ck are you doing here?”

Dog turns to look in my direction and his eyes widen, clearly not having anticipated that I might be paying Trace a visit myself. Trace’s P.A. from my previous drop in is the one barring the metaphorical gates and she too is looking in my direction.

“And where the f*ck is Trace? I need to speak to him, or more to the point he needs to speak to me.”

Seeing my attention has turned to the girl Dog shrinks down, his tail between his legs, backing away from the confrontation.

“I can only tell you what I told your friend here, he’s not available at the moment.”

“Whatever you told him, or anyone else for that matter, doesn’t apply to me. I’m out of the reaches of any of Trace’s rules of thumb, so if you don’t mind buzz me through, or whatever the f*ck it is you’ve got to do.”

Dog is genuinely trying to slink out the door, thinking I’m too wrapped up in my beef with the human clipboard. I turn my head just enough for him to know it’s him I’m addressing;

“You can f*cking stay where you are as well. You’ve got some explaining to do.”

She reaches for her walkie talkie and for a second I feel like my posturing has worked a treat, until I realise she’s actually calling security. Remembering the silverback from last time I was here is enough for me to want to shut her down. I slap the handset from her grasp and to the floor and she is stunned. She’s clearly not dealt with physical danger all that much in her current role, which leads me to believe she’s still fairly new to all this.

“Listen. I’m not mad with you, and maybe that was a little hasty of me, but I just made a trip here specially from Pasadena, and I really don’t want to have just wasted my time. You wouldn’t want to waste my time either would you?”

“No, of course not.”

Sh*t. I didn’t mean to frighten her, just buy myself some time.

“Then just do me a favour, get Trace down here so I can have a word. I’ll be quick, honest.”

“I’m sorry but he’s not available at the moment.”

Like a bloody android she just repeats the lines she’s had programmed in and I start to realise that whether it’s through sheer stupidity alone on her part she is the ultimate gatekeeper. There’s no room for negotiation because I’m not sure she’s capable of it. I start to loose my temper though and just begin shouting into the rafters.

“TRACE! IF YOU’RE UP IN YOUR F*CKING OFFICE, HIDING FROM ME, THEN I JUST WANT YOU TO KNOW I’VE SPOKEN TO LUCAS, AND I KNOW YOUR LITTLE PLAN.”

I’m completely bluffing. I don’t really know about any plan, in fact my coming here to interrogate him was kind of going to be how I found out about said plan.

“He knows you’re bluffing.”

Dog decides to chime in and he really shouldn’t have.

“If he knows anything it’s likely because you’ve f*cking told him.”

Seemingly having found his nerve Dog steps forward.

“In case you already forgot, I’m being denied the same things as you. Don’t you think any collusion on my part would at least grant me an audience when I wanted it?”

“You never did answer my first question. Why are you here Dog? Trying to spread more anti Drakz propaganda? Tell him I’m in cahoots with Ahriman for example?”

He doesn’t like that. Being found out. He doesn’t like the fact that I’m calling him up on the sh*t he’s being trying to drop on me from above with anonymity. There’s an electricity in the air now and I’m close to flipping out. One too many things have really got on my tits this week and it’s all starting to come to a head.

“What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

There’s got to be some kind of joke in there surely? Stand alone like that it just sounded f*cking lame.

“I wanted you to be able to focus, without that maniac midget getting in the way.”

“So you chat sh*t about me? You bring into question my allegiances and nearly get me killed!? I suppose you don’t know about that yet? Donnie put a gun in my f*cking face………..in the middle of the day………in public.”

Dog, to my surprise, just turns away from me and walks out the room. At first I don’t know how to respond, so shocked am I at the audacity of this little c*nt.

“If and when Trace decides he’s ‘available’ again, tell him I’ll save our meeting for tomorrow. I figure he can’t go anywhere when he’s locked inside a cage with me.”

And after that four legged prick I go. He’s already made it outside the front of the club but he refuses to break into anymore than a trot so there’s still time for me to catch up.

“Dog! Don’t try running from this. You’ve got a serious f*cking hole to dig yourself out of mate.”

I’m by his side now and keep talking at him to little response.

“You must have known Donnie would blow a gasket and approach me about what you told him? There’s no f*cking way he was going to quietly plot his next move, and Trace? What? You want to make sure he’s definitely going to f*ck me tomorrow night right? Give him a little encouragement. Dog!”

Still nothing from him and my blood begins to boil.

“So you’re not even going to bother trying to explain? After everything I’ve done for you over the years? You’d still be living on the f*cking streets if I hadn’t taken you in, and what does my charitable nature get me in return? Not so much as a word in your defence. You’ve got a f*cking nerve mate.”

He stops. Cocks his head.

“You’re a total sham and I’ve grown to hate everything about you. That’s why.”

It hangs over us both as he turns to look me in the eye at last.

“You’re not a conqueror, or a legend or any of the ridiculous things you claim to be. You’re not the greatest of all time, you’re not even the greatest at the moment. You’ve come to rely so heavily on others to dig you out of the sh*t that surrounds you that you’ve forgotten how to be the killer you used to be. Hell you’re not even a very convincing bad guy anymore. Ever since this thing with Trace started you’ve done everything expected of you by those who call you a puppet. I know you like to act as though you’ve got everyone all worked out but in reality? In reality you don’t even know what you’re doing. You’re a total f*cking joke and there comes a time when jokes stop being funny. Now is that time. Everyone’s sick to the back teeth of the era of Drakz. You’ve stagnated the product and everyone can see it except you. Do you really think you’re the man the people pay to see? Do you honestly still believe that to be true? People have only ever paid to see you in the hope that you lose and someone more interesting and fresh can finally lead the way. Everyone is f*cking sick of you Isaac.

Trace Demon
DMK
Crowe
The fans
The entire locker room
Me
F*ck, even your doctor!

I’m not betraying you because this simply isn’t about you anymore. It’s about what comes after you.”

I…….I don’t……..

“Any one of those men in the Elimination Chamber could beat this version of Drakz. You’re a f*cking loser and the cracks are finally starting to show. You lost to David Brennan? A man that by all accounts you could write a book on the art of beating, and no it wasn’t Josh’s fault, or Trace’s or Cameron’s. Nope. It was all you. You’re done. It’s over. I’ve just been trying to give you a helping hand to speed things along. I want you gone, not just from my television, but from my flat, from my life. I’m sick of you dragging me down with all of your pathetic self serving sh*t.

I’ll say it again:

You’re a total f*cking loser Isaac.”

I can’t hear a thing as a ringing in my ears dominates the world around me but I assume there’s a number of noises that follow him saying my name. The dull thud of my boot smashing into his body, the crunch of his ribs as they shatter, a yelp that on any normal occasion would have upset me and of course the second thud as he comes back down to the ground having been lifted up from it. He tries to scramble up to his feet but I’ve seriously f*cking hurt him as he ends up just half limping, half dragging himself, making his way up an alley away from me. It’s not enough though.

I approach him and he’s cowering, so much so that he actually starts barking at me.

“Shut the f*ck up! Shut the f*ck up!”

Like a mantra I repeat these words over and over and over again, each time punctuated with another kick. I almost feel like I’m watching this all happen as a spectator, not able to connect with the brutality on display. I can’t stop myself as more and more poorly timed, ugly kicks batter the scrappy little dog I welcomed into my life and kept as a friend, my only friend, for so long. Tears fill my eyes as the ringing in my ears subsides and I start to realise that he’s not moving anymore. Each kick shakes him but ultimately only drives him deeper into the ground.

I’m crying as I start to run out of whatever it is fuelling this onslaught, the boots slowing and the full realisation of what I’ve done dawning on me.

I fall to my knees, panting like this very dog used to, staring at what might actually be the worst thing I’ve ever done.


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Well, it’s been a f*cking horrifying week. I’d be justified in saying everything that could have gone wrong has, which isn’t really the sentence you want to sum things up with on the eve of perhaps the toughest title defence of your career. It’s not tough because of the calibre of those I’m competing with, it’s tough because I’ve got to be at 100% from the opening bell. I’m the first man out and I HAVE to be the last out, otherwise that’s it. I’m finished. As difficult as that may be on any normal day my emotional and mental state is at an all time low.

My back is worse than it’s ever been.
I’ve knocked boots with a maniac that gave me the clap.
I recently lost my first match in years to a man who’s made it clear that he’ll be coming for me soon enough.
A midget threatened to kill me and nearly followed through on it in public.
My mercenary is now my enemy.
My apparent ally of late definitely has it out for me……I think.
Oh and did I mention I killed my best friend?

The fact that I even intend on making it to the ring tomorrow night is insane. I have a feeling that once that bell rings I’ll be swallowed by a seizure so severe that I’ll in turn swallow my own tongue, and yet I know I have to go out there and be the best damn performer in the business.

I’m reminded of the second time I faced Phillip Schneider and the parallels between then and now. Going into End Game I was more beat up than I’d ever been. Schneider had jumped me at every opportunity and I made sure everyone knew just how hurt I was. This time around? This is worse. I feel like complete sh*t. The emotional beating I’ve taken this week surpasses everything Schneider put me through physically. What I have to keep in my mind’s eye now is that no matter how beat up, how injured and how exhausted I was back then I still went on to put Phillip away for good. I did that. Me. So this time? As emaciated and lacking I feel I need to follow the exact same route.

Push through it. It’s my only choice.

I can’t roll over and die now, not when there’s so much on the line. When I walk through that curtain at The Rose Bowl, as the last man to enter the chamber, I’ll be over 800 days removed from the moment I became WFWF World Heavyweight Champion. I can’t let that come to an end with so many eyes on me. The world will be watching, most of it no doubt praying for my downfall, and for that reason I have to get through this. To spit in the face of those who think I’ve reached the end of the line.

I’ve been called a loser recently, and after hearing it enough times you do start to wonder if something that initially seemed so ludicrous perhaps is founded in some kind of reality. Everyone that’s chewed me out this week has made valid points but I can’t allow such hard truths to shape the outcome of this match.

If everyone thinks you need help to come out on top? Prove them wrong by overcoming all the odds alone.

If they say you’ve peaked? Put on the greatest showing of your entire life.

If they call you a loser? Win.