Post by The Gangsta on Dec 1, 2017 1:18:07 GMT -5
“Everyday I play a game of darts, throwing needles at what state I could be in. Hell, it’s like the game of throwing darts for ousting celebrity sex offenders. You never know what’s next.”
Ante Whitner RP
You Can't Stay Dead
Like every superhero and supervillain, you don’t stay dead. Skin peeling, veins popped with the blue blood, and you still find a way to magically bring yourself back. You f*ckin’ have the audacity to do that? You f*ckin’ kiddin’ me?
You’re a failure brotha, you can’t save your load for more than four seconds. And when you somehow do, you f*ckin’ jizz on the biggest man in the industry and leave. No cleanup, no goodbyes. You just disappear and come once in awhile when another big man needs a good nut in the face. F*ckin’ horny as hell man.
F*ckin’ ignorant, f*ckin’ psycho. Next time you choose a day to come back from six feet under, remind yourself of why you magically rise up. That Pentecost sh*t ain’t gonna save you, that bullsh*t excuse you make up everytime won’t cut it. Be original you f*ckin’ low-life, patty-flippin’, junkhead. They’ll never get you and neither will I, f*ckin’ hobo.
Just run away and never f*ckin’ come back. Just call it quits and make like a tree mothaf*cka, this place ain’t gonna hold you no more. Keep growing that beard, keep being a Santa Claus fatass and eat the coal you deal, the glory you steal. There’s no f*ckin’ room for your disgusting face, no room for your grotesque physique, no room for you. Heard that? No more f*ckin’ room assh*le.
Oh, I’m not talking about Michael Kyzer.
I’m talking to you Ante.
November 9th, 2017
San Juan, Puerto Rico
The day after International Assault, sore as hell. Flight’s in six hours and I have time to kill.
Tour Guide: Aquí, verás la gran devastación causada por el huracán. Sir?
Ante: Uh, sí.
I’m culturally appropriating the sh*t out of Puerto Rico right now. Walking through the rubble, almost like a warzone. A map perfect for some Call of Duty or Battlefield sh*t. It’s been ten minutes on this tour and I already forgot the stupid spic’s name. I’ll call him Lopez after my favorite piece of ass Jennifer Lopez.
Lopez: Todas las personas aquí están sufriendo y nosotros necesitamos su ayuda.
I have no f*ckin’ clue what these motherf*ckers are saying, but I heard something about hurricane earlier. Probably promoting some charity sh*t. I don’t give in to charity, it only helps the dictators enslave their people. We’re walking on a slope upward, feeling my skin peeling off with the heavy wind ensuing, windburn galore.
Random Tourist Guy: Uhh, sir, would you mind translating to English please?
Stupid capitalist American tourists, flexing their Hawaiian shirts when they’re not even in f*ckin’ Hawaii. Their pale sunblock, their skin-tight sunglasses, and cargo shorts; hopefully their sandals get caught in some pothole and break their legs tryin’ to escape. Amateurs.
Lopez: Lo siento, um, I’m sorry. It’s just...a… addiction?
Yeah, “addiction” dipsh*t.
Random Tourist Girl: Habit?
Lopez: Sí, uhh, yes.
Random tourist girl is getting hotter by the minute. No ring, no dude (or girl or attack helicopter or whatever you trannie hippies call it nowadays). Maybe she’s single. I call to her. A quick booty call before I leave would be nice, as long as I don’t get some crazy STD El Chapo gives out here.
Ante: Hey, how are you?
Random Tourist Girl: I’m good. And yourself?
Ante: Could’ve been better.
Could’ve been better is an understatement.
Random Tourist Girl: Ah, where are you from?
Ante: New York.
Random Tourist Girl: Ah, my family here is from Louisiana.
Middle aged parents, younger brother. I’m expecting her age to be in the teens.
Ante: How long you visiting here?
Random Tourist Girl: Uhh, I don’t know.
She sees the scars and gashes on my wrists as Lopez goes on about some f*ckin’ rock we’re near.
Random Tourist Girl: Woah, are you alright?!
Ante: Don’t worry about it. So, uhh, how old are you?
Random Tourist Girl: I’m 15.
Basically half my age. Well, age is just a number after all. Goodbye morals.
Ante: Would you wanna, perhaps, get out of here and go to my penthouse suite downtown?
I pulled that classic Jordan Belfort type sh*t. Brings me back to the KKK days.
Random Tourist Girl: Uhhh…
Her parents call her over. I mean after all, she had braces, a fanny pack, an off-brand pink visor, and cotton balls for tits. Age being a number got way over my head. Then again, everything goes over my f*ckin’ head like leprechauns on a rainbow.
Lopez: Vamanos, I mean, uh, keep up please.
God, this tour guide is awful. I feel buzzing in my pocket from my phone. Cracks and distorted LEDs are what’s left of my phone. What can I say, I’m a clumsy f*ck.
Ante: Hello?
James: Where are you?
Ante: Decided to take a tour of San Juan, sucks ass.
James: Are you heading up the hill a few blocks away from the arena? Because I’m pretty sure I see you.
Ante: Where you at?
James: On top of that really nice white building we saw when we got in. Look behind you.
There was a scrawny ginger man waving erratically on top of some pueblo. F*ckin’ white people don’t know how to act in places devastated…. Wait, nevermind.
Ante: Okay, do you need me or something?
James: Well, I figured we’d get lunch before hoppin’ on the flight.
Ante: I think I’m good.
James: You need to eat Ant’.
Ante: I’m good.
There’s a pause. I feel an itch in my crotch.
James: Alright, yeah. Let me know when you wanna meet up for the flight.
Ante: Yeah.
James: Talk to you later.
James hangs up first and the entire entourage of pasty white Irish and German-Americans are a hundred feet away from me. F*ckin’ kill me now.
Lopez: Sir! Hurry up please.
Por favor, spare me the attention.
Ante: Sorry.
I almost replied with “sorry spic”. I start laughing to myself, the random tourist girl probably thinking of how much of a maniac I probably am. I peel skin, bite fingers, and rape Irish girls who visit me in the hospital. It’s like…
Random Tourist Guy: Hell.
What?
Lopez: Sí, uhh, yes, precisely. This is a replication of Oller’s work, put on this wall by the young artists of San Juan.
So caught in my own delusions I forgot I’m actually in present day. I always thinking I’m shifting between planes, in between space and time and looking at me, everyone, the moment, from a third person perspective.
I begin to examine the mural closely.
Ante: What do the angels from the sky represent?
Random Tourist Girl: Hope? Faith?
Ante: Nah, that’s the bullsh*t they teach you with those pervy priests. Look closer.
Random Tourist Guy: They’re draped in black?
Ante: Yeah, they’re the devils, the hell that eats you. It doesn’t pull you under from beneath, it swoops in from the sky like the knowledge you take from your stupid iPhones and sh*tty cable news networks.
Awkward silence. I love making movie moments that need to be filmed ASAP.
Lopez: Uhh, thank you sir. Please, follow me, we are approaching the end of tour.
The dude takes us into a church and I already feeling ghost demons following me like a herd of beggar nuns. I bite my tongue as hard as I can to avoid bursting into a fit. Something about these places, something about the stained color glass and the light that reflects through. It just f*ckin’, f*cks with me.
Lopez: As you can see, our lord Jesus Christo muerto, um, died for us. He is son of God, our God. We cherish him and María here.
Spic’s broken English is giving me a migraine the size of El Nino.
Random Tourist Girl: Excuse me, but why is this church so symbolic in San Juan?
Lopez: Well, uh…
Ante: Because all these f*ckin’ spics do is cherish a fairytale because they have no one else to believe in.
Pretty sure Lopez didn’t hear me, but the families sure did. Their jaws dropped, their hands covered their kids’ ears. Maybe I’m the Puerto Rican people, broken and devastated, looking to something made up to keep my mind off of everything. To make sure I’m still alive.
Nah.
Ante: I’m assuming that concludes the tour.
Lopez: Uhh, sí. Hope you disf-, f*ck, enjoyed your tour Mr. Whitner.
Wait.
Ante: Excuse me, what did you say?
Lopez: I know who you are Mr. Whitner, all of us knew. We’ve always known.
My mind starts numbing me, flashbacks of being at the hospital. Flashbacks of raping…
I snap back.
Random Tourist Guy: Shame on you. What’s the matter with you?
I ignore him. His daughter looks at me with fear. Funny how numb the mind makes you and it instantly instills fear in everyone adjacent to you.
Lopez: Umm, hope you guys enjoyed your tour, um. Have a good rest of your vacation.
I’m THAT guy, almost every single time. I can’t control it nor express my regret about it. It’s apart of me. Forever now.
Mexico City. Another city infested with the filth of…. Nevermind.
Why have they picked such a perfect place? A place for me to dwell and morph in with the witches and “dead people”? Maybe.
No. It’s because of the battleground between Michael Kyzer and I. A rematch two years in the making, except it’s one no one cared about. Both men who have accomplished nothing since that first match, both men who’ve been in hell (and/or still are in it), and both men who do nothing but talk sh*t and not backing it up.
It’s a buildup of sorts; a money making, cash laundering Ponzi scheme, orchestrated by none other than the “brilliant” board of directors. People who think money matters over health and stability. Forget asking me what I feel like, ask Michael Kyzer too. He’ll tell you that instead of snorting coke out of Oriental girls’ assh*les, he throws neck just so he can get his daily dose. Withdrawal, setback, nothing greedy yes-men can understand.
I say it once again: this business, it ain’t about wrestlin’ anymore. No one can give two sh*ts about the violence we go through just because we want some expensive ass leather strap. No one can care if we drop dead on some drug overdose because our bodies just can’t handle the sober pain. They just wanna see it, the f*ckin’ blood, the f*ckin’ gore. We thrive on it like some war profiteering racket.
Kyzer, b*tch.
Like every superhero and supervillain, you don’t stay dead. Skin peeling, veins popped with the blue blood, and you still find a way to magically bring yourself back. You f*ckin’ have the audacity to do that? You f*ckin’ kiddin’ me?
You’re a failure brotha, you can’t save your load for more than four seconds. And when you somehow do, you f*ckin’ jizz on the biggest man in the industry and leave. No cleanup, no goodbyes. You just disappear and come once in awhile when another big man needs a good nut in the face. F*ckin’ horny as hell man.
F*ckin’ ignorant, f*ckin’ psycho. Next time you choose a day to come back from six feet under, remind yourself of why you magically rise up. That Pentecost sh*t ain’t gonna save you, that bullsh*t excuse you make up everytime won’t cut it. Be original you f*ckin’ low-life, patty-flippin’, junkhead. They’ll never get you and neither will I, f*ckin’ hobo.
Just run away and never f*ckin’ come back. Just call it quits and make like a tree mothaf*cka, this place ain’t gonna hold you no more. Keep growing that beard, keep being a Santa Claus fatass and eat the coal you deal, the glory you steal. There’s no f*ckin’ room for your disgusting face, no room for your grotesque physique, no room for you. Heard that? No more f*ckin’ room assh*le.
Did I get your attention now grizzly f*ck? Let’s hope Mexico City gives us some STD that’s treatable. Otherwise, we’ll be rolling in our graves.
Let’s tear the capital down Mike. Let’s swoop in and f*ck it like some virgin whore.
Let’s f*ckin’ dance.