Post by Guillotine (QDT) on Aug 18, 2019 22:59:56 GMT -5
Being Vice’s 3rd highest profile 20 year old, behind Kylian Mbappe and Sabrina Carpenter, has bountiful perks but renders buying booze in my adopted country capricious. So I’m back in the motherland in an authentic, quintessentially English pub The Ragged Trousers to relieve some steam of this serpentine summer. The dictum “no prophet’s honoured in his hometown” resonates on this quiet Tuesday evening with my anonymity intact; at least with the grizzled barman towering before me, leathery hand on hip subconsciously pointing to his manhood in some Freudian powerplay.
What’m I s’post to do wid dis, geez?
He lazily surveys the cocktail list I’ve penned.
Mix ‘em. Put me on a tab and keep it rolling. I figure this - I beat the cocktail, I beat what, or whom, it represents.
Nah mate. Ya gotta orda each one. None of dis custom malarkey. Cocktail menu’s ova dere.
Hate doing this… but I flash a ream of £100 notes, inspiring instant compliance. With impressive dexterity, he pours several of the specified liquors into a swanky retro flagon.
You sure ‘bout dis, blood? Gonna be on da floor lata’.
I rotate my hand in an affirmative “drink up” gesture.
Alwight. One… err, “LA Johnny Stylez”. What da fuck’s da “zed” all about?
I contemplate the monstrosity of this luminous concoction. One quart insecure belligerence, a shot of lackadaisical roughage, half a litre of attention seeking but hold off on the emotional intelligence and nuance.
Fuck knows, I heard he was found as a baby with a Limp Bizkit cassette in his mouth and a Tamagotchi up his arse... Look, you don’t know me but I’m a professional… fighter.
He sniggers.
Yeah OK mate. Cockfighta’ more like.
I drink up so rapidly his expression transfigures from disdain to respect.
… Accurate. 7 mangey cocks block my tête-à-tête with the World Champion so I’ll down these drinks in the same vein I drop their counterparts. Johnny’s a pubescent prick. 21 years old according to company records but 33 if you ask his previous employers, WCF. Would certainly explain his propensity to waiver in and out of uncontrollable testosterone fuelled SHOUTING and balls beginning to fall VoICe brEaKInG. Flashy "movez" but execution’s as wobbly as his speech. Speaking of execution, he’s a fluffer for his porn company Sweet Sinner, swooping like a vulture post-bukkake so he can SoaK SoMe UP! The family business portfolio doesn’t end there, oh no. His cousin Jesse runs minor fed Numetal Edgelord Wrestling where Johnny’s essentially kindergarten bully stealing nappies off his inbred peers. The likes of Allison Riggs-Preston.
Second dwink, wight?
Correct, I see you’re paying attention.
As he mixes, I dart to the pisser to get Stylez out my system. Don’t look, k? Alright, done. I return to the bar.
Dis one’s on da birds over dere. I fink you might be in mate. Shag ‘em senseless.
In the corner, a gaggle of semi-attractive girls coo and smile in my direction. The hottest, a pneumatic blonde, enchanting junk arched, attempts to regale the others with some vacuous article on her phone, oblivious that their attention rests moistly upon Mr. QDT.
Appropriate. You see, I fight girls too... but don’t dismay; Allison also wields a lil’ feisty cock. One she shares with Stylez and assorted wackadoo associates. It never sees sunlight or ventures outside, so it merely wilts and shrivels. Yet it retains an engorged façade nestling in the Wolf Family bosom, unlike Johnny, busting his bitter seed over everyone in faint hope he’ll eventually impregnate. As with that Barbie over there, Allison meanders pointlessly in her own insignificant titfuckin’ world of irrelevant drama. Will she finally ménage à trois with Ani Swan and her sloppy eighths dicked husband Dane… or even his LA frenemy? More importantly, who gives a bile drenched turd?
I swig this benign beverage effortlessly to whoos from the ladies.
She’s not grown at all since I pinned her a month ago. She still inhabits her insular, teen novella loserdom, bitching about illusory hierarchies and echelons she can’t even conceive of, never mind justify. How long will she incubate in the entitlement of wrestling dynasties with other “greats” like Estrella Luiz and Kennedy Matthews? More on the Royal Family later.
A hoarse, cockney accent bellows from the other side of the pub.
Oi, gis a game of pool.
Seems the skinhead, teeth riddled with gold fillings, is talking to me. The barman whispers in my ear.
Bloke’s name’s Baldock. Propa mad dick’ead. Be careful. I know you’s a fighta but ‘e’s fuckin’ psycho mate. I’d ‘av banned ‘im if ‘e weren’t da landlord’s son. Anyway, one “Claire ‘awkins” for ya.
Taking my latest tipple with me, I stride up to Baldock and his chav army, locking eyes to communicate my zero tolerance policy on any dumbfuckery. I snatch a cue and slam my pound coin down on the table’s edge. He puts it in the slot, assembles the balls in the triangle and chalks his cue with hostility.
You break.
I oblige, striking the first red ball at an acute angle. The balls disperse with the corner yellow shimmying into the bottom left pocket and another yellow rifling into a central hole.
2 balls sunk, 2 reasons Claire Hawkins hasn’t a hope in Salem at All-In. Despite all the potions she concocts like this filthy piss I’m consuming now, pale bitch’s not only deficient in vitamin D but in imagination. Oaken wood table, gloomy forests, verbose WAHWAH soliloquies with pretentious sprinklings of Latin and "ye olde English", bastardised Poe quotes and Banshee Shrills perfectly symbolising the feelings of the audience. She lacks the evasive nous and mental gymnastics to navigate the pitfalls and ascend to that briefcase. Reason 1 - Claire Hawkins repeats herself. Reason 2 - Claire Hawkins repeats herself.
Who the fuck’s Claire Hawkins?
Exactly.
Another ball down courtesy of Guillotine. One more. The pneumatic blonde’s peering over, finally intrigued.
Reason 3 - She whines about no one liking her, management shunning her. The only thing truly mystical about her is the self fulfilling prophecy her inferiority complex manifests. 4 - Like Bewitched, she suits a small stage but flops on the big screen. Did you know there was a Bewitched film in 2005? Me neither.
Two more. Baldock and his gang rage.
5 - I’ve exposed Hocus Pocus before in AW. I sawed Magic Maddox in two. Ryan Elias accused me but I slayed the slanderer. Witches ain’t legit; they’re just overgrown cosplay scene nerds. 6 - Hawkins fears the light. She’ll go blind two rungs up. As for 7...
Baldock grins maliciously; observing that the black’s obscured behind all of his balls and tucked harmlessly against the cushion.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Claire have a conversation with another human being. How can this reclusive being survive amongst 7 opponents at All-In? That witch lacks craft and’s going…
For Dutch Courage, I drink up. I chip the cue ball over a red, off 4 cushions; shattering the black which collides backwards into a red and spins into a pocket to cheers, courtesy of the enthralled patrons. Baldock’s cronies hold him back.
… Down!
I nurture an empty glass, pondering the cock I’m reluctant to amputate. A Jack Black doppelganger follows me at the pool table against a seething Baldock. Impressive break; two balls potted. Suddenly, peachy heavenliness perches itself onto my lap as I instinctively cradle her delectable legs. The pneumatic blondes slides a new flagon onto my beer mat.
So you must be “Derrick Vayden”. I hope this goes down well, Derrick.
Cheers.
I clink it against her wine glass as she winks.
Vayden’s the name of the drink you kindly brought over. I’m Qui…
She walks off sleekly. A handwritten note lies on my crotch, reading “Pound me” with her digits above “Nadine”. Meanwhile, Jack Black’s long lost brother continues pool sharking. I talk to him. He trembles somewhat under the glare of someone far brighter but, to his credit, continues to pot.
Wisconsin’s Finest, QDT’s heir to the Cruiserweight skyrocket. A remarkable story if my successor, first major venture above the 201 pound weight limit, ascends to the top of that ladder and the summit of this company overnight. Hell, I’m sure he’d beg for even a Havoc moment, coming within perineum distance but leaving Las Vegas a “boner” fide star. He owes the rub, his division will be blessed with, to the likes of Miller, Bolas, Cameron, Richter and Sadist; just as I adopted responsibility towards him and his ilk in April. Let’s not even whisper that Farquaad freak.
More balls are sunk.
The jump would be smoother for him as I already lubed up and gaped that bitch; just like I did remotely to his lovely Amy. Vayden still basks in the sweet fragrance I dissipated. His life’s unfolded REALLY prosperously following the electric show opener at Havoc before I rumbled above the radar, when his motionless body lay prone under mine.
“Jack” is left with the black. He downs it but the cue ball ricochets off a cushion and plunges into a hole. His head sinks into his hands as Baldock fronts up to him.
Inevitable. The Beta always follows the Alpha, never supersedes him. I’m sorry, friend, but you’re breathing recycled air and you won’t even know it ‘til it chokes you to death. Tribute act’s over this Sunday and I’m collecting royalties.
A blurry hue pervades my vision and a tingly warmth washes over me as I rise from the chair. I stagger towards the bar as my mixologist friend chuckles; offering my next drink “Lissie Hope” with morbid glee as though anticipating a car crash. I sip this time.
Royalties. Royal Family… a necessary evil to most of us in the UK. A mild annoyance, albeit they boost the economy due to a peculiar fascination people beyond our shores harbour for them.
I like dat ‘arry and Marfa.
Meghan. I’m afraid their comparable normality will soon be sabotaged by the reptilian fucks they’re consumed within. Unlike Lissie Hope. Birds of a feather truly fly together with that one. I must admit, I bought into the hype, the hope. It was a nice narrative, right? Yin to my yang, light to my dark, hero to my nemesis… scaling parallel up opposite faces of the mountain, primed to dual at the peak like Gandalf and Saruman. “QDT/Lissie Evolution 3 main event”, they all cried. But then… we all saw who Lissie really is, or more aptly, who she definitely isn’t.
Pwince Chawles? Lady Diana?
Something like that. She initially marketed herself as a free spirit; the pansexual maverick everyone could get behind… quite literally. We could all relate to her strained family ties and struggle to shake off their shackles; yours truly especially. If that wasn’t likable enough, her sympathetic vulnerability was underpinned by a venomous backbone that wouldn’t fracture under the scrutiny of Action Wresting’s cruellest and meanest.
(crooning terribly) But it seems ta me, she lives ‘er life like a candle in da wind!
Appearances can deceive, as can bitches like Hope. That candle in the wind is nothing more than a torch on the latest iPhone - clinical, glossed up and so fucking manufactured it makes me gag.
Nah I fink that’s the booze mate.
Check this, right, last month Lissie cawed her flaps claiming I’m controlled by pussy. Since then, she’s flicked Sage Cervenka’s bean red raw, got damn near fertilised by the demon seed of supposed rival Ryan Elias and flooded half of the western hemisphere accidentally brushing knees with Estrella Luiz. Not to mention her and Kennedy are now syncing their periods and wiping each other’s arseholes.
Sounds like an ‘ypocrite to me!
Exactly, she is a hypocrite… or even a Hippo Clit.
I laugh at my stupid joke. Fuck I’m tipsy!
Impulse control ain’t her strong suite. The cards she keeps close to her chest are more like jokers than royals. She’s a slave to temporal, ever changing desires. Is it any wonder why she’s fallen at every major hurdle so far? I can’t even remember how she performed at Havoc, whereas I eliminated 4 World Champs and made HISTORY. Walter ragdolled her round 1 at Glory while I pinned 2 World Champs. At All-In, you just watch her get to the top of the ladder with a headful of hormones, briefcase within reach… but then she’s reminded of a cute puppy she saw on Pinterest and suddenly has an inexplicable urge to jump spread eagle on Vayden from a great height. In fact, no, you won’t watch that because I won’t let her get anywhere near.
My senses aren’t at their zenith of powers at present but I become aware that Baldock and his boys are laying into the Jack Black wannabe. The girls scream as they prod “Jack’s” ribs with pool cues. He’s a mess of tears and terror, screaming “help”.
You wanna know the real moment I lost all respect for Lissie Hope? When she and her rabies-cunt hyenas scratched and slapped away at Jenna, Tawny and I. It became evident that the Family resemblance is uncanny. Don’t get me wrong - there’s still a fuckton of moolah in QDT/Lissie… yep, you bet your arse; go “All-In” with hella riches on your boy.
With less than maximum coordination, I fling Baldock’s goons through tables and KO one with a singular punch. Shitfuck! Bastard’s clouted me across the temple with the cue. I’m on my knees. My back’s being bloody lashed. Eh-uh man, I ain’t having this shit. I get up, remove the cue from his feeble grip and Qui-DT him onto the cold stone floor.
Enuff geeza, OUT!
I comply as the barman ushers me through a door. He shuts it behind us and points me to a bench.
Between you and me, fank you Governa. I’ve wanted to do dat for ages. I ‘ad to kick ya ouuut becoz’ of ‘is Dad, me boss. But dis is the beer garden really so if ya want the rest of your dwinks, I’ll bwing ‘em ouuut to ya. As long as ya pay me dough mate.
Understood.
As I pay up and watch him head back inside, I feel my arm brush against something wet. The spillage is irritating but I smile at how the stealthy mofo sneaked me out with my penultimate cocktail. This is the blandest so far. I’d almost think it were water, save for the greasy surface layer.
So this must be “Teo Blaze”. At least I think that’s it’s name. Tio, Tayo, Teodora Del Ass Sol? In fact, I can exclusively reveal his GENUINE name here tonight. Did you know that he’s another branch on the same backwards family tree as Allison Riggs-Preston and her motley crew of oddities? Yep, his real name is… drum roll please… “Teo Riggs-Votes”! That’s right, he’d love for you to think that he heroically surged his way into All-In by virtue of a fans vote but nope, the perennial “People’s Champion”, had a little ally-oop up the ladder by Camila and Torture. Why not? They must see him as a marketable commodity, right? Like fuck they do! I know the “truth” despite Teo claiming to be its bastion. Don’t think I haven’t seen all the “inspirational” bumper stickers on vehicles in the management parking spaces! He’s hooked them up with these Hallmark-esque classics through his side business started during the dying days of WCF. Every line in every promo he films is laced with maudlin clichés such as “I fight with every inch of my heart and soul”, “I’ll be damned if I ever give up!” and “The voice of the voiceless is coming for your ass and there’s NOT A DAMN THING you can do about it”. Sweet, mindless philosophies… why not commercialise that saccharine shit?
I blow hard on the drink to investigate what ingredients pollute it. Blow hard… how appropriate considering the subject matter.
This is the man who made a career out of the lovable loser archetype. Since then, he’s evolved to be more EDGY but he still likes to remind us of how real and humble he is. Yeah, humble enough to give me only a passing mention on the road to Glory, whilst blustering trademark hot air. I wonder how it felt when someone he barely gave a morsel of thought to pinned him conclusively in yet another opportunity he was undeservedly gifted. His WCF currency might’ve paid his way into All-In but when that ladder’s erected, his cheques will bounce just as hard as I bounce his skull around the ring.
As my surroundings spiral in a boozy haze, my mind grasps to shards of memory. Last night’s turmoil dominates my thoughts.
The macabre grandeur of The Home For Wayward Souls provokes trepidation as I approach the immense door and knock. As I wait, the beautiful menace of this evening gives me goosebumps as I notice the medieval garden dancing under a mesmeric green aurora.
Whatever could you want at this ungodly hour?
An elderly, skeletal man peers through a slither of an opened door. He’s as perturbed as he is fearful.
This isn’t about you, or me, or even Leviathan. I need to see Tawny NOW.
There’s no one by that name here. Now go before I call the police!
Just let me know she’s safe! I don’t give a shit whether you look after The Home For Wayward Souls when William’s out, whether he sold it you or what. There’s a woman’s life on the line here.
Sir, I have lived here at Rose Chateau for over 50 years and know no one by those names. You have the wrong house! Please leave.
He points to a signpost on the drive that indeed reads “Rose Chateau”. What the fuck?! I definitely travelled the right route. I’m assured of his honesty after years of lie detection study. I turn and walk back along the path. What’s that on the floor? It’s Tawny’s scarf. Yes, her perfume lingers…
So ya sayin’ dat ‘e invaded some old geeza’s ‘ome just ta fuck wiv ya?
I don’t know what I’m saying.
Alwight, well betta drink up da larst one den. It’s called “Leviathan” just like ya mate.
This one’s painful to consume. It’s like my intestines are rearranging. The barman watches me slump onto this bench as we eyeball the attractive women from earlier hailing a cab minutes after closing time.
Is dis da bit where I tell ya dat I’ve neva even existed and you been speakin’ to an apparition all night?
Fuck dude, I wouldn’t even know if you’re joking. Truth is, I’m drunk as a fart here man. I’m an articulate pisshead but inside I’m all over the place.
Ya could get away wiv anyfink. Maybe even some ‘arsh words on ya partna.
He’s right.
Leviathan and I have this twisted rapport. He assumes, just as I’m kneeling deferentially under the learning tree, he’s gonna eat me alive like freakin’ Day of the Triffids. I know that I’m going to chop him down. Simple. The waiting game’s the hardest part - who strikes first and most ruthlessly? Who’s able to discern the deepest chinks in each other’s armour during this union? Who can sow seeds of advantage? Tawny’s a body blow, admittedly. He’s taken her, or she’s voluntarily slipped away into his Mad World. She was an easy target. She entered my life the week of Evolution 2, my first war with Leviathan, a suicidal wreck. I worked hard to inspire her towards hope and future but he undid that all with his snake tongue and shameless schemes.
Wait a minute. I ain’t Sherlock but is it a coincidence she came into ya life before your match wiv ‘im?
…
Tawny’s not like that. Foolish, easily led? Sure. But devious and the purest form of evil? I don’t think so. Leviathan perhaps. See, I might be hiding behind the veil of intoxication right now but this guy dissociates from the vilest shit under multiple personalities and parlour tricks. He’s a bullshit merchant and I’m going right to the bowels of his demented, obsidian heart to unravel his lies.
‘e sounds scary. ‘ow ya gonna beat ‘im?
I have beaten him, easily, back at Glory. We’re 1 all in singles competition but the achievement I have over him still sticks in his throat. He has to wait 8 months to have a chance of breaking the Havoc Rumble eliminations record I took from him. Every time he’s gotten any kind of edge over me, it’s involved masked allies and chicanery; whereas, mono e mono, there’s a single outcome - Guillotine severing Leviathan into a plethora of pathetic worms until they perish back to the land.
I swill the last dregs of my final cocktail, ignoring its ugly sediments.
But hey, must be the drink talking. Cheers to the Dark Tide!
I’m sobering up and drilling Nadine, the blonde from earlier; legs resting against my shoulders, soles to the wall. She’s a loud one, like all I encounter.
So that’s why I’m the favourite. That is why I’m going All-In.
YOU’RE MORE THAN ALL-IN! YOU’RE PUMMELLING MY CERVIX! I SUBMIT I SUBMIT BIG BOY!
Shut the fuck up. The stakes are high, as is that briefcase, but I know where I’m going. At Uprising, it’s time I finally soar to the top!
YOU’RE UPRISING INSIDE ME SO GOOD RIGHT NOW!
I spin her round into Doggy; mouth pressed into pillow so I don’t have to endure her verbal diarrhoea.
The briefcase's too heavy for that manchild Stylez.
(muffled) PUBERTY COCK!
It’s too far from the narrow comfort zone of Riggs-Preston.
INBRED COCK!
It necessitates too much ingenuity for Hawkins.
HERMIT COCK!
Even though he’s a good mimic, the ladder’s too lofty to climb for Vayden.
COPYCAT COCK!
It won’t hold still for the rickety Lissie.
DISAPPOINTING COCK!
The gift horse shot outta his misery, Teo.
WEEPING COCK!
Leviathan’s pride begets his downfall.
MULTIPLE PERSONALITY DISORDER COCKS!
It’s Guillotine’s time to raise the blade…
ERR… HUGE VIRILE COCK!
… and hover it over the head of the World Champion!
PRIZED PUSSY!
As she climaxes again, I curl up in a boozy stupor. Nadine climbs on top of me and starts riding and grinding. Her face seems to morph into that of Jenna Bauer. I plow harder before feeling intense shame, crashing back to the present moment. We resume animalistic passion… before her visage metamorphoses into Tawny’s. I throw her off instantly.
Get out!
She quickly puts on her clothes and rushes out.
Dickhead!
Yeah, that’s enough cock on the brain tonight.
I enjoy the peace and quiet of solitude, pouring myself a cup of water from the en suite. It rejuvenates me instantly.
I neither stand before you the underdog, unknown quantity nor audacious rising star. I’m here. QDT arrived long ago. Lissie never really showed. Leviathan’s desperately hanging from the top rung, hands round my ankles, clasping, delaying his inevitable steep descent. The others are worth barely a synapse in my brain. My modus operandi - steady clamber, then quantum goddamn leap. Havoc Rumble - leap 1. Make no mistake, leap 2 onto that final rung of the All-In ladder will be the most challenging. I need to be PRECISE, take risks and force the others to slip on the ice running through my veins. Whatever mayhem parades around me, both personally and physically, bodies flying and fraying, Guillotine has one target and I will land on it, I absolutely assure you. That briefcase. Then…? Regardless of whether it’s Lockhart, Dandy, KOS, TFK or Richards, the World Champ will be haunted by a threat transcending all nightmares. An omen far more real and infernal than the Hades of their imaginations.
Everyone else can go all out, balls to wall, pedal to metal… don’t mean shit because I’m going... ALL... FUCKIN... IN!
What’m I s’post to do wid dis, geez?
He lazily surveys the cocktail list I’ve penned.
Mix ‘em. Put me on a tab and keep it rolling. I figure this - I beat the cocktail, I beat what, or whom, it represents.
Nah mate. Ya gotta orda each one. None of dis custom malarkey. Cocktail menu’s ova dere.
Hate doing this… but I flash a ream of £100 notes, inspiring instant compliance. With impressive dexterity, he pours several of the specified liquors into a swanky retro flagon.
You sure ‘bout dis, blood? Gonna be on da floor lata’.
I rotate my hand in an affirmative “drink up” gesture.
Alwight. One… err, “LA Johnny Stylez”. What da fuck’s da “zed” all about?
I contemplate the monstrosity of this luminous concoction. One quart insecure belligerence, a shot of lackadaisical roughage, half a litre of attention seeking but hold off on the emotional intelligence and nuance.
Fuck knows, I heard he was found as a baby with a Limp Bizkit cassette in his mouth and a Tamagotchi up his arse... Look, you don’t know me but I’m a professional… fighter.
He sniggers.
Yeah OK mate. Cockfighta’ more like.
I drink up so rapidly his expression transfigures from disdain to respect.
… Accurate. 7 mangey cocks block my tête-à-tête with the World Champion so I’ll down these drinks in the same vein I drop their counterparts. Johnny’s a pubescent prick. 21 years old according to company records but 33 if you ask his previous employers, WCF. Would certainly explain his propensity to waiver in and out of uncontrollable testosterone fuelled SHOUTING and balls beginning to fall VoICe brEaKInG. Flashy "movez" but execution’s as wobbly as his speech. Speaking of execution, he’s a fluffer for his porn company Sweet Sinner, swooping like a vulture post-bukkake so he can SoaK SoMe UP! The family business portfolio doesn’t end there, oh no. His cousin Jesse runs minor fed Numetal Edgelord Wrestling where Johnny’s essentially kindergarten bully stealing nappies off his inbred peers. The likes of Allison Riggs-Preston.
Second dwink, wight?
Correct, I see you’re paying attention.
As he mixes, I dart to the pisser to get Stylez out my system. Don’t look, k? Alright, done. I return to the bar.
Dis one’s on da birds over dere. I fink you might be in mate. Shag ‘em senseless.
In the corner, a gaggle of semi-attractive girls coo and smile in my direction. The hottest, a pneumatic blonde, enchanting junk arched, attempts to regale the others with some vacuous article on her phone, oblivious that their attention rests moistly upon Mr. QDT.
Appropriate. You see, I fight girls too... but don’t dismay; Allison also wields a lil’ feisty cock. One she shares with Stylez and assorted wackadoo associates. It never sees sunlight or ventures outside, so it merely wilts and shrivels. Yet it retains an engorged façade nestling in the Wolf Family bosom, unlike Johnny, busting his bitter seed over everyone in faint hope he’ll eventually impregnate. As with that Barbie over there, Allison meanders pointlessly in her own insignificant titfuckin’ world of irrelevant drama. Will she finally ménage à trois with Ani Swan and her sloppy eighths dicked husband Dane… or even his LA frenemy? More importantly, who gives a bile drenched turd?
I swig this benign beverage effortlessly to whoos from the ladies.
She’s not grown at all since I pinned her a month ago. She still inhabits her insular, teen novella loserdom, bitching about illusory hierarchies and echelons she can’t even conceive of, never mind justify. How long will she incubate in the entitlement of wrestling dynasties with other “greats” like Estrella Luiz and Kennedy Matthews? More on the Royal Family later.
A hoarse, cockney accent bellows from the other side of the pub.
Oi, gis a game of pool.
Seems the skinhead, teeth riddled with gold fillings, is talking to me. The barman whispers in my ear.
Bloke’s name’s Baldock. Propa mad dick’ead. Be careful. I know you’s a fighta but ‘e’s fuckin’ psycho mate. I’d ‘av banned ‘im if ‘e weren’t da landlord’s son. Anyway, one “Claire ‘awkins” for ya.
Taking my latest tipple with me, I stride up to Baldock and his chav army, locking eyes to communicate my zero tolerance policy on any dumbfuckery. I snatch a cue and slam my pound coin down on the table’s edge. He puts it in the slot, assembles the balls in the triangle and chalks his cue with hostility.
You break.
I oblige, striking the first red ball at an acute angle. The balls disperse with the corner yellow shimmying into the bottom left pocket and another yellow rifling into a central hole.
2 balls sunk, 2 reasons Claire Hawkins hasn’t a hope in Salem at All-In. Despite all the potions she concocts like this filthy piss I’m consuming now, pale bitch’s not only deficient in vitamin D but in imagination. Oaken wood table, gloomy forests, verbose WAHWAH soliloquies with pretentious sprinklings of Latin and "ye olde English", bastardised Poe quotes and Banshee Shrills perfectly symbolising the feelings of the audience. She lacks the evasive nous and mental gymnastics to navigate the pitfalls and ascend to that briefcase. Reason 1 - Claire Hawkins repeats herself. Reason 2 - Claire Hawkins repeats herself.
Who the fuck’s Claire Hawkins?
Exactly.
Another ball down courtesy of Guillotine. One more. The pneumatic blonde’s peering over, finally intrigued.
Reason 3 - She whines about no one liking her, management shunning her. The only thing truly mystical about her is the self fulfilling prophecy her inferiority complex manifests. 4 - Like Bewitched, she suits a small stage but flops on the big screen. Did you know there was a Bewitched film in 2005? Me neither.
Two more. Baldock and his gang rage.
5 - I’ve exposed Hocus Pocus before in AW. I sawed Magic Maddox in two. Ryan Elias accused me but I slayed the slanderer. Witches ain’t legit; they’re just overgrown cosplay scene nerds. 6 - Hawkins fears the light. She’ll go blind two rungs up. As for 7...
Baldock grins maliciously; observing that the black’s obscured behind all of his balls and tucked harmlessly against the cushion.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Claire have a conversation with another human being. How can this reclusive being survive amongst 7 opponents at All-In? That witch lacks craft and’s going…
For Dutch Courage, I drink up. I chip the cue ball over a red, off 4 cushions; shattering the black which collides backwards into a red and spins into a pocket to cheers, courtesy of the enthralled patrons. Baldock’s cronies hold him back.
… Down!
I nurture an empty glass, pondering the cock I’m reluctant to amputate. A Jack Black doppelganger follows me at the pool table against a seething Baldock. Impressive break; two balls potted. Suddenly, peachy heavenliness perches itself onto my lap as I instinctively cradle her delectable legs. The pneumatic blondes slides a new flagon onto my beer mat.
So you must be “Derrick Vayden”. I hope this goes down well, Derrick.
Cheers.
I clink it against her wine glass as she winks.
Vayden’s the name of the drink you kindly brought over. I’m Qui…
She walks off sleekly. A handwritten note lies on my crotch, reading “Pound me” with her digits above “Nadine”. Meanwhile, Jack Black’s long lost brother continues pool sharking. I talk to him. He trembles somewhat under the glare of someone far brighter but, to his credit, continues to pot.
Wisconsin’s Finest, QDT’s heir to the Cruiserweight skyrocket. A remarkable story if my successor, first major venture above the 201 pound weight limit, ascends to the top of that ladder and the summit of this company overnight. Hell, I’m sure he’d beg for even a Havoc moment, coming within perineum distance but leaving Las Vegas a “boner” fide star. He owes the rub, his division will be blessed with, to the likes of Miller, Bolas, Cameron, Richter and Sadist; just as I adopted responsibility towards him and his ilk in April. Let’s not even whisper that Farquaad freak.
More balls are sunk.
The jump would be smoother for him as I already lubed up and gaped that bitch; just like I did remotely to his lovely Amy. Vayden still basks in the sweet fragrance I dissipated. His life’s unfolded REALLY prosperously following the electric show opener at Havoc before I rumbled above the radar, when his motionless body lay prone under mine.
“Jack” is left with the black. He downs it but the cue ball ricochets off a cushion and plunges into a hole. His head sinks into his hands as Baldock fronts up to him.
Inevitable. The Beta always follows the Alpha, never supersedes him. I’m sorry, friend, but you’re breathing recycled air and you won’t even know it ‘til it chokes you to death. Tribute act’s over this Sunday and I’m collecting royalties.
A blurry hue pervades my vision and a tingly warmth washes over me as I rise from the chair. I stagger towards the bar as my mixologist friend chuckles; offering my next drink “Lissie Hope” with morbid glee as though anticipating a car crash. I sip this time.
Royalties. Royal Family… a necessary evil to most of us in the UK. A mild annoyance, albeit they boost the economy due to a peculiar fascination people beyond our shores harbour for them.
I like dat ‘arry and Marfa.
Meghan. I’m afraid their comparable normality will soon be sabotaged by the reptilian fucks they’re consumed within. Unlike Lissie Hope. Birds of a feather truly fly together with that one. I must admit, I bought into the hype, the hope. It was a nice narrative, right? Yin to my yang, light to my dark, hero to my nemesis… scaling parallel up opposite faces of the mountain, primed to dual at the peak like Gandalf and Saruman. “QDT/Lissie Evolution 3 main event”, they all cried. But then… we all saw who Lissie really is, or more aptly, who she definitely isn’t.
Pwince Chawles? Lady Diana?
Something like that. She initially marketed herself as a free spirit; the pansexual maverick everyone could get behind… quite literally. We could all relate to her strained family ties and struggle to shake off their shackles; yours truly especially. If that wasn’t likable enough, her sympathetic vulnerability was underpinned by a venomous backbone that wouldn’t fracture under the scrutiny of Action Wresting’s cruellest and meanest.
(crooning terribly) But it seems ta me, she lives ‘er life like a candle in da wind!
Appearances can deceive, as can bitches like Hope. That candle in the wind is nothing more than a torch on the latest iPhone - clinical, glossed up and so fucking manufactured it makes me gag.
Nah I fink that’s the booze mate.
Check this, right, last month Lissie cawed her flaps claiming I’m controlled by pussy. Since then, she’s flicked Sage Cervenka’s bean red raw, got damn near fertilised by the demon seed of supposed rival Ryan Elias and flooded half of the western hemisphere accidentally brushing knees with Estrella Luiz. Not to mention her and Kennedy are now syncing their periods and wiping each other’s arseholes.
Sounds like an ‘ypocrite to me!
Exactly, she is a hypocrite… or even a Hippo Clit.
I laugh at my stupid joke. Fuck I’m tipsy!
Impulse control ain’t her strong suite. The cards she keeps close to her chest are more like jokers than royals. She’s a slave to temporal, ever changing desires. Is it any wonder why she’s fallen at every major hurdle so far? I can’t even remember how she performed at Havoc, whereas I eliminated 4 World Champs and made HISTORY. Walter ragdolled her round 1 at Glory while I pinned 2 World Champs. At All-In, you just watch her get to the top of the ladder with a headful of hormones, briefcase within reach… but then she’s reminded of a cute puppy she saw on Pinterest and suddenly has an inexplicable urge to jump spread eagle on Vayden from a great height. In fact, no, you won’t watch that because I won’t let her get anywhere near.
My senses aren’t at their zenith of powers at present but I become aware that Baldock and his boys are laying into the Jack Black wannabe. The girls scream as they prod “Jack’s” ribs with pool cues. He’s a mess of tears and terror, screaming “help”.
You wanna know the real moment I lost all respect for Lissie Hope? When she and her rabies-cunt hyenas scratched and slapped away at Jenna, Tawny and I. It became evident that the Family resemblance is uncanny. Don’t get me wrong - there’s still a fuckton of moolah in QDT/Lissie… yep, you bet your arse; go “All-In” with hella riches on your boy.
With less than maximum coordination, I fling Baldock’s goons through tables and KO one with a singular punch. Shitfuck! Bastard’s clouted me across the temple with the cue. I’m on my knees. My back’s being bloody lashed. Eh-uh man, I ain’t having this shit. I get up, remove the cue from his feeble grip and Qui-DT him onto the cold stone floor.
Enuff geeza, OUT!
I comply as the barman ushers me through a door. He shuts it behind us and points me to a bench.
Between you and me, fank you Governa. I’ve wanted to do dat for ages. I ‘ad to kick ya ouuut becoz’ of ‘is Dad, me boss. But dis is the beer garden really so if ya want the rest of your dwinks, I’ll bwing ‘em ouuut to ya. As long as ya pay me dough mate.
Understood.
As I pay up and watch him head back inside, I feel my arm brush against something wet. The spillage is irritating but I smile at how the stealthy mofo sneaked me out with my penultimate cocktail. This is the blandest so far. I’d almost think it were water, save for the greasy surface layer.
So this must be “Teo Blaze”. At least I think that’s it’s name. Tio, Tayo, Teodora Del Ass Sol? In fact, I can exclusively reveal his GENUINE name here tonight. Did you know that he’s another branch on the same backwards family tree as Allison Riggs-Preston and her motley crew of oddities? Yep, his real name is… drum roll please… “Teo Riggs-Votes”! That’s right, he’d love for you to think that he heroically surged his way into All-In by virtue of a fans vote but nope, the perennial “People’s Champion”, had a little ally-oop up the ladder by Camila and Torture. Why not? They must see him as a marketable commodity, right? Like fuck they do! I know the “truth” despite Teo claiming to be its bastion. Don’t think I haven’t seen all the “inspirational” bumper stickers on vehicles in the management parking spaces! He’s hooked them up with these Hallmark-esque classics through his side business started during the dying days of WCF. Every line in every promo he films is laced with maudlin clichés such as “I fight with every inch of my heart and soul”, “I’ll be damned if I ever give up!” and “The voice of the voiceless is coming for your ass and there’s NOT A DAMN THING you can do about it”. Sweet, mindless philosophies… why not commercialise that saccharine shit?
I blow hard on the drink to investigate what ingredients pollute it. Blow hard… how appropriate considering the subject matter.
This is the man who made a career out of the lovable loser archetype. Since then, he’s evolved to be more EDGY but he still likes to remind us of how real and humble he is. Yeah, humble enough to give me only a passing mention on the road to Glory, whilst blustering trademark hot air. I wonder how it felt when someone he barely gave a morsel of thought to pinned him conclusively in yet another opportunity he was undeservedly gifted. His WCF currency might’ve paid his way into All-In but when that ladder’s erected, his cheques will bounce just as hard as I bounce his skull around the ring.
As my surroundings spiral in a boozy haze, my mind grasps to shards of memory. Last night’s turmoil dominates my thoughts.
The macabre grandeur of The Home For Wayward Souls provokes trepidation as I approach the immense door and knock. As I wait, the beautiful menace of this evening gives me goosebumps as I notice the medieval garden dancing under a mesmeric green aurora.
Whatever could you want at this ungodly hour?
An elderly, skeletal man peers through a slither of an opened door. He’s as perturbed as he is fearful.
This isn’t about you, or me, or even Leviathan. I need to see Tawny NOW.
There’s no one by that name here. Now go before I call the police!
Just let me know she’s safe! I don’t give a shit whether you look after The Home For Wayward Souls when William’s out, whether he sold it you or what. There’s a woman’s life on the line here.
Sir, I have lived here at Rose Chateau for over 50 years and know no one by those names. You have the wrong house! Please leave.
He points to a signpost on the drive that indeed reads “Rose Chateau”. What the fuck?! I definitely travelled the right route. I’m assured of his honesty after years of lie detection study. I turn and walk back along the path. What’s that on the floor? It’s Tawny’s scarf. Yes, her perfume lingers…
So ya sayin’ dat ‘e invaded some old geeza’s ‘ome just ta fuck wiv ya?
I don’t know what I’m saying.
Alwight, well betta drink up da larst one den. It’s called “Leviathan” just like ya mate.
This one’s painful to consume. It’s like my intestines are rearranging. The barman watches me slump onto this bench as we eyeball the attractive women from earlier hailing a cab minutes after closing time.
Is dis da bit where I tell ya dat I’ve neva even existed and you been speakin’ to an apparition all night?
Fuck dude, I wouldn’t even know if you’re joking. Truth is, I’m drunk as a fart here man. I’m an articulate pisshead but inside I’m all over the place.
Ya could get away wiv anyfink. Maybe even some ‘arsh words on ya partna.
He’s right.
Leviathan and I have this twisted rapport. He assumes, just as I’m kneeling deferentially under the learning tree, he’s gonna eat me alive like freakin’ Day of the Triffids. I know that I’m going to chop him down. Simple. The waiting game’s the hardest part - who strikes first and most ruthlessly? Who’s able to discern the deepest chinks in each other’s armour during this union? Who can sow seeds of advantage? Tawny’s a body blow, admittedly. He’s taken her, or she’s voluntarily slipped away into his Mad World. She was an easy target. She entered my life the week of Evolution 2, my first war with Leviathan, a suicidal wreck. I worked hard to inspire her towards hope and future but he undid that all with his snake tongue and shameless schemes.
Wait a minute. I ain’t Sherlock but is it a coincidence she came into ya life before your match wiv ‘im?
…
Tawny’s not like that. Foolish, easily led? Sure. But devious and the purest form of evil? I don’t think so. Leviathan perhaps. See, I might be hiding behind the veil of intoxication right now but this guy dissociates from the vilest shit under multiple personalities and parlour tricks. He’s a bullshit merchant and I’m going right to the bowels of his demented, obsidian heart to unravel his lies.
‘e sounds scary. ‘ow ya gonna beat ‘im?
I have beaten him, easily, back at Glory. We’re 1 all in singles competition but the achievement I have over him still sticks in his throat. He has to wait 8 months to have a chance of breaking the Havoc Rumble eliminations record I took from him. Every time he’s gotten any kind of edge over me, it’s involved masked allies and chicanery; whereas, mono e mono, there’s a single outcome - Guillotine severing Leviathan into a plethora of pathetic worms until they perish back to the land.
I swill the last dregs of my final cocktail, ignoring its ugly sediments.
But hey, must be the drink talking. Cheers to the Dark Tide!
I’m sobering up and drilling Nadine, the blonde from earlier; legs resting against my shoulders, soles to the wall. She’s a loud one, like all I encounter.
So that’s why I’m the favourite. That is why I’m going All-In.
YOU’RE MORE THAN ALL-IN! YOU’RE PUMMELLING MY CERVIX! I SUBMIT I SUBMIT BIG BOY!
Shut the fuck up. The stakes are high, as is that briefcase, but I know where I’m going. At Uprising, it’s time I finally soar to the top!
YOU’RE UPRISING INSIDE ME SO GOOD RIGHT NOW!
I spin her round into Doggy; mouth pressed into pillow so I don’t have to endure her verbal diarrhoea.
The briefcase's too heavy for that manchild Stylez.
(muffled) PUBERTY COCK!
It’s too far from the narrow comfort zone of Riggs-Preston.
INBRED COCK!
It necessitates too much ingenuity for Hawkins.
HERMIT COCK!
Even though he’s a good mimic, the ladder’s too lofty to climb for Vayden.
COPYCAT COCK!
It won’t hold still for the rickety Lissie.
DISAPPOINTING COCK!
The gift horse shot outta his misery, Teo.
WEEPING COCK!
Leviathan’s pride begets his downfall.
MULTIPLE PERSONALITY DISORDER COCKS!
It’s Guillotine’s time to raise the blade…
ERR… HUGE VIRILE COCK!
… and hover it over the head of the World Champion!
PRIZED PUSSY!
As she climaxes again, I curl up in a boozy stupor. Nadine climbs on top of me and starts riding and grinding. Her face seems to morph into that of Jenna Bauer. I plow harder before feeling intense shame, crashing back to the present moment. We resume animalistic passion… before her visage metamorphoses into Tawny’s. I throw her off instantly.
Get out!
She quickly puts on her clothes and rushes out.
Dickhead!
Yeah, that’s enough cock on the brain tonight.
I enjoy the peace and quiet of solitude, pouring myself a cup of water from the en suite. It rejuvenates me instantly.
I neither stand before you the underdog, unknown quantity nor audacious rising star. I’m here. QDT arrived long ago. Lissie never really showed. Leviathan’s desperately hanging from the top rung, hands round my ankles, clasping, delaying his inevitable steep descent. The others are worth barely a synapse in my brain. My modus operandi - steady clamber, then quantum goddamn leap. Havoc Rumble - leap 1. Make no mistake, leap 2 onto that final rung of the All-In ladder will be the most challenging. I need to be PRECISE, take risks and force the others to slip on the ice running through my veins. Whatever mayhem parades around me, both personally and physically, bodies flying and fraying, Guillotine has one target and I will land on it, I absolutely assure you. That briefcase. Then…? Regardless of whether it’s Lockhart, Dandy, KOS, TFK or Richards, the World Champ will be haunted by a threat transcending all nightmares. An omen far more real and infernal than the Hades of their imaginations.
Everyone else can go all out, balls to wall, pedal to metal… don’t mean shit because I’m going... ALL... FUCKIN... IN!