(Steps 3, 4 & 5) SUBMIT/VOMIT/ADMIT
Sept 18, 2022 13:44:31 GMT -5
Addy A, Carter Shaw, and 1 more like this
Post by 'The Shine' Brent Alpine on Sept 18, 2022 13:44:31 GMT -5
AUGUST 2022: STEP 3
Viscerally fixated on the bloody razorblade, Brent mentally wards off unsettling déjà vu as his step brother/cousin buzzes around the apartment in a frenzied amalgam of relief and excitement. Dallas scans through his fridge, cupboards and various nooks and crannies before bolting upright in satori.
Pietro!
What?
My neighbour! He'll have a coldie I can scrounge ya. Just a sec.
Alpine overcomes paracletic incoordination to halt Dallas as he reaches the front door.
Mate... how ya goin'?
Bonza mate.
You ain't.
Instantly aware his warm embrace fails to quell Brent's concern, Dallas comes clean.
Been in a bad place. So bad, this arvo I did something I ain't done since before... the accident. I reached out... to God, the Universe, Higher Power, whatever the hell's up there.
Aw ya dag, not spiritual mumbo jumbo again. I thought that got wiped out when that sheila kicked ya upside the dome when ya tried suckin' her hooves.
This was different. I got down on my knees, begging for a sign. Something to finally stop feet from ruining my life.
Strewth, it's just a bloody kink, cobber. Feet ain't heroin, ya know. No offence but I'm in way deeper turd.
But that's just it... my salvation is yours too! YOU were the sign! You will be the one to help me... and in turn, you'll be redeemed too. I just know it!
Alpine guffaws with exasperation and motions to his dilapidated, drunken stupor.
How the fuck can I help you?!?!?!
I don't know but you have my full trust; I'll follow your lead completely. My life's in your hands... and I need you to SHINE again!
With that bombshell, Culture passes Alpine at the doorway, inadvertently soaking him crimson from a wrist wound.
...
Two minutes elapse and Dallas returns home.
Sorry, I got that Carlton Draught shit Pietro guzzles. But beer's beer I guess... BRENT?
But the 'answer' to his prayers had evaded him.
SEPTEMBER 2022
Harder! Tap my arse! Stretch that shit!
Dallas inclines backwards, pulling Brent's legs towards his head in a Boston Crab as "The Shine" roars in his distinctive Antipodean husk.
Any harder, I'll damage your back, right before your big chance at a US Title shot. Let's stop.
MORE! I'm the boss, remember?
Culture sighs and increases the pressure, inducing alarming clicking sounds from Brent's spine.
So tell me about this King Baby.
Eh?
Holden Ross. You were spouting some balderdash last week before these AW camera mongrels pissed about.
But why IS that, Brent? There's a treacherous plot at play. Your promo against Holden was 'accidentally' cut short. HMM. Then at Clash, you kicked out on the 2 count but suddenly HIS arm is raised. HMM. I wonder...
Nah mate, you're barking up the wrong tree. Pasternak suspended him just a week before so there's hardly some grand collusion with management.
Only ONE week. For nearly killing a man he'd trapped in a coffin! The defence rests...
It's easy to get baited into the conspiracy theory spiderweb... trust me, I know... but it ain't good for a bloke.
Alpine's words strain under the stretch of the now robustly applied Boston Crab. His rare display of sincerity ceases when he remembers the camera; his braggadocios demeanour switching back on like a lightbulb.
Besides, even if these mongrels are in league with that Bastard, they'll soon succumb to the charms of The Shine. Granted, AW backing the wrong horse is on brand but whoooooa nelly, the bloody STALLION's in the stable now, drongos! I ain't worried about any Holden advantage because any privileges he benefits from are rendered moot by his supreme lack of vivaciousness and finesse. King Baby, didn't you say?
Yeah, King Baby Syndrome. It takes an addict to know an addict and, trust me, that bloke's a lost cause.
You sayin' he has a foot fetish too?
Absolutely not. My worship of feet is born from a profound reverence towards women. My therapist says I'm subconsciously ashamed of my inherited patriarchal oppressive transgressions so I seek to affirm female superiority as the fairer sex... by letting them walk all over me, literally.
That ain't what the judge said during the sexual harassment case.
The hold is tightened.
Bugger.
My point is that Holden's fixation is diametrically opposed to mine, psychologically. Mine's based on love and servitude. His is fuelled by power and destruction. King Baby Syndrome. Freud coined the term in his writing on Narcissus, the mythical hunter who fell in love with his own reflection and drowned because he couldn't ravish the only being he ever desired - himself.
So Rossy boy needs to go fuck himself, yeah?
Not himself. His Father.
Isn't that a bit on-the-nose? Aren't we mocking him for something he already owns? He is 'The Bastard', after all. And, mate, it ain't even factually kosher. He met his Dad in recent years and they got on bonza. So where's the connection?
Culture readjusts to ease his tiring arms and the pressure upon his own legs. Alpine winces as the submission is renewed.
Imagine decades not knowing your Father.
(sarcastically) Crikey, that's a stretch.
You had a father figure.
Yeah, your drongo Dad.
I can't disagree, but look. Holden had no male influence so he had to overcompensate. He went super "yang" because he needed to be the man of the house. And what is man's core modus operandi? The 4 Ds - Destruction, Dominance, Discipline, Dick. He had to draw his own boundaries but his crayons were skewed.
Millions of men grow up with single mothers...?
Indeed, and most bear the Narcissistic Wound. But I've seen no one exhibit it to Holden's extent. He's become his own god; perpetually exerting his power and pursuit of selfish needs, even when it hurts him. He's the rat enduring excruciating electric shocks just for a nibble of cheese.
Does that explain all the whiny t-shirts bearing slogans such as 'Anger Is My Poison' like a 14 year old emo bitch?
Yeah, and the fact he's always swigging from a booze bottle. It's also why, when his real Daddy came along - a badass, accomplished wrestling Alpha - the void remained unfilled. Frank felt so guilty for missing his kid's upbringing that he never had the balls to properly play Papa. So Holden descended further into a desperate quest to learn his limits; hence the slippery slope into death matches and Hep B orgies. He's sabotaging the love of a woman because of an unresolved craving for discipline. Now he's got something to lose in Serenity, he's channelling his latent impulse to destroy her... into destroying himself.
Sounds like he's... got it... bad for... her.
Brent gasps and writhes; fighting the temptation to tap.
Seems so. Normally he doesn't give two sizzling excrements for women he uses and abuses but Serenity's a different animal. It's a smart strategy - either his recklessness forces her to push him away and his guilt is assuaged before the inevitability of HIM pushing HER away, thus returning him to his favourite scrap metal throne as King of his internal world... OR Serenity gets to play Mommy the protector and he reverts to Baby. KING/BABY cycle, rinse, repeat. Neither strategy requires him to acquire any emotional balance and growth.
Dangerous. How do I beat him then?
Simple. Use his own power against him.
Bonza idea mate.
In a flash, Alpine rocks on his arms, hooks Dallas' legs, utilising his opponent's weight to launch him backwards, while he slides under his legs. He shimmies forward into a head scissors, wrenching Culture's neck unnaturally, provoking a blood curdling scream before his hand repeatedly pounds the mat.
Yeah. That's it. Humph...
AUGUST 2022: STEP 4
Wearing out the number 6 bell of a grubby apartment block, Dallas shouts up at the window.
BRENT! Please, this is important!
He's startled by a cold barrel of a shotgun nestling snugly in the crown of his head. Instinctively, he freezes, raising his hands helplessly.
Get in line, fuckwit. He owes me most.
Dallas sinks to his knees. His passivity gives his assailant pause for thought.
Not much of a loan shark. Pussy arse council debt collector type, hey?
I'm here to see my step brother... cousin... it's complicated.
The man chuckles and retracts his gun.
Apologies mate. Every day since I booted his bludger arse, we've had bloody gorilla after gorilla banging the door down chasing what Brent owes 'em. That cunt's in heaps o' drama. Glad I kicked him out, else we'd all get murdered. Not to mention he ain't paid me rent in near enough six months. You good for that, by the way?
Did he give a forwarding address?
Didn't get chance. Doubt he's got one. Anyway, my money mate?
Dallas hightails it faster than he knew he had in his legs.
Oi! Fuckin' galah.
...
Two hours later, a well connected vagrant points through dusky shadows, directing Dallas towards a piss stained sleeping bag in the doorway of an abandoned charity shop. He reluctantly holds it to his nose and detects the familiar scent he grew accustomed to throughout years occupying their unusual family dynamic.
Brent? Hello?
He hears trademark conceited tones emanating from a nearby bar, over the din of soulless techno. He wanders down the stairs below ground level and absorbs a waft of smoke, peering through the heavy door.
A bet's a bet, mongrel.
A discordant chorus of aggression pours out of his burly, insalubrious adversaries, protesting with justifiable clauses and decrying obvious trickery.
Anyway, nighty nighty. Don't let the bedbugs bitey bitey. Hoo roo.
The door smacks Dallas in the face as Brent scarpers up the stairs, flashing a wodge of notes.
C'mon mate! Ya wanna die in here?
Alpine collars him and drags him up the stairs, with four hefty fellas in close pursuit. They sprint up Bolsover Lane and nimbly dodge a gaggle of innocent merrymakers. Conversely, the angry mob baying for Brent's blood bulldoze the strangers and scorch earth in their mission for vengeance.
What have you got yourself into?
All good fun, cobber. Let's hide!
He strongarms Culture down an inconspicuous alley. They observe as the thugs come to a discombobulated stop. They disperse, seemingly.
I think we're all good. They're gone.
Let's not chance it!
But a glimpse of a gorgeous redhead, her dainty fingers nursing her feet of friction burns from new gold strappy heels she hasn't quite worn in yet, causes Dallas to contradict his own wisdom. He steps out from the shrouded place.
Let me take care of that. Here...
She recoils but is surprisingly placated by his touch on her soles.
That feels incredible. Wow.
THWOMP! The hoodlums set upon Culture as the shrieking redhead limps away from the scene. Alpine flinches while watching from the safety of his hideout, internally conflicted over whether to intervene. The brutes get bored after a few kicks to the ribs and remind each other they need to get home to watch the latest episode of Love Island. When the coast is clear, Brent slowly approaches his groggy, fallen relative.
Fair dinkum. We're both in the shit. You still want my help, mate?
Dallas manages a dopey nod to the affirmative.
SEPTEMBER 2022
Brent empties a bag of luscious green apples into a cullender, before washing them under the cold tap. Dallas sits gormlessly in the background.
How d'ya like them apples, Kyle Kemp? We go back a long way; I know The Shine's re-emergence leaves a sour taste in your mouth.
He rhythmically peels the apples in circular motion.
Eddie Vedder used to visit me backstage at WCF shows - Alpine simp. Meanwhile, you entertained such luminaries as Joy Behar and John Goodman's ass-double. Anyway, I now realise you and Vedder are not so dissimilar. Once, he opened up to me and admitted he's tired of constantly playing Pearl Jam's greatest hit at every show, lest the fans revolt. Don't you feel the same? It must be hard screaming out "OOOOOOHHHHH I'M STILL ALIVE!" ad nauseum.
He chops the apples into eighths as the moisture glistens.
"I'm relevant! I'm relevant" Oooookkkkkaaaaaaayyy. "No honestly, I'm relevant". Sure, Kyle. Your transition from vapid, "I'm better than you" archetypal Yankee frat-boy to defensive, grouchy troglodyte has been masterful, truly, drongo. The good news is... I don't disagree. Rumours of your demise have been greatly exaggerated. While we can rest assured ol' Rossy's bound to destroy himself in our number 1 contenders to the US Title four-way on Clash, you're more of a slippery, cunning creature. Aren't you, "Grayson"? As much as you want to talk yourself into redundancy, you are always a sneak win or two away from the main event scene. Why?
He stirs in white sugar, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, flour and lemon juice, mixing it to be absorbed into the sweet apple slices.
Because you're an apple pie, Kyle, an American pie. You might see yourself in the renegade vein like a certain "DD" who stole your Following, but you, KK are a square, not an oblong. Vanilla, not vegemite. American pie, not mud pie. You should be proud of that. American pie's solid, dependable and satisfying, even when more exotic and flavoursome pies come out the oven.
He pulls out a ready made apple pie - golden, crumbly, scrumptious.
Whether served on its own, as you sombrely find yourself now, or lashed with cream or other accoutrements, the American pie never disappoints. Bravo, sport!
He pours an abundance of cream and serves to Dallas, handing him a fork to tuck in.
The pie's fine. But the country? Steep decline. Uncle Sam enjoyed booming and prosperity, truth and justice, joy and peace. That was, until August 2016 when I relinquished the WCF US Title. Due to the incomparable blessing of The Shine, WCF decided that the division should cease... as any subsequent incumbent would prove a crushing anti-climax.
At that moment, the WCF, and the USA as you knew it, shrivelled. Five months later, an orange sphincter-brain gonad jabbered around the White House, espousing about fake news and walls. Three years on, everyone scurried around in ugly masks because the pollution in the American air was no longer dissipated by the reinvigorating aroma of The Shine and the government had to make up a story about a "Chinese virus" to cover it up. But now, guess what, 'Murica? I'm breathing the breath of life back into you.
After a few mouthfuls, Dallas regurgitates the pie, getting gooey green blobs of sick all over his smart AW blazer.
America has a stronger constitution than Dallas here, thankfully, but that perfectly adequate Kemp style pie houses a toxic cocktail of filth and bile. Like that DiVito wannabe, America's unable to heave its impurities because its crust is too stubborn and preoccupied with trying to convince everyone "OOOOOOHHHHH I'M STILL ALIVE!".
Wake up, yankee-doodle-of-Dandy. It is time I take America back and purge her of her trash. Once I vanquish the enemies of liberty, Ross, Kemp and Dionysus, I vow to bombard Jill Park with shock and awe; not only bringing the true US division back but nourishing the New World herself into long destined fruition.
I will Make America Great Again and, by osmosis, I will Make Kyle Kemp Great Again. The rising tide lifts all boats. You're welcome.
But in the meantime, Kyle, you're simply in my way. So bye bye Mr. American Pie.
AUGUST 2022: STEP 5
A low lit environment, intimately offloading burdens to a mediator with powers to absolve.
I lost my job, my freedom, my sanity, the love of my life... all for feet. FEET!?
Meanwhile...
And now Dallas wants me to become that guy again. The delusional maniac who tried to forget the hell he put that family through.
...
Please, I beg you. Absolve me, Father.
...
I need to be The Shine again. Otherwise, I fear Dallas will end it all this time. Please...
...
The Priest leans towards the confessional grill as Dallas grits his teeth nervously.
May God forgive you, son.
...
Elsewhere, our view of the other darkened room expands - it is an office. Torture sits pensively.
Alright. One month trial. Unpaid. Don't blow it.
SEPTEMBER 2022
Brent and Dallas tour a resplendent vineyard.
You're the oracle on Geek Mythology, mate, so fill me in. If Holden's Narcissus... who's Dionysus? What's his deal? He the one who banged his Mum?
Well no, that's Oedipus, but I liken Dion more to another Greek God. One who actually impregnated his mother - Uranus.
Leave my anus out of this!
Long story short, Uranus was so possessive of Gaea that he wouldn't let any of his offspring leave her womb. Ultimately, one of them castrated him and threw his knob into the ocean.
What's this gotta do with the wrestler drongo?
Suffocation. He suffocates everyone he's close to. The Brotherhood crumbled under his leadership because he refused to let them thrive. Now look at Downfall. Dion's guilt tripping him into remaining mediocre like him, a soft touch. Why? Because Necurat knows that he will flourish without him and he can't handle that. He has a Martyr complex, as evidenced by his insistence on entering Havoc at number one and this ridiculous Year of Wine and Roses which was doomed to fail from January 1st. He's a misery addict and he's determined to bring everyone else down to his level.
He needs to let go, admit the truth and welcome some Shine in his life. For I am more than mythology and Dion, I am the only one who can save Uranus. But first... I need to save America...
His face contorts to one of sheer conviction as he picks a grape off a vine, squashes it and its juices shine red, white and blue.
I choose to turn over control of my life to the Higher Being
Viscerally fixated on the bloody razorblade, Brent mentally wards off unsettling déjà vu as his step brother/cousin buzzes around the apartment in a frenzied amalgam of relief and excitement. Dallas scans through his fridge, cupboards and various nooks and crannies before bolting upright in satori.
Pietro!
What?
My neighbour! He'll have a coldie I can scrounge ya. Just a sec.
Alpine overcomes paracletic incoordination to halt Dallas as he reaches the front door.
Mate... how ya goin'?
Bonza mate.
You ain't.
Instantly aware his warm embrace fails to quell Brent's concern, Dallas comes clean.
Been in a bad place. So bad, this arvo I did something I ain't done since before... the accident. I reached out... to God, the Universe, Higher Power, whatever the hell's up there.
Aw ya dag, not spiritual mumbo jumbo again. I thought that got wiped out when that sheila kicked ya upside the dome when ya tried suckin' her hooves.
This was different. I got down on my knees, begging for a sign. Something to finally stop feet from ruining my life.
Strewth, it's just a bloody kink, cobber. Feet ain't heroin, ya know. No offence but I'm in way deeper turd.
But that's just it... my salvation is yours too! YOU were the sign! You will be the one to help me... and in turn, you'll be redeemed too. I just know it!
Alpine guffaws with exasperation and motions to his dilapidated, drunken stupor.
How the fuck can I help you?!?!?!
I don't know but you have my full trust; I'll follow your lead completely. My life's in your hands... and I need you to SHINE again!
With that bombshell, Culture passes Alpine at the doorway, inadvertently soaking him crimson from a wrist wound.
...
Two minutes elapse and Dallas returns home.
Sorry, I got that Carlton Draught shit Pietro guzzles. But beer's beer I guess... BRENT?
But the 'answer' to his prayers had evaded him.
SEPTEMBER 2022
Harder! Tap my arse! Stretch that shit!
Dallas inclines backwards, pulling Brent's legs towards his head in a Boston Crab as "The Shine" roars in his distinctive Antipodean husk.
Any harder, I'll damage your back, right before your big chance at a US Title shot. Let's stop.
MORE! I'm the boss, remember?
Culture sighs and increases the pressure, inducing alarming clicking sounds from Brent's spine.
So tell me about this King Baby.
Eh?
Holden Ross. You were spouting some balderdash last week before these AW camera mongrels pissed about.
But why IS that, Brent? There's a treacherous plot at play. Your promo against Holden was 'accidentally' cut short. HMM. Then at Clash, you kicked out on the 2 count but suddenly HIS arm is raised. HMM. I wonder...
Nah mate, you're barking up the wrong tree. Pasternak suspended him just a week before so there's hardly some grand collusion with management.
Only ONE week. For nearly killing a man he'd trapped in a coffin! The defence rests...
It's easy to get baited into the conspiracy theory spiderweb... trust me, I know... but it ain't good for a bloke.
Alpine's words strain under the stretch of the now robustly applied Boston Crab. His rare display of sincerity ceases when he remembers the camera; his braggadocios demeanour switching back on like a lightbulb.
Besides, even if these mongrels are in league with that Bastard, they'll soon succumb to the charms of The Shine. Granted, AW backing the wrong horse is on brand but whoooooa nelly, the bloody STALLION's in the stable now, drongos! I ain't worried about any Holden advantage because any privileges he benefits from are rendered moot by his supreme lack of vivaciousness and finesse. King Baby, didn't you say?
Yeah, King Baby Syndrome. It takes an addict to know an addict and, trust me, that bloke's a lost cause.
You sayin' he has a foot fetish too?
Absolutely not. My worship of feet is born from a profound reverence towards women. My therapist says I'm subconsciously ashamed of my inherited patriarchal oppressive transgressions so I seek to affirm female superiority as the fairer sex... by letting them walk all over me, literally.
That ain't what the judge said during the sexual harassment case.
The hold is tightened.
Bugger.
My point is that Holden's fixation is diametrically opposed to mine, psychologically. Mine's based on love and servitude. His is fuelled by power and destruction. King Baby Syndrome. Freud coined the term in his writing on Narcissus, the mythical hunter who fell in love with his own reflection and drowned because he couldn't ravish the only being he ever desired - himself.
So Rossy boy needs to go fuck himself, yeah?
Not himself. His Father.
Isn't that a bit on-the-nose? Aren't we mocking him for something he already owns? He is 'The Bastard', after all. And, mate, it ain't even factually kosher. He met his Dad in recent years and they got on bonza. So where's the connection?
Culture readjusts to ease his tiring arms and the pressure upon his own legs. Alpine winces as the submission is renewed.
Imagine decades not knowing your Father.
(sarcastically) Crikey, that's a stretch.
You had a father figure.
Yeah, your drongo Dad.
I can't disagree, but look. Holden had no male influence so he had to overcompensate. He went super "yang" because he needed to be the man of the house. And what is man's core modus operandi? The 4 Ds - Destruction, Dominance, Discipline, Dick. He had to draw his own boundaries but his crayons were skewed.
Millions of men grow up with single mothers...?
Indeed, and most bear the Narcissistic Wound. But I've seen no one exhibit it to Holden's extent. He's become his own god; perpetually exerting his power and pursuit of selfish needs, even when it hurts him. He's the rat enduring excruciating electric shocks just for a nibble of cheese.
Does that explain all the whiny t-shirts bearing slogans such as 'Anger Is My Poison' like a 14 year old emo bitch?
Yeah, and the fact he's always swigging from a booze bottle. It's also why, when his real Daddy came along - a badass, accomplished wrestling Alpha - the void remained unfilled. Frank felt so guilty for missing his kid's upbringing that he never had the balls to properly play Papa. So Holden descended further into a desperate quest to learn his limits; hence the slippery slope into death matches and Hep B orgies. He's sabotaging the love of a woman because of an unresolved craving for discipline. Now he's got something to lose in Serenity, he's channelling his latent impulse to destroy her... into destroying himself.
Sounds like he's... got it... bad for... her.
Brent gasps and writhes; fighting the temptation to tap.
Seems so. Normally he doesn't give two sizzling excrements for women he uses and abuses but Serenity's a different animal. It's a smart strategy - either his recklessness forces her to push him away and his guilt is assuaged before the inevitability of HIM pushing HER away, thus returning him to his favourite scrap metal throne as King of his internal world... OR Serenity gets to play Mommy the protector and he reverts to Baby. KING/BABY cycle, rinse, repeat. Neither strategy requires him to acquire any emotional balance and growth.
Dangerous. How do I beat him then?
Simple. Use his own power against him.
Bonza idea mate.
In a flash, Alpine rocks on his arms, hooks Dallas' legs, utilising his opponent's weight to launch him backwards, while he slides under his legs. He shimmies forward into a head scissors, wrenching Culture's neck unnaturally, provoking a blood curdling scream before his hand repeatedly pounds the mat.
Yeah. That's it. Humph...
AUGUST 2022: STEP 4
I take a fearless moral inventory of myself
Wearing out the number 6 bell of a grubby apartment block, Dallas shouts up at the window.
BRENT! Please, this is important!
He's startled by a cold barrel of a shotgun nestling snugly in the crown of his head. Instinctively, he freezes, raising his hands helplessly.
Get in line, fuckwit. He owes me most.
Dallas sinks to his knees. His passivity gives his assailant pause for thought.
Not much of a loan shark. Pussy arse council debt collector type, hey?
I'm here to see my step brother... cousin... it's complicated.
The man chuckles and retracts his gun.
Apologies mate. Every day since I booted his bludger arse, we've had bloody gorilla after gorilla banging the door down chasing what Brent owes 'em. That cunt's in heaps o' drama. Glad I kicked him out, else we'd all get murdered. Not to mention he ain't paid me rent in near enough six months. You good for that, by the way?
Did he give a forwarding address?
Didn't get chance. Doubt he's got one. Anyway, my money mate?
Dallas hightails it faster than he knew he had in his legs.
Oi! Fuckin' galah.
...
Two hours later, a well connected vagrant points through dusky shadows, directing Dallas towards a piss stained sleeping bag in the doorway of an abandoned charity shop. He reluctantly holds it to his nose and detects the familiar scent he grew accustomed to throughout years occupying their unusual family dynamic.
Brent? Hello?
He hears trademark conceited tones emanating from a nearby bar, over the din of soulless techno. He wanders down the stairs below ground level and absorbs a waft of smoke, peering through the heavy door.
A bet's a bet, mongrel.
A discordant chorus of aggression pours out of his burly, insalubrious adversaries, protesting with justifiable clauses and decrying obvious trickery.
Anyway, nighty nighty. Don't let the bedbugs bitey bitey. Hoo roo.
The door smacks Dallas in the face as Brent scarpers up the stairs, flashing a wodge of notes.
C'mon mate! Ya wanna die in here?
Alpine collars him and drags him up the stairs, with four hefty fellas in close pursuit. They sprint up Bolsover Lane and nimbly dodge a gaggle of innocent merrymakers. Conversely, the angry mob baying for Brent's blood bulldoze the strangers and scorch earth in their mission for vengeance.
What have you got yourself into?
All good fun, cobber. Let's hide!
He strongarms Culture down an inconspicuous alley. They observe as the thugs come to a discombobulated stop. They disperse, seemingly.
I think we're all good. They're gone.
Let's not chance it!
But a glimpse of a gorgeous redhead, her dainty fingers nursing her feet of friction burns from new gold strappy heels she hasn't quite worn in yet, causes Dallas to contradict his own wisdom. He steps out from the shrouded place.
Let me take care of that. Here...
She recoils but is surprisingly placated by his touch on her soles.
That feels incredible. Wow.
THWOMP! The hoodlums set upon Culture as the shrieking redhead limps away from the scene. Alpine flinches while watching from the safety of his hideout, internally conflicted over whether to intervene. The brutes get bored after a few kicks to the ribs and remind each other they need to get home to watch the latest episode of Love Island. When the coast is clear, Brent slowly approaches his groggy, fallen relative.
Fair dinkum. We're both in the shit. You still want my help, mate?
Dallas manages a dopey nod to the affirmative.
SEPTEMBER 2022
Brent empties a bag of luscious green apples into a cullender, before washing them under the cold tap. Dallas sits gormlessly in the background.
How d'ya like them apples, Kyle Kemp? We go back a long way; I know The Shine's re-emergence leaves a sour taste in your mouth.
He rhythmically peels the apples in circular motion.
Eddie Vedder used to visit me backstage at WCF shows - Alpine simp. Meanwhile, you entertained such luminaries as Joy Behar and John Goodman's ass-double. Anyway, I now realise you and Vedder are not so dissimilar. Once, he opened up to me and admitted he's tired of constantly playing Pearl Jam's greatest hit at every show, lest the fans revolt. Don't you feel the same? It must be hard screaming out "OOOOOOHHHHH I'M STILL ALIVE!" ad nauseum.
He chops the apples into eighths as the moisture glistens.
"I'm relevant! I'm relevant" Oooookkkkkaaaaaaayyy. "No honestly, I'm relevant". Sure, Kyle. Your transition from vapid, "I'm better than you" archetypal Yankee frat-boy to defensive, grouchy troglodyte has been masterful, truly, drongo. The good news is... I don't disagree. Rumours of your demise have been greatly exaggerated. While we can rest assured ol' Rossy's bound to destroy himself in our number 1 contenders to the US Title four-way on Clash, you're more of a slippery, cunning creature. Aren't you, "Grayson"? As much as you want to talk yourself into redundancy, you are always a sneak win or two away from the main event scene. Why?
He stirs in white sugar, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, flour and lemon juice, mixing it to be absorbed into the sweet apple slices.
Because you're an apple pie, Kyle, an American pie. You might see yourself in the renegade vein like a certain "DD" who stole your Following, but you, KK are a square, not an oblong. Vanilla, not vegemite. American pie, not mud pie. You should be proud of that. American pie's solid, dependable and satisfying, even when more exotic and flavoursome pies come out the oven.
He pulls out a ready made apple pie - golden, crumbly, scrumptious.
Whether served on its own, as you sombrely find yourself now, or lashed with cream or other accoutrements, the American pie never disappoints. Bravo, sport!
He pours an abundance of cream and serves to Dallas, handing him a fork to tuck in.
The pie's fine. But the country? Steep decline. Uncle Sam enjoyed booming and prosperity, truth and justice, joy and peace. That was, until August 2016 when I relinquished the WCF US Title. Due to the incomparable blessing of The Shine, WCF decided that the division should cease... as any subsequent incumbent would prove a crushing anti-climax.
At that moment, the WCF, and the USA as you knew it, shrivelled. Five months later, an orange sphincter-brain gonad jabbered around the White House, espousing about fake news and walls. Three years on, everyone scurried around in ugly masks because the pollution in the American air was no longer dissipated by the reinvigorating aroma of The Shine and the government had to make up a story about a "Chinese virus" to cover it up. But now, guess what, 'Murica? I'm breathing the breath of life back into you.
After a few mouthfuls, Dallas regurgitates the pie, getting gooey green blobs of sick all over his smart AW blazer.
America has a stronger constitution than Dallas here, thankfully, but that perfectly adequate Kemp style pie houses a toxic cocktail of filth and bile. Like that DiVito wannabe, America's unable to heave its impurities because its crust is too stubborn and preoccupied with trying to convince everyone "OOOOOOHHHHH I'M STILL ALIVE!".
Wake up, yankee-doodle-of-Dandy. It is time I take America back and purge her of her trash. Once I vanquish the enemies of liberty, Ross, Kemp and Dionysus, I vow to bombard Jill Park with shock and awe; not only bringing the true US division back but nourishing the New World herself into long destined fruition.
I will Make America Great Again and, by osmosis, I will Make Kyle Kemp Great Again. The rising tide lifts all boats. You're welcome.
But in the meantime, Kyle, you're simply in my way. So bye bye Mr. American Pie.
AUGUST 2022: STEP 5
I admit to my wrongs
A low lit environment, intimately offloading burdens to a mediator with powers to absolve.
I lost my job, my freedom, my sanity, the love of my life... all for feet. FEET!?
Meanwhile...
And now Dallas wants me to become that guy again. The delusional maniac who tried to forget the hell he put that family through.
...
Please, I beg you. Absolve me, Father.
...
I need to be The Shine again. Otherwise, I fear Dallas will end it all this time. Please...
...
The Priest leans towards the confessional grill as Dallas grits his teeth nervously.
May God forgive you, son.
...
Elsewhere, our view of the other darkened room expands - it is an office. Torture sits pensively.
Alright. One month trial. Unpaid. Don't blow it.
SEPTEMBER 2022
Brent and Dallas tour a resplendent vineyard.
You're the oracle on Geek Mythology, mate, so fill me in. If Holden's Narcissus... who's Dionysus? What's his deal? He the one who banged his Mum?
Well no, that's Oedipus, but I liken Dion more to another Greek God. One who actually impregnated his mother - Uranus.
Leave my anus out of this!
Long story short, Uranus was so possessive of Gaea that he wouldn't let any of his offspring leave her womb. Ultimately, one of them castrated him and threw his knob into the ocean.
What's this gotta do with the wrestler drongo?
Suffocation. He suffocates everyone he's close to. The Brotherhood crumbled under his leadership because he refused to let them thrive. Now look at Downfall. Dion's guilt tripping him into remaining mediocre like him, a soft touch. Why? Because Necurat knows that he will flourish without him and he can't handle that. He has a Martyr complex, as evidenced by his insistence on entering Havoc at number one and this ridiculous Year of Wine and Roses which was doomed to fail from January 1st. He's a misery addict and he's determined to bring everyone else down to his level.
He needs to let go, admit the truth and welcome some Shine in his life. For I am more than mythology and Dion, I am the only one who can save Uranus. But first... I need to save America...
His face contorts to one of sheer conviction as he picks a grape off a vine, squashes it and its juices shine red, white and blue.
