Post by Odin Balfore on Nov 16, 2022 23:05:46 GMT -5
United States Championship Match
Vs
Kill Park ( C )
Prelude to Cremation
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“When my boi Kanye was just beginning his struggle with Genius, Fame, Money, Power - The shadowed grip of the Illuminattis unthink hands- He had a saying - and I’ll Paraphrase: Now I’m not saying she a GOLD DIGGER.
Kanye we were once bois but like AB tah TB, you put the knife in my back. I’d be worried about you fuckin my wife but you can't swim. Neither can Jill from what I heard. She can barely handle Dion and you know somethin, you both gone sink beneath them waves.”
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Odins Ranch. Edin, Texas.
The Shape and the Ol’ Dirty sit at the small circular kitchen table that's barely big enough to fit Odin, let alone accommodate the Shapes Walrus-like figure. Between them is an ornate cedar box. We catch them in mid-conversation as The Shape places both seal-like hands on the box. Swollen and misshapen from sodium retention and fluid build-up.
“Now we,” He starts. “We have a big night coming up, my son. The United States Championship, That Ol’ Dirty Amerikkkana Whurls Championship, will soon be in our hands. It truely and rightfully belongs to you. However, before that gold and leather trinket adorns your waist; I feel that there is something that you need to have. To hold. To honor. To cherish. Something that you have been searching for, for a long time.”
The Shapes hands manipulate the box and lift the lid open. A golden hue washes over Odin's face. He cocks his head ever so slightly with a puzzled look in his eyes.
“Where did -” Odin gets cut off.
“I found them,” Answers the Shape. “Procured them. Tactically acquired.”
Inside the box were a set of Twin titanium gold Desert Eagle handguns with Extinct Western Black Rhino Ivory inlet handles with “All-Father” inscribed on one side of each handle. A gift from the God-Father to the All-Father.
“I lost these -”
“Almost ten years ago, I know. A Proud Father always knows. I just want you to know that you always are who you’ve always been. Even if you think that you lost it. However, sometimes it takes a Proud Father to help you find it."
“Thank you.” Odin replied. It was that ‘thank you’, that's all The Shape ever wanted. It was the only thing he ever needed. To seal the deal.
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We see Odin in his outdoor shooting range. The sweet pump action Rhed Rhyder Titanium Deagle with a compass in the stock, felt good in his hands. Fit him like a glove just as it always had. The gigantic .50 cal handgun looked like a glock in his hands. Custom made for his hands size, grip strength, and trigger pull. The monstrous shot let out thunderous sounds that went all the way to Valhalla. Odin shot and emptied the twin clips. When the sound faded and the triggers clicked and chirped, he put the barrels to his nose and breathed in deep, inhaling those .. vapors. A musky, Pungent scent. Familar in its many layers.
“Jill Park,” He spoke to us. “ You verse me is sword verse gun.” Odin turned and looked us directly into our collective souls as he spoke to the soon to be former United States Champion.
"There's only one rank choice for US Champion and its the number one rank choice for US Champion. If you don't like the outcome, go appeal your shoot to the Supreme Court but I'm owning your brand name now like Supreme- court. so come mary-sue me for all your freedoms. Talk about that queen shit like Kim Kardashian biting someone else's melanin.
Don't worry, I'm sure your reign was legendary like yeezy and Adidas but I'm about to drop you faster than yeezy and Adidas.
So don't act like I'm Patrick Bateman in American Paycho.
When I'm actually William Defoe. American. Psycho.
That's the difference between us. There's a difference between U.S.
Ol Dirty has a Columbus-style history with that US title. Marching homeboys into the sea with that US title. Bringing ORBIT-al black men to their knees with that US title. I'm shooting off like the Columbine massacre with that US title.
You're sweaty green armpits, protestin' college campus tragedies with that US title.
If this truth upsets you, you should march in the streets but Ides suggest you watch your back because I'm March in these streets.
I'm an established history of violent tyranny with this US title so I suggest you settle for tearin down my statues because I can't be beaten.
I'm cocaine and painkillers. A fentenyl assassin. You're a just a basic white bitch at a Starbucks, asking for a Venti-mocha Fatal Attraction.
Now you're finding out why everyone's mad that I got my hands in. I'm gonna take that belt off your waist so that I can slip my hands in.
Take your time and go collect your thoughts like John Fetterman but by the end of this you'll still stroke out at the finish line. Call you Jill Fetterman.”
“Odin!” Yelled a voice in an unknown direction. A distant hello from the other side.
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The Valdiva-Roman Compound.
We see The Shape in the basement, looking like a scene out of some bad horror movie. Wet, damp stonework, cobbled and broken, dripping and oozing. The wooden stairs were broken as well but usable as they barely withstood the Shape's weight as he trotted down them. On a shelf tucked away in the corner, past the Satyr dinnerware and the Passover decor was an ornate cedar box. It caught The shapes eye and ear.
“I agree, my son. I agree. From one Jew to another- It is time. It is time, indeed.”
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Adele and Odin embraced in front of the main house. Odin held her close as she rested her head on his chest and listened to his heart beat.
“Adele, what are you doing here?”
“I saw you on the TV. I know we haven't spoke in years, I had no idea you were still wrestling.”
“I cant stop. It’s who I am.”
“I know. I knows it’s important to you. I want to be there for you.”
Odin kisses Adele, catching her by surprise.
“What did you do that for?” she asks.
“Just had to be sure.” He says.
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“ Jillian, my love. You have such a beautiful face. Please, allow me the honor not to sullen it with yet another black eye. The white girl privilege of being told twice.
Allow me to clear the air, for you may have heard some awful, terrible and rotten lies about me. Calous and cruel, dripping with jealous venom -all unfounded and untrue. However, my silly, jilly, you have committed and continue to commit the most high-anus crimes of them all.
You, my dear, in 2022, the year of lord Yeezus Christ - you dare to be happy. Have you ever once - for one second stopped and thought of those on that grind, slaving away the 9 to 5, plantation abomination -
NO!
No, you haven't because you're selfish, repugnant and most unforgiving of all, you're a white woman with too much privilege.
You carry that United States Championship as if you know the struggles of what its like to be a champion in these United States of America. To ack-sho-ed-a-leed Champion these United States and trust me when I tell you, my sweet.
WE ARE UNITED.
In love.
In war
In HATE.
That's what I want you to try and do this week, my love above loves. I want you to step in that ring with the dirtiest of dirty. I want you to look him straight in the eye and know that your blonde hair, as fair as your mother's- your eyes, your lips, the fire in your soul will fail to the might and will of the REAL AMERICANS - AMERICA.
Now Jillian, as another ol great dirty once said: I do not have a problem with you fucking Me but I got a lot of problems with you not fucking me. Do not come out here in front of God and Country and Yeezus his-damn-self and lie to the world and worse yourself that you stand a chance in ol dirty America.
My brave son, he is not well and I feel there is something within him that I cannot control. That's what you have to deal with. That's what's coming for you. I am sorry about what I did. What I unleashed. I had nudge it along. To foster it like a little baby bird. The essence of the Bob-Fuddah is with him now.
My love, I'm sorry.
It's alright, though. You still have that monument to that cis-gendered sacrilege. Be a shame if somebody took that from you too because. My love.
You cannot know happiness without struggle, sacrifice and suffrage
To suffer and rage. To suffer the rage of ol dirtys A dash dash dash - meric-ugh. In the land of Op-per-TUNITY, I suggest you op-out of this opportunity.
Your proud father, I know you're brave and as cunning as your mother, you need not prove it to me. You need not prove it to them. You need not prove it to yourself my dear.
For, to prove, means that you lack the confidence to go out there and do. And if you need to prove yourself in old dirty America then you, I'm afraid,
You cannot be a champion…
You cannot conquer. Just conquer.
You want to be the one to say that you ended ol dirty That you're gonna bring the pain. I've met God's, demons, the generals commanding the legions.. and you - you're gonna put the hurt on. You're gonna bring the pain.
No. Not at all. Jill. Listen to me when I tell you.
Here. Comes. The. Pain.
And you won't know any of that.. none of it …
Without first
Placing your hand over your heart and with a loud clear voice say:
CONQUER. THE. HATE
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“ Is this what you wanted to see, my children; a fair maiden's brains get splattered all over the arena the same way my balls are going to splatter the goo of indignant righteousness all over her face. It is the hallow whiteness that does it for it. Kills me deep within my poisoned, charred soul. A Stake through the heart of the All-Father. You, who carried her up the steps. You, who carried her through the threshold. The precipice of fawning ah-jew-lation. To hip and pip with lungs filled with pride. With Joy. Yet those, my children, they who forget the All-Father. They, who, forget his place, his role, his kingdom, his crown, his throne. A throne of pretty little skulls just like hers- oh how many the dozen that slinked and slunked on their bruised and dirty knees. To slurp and burp the salty bubbles.
Say it, my children. It is alright. The All-Father will forgive you for that which I for-bade you. To turn your collective pimpled backs and your neckbeard sweaty jowls away to the new, hawtness. I cannot blame you. Prehaps it is I who have failed you with these violent hands. With these unprecedented runs. With the divisions on my back just as all you unwashed masses used to clamor.
In the past I became the very inadequacies that I once mocked and yet upon my return. My kingdom, my crown, my throne, my role, all of it, all of it, just the same as I have left it. The power vacuum in my immediate wake left no survivors because henceforth, there are no bodies in the whurld in which possessing the knowledge to survive it. Least of all not that Jill Park-mess
Call that Kingdom CUM. For the kingdom, came, went, and like Odysseus, my kingdom, my kingdom, my kingdom. Challengers all dead and yet right next dawe prances a princess in the garb and swash of a buckled warrior. BAH! The All-Father mocks for your clandestine clam does yet not know the THICK of the situation that you are in. The Twin Deagles, they speak to the All-Father of Bob as the Bob Father once spoke- as if he himself is the one doing it and he, my children, told me to come hence forth and rescue you from the pied pipers of Satans stanky armpits. To be told by the sank-T-MOAN-ious, wanna be All-Father, Torture, that The All-Father aint good enough to be on the Bob Ross Television or the Al Gore Internet and yet I’ve buried body aftah ungrateful body in the ground so deep, Gravediggers gonna have to go on twenty-three and shut the fuck up, just to find the next of kin.
Jill Pahk, the Whurld aint done did, here for you. However, the All-Father is. Comin at chu with a two piece-buscuit and a lttle ceaser crazy bread stick. The All-Fathers gotta feed the masses before he makes you strave and trust the All-Father, starvin Marvin is what chu gone be doin’. Go square up with Dandy and get kicked in the fuggin dick cuz deep down you know that bettah than havin to square yup wid that Ol’ Dirty one more time. Do that dumb shit Sans belt. You held ontah that belt well past Labor day, and like Laborday, you aint wearin white no more cuz you gone get fyucked this damn week in Jew brand history.
Let us speak candidly of history. Of my journey, my trials with that United States Championship in this and many federations, all predating your cash down on demand deposit from Mommy and Daddys credit card. Let us expound on that meaning. A rough and tumble what-about-ism of what makes and bleeds a champion then compare such a term and title to you and I. What you have been given was given to you let your blonde hair failures were own, my child. I’ve seen that with my own two eyes and with my own two eyes, swear tah Gawd, The All-Father has seen overrated talent go to far with so little. It is not your fault. It happens to everyone. Gerad Angelo, right now as we both live and breathe. I'm here to say, my child that it stops here and now this very damn week. We roll intah Thanksgivin and you, blessed sweet summah child, be givin Thanks that chu only gots to suffer the indignants once. The scowl, once. The bare grinding of these violent hands on dat sweet glass jawe. Playin it like crystal goblets at a fancy party. Till ya' dehydrated and breathless. raw and chapped. Spent and can give the All-Father no more bang for this used crumbled buck that you accepted when you signed ink to paper for this match. You'll soon find out that leather and gold aint worth the price of admission. Your money, your words, your supposed skills. Your lies. they are no good here in Ol' Dirty America.
When my children told you about the All-Father - they told you lies.
They spoke falsehoods. They gave you what indeed you wanted to hear because that is all that you can bare up a at any given time. Do not blame them for they were taken in. Yet they knew that they had to protect you over me because they knew The All-Father did not need the protection and that I would ultimately in the end forgive them. I shall forgive you too if’n you only ask for it yet pride does protest too much and pride keeps you from doing what needs to be done. The All-Father shall not ask you to lay down your arms but I will for the sake of consent, ask you to open your legs. From this point awn, all else will be non-consensual.
The Many Goons like Downfall can step over the bodies. A fuccboi stepping over fuccbois. Unaware and ignorant of his own damn fate. Same as you. Same as all of them out there with ears who can hear my voice. The select few that know deep in their souls that the United States Whurld Belt will secure around my waist in just a few day's time. Jill Pahk know that this is just a Prelude to Cremation.
UR_WELLCUM.exe
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