Post by Alexander Pasternak on Feb 10, 2019 22:44:40 GMT -5
Jerry Pendleton called today.
Under the best circumstances the sight of that sniveling little trust fund baby's name would make me grimace — after all, the creep did try to feel me up at a bonfire junior year and wouldn't fuck off 'til i jammed my thumb into his eye — but today, when I was halfway through my third cigarette of the morning at 8:30, I damn near threw my phone out the window. How did he still have my number? Why was his still programmed into mine? I left my cigarette to smolder in the black plastic ashtray I kept on the coffee table and took a sip from the half-empty bottle of room temperature water I fell asleep drinking last night before answering the call against my better judgment. A hollow, forced smile stapled itself to my face as I chirped: "Was beginning to think you forgot about your old friends in Brighton."
"Cut the shit, Jana," he hissed, his voice much more nasally than I remembered. "Your gutter-trash commie boyfriend isn't picking up."
"Well, with that attitude can you really blame him?"
He groaned a throaty growl into the receiver that felt like nails on a chalkboard.
"Don't play dumb with me, you fucking- I know you put him up to it."
The fake smile I worked up for no one's benefit faded and I retrieved my cigarette from the ashtray. "I have no idea what you're talking about, you goddamn spaz."
"Don't fucking lie to me. You ruined a great opportunity for me because you're still mad about that stupid shit from junior year."
My face flushed and I could feel the heat radiating off my cheeks. I saw red and forced myself to take a drag before I threw the phone at the wall.
"That 'stupid shit from junior year'? That's a real funny way of putting it, Jer-"
"Oh, stop being so dramatic. I apologized."
"And you aren't entitled to my forgiveness, you fucking loser."
"Right, right, I'm the loser. Not the girl who siccs her pro-wrestler boyfriend on someone over a grudge."
I balled my hand into a fist so hard my knuckles were bone-white before slamming it down on the coffee table. "I still have no idea what you're talking about."
"We could've made some good money together. Me and Alex and that fucking clique he's running with now, Beach Club or something."
"#BeachKrew."
"Yeah, that. They were gonna be the faces of the new clothing line I'm working on."
I couldn't help but laugh. Jerry was a hangeron, a rich kid who hung around with Alex because it pissed his daddy off and made him feel tough. Alex only liked him because he could him to pay for everything. Alex would never go into business with that cocksucker.
"Laugh it up. It's real funny when you get blindsided and get the shit kicked out of you by a professional athlete. Broke my goddamn nose."
"Alex broke your nose?" I choked out between laughing fits. This was the best day of my life.
"Nah, one of the other guys. The twink. Ryan Locklear."
"Lockhart."
My eyes widened. Didn't think Ryan'd have it in him.
"Assholes stole my fuckin' coke too."
And with only six words, my blood ran cold.
"Now I know you're lying to me. Alex's clean. Has been for months."
"He didn't look too clean to me-"
That was it. Before I even knew what I was doing, the phone had collided with the wall with a thud. As it hit the ground I could see the screen was shattered to hell. With a shaky hand, I reached for my water bottle and hoped to God he was lying to me.
Least of all the trio of goddamned snakes Ryan, Wade, and I have the pleasure of squaring off with this week. As the self-appointed head of #beachkrew's European Identity Marketing Department, I am proud to announce that you Irish-for-a-day geeks can rejoice. #BeachKrew is going to one up that coward Saint Patrick and drive all the snakes out of Athens, Georgia on the 11th of February. Starting with the biggest one of the bunch.
Hey Jaice, how's it goin'? Break out the milk crates you goddamn midget, and look me in the eye when I'm talking to you. D'you feel good? Like a winner? You got yet another undeserved title shot after all, it's like Damian Kaine didn't abandon your shitty tag team after all. It's almost like you still have the mask on, Spectre. Well, of course that last part's true, the name Jaice Wilds means as much to the world of Action Wrestling as little old Dark Spectre and since I know I'll have to spell this out for you, my dear vertically-challenged bitch, that ain't a compliment to Dark Spectre. It's a flat admission: nobody has the first clue who the fuck Jaice Wilds even is. Not the people watching weekly, not the powers that be, and most definitely not your fellow Guardians. You know them, don't you? That stable you glomped onto like a metastasising tumor by virtue of pairing up with a Damian Kaine so desperate to look relevant he went on his ineffectual KD shit? Yeah, you know them.
Can I be real with you for a second? Watching you prance around on Twitter, puffing out your chest like you're some bigshot, like you can hang with the boys, is just fucking sad. Every time you shart out some half-baked, wildly incoherent word salad peppered with tired hashtags more on the nose than a Jewish delicatessen (or, y'know, just a delicatessen I guess), my heart breaks and I can't help but weep. Not because you're spitting fire, or that anything you blurt out comes even close to connecting, let alone hurting my feelings, but because it's just so exhausting and depressing. It's like firing up twitter.com and saying "hey, I wonder what Jose Canseco's up to." If you overlook the fact that Jose Canseco was actually a legendary performer in his given trade, of course, the parallels are fucking identical. Shit, man, Jose stays out here making more sense than most of your tirades, and that dude's going on about aliens and time travel twenty-four hours a day. Come to think of it, homeboy Jose would've been a much better fit for the Guardians than your sentient exercise ball ass. Don't at me.
"BUT ALEX," I can already hear you whining, "I WAS A REALLY ACCOMPLISHED WRESTLER LIKE FIFTEEN YEARS AGO I'M OWED SOME RESPECT."
In a word, nah. Fuck outta here with that bullshit. That's your problem, man. Your obnoxious Twitter presence, you shacking up with Damian Kaine and the rest of the Guardians regardless of how awkward the fit is, all that? Those are just the symptoms of the larger problems. Real shit, between me and you? You're such a whiny, entitled geek, fam. That's what this is really about. You can trot around like you're hot shit because you were allegedly good back when I was like seven years old but someone went and burned all the tapes so you can't prove it. You can pretend like your brand is so prestigious that you had to sneak into AW with a mask so that the powers that be didn't hotshot you right into the world title picture from your debut, but here's the rub: no one fucking believes you. We get it, Jaice, your uncle works at Microsoft and will ban us if we bully you too hard. We're all fucking trembling.
God damn geek. You phony. We know for sure the AW government-in-exile didn't think your name drew well enough to justify a world title push from the gitgo, because you would've been all over that like you've been all over any belt you delude yourself into thinking is easy pickings. Ain't that right?
That's the whole reason you cliqued up with Damian Kaine and the rest of the Guardians wasn't it? Because Power Word: Kill were such spineless, wet noodle paper champions right? How about you stand in front of the class and tell everyone about the storied tag title reign of the triumphant Order of Chaos?
What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Oh, right. There was no storied tag title reign, was there? Nah, instead you clowned by a debuting team fresh off the front page of blacked.com and pimp slapped by PW:K a few times for good measure because you're either washed up or not as good as advertised and Damian Kaine never met a big match he wouldn't underperform in.
Rinse, lather, repeat when it comes to 201 and Fun. This is the Jaice Wilds MO: target a division you think is weak, hoping you can pull a title run out of your ass for your troubles. Get your ass wombo combo'd by the exact same people you brushed off as simply unqualified to hang someone of your stature (lel). Then, proceed to keep acting like the cream of the crop despite a win-loss record that'd get a Big 10 football coach fired into the sun faster than you can say: "wait, am I supposed to know who the guy under the Dark Spectre mask is?"
It's pathetic. It's fucking groanworthy is what it is. And it's happening again. Jaice Wilds finds himself with a world title shot because, reasons. The powers that be know that nobody outside of the #krew can really bring the fight to Ryan on a normal day, let alone when we hold the cards, so instead of sending one of the budding stars into the mix to get smacked up, they send Jaice to stumble and hopefully break a leg before he gets out of the starting blocks. And he's already on his bullshit, downplaying my boy like Ryan Lockhart isn't the best wrestler in the goddamn world today. Crying about how mean ol' Ryan's such a cheater and that #BeachKrew are all pussies like he wouldn't swallow his words like he's gonna be swallowing my nut in about a day if Wade pondered self-exiling himself to the Guardians again just to balance the sides a little.
Winners win and losers lose. At the end of the day, that's the long and short of it. And no matter how much Jaice Wilds wants to piss and moan about the methods the #krew has employed to secure victories, the fact remains that he'll never be able to snatch our shine. While he eats shit everytime an opportunity is handed to him on a silver platter, #BK stays on top. Look at War Games: Torture, a real bonafide living legend in this business, saw fit to step out of retirement, forsake his duties as COO of Action Wrestling, just to kick our asses. And you wanna know what my bros and I did in response?
Well shit, there's a reason this next Pay-Per-View's called #EffinRager.
Winners find ways to win and losers find ways to stay salty about it. Get the fuck over yourself, Jaice. Die mad.
But surely, there are more positive topics to discuss than death and Jaice Wilds. I'm actually a little frustrated that I spent as much time on that twerp, to be honest. How about we talk about #BeachKrew and how we're the best stable in the history of professional wrestling? Because we are. Who could compare? #FightSmart? Yeah, right. The Guardians? That whole collective would be depth players in a real group and only dominated in UCI because the talent pool was about as deep as a puddle. The Brotherhood? Who? Nah, it's us. It's always been us. It'll always be us. And when Wade and I snatch them tag belts, we're just gonna add more fuel to that fire.
Oh, right. I should probably say something about the other two guys in this match, the very same people Wade and I will be facing for those belts at #EffinRager: The Cowboys from Hell. At the same time, though? Fuck that. Nah, I'm serious. Losing to Red, White, and Bruised? You can't do that and expect to get any of #BK's attention just one week later.
I'm contractually obligated, aren't I? Very well then, let's talk about the Cowboys. Matter of fact, scratch that: let's about the Cowboy.
How's it goin', Beau? Hangin' yer head a little after gettin' lit up by Karlie Nash and the other one? Don't worry, champ. It happens to the best of us- well, it happens to some of us. Can't say I relate: I've only lost to world champions. Not to flex or anything but, fuck it man, here we are. Don't worry, I'm not gonna gut you and leave your carcass up on a rack like I did Jaice. To be completely honest, you aren't worth it.
What is there to say about Beau Blaze? I don't know who you are. You ain't got no presence, no identity. No brand. Jaice Wilds has a brand. Your boi Z-Mac, he has a brand. Now both of their brands are toxic and infuriating, but they're something. I can't get a fuckin' handle on you, not because you're some mysterious enigma who's unclockable or some shit, but because you're so ceaselessly broad and uninspiring. I can't shit on you, because I can't stomach you. So instead, we're going to talk about me? Why? Because despite it all, I think you and I might be in similar boats.
I could rail you for strapping yourself to Zombie McMorris' back like a fuckin' anchor, accuse you of riding someone else to success. But I won't. Because I know what it's like to get called a coattail rider.
What, you think I'm blind? That I don't see what twitter retards say about me? That everytime someone puts my name in their mouth it's all "Alex Pasternak ain't shit," "Alex Pasternak is a fuckin' lame," "the biggest thing Alex Pasternak did before #BK was lose to Wade Moor". I get it, I do. The narrative is that I'm the weakest member of #beachkrew, ain't it?
Guess what? It's goddamn right. You think that's supposed to hurt my goddamn feelings? That I'm the worst member of a stable that features the best wrestler in the world today in Ryan Lockhart, AW's 2018 wrestler of the year in Wade Moor, and a fucking legend in Jared Holmes? Do any of the limp-wristed cucks in this goddamn promotion know what an insult is? I'll wear that like a badge of honor every single day of the week. That's #krewlove. That's why #beachkrew is the best stable in wrestling history. Our weakest link is stronger than the rest of the damn roster.
But that's where the difference between you and me lies. I ain't got nothing to prove to a buncha lames who think falling just short of three certified pro wrestling hall of famers is something to be mocked. But you, I don't think you're gonna be able to handle that. Maybe it's because Zombie McMorris ain't in the same category as the three guys in my corner. Maybe it's because you need to prove you're better than your adopted, undead daddy. You two ain't a team. You're a fuckin' vanity project. ZMAC's on his crusade to snatch up the handful of championships he can get his grubby little hands on in the year of our lord 2019 and you just so happened to be available.
When Wade and I beat you at #EffinRager, that's it. The Cowboys from Hell? Dead. Disbanded. Y'all two will go right back into the singles realm with your tails in between your legs hoping that Wade and I don't chase you out of AW entirely.
Call me crazy, I'm gonna call it now. Eight ball, corner pocket. Me, pinning you, at #EffinRager.
Sorry, you know I had to do it to ya.
And then there's the man of the hour. Zombie McMorris. ZMAC. The Coked Up Madman yadda fuckin' fadda. Call him what you will: retard, psycho, fucking hack. What you can't do, however, is deny his accolades. Television Champion. 201 and Fun Champion. And now, Tag Team Champion alongside our good friend Beau Blaze. I guess you can truly, honestly say at this point, that Zombie McMorris is what would happen is Jaice Wilds was actually good.
Some of you may be taken aback by that. How could I say that? How could I possibly imply that the living legend Zombie McMorris is in anyway comparable to the third best member of this current iteration of the Guardians, Jaice Wilds (LMFAO to that by the way)? Boy howdy, let me count the fuckin' ways.
1. Cash in on the name brand recognition and coast your way to the spot on the AW roster. Of course, Ol' Z actually has a name that's recognizable so this was much easier for him than Jaice.
2. Stalk around the lesser divisions, looking for easy title wins. Once again, ZMAC's capable of pouncing on them opportunities.
3. Rope in an unsuspecting rube who has more ambition than talent and go for a tag title run. Well, you already know how that story ends for both Z and Jaice.
You might be asking yourself, why am I bringing this up? To what end does it matter if Z is just Jaice Wilds but better? Am I not just acting like a cheerleader for ZMAC by bringing up his successes?
These are all good questions of course, if you're a fucking moron. This is Zombie McMorris we're talking about. The goddamn Honey Badger. He who has ended more fucking careers than I've ever even faced as a professional wrestler. You don't understand, I want to cheerlead for Zombie McMorris. I want to take some of that classic ZMAC merch I got out of the damn closet and wear it with pride. But I can't. Because Zombie McMorris is 2019 has gone soft. Skulking around 201, trying to get Lincoln fucking Keuchly of all people to play senpai and notice you what the fuck is that shit? That ain't the behavior of a GOAT. That ain't the behavior of someone still able to hang with the big dogs and snatch up the World Championship. That's the behavior of a fuckin' has-been scared of the voices in his head.
Scared of trying and failing. Scared of admitting he ain't the man anymore. It's fuckin' weak and I never thought I'd see the day. So many of our goddamned heroes will slip and fall and let father time drag them into the abyss. Remind us that they are human. But I never expected it out of Ol' Z. To see a guy who used to be the most dangerous man in wrestling decline to the point of being the ideal form of Jaice Wilds is disheartening. It's a fuckin' omen. A reminder.
We're all going to die someday.
So fuck it. I don't care if it's this week. I don't care if it's at #EffinRager. Take our hands, Z. Let us lead you out behind the woodshed and do you like Old Yeller.
Die with some fucking dignity.
Under the best circumstances the sight of that sniveling little trust fund baby's name would make me grimace — after all, the creep did try to feel me up at a bonfire junior year and wouldn't fuck off 'til i jammed my thumb into his eye — but today, when I was halfway through my third cigarette of the morning at 8:30, I damn near threw my phone out the window. How did he still have my number? Why was his still programmed into mine? I left my cigarette to smolder in the black plastic ashtray I kept on the coffee table and took a sip from the half-empty bottle of room temperature water I fell asleep drinking last night before answering the call against my better judgment. A hollow, forced smile stapled itself to my face as I chirped: "Was beginning to think you forgot about your old friends in Brighton."
"Cut the shit, Jana," he hissed, his voice much more nasally than I remembered. "Your gutter-trash commie boyfriend isn't picking up."
"Well, with that attitude can you really blame him?"
He groaned a throaty growl into the receiver that felt like nails on a chalkboard.
"Don't play dumb with me, you fucking- I know you put him up to it."
The fake smile I worked up for no one's benefit faded and I retrieved my cigarette from the ashtray. "I have no idea what you're talking about, you goddamn spaz."
"Don't fucking lie to me. You ruined a great opportunity for me because you're still mad about that stupid shit from junior year."
My face flushed and I could feel the heat radiating off my cheeks. I saw red and forced myself to take a drag before I threw the phone at the wall.
"That 'stupid shit from junior year'? That's a real funny way of putting it, Jer-"
"Oh, stop being so dramatic. I apologized."
"And you aren't entitled to my forgiveness, you fucking loser."
"Right, right, I'm the loser. Not the girl who siccs her pro-wrestler boyfriend on someone over a grudge."
I balled my hand into a fist so hard my knuckles were bone-white before slamming it down on the coffee table. "I still have no idea what you're talking about."
"We could've made some good money together. Me and Alex and that fucking clique he's running with now, Beach Club or something."
"#BeachKrew."
"Yeah, that. They were gonna be the faces of the new clothing line I'm working on."
I couldn't help but laugh. Jerry was a hangeron, a rich kid who hung around with Alex because it pissed his daddy off and made him feel tough. Alex only liked him because he could him to pay for everything. Alex would never go into business with that cocksucker.
"Laugh it up. It's real funny when you get blindsided and get the shit kicked out of you by a professional athlete. Broke my goddamn nose."
"Alex broke your nose?" I choked out between laughing fits. This was the best day of my life.
"Nah, one of the other guys. The twink. Ryan Locklear."
"Lockhart."
My eyes widened. Didn't think Ryan'd have it in him.
"Assholes stole my fuckin' coke too."
And with only six words, my blood ran cold.
"Now I know you're lying to me. Alex's clean. Has been for months."
"He didn't look too clean to me-"
That was it. Before I even knew what I was doing, the phone had collided with the wall with a thud. As it hit the ground I could see the screen was shattered to hell. With a shaky hand, I reached for my water bottle and hoped to God he was lying to me.
=~=~=~=~=
You know what? I'm just gonna be straight with y'all three. Kick the ballistics, talk that real shit, all killer, no filler. Not that you would know the first fucking thing about any of that. Who gets the dubious honor of lining up like true contenders, only to get smacked back to earth by #beachkrew next? Or did the rest of the Action Wrestling roster witness our complete dismantling of hashtag FightSmart — the most cohesive, talented, united front that could possibly stand opposite us — and backed the fuck away with their tail in-between their legs. Maybe they're scared of all the ways we could fuck with them come #EffinRager. Or maybe they're just afraid to be caught slippin'. I don't blame 'em, regardless. It takes balls the size of cantaloupes to step up to such a dominant power structure, I know that. The kinda balls that my brothers-in-arms got. The kinda balls I got, hell that my whole bloodline's got. There ain't no one on this roster not #BK-affiliated who has what it takes to stand up to us.Least of all the trio of goddamned snakes Ryan, Wade, and I have the pleasure of squaring off with this week. As the self-appointed head of #beachkrew's European Identity Marketing Department, I am proud to announce that you Irish-for-a-day geeks can rejoice. #BeachKrew is going to one up that coward Saint Patrick and drive all the snakes out of Athens, Georgia on the 11th of February. Starting with the biggest one of the bunch.
Hey Jaice, how's it goin'? Break out the milk crates you goddamn midget, and look me in the eye when I'm talking to you. D'you feel good? Like a winner? You got yet another undeserved title shot after all, it's like Damian Kaine didn't abandon your shitty tag team after all. It's almost like you still have the mask on, Spectre. Well, of course that last part's true, the name Jaice Wilds means as much to the world of Action Wrestling as little old Dark Spectre and since I know I'll have to spell this out for you, my dear vertically-challenged bitch, that ain't a compliment to Dark Spectre. It's a flat admission: nobody has the first clue who the fuck Jaice Wilds even is. Not the people watching weekly, not the powers that be, and most definitely not your fellow Guardians. You know them, don't you? That stable you glomped onto like a metastasising tumor by virtue of pairing up with a Damian Kaine so desperate to look relevant he went on his ineffectual KD shit? Yeah, you know them.
Can I be real with you for a second? Watching you prance around on Twitter, puffing out your chest like you're some bigshot, like you can hang with the boys, is just fucking sad. Every time you shart out some half-baked, wildly incoherent word salad peppered with tired hashtags more on the nose than a Jewish delicatessen (or, y'know, just a delicatessen I guess), my heart breaks and I can't help but weep. Not because you're spitting fire, or that anything you blurt out comes even close to connecting, let alone hurting my feelings, but because it's just so exhausting and depressing. It's like firing up twitter.com and saying "hey, I wonder what Jose Canseco's up to." If you overlook the fact that Jose Canseco was actually a legendary performer in his given trade, of course, the parallels are fucking identical. Shit, man, Jose stays out here making more sense than most of your tirades, and that dude's going on about aliens and time travel twenty-four hours a day. Come to think of it, homeboy Jose would've been a much better fit for the Guardians than your sentient exercise ball ass. Don't at me.
"BUT ALEX," I can already hear you whining, "I WAS A REALLY ACCOMPLISHED WRESTLER LIKE FIFTEEN YEARS AGO I'M OWED SOME RESPECT."
In a word, nah. Fuck outta here with that bullshit. That's your problem, man. Your obnoxious Twitter presence, you shacking up with Damian Kaine and the rest of the Guardians regardless of how awkward the fit is, all that? Those are just the symptoms of the larger problems. Real shit, between me and you? You're such a whiny, entitled geek, fam. That's what this is really about. You can trot around like you're hot shit because you were allegedly good back when I was like seven years old but someone went and burned all the tapes so you can't prove it. You can pretend like your brand is so prestigious that you had to sneak into AW with a mask so that the powers that be didn't hotshot you right into the world title picture from your debut, but here's the rub: no one fucking believes you. We get it, Jaice, your uncle works at Microsoft and will ban us if we bully you too hard. We're all fucking trembling.
God damn geek. You phony. We know for sure the AW government-in-exile didn't think your name drew well enough to justify a world title push from the gitgo, because you would've been all over that like you've been all over any belt you delude yourself into thinking is easy pickings. Ain't that right?
That's the whole reason you cliqued up with Damian Kaine and the rest of the Guardians wasn't it? Because Power Word: Kill were such spineless, wet noodle paper champions right? How about you stand in front of the class and tell everyone about the storied tag title reign of the triumphant Order of Chaos?
What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Oh, right. There was no storied tag title reign, was there? Nah, instead you clowned by a debuting team fresh off the front page of blacked.com and pimp slapped by PW:K a few times for good measure because you're either washed up or not as good as advertised and Damian Kaine never met a big match he wouldn't underperform in.
Rinse, lather, repeat when it comes to 201 and Fun. This is the Jaice Wilds MO: target a division you think is weak, hoping you can pull a title run out of your ass for your troubles. Get your ass wombo combo'd by the exact same people you brushed off as simply unqualified to hang someone of your stature (lel). Then, proceed to keep acting like the cream of the crop despite a win-loss record that'd get a Big 10 football coach fired into the sun faster than you can say: "wait, am I supposed to know who the guy under the Dark Spectre mask is?"
It's pathetic. It's fucking groanworthy is what it is. And it's happening again. Jaice Wilds finds himself with a world title shot because, reasons. The powers that be know that nobody outside of the #krew can really bring the fight to Ryan on a normal day, let alone when we hold the cards, so instead of sending one of the budding stars into the mix to get smacked up, they send Jaice to stumble and hopefully break a leg before he gets out of the starting blocks. And he's already on his bullshit, downplaying my boy like Ryan Lockhart isn't the best wrestler in the goddamn world today. Crying about how mean ol' Ryan's such a cheater and that #BeachKrew are all pussies like he wouldn't swallow his words like he's gonna be swallowing my nut in about a day if Wade pondered self-exiling himself to the Guardians again just to balance the sides a little.
Winners win and losers lose. At the end of the day, that's the long and short of it. And no matter how much Jaice Wilds wants to piss and moan about the methods the #krew has employed to secure victories, the fact remains that he'll never be able to snatch our shine. While he eats shit everytime an opportunity is handed to him on a silver platter, #BK stays on top. Look at War Games: Torture, a real bonafide living legend in this business, saw fit to step out of retirement, forsake his duties as COO of Action Wrestling, just to kick our asses. And you wanna know what my bros and I did in response?
Well shit, there's a reason this next Pay-Per-View's called #EffinRager.
Winners find ways to win and losers find ways to stay salty about it. Get the fuck over yourself, Jaice. Die mad.
But surely, there are more positive topics to discuss than death and Jaice Wilds. I'm actually a little frustrated that I spent as much time on that twerp, to be honest. How about we talk about #BeachKrew and how we're the best stable in the history of professional wrestling? Because we are. Who could compare? #FightSmart? Yeah, right. The Guardians? That whole collective would be depth players in a real group and only dominated in UCI because the talent pool was about as deep as a puddle. The Brotherhood? Who? Nah, it's us. It's always been us. It'll always be us. And when Wade and I snatch them tag belts, we're just gonna add more fuel to that fire.
Oh, right. I should probably say something about the other two guys in this match, the very same people Wade and I will be facing for those belts at #EffinRager: The Cowboys from Hell. At the same time, though? Fuck that. Nah, I'm serious. Losing to Red, White, and Bruised? You can't do that and expect to get any of #BK's attention just one week later.
I'm contractually obligated, aren't I? Very well then, let's talk about the Cowboys. Matter of fact, scratch that: let's about the Cowboy.
How's it goin', Beau? Hangin' yer head a little after gettin' lit up by Karlie Nash and the other one? Don't worry, champ. It happens to the best of us- well, it happens to some of us. Can't say I relate: I've only lost to world champions. Not to flex or anything but, fuck it man, here we are. Don't worry, I'm not gonna gut you and leave your carcass up on a rack like I did Jaice. To be completely honest, you aren't worth it.
What is there to say about Beau Blaze? I don't know who you are. You ain't got no presence, no identity. No brand. Jaice Wilds has a brand. Your boi Z-Mac, he has a brand. Now both of their brands are toxic and infuriating, but they're something. I can't get a fuckin' handle on you, not because you're some mysterious enigma who's unclockable or some shit, but because you're so ceaselessly broad and uninspiring. I can't shit on you, because I can't stomach you. So instead, we're going to talk about me? Why? Because despite it all, I think you and I might be in similar boats.
I could rail you for strapping yourself to Zombie McMorris' back like a fuckin' anchor, accuse you of riding someone else to success. But I won't. Because I know what it's like to get called a coattail rider.
What, you think I'm blind? That I don't see what twitter retards say about me? That everytime someone puts my name in their mouth it's all "Alex Pasternak ain't shit," "Alex Pasternak is a fuckin' lame," "the biggest thing Alex Pasternak did before #BK was lose to Wade Moor". I get it, I do. The narrative is that I'm the weakest member of #beachkrew, ain't it?
Guess what? It's goddamn right. You think that's supposed to hurt my goddamn feelings? That I'm the worst member of a stable that features the best wrestler in the world today in Ryan Lockhart, AW's 2018 wrestler of the year in Wade Moor, and a fucking legend in Jared Holmes? Do any of the limp-wristed cucks in this goddamn promotion know what an insult is? I'll wear that like a badge of honor every single day of the week. That's #krewlove. That's why #beachkrew is the best stable in wrestling history. Our weakest link is stronger than the rest of the damn roster.
But that's where the difference between you and me lies. I ain't got nothing to prove to a buncha lames who think falling just short of three certified pro wrestling hall of famers is something to be mocked. But you, I don't think you're gonna be able to handle that. Maybe it's because Zombie McMorris ain't in the same category as the three guys in my corner. Maybe it's because you need to prove you're better than your adopted, undead daddy. You two ain't a team. You're a fuckin' vanity project. ZMAC's on his crusade to snatch up the handful of championships he can get his grubby little hands on in the year of our lord 2019 and you just so happened to be available.
When Wade and I beat you at #EffinRager, that's it. The Cowboys from Hell? Dead. Disbanded. Y'all two will go right back into the singles realm with your tails in between your legs hoping that Wade and I don't chase you out of AW entirely.
Call me crazy, I'm gonna call it now. Eight ball, corner pocket. Me, pinning you, at #EffinRager.
Sorry, you know I had to do it to ya.
And then there's the man of the hour. Zombie McMorris. ZMAC. The Coked Up Madman yadda fuckin' fadda. Call him what you will: retard, psycho, fucking hack. What you can't do, however, is deny his accolades. Television Champion. 201 and Fun Champion. And now, Tag Team Champion alongside our good friend Beau Blaze. I guess you can truly, honestly say at this point, that Zombie McMorris is what would happen is Jaice Wilds was actually good.
Some of you may be taken aback by that. How could I say that? How could I possibly imply that the living legend Zombie McMorris is in anyway comparable to the third best member of this current iteration of the Guardians, Jaice Wilds (LMFAO to that by the way)? Boy howdy, let me count the fuckin' ways.
1. Cash in on the name brand recognition and coast your way to the spot on the AW roster. Of course, Ol' Z actually has a name that's recognizable so this was much easier for him than Jaice.
2. Stalk around the lesser divisions, looking for easy title wins. Once again, ZMAC's capable of pouncing on them opportunities.
3. Rope in an unsuspecting rube who has more ambition than talent and go for a tag title run. Well, you already know how that story ends for both Z and Jaice.
You might be asking yourself, why am I bringing this up? To what end does it matter if Z is just Jaice Wilds but better? Am I not just acting like a cheerleader for ZMAC by bringing up his successes?
These are all good questions of course, if you're a fucking moron. This is Zombie McMorris we're talking about. The goddamn Honey Badger. He who has ended more fucking careers than I've ever even faced as a professional wrestler. You don't understand, I want to cheerlead for Zombie McMorris. I want to take some of that classic ZMAC merch I got out of the damn closet and wear it with pride. But I can't. Because Zombie McMorris is 2019 has gone soft. Skulking around 201, trying to get Lincoln fucking Keuchly of all people to play senpai and notice you what the fuck is that shit? That ain't the behavior of a GOAT. That ain't the behavior of someone still able to hang with the big dogs and snatch up the World Championship. That's the behavior of a fuckin' has-been scared of the voices in his head.
Scared of trying and failing. Scared of admitting he ain't the man anymore. It's fuckin' weak and I never thought I'd see the day. So many of our goddamned heroes will slip and fall and let father time drag them into the abyss. Remind us that they are human. But I never expected it out of Ol' Z. To see a guy who used to be the most dangerous man in wrestling decline to the point of being the ideal form of Jaice Wilds is disheartening. It's a fuckin' omen. A reminder.
We're all going to die someday.
So fuck it. I don't care if it's this week. I don't care if it's at #EffinRager. Take our hands, Z. Let us lead you out behind the woodshed and do you like Old Yeller.
Die with some fucking dignity.