Post by Alexander Pasternak on Feb 24, 2019 21:22:28 GMT -5
Alex closed his eyes and when he opened them once more, he was back in the swamp. The heat was the first thing that hit him, unrelenting in its oppression. His shirt clinged to his sweat-drenched skin, feeling an anvil on his shoulders. The odor of weed and faint vomit from the VolkSWAGGIN faded, overpowered by the stench of death and primordial ooze emanating from the marsh that had swallowed Wade whole just a few brief, eternal moments prior. Wide-eyed and breathless, he stared, mouth agape, at the hole where once his friend stood. Bubbles penetrated the surface, each one betraying the deathly stillness that had overtaken the rest of the surrounding area. Until they didn't, and the waters steadied, and any evidence of Wade Moor's presence — nay, his existence — vanished beneath the deceiving depths of the murky pool of water before Alex.
Alex swore under his breath as he began to pace along the waterline, attempting to formulate his next move. Surely Wade, if he were still alive and hadn't choked to death on a mouthful of mud, wouldn't blame him for turning tail and sprinting as fast as he could in the opposite direction. It wouldn't matter that Alex didn't know how his way out; if he just kept going in one direction, he'd make it out eventually. This wasn't some Blair Witch shit, was it? He shook his head and swore once more, dropping to a crouch, tearing off one of his shoes and tossing it aside. It hit the ground with a wet thud that sent shivers down Alex's spine. Still, he was no bitch, nor was he particularly keen on braving the dangers of the Everglades solo. Better to drown a hero than to curl up in a ball and die of heatstroke a coward. He ripped off his other shoe, took a deep breath, and leapt into the water.
The waters of the marsh wrapped around his feet like sinewy tentacles, dragging him deeper under the waves. He could not comprehend the depth of the pool; he couldn't see the bottom through the mirky, dirty water. Alex squinted through the water, moving slowly, cautiously. It felt like every motion he made took more and more labor, like the water was actively resisting. Ahead, he could make out the vague outline of a human being and whatever pretense of caution vanished just as Wade had earlier. He tore through the water fast he could, caring not for its struggle.
"Wade?" he choked out, his mouth filling with deathly waters, as he approached. But it wasn't Wade. Alex looked into the figure's eyes and felt his blood run cold. He turned his head and closed his eyes as tight as he could.
"I don't remember," Alex said as his eyes opened once more. He was back in the VolkSWAGGIN. He was as safe as he could be. "I don't quite remember what I saw."
I would just like to reiterate on today's date, the twenty-fourth of Febru-fairy, the year of our Lord twenty-bi-teen, that I, Alexander Pasternak, am unequivocally, unquestioningly, the weakest, least talented, and least successful member of #BeachKrew. Now, some of you might be asking why it's so important for me to make that statement perfectly clear to everyone listening at the top of tonight's program. Others might be sick and tired of me beating this gag like the dead horse known as Z-MAC's shtick.
And to all of you, I say this: read 'em and fuckin' weep. What's the score now? One stable ground like the ash of a cigarette under #BK's heel, one former world champ pinned (before he ever became one sure, but still), one tag champ/former 201 and TV champ pinned, and now I've added AW management's hand-picked would-be successor to Ryan Lockhart to my collection. That's ya boi for you, it's Alex PasterSNACK doing what he does best: squaring up and slumping haughty cocksuckers who think I'm easy picking because I'm the so-called weak link in #BeachKrew. Self-satisfied fat cats who think that because my resume don't have as many of those precious little trinkets they so desperately covet like thy neighbor's ass I must not be worth shit. Nah fam, this is #BeachKrew's world now (don't forget whose pay-per-view event y'all're working cowards), it's adult swim time with the #BeachBoys, real Pet Sounds hours, gold diggers BTFO.
Speaking of, I guess there ain't no point beating around the bush. Y'all know what's going on. It's time, boys: #EffinRager. #BeachKrew, repped by Wade Moor and myself, taking on the Cowboys from Hell for those got damn tag team titles. I can already see it: the first little trinket I can beside my name and I get to do it with one of my brothers right beside me. But that's the rub, ain't it? When (note how I ain't saying if here, fuckboys) Wade and I go full Ski Mask and leave them (cow)boys slumped over, this'll be the first championship I'll have attained in my career. I'll be the last of the four guys in this match to do so. Beau and Z-MAC know this as well as Wade and I do and they think that gives them the advantage. The shit I've done can't be measured in gold so I ain't done shit in their eyes. Fucking cowards.
What's wrong Ol' Z? I thought honey badger didn't give a fuck? When'd you trade your fuckin balls in for brass rings and pats on the back from management. You of all people should know there ain't a title in the world that can measure killer instinct. That there isn't a belt in this world that can quantify the fear that some of these fuccbois show when they look into your eyes and realize that they're looking at a fuckin' monster who's ended thirty-six careers just like theirs. And yet, here we are. Here you are, spine replaced by an insatiable urge to suck up any and all pieces of gold you can get your crusty ass fingers on like a fat hooker. That's why you slummed it down in the ol' 201. That's why you latched onto the taint of Lincoln fucking Keuchly of all people when he was TV champ. Yeah, let me repeat that louder for the people in the back: Zombie McMorris — yes, that Zombie McMorris — was out here wilin', really trying to stick in someone's craw and go for their jugular and who was it he was itchin' for so bad? Had to have been someone with prestige right? Spencer Adams? Wade Moor? Roy Speede or even D-Day?
Fuck no, he wanted Lincoln Keuchly. Yeah, that Lincoln Keuchly. That's what Zombie McMorris is about nowadays. The easy shit. The pushovers. Guys he can mouth off to because they fear his reputation. He gets into these peoples' heads, not because he is the Zombie McMorris of old, but because he was the Zombie McMorris of old. The emperor has no goddamn clothes and none of these cowards can look up from old photographs of his extravagant outfits long enough to see his exposed, shriveling cock. That's how he gets people confused into thinking he's still the monster he used to be. That's how he got Beau Blaze to abandon his autonomy and follow him into the depths of mediocrity: AW's tag team division before #BeachKrew took notice of it.
Let's not pretend like Z-MAC took Blaze under his wing because he cares about the guy. Because he wants to see him grow and reach his true potential or any sappy, sentimental shit like that. Nah, Zombie McMorris got yeeted out of the 201 division, dropped the TV strap, and got sonned when he tried to step up to some real competition in Casey Holliday, but he needed to feed his new addiction: title belts. So now he's holding Beau Blaze's career hostage under the auspices of mentoring him and rode some good old #BeachKrew interference into sneaking past #FightSmart with the tag belts. You're fucking welcome for that, by the way. Wade Moor did for your tag title reign than either of you did because that's what #BeachKrew does. We finished the job on #FightSmart when no one else could think of stepping to them and you got your precious in the process, you fucking Gollum.
It's so goddamn obnoxious watching you two parade around with those belts that we did the heavy lifting to get in your possession in the first place. There's no goddamn camaraderie between these two. They're both incapable of it: we all know the venn diagram of 'guys who would name their tag team after a Pantera song' and 'guys who think having a healthy platonic relationship with another man is gay' is a fucking circle. Z-MAC is stringing Beau along so he can challenge for yet another belt in a barren division and Beau is leeching off the reputation that the Z-MAC name used to have. If this looks like a team to you — let alone the best tag team on the roster — then I'm the prettiest girl on the roster. Wait no fuck that one's actually true.
You get the fucking point though. These guys are no more a team than Jaice Wilds and Damian Kaine were when they thought Power Word: Kill were easy pickings. It's transparently obvious that when Wade and I leave 'em looking XXXTentacion that Z's gonna toss Beau to the side like a piece of garbage and try to launch himself into another division only to get smacked the fuck back down because he can't go like he used to anymore. It's a vicious cycle and it would be hilarious if it weren't so fucking sad. Zombie McMorris is fucking washed, dudes. Never thought I'd see the day and yet, here we are.
But let's not let Beau off the hook here. Beau Blaze is using Zombie McMorris just as much as Z-MAC is using him, maybe even more. Because unlike Z, Beau didn't just need a body to set up in the corner to act as a partner, Beau needed legitimacy. Because even though he'll flaunt that shiny little Rookie of the Year accolade whenever he can, he knows that at the end of the day, that shit's just as valuable as Monopoly money. He needed something real, something tangible so that people would take him seriously and he found that something in being Zombie McMorris' protege. He found that something in snatching the tag titles (with our help) from Spencer Adams and Kyle Kemp, the tag team arm of the same #BK-lite stable that had run roughshod over Action Wrestling.
The difference between Zombie McMorris and Beau Blaze is that while Z-MAC is pulling some bitch shit with this little pair-up, Beau Blaze is out here outing himself as a Grade-A submissive cuck bitch by throwing his chips in with Z-Mac. Dropping to his knees to pray at the cracked altar of the honey badger. Putting his undead daddy up on a broken pedestal to gain some of his insight, his wisdom, his relevance. Really, has there ever been a more transparent power grab than this? Beau Blaze is a fucking hangeron, wrapping his arms tightly around Z-MAC's neck and dragging the pair of them down. If Beau had any fucking balls he'd wake up and drive his boot up Z's ass before the fucking snake has the opportunity to stab him in the back. But he won't. Because like so many others before him, he doesn't see Ol' Z for what he is, just for what he wants him to be. So he'll stay right at Z's hip, collect that shiny belt around his waist as a reward for showing up to fight a pair of guys #BeachKrew had a vested interest in fucking with prior the most brutal match anyone on either side had been in, and act like that makes him hot shit.
It's sad. It really is. If I could feel for these су́ка swine, I'd be crying for them. For Z, the legend turned hasbeen clawing desperately for a spot he ain't cut out for anymore. For the wasted potential of Beau Blaze, 2018's Rookie of the Year (if you don't count Ryan Lockhart of course). But fuck them. This is what they wanted. And at #EffinRager they can fucking get it. Wade and I — a real team, a real fucking brotherhood — will go out there lovin' SOSA and leave them boys slumped over.
Pool's closed, cowards.
Alex swore under his breath as he began to pace along the waterline, attempting to formulate his next move. Surely Wade, if he were still alive and hadn't choked to death on a mouthful of mud, wouldn't blame him for turning tail and sprinting as fast as he could in the opposite direction. It wouldn't matter that Alex didn't know how his way out; if he just kept going in one direction, he'd make it out eventually. This wasn't some Blair Witch shit, was it? He shook his head and swore once more, dropping to a crouch, tearing off one of his shoes and tossing it aside. It hit the ground with a wet thud that sent shivers down Alex's spine. Still, he was no bitch, nor was he particularly keen on braving the dangers of the Everglades solo. Better to drown a hero than to curl up in a ball and die of heatstroke a coward. He ripped off his other shoe, took a deep breath, and leapt into the water.
The waters of the marsh wrapped around his feet like sinewy tentacles, dragging him deeper under the waves. He could not comprehend the depth of the pool; he couldn't see the bottom through the mirky, dirty water. Alex squinted through the water, moving slowly, cautiously. It felt like every motion he made took more and more labor, like the water was actively resisting. Ahead, he could make out the vague outline of a human being and whatever pretense of caution vanished just as Wade had earlier. He tore through the water fast he could, caring not for its struggle.
"Wade?" he choked out, his mouth filling with deathly waters, as he approached. But it wasn't Wade. Alex looked into the figure's eyes and felt his blood run cold. He turned his head and closed his eyes as tight as he could.
"I don't remember," Alex said as his eyes opened once more. He was back in the VolkSWAGGIN. He was as safe as he could be. "I don't quite remember what I saw."
=*=*=*=*=*=*=
I would just like to reiterate on today's date, the twenty-fourth of Febru-fairy, the year of our Lord twenty-bi-teen, that I, Alexander Pasternak, am unequivocally, unquestioningly, the weakest, least talented, and least successful member of #BeachKrew. Now, some of you might be asking why it's so important for me to make that statement perfectly clear to everyone listening at the top of tonight's program. Others might be sick and tired of me beating this gag like the dead horse known as Z-MAC's shtick.
And to all of you, I say this: read 'em and fuckin' weep. What's the score now? One stable ground like the ash of a cigarette under #BK's heel, one former world champ pinned (before he ever became one sure, but still), one tag champ/former 201 and TV champ pinned, and now I've added AW management's hand-picked would-be successor to Ryan Lockhart to my collection. That's ya boi for you, it's Alex PasterSNACK doing what he does best: squaring up and slumping haughty cocksuckers who think I'm easy picking because I'm the so-called weak link in #BeachKrew. Self-satisfied fat cats who think that because my resume don't have as many of those precious little trinkets they so desperately covet like thy neighbor's ass I must not be worth shit. Nah fam, this is #BeachKrew's world now (don't forget whose pay-per-view event y'all're working cowards), it's adult swim time with the #BeachBoys, real Pet Sounds hours, gold diggers BTFO.
Speaking of, I guess there ain't no point beating around the bush. Y'all know what's going on. It's time, boys: #EffinRager. #BeachKrew, repped by Wade Moor and myself, taking on the Cowboys from Hell for those got damn tag team titles. I can already see it: the first little trinket I can beside my name and I get to do it with one of my brothers right beside me. But that's the rub, ain't it? When (note how I ain't saying if here, fuckboys) Wade and I go full Ski Mask and leave them (cow)boys slumped over, this'll be the first championship I'll have attained in my career. I'll be the last of the four guys in this match to do so. Beau and Z-MAC know this as well as Wade and I do and they think that gives them the advantage. The shit I've done can't be measured in gold so I ain't done shit in their eyes. Fucking cowards.
What's wrong Ol' Z? I thought honey badger didn't give a fuck? When'd you trade your fuckin balls in for brass rings and pats on the back from management. You of all people should know there ain't a title in the world that can measure killer instinct. That there isn't a belt in this world that can quantify the fear that some of these fuccbois show when they look into your eyes and realize that they're looking at a fuckin' monster who's ended thirty-six careers just like theirs. And yet, here we are. Here you are, spine replaced by an insatiable urge to suck up any and all pieces of gold you can get your crusty ass fingers on like a fat hooker. That's why you slummed it down in the ol' 201. That's why you latched onto the taint of Lincoln fucking Keuchly of all people when he was TV champ. Yeah, let me repeat that louder for the people in the back: Zombie McMorris — yes, that Zombie McMorris — was out here wilin', really trying to stick in someone's craw and go for their jugular and who was it he was itchin' for so bad? Had to have been someone with prestige right? Spencer Adams? Wade Moor? Roy Speede or even D-Day?
Fuck no, he wanted Lincoln Keuchly. Yeah, that Lincoln Keuchly. That's what Zombie McMorris is about nowadays. The easy shit. The pushovers. Guys he can mouth off to because they fear his reputation. He gets into these peoples' heads, not because he is the Zombie McMorris of old, but because he was the Zombie McMorris of old. The emperor has no goddamn clothes and none of these cowards can look up from old photographs of his extravagant outfits long enough to see his exposed, shriveling cock. That's how he gets people confused into thinking he's still the monster he used to be. That's how he got Beau Blaze to abandon his autonomy and follow him into the depths of mediocrity: AW's tag team division before #BeachKrew took notice of it.
Let's not pretend like Z-MAC took Blaze under his wing because he cares about the guy. Because he wants to see him grow and reach his true potential or any sappy, sentimental shit like that. Nah, Zombie McMorris got yeeted out of the 201 division, dropped the TV strap, and got sonned when he tried to step up to some real competition in Casey Holliday, but he needed to feed his new addiction: title belts. So now he's holding Beau Blaze's career hostage under the auspices of mentoring him and rode some good old #BeachKrew interference into sneaking past #FightSmart with the tag belts. You're fucking welcome for that, by the way. Wade Moor did for your tag title reign than either of you did because that's what #BeachKrew does. We finished the job on #FightSmart when no one else could think of stepping to them and you got your precious in the process, you fucking Gollum.
It's so goddamn obnoxious watching you two parade around with those belts that we did the heavy lifting to get in your possession in the first place. There's no goddamn camaraderie between these two. They're both incapable of it: we all know the venn diagram of 'guys who would name their tag team after a Pantera song' and 'guys who think having a healthy platonic relationship with another man is gay' is a fucking circle. Z-MAC is stringing Beau along so he can challenge for yet another belt in a barren division and Beau is leeching off the reputation that the Z-MAC name used to have. If this looks like a team to you — let alone the best tag team on the roster — then I'm the prettiest girl on the roster. Wait no fuck that one's actually true.
You get the fucking point though. These guys are no more a team than Jaice Wilds and Damian Kaine were when they thought Power Word: Kill were easy pickings. It's transparently obvious that when Wade and I leave 'em looking XXXTentacion that Z's gonna toss Beau to the side like a piece of garbage and try to launch himself into another division only to get smacked the fuck back down because he can't go like he used to anymore. It's a vicious cycle and it would be hilarious if it weren't so fucking sad. Zombie McMorris is fucking washed, dudes. Never thought I'd see the day and yet, here we are.
But let's not let Beau off the hook here. Beau Blaze is using Zombie McMorris just as much as Z-MAC is using him, maybe even more. Because unlike Z, Beau didn't just need a body to set up in the corner to act as a partner, Beau needed legitimacy. Because even though he'll flaunt that shiny little Rookie of the Year accolade whenever he can, he knows that at the end of the day, that shit's just as valuable as Monopoly money. He needed something real, something tangible so that people would take him seriously and he found that something in being Zombie McMorris' protege. He found that something in snatching the tag titles (with our help) from Spencer Adams and Kyle Kemp, the tag team arm of the same #BK-lite stable that had run roughshod over Action Wrestling.
The difference between Zombie McMorris and Beau Blaze is that while Z-MAC is pulling some bitch shit with this little pair-up, Beau Blaze is out here outing himself as a Grade-A submissive cuck bitch by throwing his chips in with Z-Mac. Dropping to his knees to pray at the cracked altar of the honey badger. Putting his undead daddy up on a broken pedestal to gain some of his insight, his wisdom, his relevance. Really, has there ever been a more transparent power grab than this? Beau Blaze is a fucking hangeron, wrapping his arms tightly around Z-MAC's neck and dragging the pair of them down. If Beau had any fucking balls he'd wake up and drive his boot up Z's ass before the fucking snake has the opportunity to stab him in the back. But he won't. Because like so many others before him, he doesn't see Ol' Z for what he is, just for what he wants him to be. So he'll stay right at Z's hip, collect that shiny belt around his waist as a reward for showing up to fight a pair of guys #BeachKrew had a vested interest in fucking with prior the most brutal match anyone on either side had been in, and act like that makes him hot shit.
It's sad. It really is. If I could feel for these су́ка swine, I'd be crying for them. For Z, the legend turned hasbeen clawing desperately for a spot he ain't cut out for anymore. For the wasted potential of Beau Blaze, 2018's Rookie of the Year (if you don't count Ryan Lockhart of course). But fuck them. This is what they wanted. And at #EffinRager they can fucking get it. Wade and I — a real team, a real fucking brotherhood — will go out there lovin' SOSA and leave them boys slumped over.
Pool's closed, cowards.