The Cancer of Action Wrestling
Nov 24, 2019 23:59:04 GMT -5
Shadowlove, Corey Bull, and 3 more like this
Post by W A L T E R on Nov 24, 2019 23:59:04 GMT -5
This is where you saw it end
The shipping container has been returned to its previous condition. There is not a trace of blood nor hair nor even a single cell of skin left behind. The walls nor the floor are covered any longer, the bed in the middle of the room has disappeared. That entire layer of heavy plastic previously coating every inch of this place has been wadded up and discarded, dutifully having served its purpose, however brief. The plastic is wonderfully disposable, utterly forgettable. Frank Patrick Venable: World Champion will soon be similarly discarded; tossed off and forgotten, left to rot away on the landfill of our collective memories until no one even remembers his momentary usefulness. Again Walter will have ended something others considered “special," leaving behind only an empty shell.
*************************
This is where you saw the odds stack up
Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck!
Etta Bennett let out a roar and slammed her fists into the seat on either side of her and shook her head violently back and forth, stomping her feet all the while; a grown woman in the back of cab all alone throwing a tantrum. The kind FPV will likely throw after Turmoil.
UHHHHHHH
She let out an enormous, whiskey-soaked belch that had been stirred up by her physical outburst.
You okay ma’am?
Etta was not as alone in the cab as she had thought. She didn’t see him upon entry and would normally be embarrassed but was far too intoxicated for that emotion. Instead her West Virginian prejudices rattled around in her head.
Another cabbie with a fuckin’ accent....Wonder how long he’s been here and still dragging out all his vowels like that, sounding a sloth fucked its cousin and had this goddamn dimwit. Ain’t a damn thing good worth two squirts been said with that accent.
Ma’am?
I liked you better when you were underwater, New Orleans.
I’m fit as a fuckin’ fiddle. I apologize for my...outburst, I thought I’d slipped in the back while you were on a piss break or some such. Anyways, we’ve got a few ticks here until the other passenger joins us and I’ve got to record a video real quick; you mind holding this phone for me?
Ahh, you’re one of of them influencers, ain’t ya? I thought you looked familiar. And no problem at all, mon cheri.
Everybody from New Orleans sounds like they’ve got a mouthful of three-day-old cum whenever they try to talk.
Thanks. Hit record…
Well ADub, I know I ain’t spoken to you direct like this in quite awhile but I figure I’ve got a few things to explain and a good lot of you been decent to me from the start so do feel some gnawin’ obligation. And if Turmoil goes like I think it’s going to go...like I’m going to do every damn thing in my power to see it go...then I might actually be free from this place and from him. I don’t know how long exactly but we all got one fuckin’ life and I can’t spend all of mine draggin’ him around by the fucking ear while back home…
Her voice trembles and quiets at the end of the sentence she can’t finish. Her stare is 1000 yards if it’s one. Her eyes well.
Frank Patrick Venable, I’m sorry. But I’ll rip your damn throat out myself if I have to at Turmoil. I got news from home--the worst kinda news, Franky and so long as I’m tethered to that mongrel I can’t get there. I’ve got a goddamn boy who’s only got so many ticks left and--
Her voice shook again. She produced a flask from her pocket and pulled from it. She exhaled and composed herself.
I only ever been here cause a man threatened my family so I left them with barely half a possums ass of an explanation. But it turns out I left them and they were still in danger. Death didnt care about any deal I made with some fuckin vigilante asshole. Death don't play by no rules but one: it always wins.
So I got scared into leaving them and all I cost myself was time. And now...now I get told that if the animal wins, I'm free. Y'all see now, Action Wrestling? Y'all see why I gotta do this?
I'd blind Corey Black 100 times, I'd fight Kyle Kemp myself, I'd step over FPV's goddamn corpse to get to my kid.
You're out here tweeting about justice like it's ever even existed. I killed unarmed men overseas because our government said it was just. This monster walked free because justice had failed. You saw that kid last week, what justice does the world offer a little boy with a death sentence? Slaying the boogeyman ain't saving no kids, it ain't serving justice, it's just serving your ego.
There's no justice. Only strength to impose our wills. And you ain't got enough of that to stop Walter bringing you to The Gallows for the only kinda justice he knows: punish the weak and burn them the fuck down.
And now I take up arms. I ain't fighting for some convoluted idea of "evolution." And I sure as shit ain't here to collect titles under the false pretense of some shadow of "justice” or to hypocritically invoke the name of some sick kid while schlocking piss-colored Diabetes Water to the rest of the youth. If you’re gonna sell out children’s health for a paycheck while using is as a hook to build some semblance of sympathy for yourself, I hope you’re buying stock in whoever manufactures insulin too. Just go ahead and go all-in you sold-out shell of a fuckin’ man.
Nah, I'm gonna bite and claw and cheat whatever way I can because I've got a dying fuckin boy of my own back home and beatin you Franky...beating you is my only way back to him. And it ain't fair and it ain't JUSTICE…
It just is.
The salty droplets escaped her eyes and streaked her cheeks. A sniffle. Another pull from the flask. Her forearm across her face wiping away the weakness. The phone dings a text and the cabbie hands it back to her.
Without warning, the cab rocks on its axis; the stability everyone took for granted gone in an instant. Because Walter has entered the vehicle, because that is the effect he has. His mere presence changes the properties of everything around that you’ve taken for granted; the only reason the entire thing has not been turned on its side is by his choice. You survive so long as he lets you. Having crammed his massive frame into the front passenger seat, he calmly speaks two words to the cabbie.
MountainView Hospital.
********************************
This is where you found out who you truly are
Etta didn’t know what Walter’s plan was but she was worried. Normally she’d keep her finger on the button of his Device, ensuring he wouldn’t do something regrettable. Troublingly, she hasn’t had it since giving it to Alyssa almost a week ago for their “date.” Etta didn’t even know if the Device was engaged or not; she and everyone else could be in danger every moment they’re around him. For whatever reason though, he’d been exceptionally calm as of late; she assumed he was focused on the tournament.
As the hospital’s sliding doors welcomingly part for the duo, Etta eyes the area nervously, hoping Walter hasn’t come for the reason she thinks he has. An Action Wrestling camera crew has met them and before she can question his motives, Walter begins explaining them with measured words riding the monotone bass from his voicebox.
“This is for you, Ian.”
Those are the five words your World Champion punctuated the highlight of his Action Wrestling career with. Those five words represent what drives him, what makes him grind and work and stand up to bullies and monsters.
Like me.
And it’s those five words that belie who he really is, that lay bare the hypocrisy in his heart. I come here today to show The World why those words should ring false. But I do not just show Action Wrestling, Franklin, I show you. Listen closely and glean that you are an inferior man with an inferior mind. You are beholden to material gain and assuage that guilt by claiming these hollow victories to be selfless acts, to be for the benefit of others. You, Franklin, are a liar and a coward, afraid to admit WHO you really are and WHAT you really want.
Unlike me.
Me? I am Action Wrestling’s Monster of the Year. I am the indiscriminate noose of evolution ever-tightening around the neck of the weak. I am a killer not without reason but certainly without feeling.
After some simple research, I found your “Ian” so I am at this hospital now to expose your lies and self-delusions that portend your failure on Sunday. So this…
This is for you, Ian.
He turns toward the information desk.
Room 1112?
The middle-aged desk worker flashes a nervous half-smile.
Let me just call up ther--
He reaches across and calmly but firmly pulls the receiver from her hand and hangs it up. His eyes don’t leave hers.
I want directions to the room. My presence will be a surprise. Do not...ruin it.
He presses the receiver down harder and the entire phone buckles under it, the plastic snapping in multiple spots. She lets out a small, startled gasp. Her shaking hands grab a small card with a map on it; she manages to circle a wing and a floor and then hands it to Walter who nods. Walter walks away with the camera crew while Etta stays behind a moment to speak with the worker, compelling her not to call the police and reassuring her that this is a piece for professional wrestling. Walter continues his Sorkinian “walk and talk”--two things FPV likely won’t be able to do after Sunday.
Franklin, you made your debut in Action Wrestling in full faux-philanthropy mode, raising $34,000 via superkicks for various charities. That is a large sum of money to most. And to donate it--even if the amount was dependent on something as rudimentary and embarrassing as a “superkick”--would be admirable for most people.
But what of a man who has...how much is it again?
more money than I could ever know what to do with.
Yes, of course, what was I thinking? You are a man of nigh-infinite wealth that made a show--A LITERAL SHOW--of writing a measly $34,000 check to two organizations. The gesture, however positive in effect, is fully outweighed by your need to promote it, to eventize it, to use it to further monetize yourself and your image. You see that, don’t you Franklin? That’s a piddly amount to a man like yourself and such a check should be written quietly if being given in earnest. Public philanthropy is public relations, it is fan manipulation, it is pathetic and empty and...Perfectly you, Franklin.
If I’m being honest--which, unlike you Franklin, I always brutally am--even your choice of charity offends me. You hand money to fight “muscular dystrophy,” a group of neuromuscular diseases whose primary symptom is weakness.
The weak do not deserve even your artificial charity, Franklin. The weak are to be CULLED from the herd. They’re not to be drug along for a few extra months by those of a generous disposition. These diseases weed out the weak, Franklin, their deaths are part of the plan. Their deaths leave us a greater whole, simple addition by righteous subtraction. The money you donate does not serve the greater good, it placates their pathetic, genetically inferior families and emboldens your boundless ego.
LET THEM DIE.
But of course you force them to hold on, clinging to whatever semblance of meaning they can as they see The World in its new form passing them by. You’ll do it because it’s the same thing you do with your career.
LET IT DIE.
Actually, don’t let it die just yet, Franklin. I want to kill it.
That is how I will raise up that World Title, Franklin. I will add to it by subtracting you from it. Your disease of hypocrisy and desperate, ego-driven, spot-light craving attention-seeking behavior brings you now to the Culling. It begs this Beast to Mark you. When that World Title is in my clutches, it will not be for my glory. It will not be for some pathetic boy dying because his own body saw him as weak and unworthy. It will be to drive this place, these men, to EVOLVE, to grow, to better themselves.
I offer this federation, this entire industry, a gift: acknowledge me as your superior. See me as your champion and you will be driven to heights--or perhaps depths--that you were previously unaware you had. Ask Kyle Kemp. I am the only man who brought championship mettle out of him. I will do the same for this entire place. I will try to do the same for you, Franklin. I am going to stand over your bloodied, battered body and hold the title high overhead so you know just how far you need to climb to get it.
But not you, you did it for Ian right? You do it for “THE PEOPLE” right? Wasn’t that the claim you made against Elisabeth? Tell me Franklin, is your memory that short or do you know your’re lying? Your first words after signing an Action Wrestling contract were the truest ones you’ve spoken since you’ve been here:
"I'm here. And I have only one thing on my mind.
GOLD."
GOLD."
There you are, Franklin. The real you. The unvarnished, unpolished you. Was it that same day someone reached out to you with the charity match idea? Was it that same day that you were told being a gold-digging title whore wouldn’t play well? That perhaps some image manipulation would be beneficial?
Truly I do not blame you. You were doing what was best for you--a tactic I must respect. Your emotional manipulation earned you a spot in this tournament via the fan vote. Your hero facade is the only reason you had the opportunity to defeat Elisabeth Hope and hold that gold you so cravenly declared as your purpose. To that I say:
Well-played.
But a man who is not true to himself, who cannot declare with clarity and brevity at every turn his purpose cannot beat a man whose heart beats with the same words every moment of everyday. I am crystalline in my purpose.
PUNISH THE FRAIL.
CULL THE HERD.
EAT THE WEAK.
You have proven yourself talented, Franklin, I do not delude myself of that. You toppled a former United States Champion and two now-former World Champions en route to this match. You will fight and you will fight well. I am counting on that. But until you can admit WHY you fight, until you admit to yourself and to The World exactly why and how your desperate thirst for that gold drives you..You remain susceptible to The Great Mystery.
Walter has reached room 1112 and Etta has finally caught up.
I don’t know what you’re doing but he’s just a kid and the cameras are here and you ca--
He grabs her face in his massive hand, a thumb presses into one ear and his middle finger in the other. The pressure on her head is instant, she worries he could pop it like a grape if he wanted.
It is a valid worry. He could.
As you said, Loretta, you don’t know what I’m doing. So I advise for the sake of everyone involved you contain yourself and your objections.
Her eyes are wild, darting around. He squeezes ever so slightly and her eyes soften, head nodding a quarter inch in agreement. Walter releases her and turns back to the camera, standing outside of Ian’s room.
Why was that meeting so emotional for you, Franklin? So significant? Isn’t this the type of thing a man of your profile has been doing for years? Shouldn’t you have met dozens, even hundreds of sick children through the years? Of course you should have. Why didn’t you, Franklin? I’m sure they asked. These pathetic souls will ask for anything from the weak-stomached society that would be better off without them so I’m sure your presence was requested on more than one occasion.
So why weren’t you there? What were you doing? You’re not here for THE PEOPLE, Franklin.
You’re here for the gold. Admit that and perhaps you could keep it. But you do not. So you will not.
Even the name of your multi-million dollar coffee shop perpetuates this lie. Where do you get the beans for The People’s Grounds, Franklin? How much do you pay the Peruvians in the fields? How much do you pay the baristas? Is it a living wage, Franklin? Explain to me where your endless money comes from. Explain to me whose flesh it’s carved from because as a man OF THE PEOPLE should know, the type of wealth you claim, the type of wealth you HORDE is paid for in blood by someone somewhere on the line. You’re just another “philanthropist” millionaire hoarding cash, multiplying your wealth on the blood sweat and tears of your underpaid underlings.
The only ethical consumption is when I rip your heart from its chest cavity and consume it in front of you, fraud.
I already loathe the Mountain Dew-unjust coffee-and-cheap-Merlot taste of your blood in my mouth but I must do what is best. For Action Wrestling. For humanity.
I must eliminate those unfit to survive, those like your friend Ian…
************
This is the part where you realize you’ve lost
With that Walter pushes the door open and Etta exclaims for a moment before she breathes relief as she sees what we see: a room as empty as FPV’s claims to selflessness.
Ian is dead, Franklin. The cancer swept him from this plane with haste and indifference.
So what did you do for him? What did your “win” give him? Did he even see it? Do you even know? We both know you don’t care so I won’t even pose that question.
Ian was taken by his own body turned traitor, his genes themselves drubbing him out of existence because he was not fit to survive. It is not just but it is not sad. It just is. Cancer just is. It is unfeeling, unflinching, unrelentless and incurable.
I am Action Wrestling’s cancer, Franklin. I stand before you without a cure, without a care, without any action that you can take to change the outcome Sunday. Your match will not matter against me, Franklin, the same as it did not matter against Ian’s cancer.
You’ve provided a flickering candle of hope to a desperate few in last weeks victory but all flames burn out, extinguished by a force of nature or by time itself. All that’s left is darkness. All that’s left is ME.
This is Stage 4 of this tournament, Franklin and I am TERMINAL. Action Wrestling’s cancer is taking the life of Action Wrestling’s fraudulent gold-whore. But take heed, Franklin!
Take heed that when I burn you down, when I grind you to dust, you have an opportunity to build yourself anew. You can renounce your lies and hypocrisy and the shortcomings they brought you. You can be true to your purpose and your drive.
Clear the skeletons from your closet Franklin because I’m putting yours there after I yank it through your lying teeth.
If you do these things, after I burn you down and salt the earth I bury you in, if you can admit your own false narratives and live under the banner of what truly drives you...then perhaps you can beat me.
But this time?
This Sunday?
You cannot.
You are not worthy to put down this mongrel. You are not true enough to slay this beast. You are not driven enough to best The Evolved Man.
I offer some solace, Franklin. In your failure, I repair your reputation. After I grind you into so much dust as I’ve done to others before you, your image can shine. No matter the truth of my words here, when I bounce your skull off the mat until your eyes roll into the back of my head and I serve my singular purpose....When I do that, they will see you as a great man.
Forgo the fight and submit yourself to my disease of superiority, Franklin; it’s the only way that they will truly worship you. After I’ve exposed the gaping chasm between your words and your actions, you must pay in blood to make them love you again. I give you what you want, I give you the only mean to your glory, Franklin:
They only saint the dead.
BURN IT DOWN
SALT THE EARTH
EVOLUTION HAS COME FOR FRANKLIN PATRICK VENABLE.
****************************
This is where it begins
A blonde woman sits on her couch, pretzel-legged, eyes glued to the television. Next to her a bowl of popcorn, a remote control, a second one on her other side. The opening package to Action Wrestling’s Turmoil pay per view takes over the television. Walter’s past maulings flash on the screen.
Her breath is taken. She’s suddenly back there. Hand over her mouth, unable to squeeze out a word, to take a breath. Beads of sweat on her hairline, her hand shakes reaching for the remote.
She’s back on the bed now, tied, unable to move. Her mouth is gagged and he moves slow around the room. He seems almost...sad? Reticent to say the least. She pleads with her eyes and tries to form words around the towel stuffed nearly to her throat. He stands over her and sighs deep. He removes the towel.
My purse! Look in my purse!
There is nothing in there that--
LOOK IN MY FUCKING PURSE WALTER!
He sighs again and doesn’t move for what had to have been minutes. Hours. Days. He just towered there, immobile and unflinching. Like some great stone gargoyle waiting only to crush her. He opens her purse.
A small plastic object, not much larger than a pencil, there in the bottom of the bag. He drops the object and the purse, stumbled backwards as though struck by a lightning bolt. His head was light and knees weak. He seemed terribly...human.
Back on the couch she holds the remote in trembling hands. The remote is not for the television, it’s for him. She breathes deep and presses it to her stomach, soothing the roil inside of her. This simple device of plastic and wires controls the uncontrollable beast. It was the only thing that ever has, that ever could. Until he saw that other piece of plastic. That other piece of plastic freed her, saved her. That other piece of plastic traded for this one. And now she wasn’t sure what to do with either of them. So she watches, clinging tight to one plastic Device and thinking about another that saved her life.