Homily on Havoc (The Spitfire's Triumph)
Apr 30, 2020 17:17:45 GMT -5
The Papa John's Pizza Man, “The RevolutiDaddy” Wesley, and 14 more like this
Post by Quixote Della Torre on Apr 30, 2020 17:17:45 GMT -5
Alice, Alice, who the fuck is Alice? Dearest cougar, you may be a 10 to Karlie Nash but barely hit a
In intimate dusk, your alchemy inebriates my senses as we drive up a tranquil mountainside, miles from civilisation. A spontaneous detour from the drive from hospital to your hotel, just to “talk”. We both understand it’s time for more. Time to KNOW you.
This ain’t a date, ya get me? Whatever this is, keep it pronto.
Jarred from an awkward landing in your loss to Wesley, partially cast leg outstretched, you tippy tap black polished toenails against my dashboard. You’re slumped away, Daisy Duke framed booty arched invitingly, gazing into moonlit dunes while twizzling a single crutch like you’re auditioning for this here length. I pull off-trail into a secluded valley and come to a standstill. The evening cool’s a distant memory as the tension between us smoulders.
Lay a finger on me, I’ll tear it off.
Your words say “ROAR” but your body says “grrrrr”.
I’m not your arsehole ex.
I know. Look, what ya want from me?
Who is he, anyway? He knows me?!
Leave it alone. Why we out here?
My vision flees to the footwell. You cup my chin, tenderly steering me round so our eyes meet again.
Why, Qui?
Question - Your kids... or career - what would you choose?
Kids. All. Day. Long.
… My daughter’s days old, but I’ll never meet her. I chose Havoc over MY OWN FLESH AND BLOOD. Am I a bad person, Ali?
Now you’re the one breaking eye contact.
Bought you something. Little thank you gesture for picking me up from A&E.
You draw a white photo album out of your bag.
Ask Tawny to send you pictures. She owes you that, at least. Moments are precious, Qui.
… Thank you... But please... answer the question.
Hmm, let’s just say you kinda “flopped” as a Good Guy…
You wink, giggling under your breath. You open the album. All photo slots blank except a single Polaroid - you, me, Idris backstage at CruiserClash.
… But nah, your situation’s different. I got custody, the courts shafted you. Tawny and that Chavo geezer put you in a shitty situation... When will the games stop? You were right to take control! As for your daughter, remember - if you love somebody, set them free…
... If they return, it was meant to be?
Your daughter will find her way to you. Meantime, go be GREAT. Go be... The Honcho of Havoc.
You’re fucking incredible, ya know. Your kids are blessed.
You melt. Suddenly your tongue’s in my mouth. This is getting real. Moments?…
Havoc’s all around us. Do you perceive it? We’re familiar friends... lovers. I master it. It submits to my every desire. Quixote dazzled; deity of 2019’s extravaganza, demolishing the eliminations record, NEVER to be bested. Anyone really remember Mikey X and Casey finishing ahead of moi? EHH-UHH! They’re gone! Self-imploded, defecated away their opportunities because they knew, deep down, there was only one worthy victor. ME!
I cemented myself The Honcho of Havoc by storming the first ever Cruiserweight Rumble 4 months ago, becoming a 4 time 4 time 4 time 4 time Champion! Havoc’s where everyone fell smitten with me. Havoc’s where you shamefully plunged a knife into my back.
Havoc’s QDT’s story.
Honcho’s rumbling to deliver my 59+ victims a Homily on Havoc so listen one, listen all.
I gaze down from my skyscraper hotel room, overlooking the Big Apple splendour. Resting the photo album Alice gifted me against the window, I turn the pages, inserting Polaroids and annotating to guide my thoughts.
Havoc’s persistence. The kind Jenna Bauer lacked when our relationship came under scrutiny. She was weak, flighty, slave to her egotistical ends.
Like you, Lissie. Ya never really knew the meaning of All-In; just stumbled across it because Wade and I were too consumed in mutual annihilation. You’ve no focus; your emotions run the show. Bouncing under sexual partners like a whore’s waterbed, always trying to fill a gape you don’t have the character to satisfy. I gave up EVERYTHING; you hedge your bets because you haven’t enough maturity to take your medicine. Like last year, you’ll show you don’t have the stomach for Havoc.
QDT versus Hope. The “experts” foretold the Evolution 3 main event a year early but you stooled your knickers. We should be authoring a classic but instead you capitulated into a walking E.L. James novel. You yearn to be dominated because you cannot control yourself, nor your responsibilities. I’m gonna skull-fuck ya so hard it’ll be 50 shades of grey matter up in dis bitch.
Reminds me... Alpha Bitch admirably continues hanging onto her flagging career. Let go, Jacqui. I’ll help you. I needn’t euthanize Kennedy again though. That dead horse can flog herself over those ropes.
From horse to rat, look what the cat dragged in, Adelaide. What Godforsaken ordeal tormented ya to end up like THAT? Somebody call the cops! Yeeesh, scummy slag! Ain’t touching it. Hell no! Someone else can toss it out. Someone with no standards... like the Hope family. But if I gotta, I’m saying 10 Hail Marys while scrubbing these hands.
Incidentally, wasn’t Bonnie’s Hail Mary Pass a hoot? Your Kill Bill retribution quest on The Guardians was going swimmingly until that goof Kaine struck the Pai Mei special. Now you’re staggering the 5 steps before your heart explodes. P.S. Wade hit that? What were you thinking?!
AW ladies took Feminism back 50 years at the Cruiserweight Rumble. It’ll only get worse.
Competition’s way hotter now but my persistence goes the distance!
Before Chet Dakota cum-drowns, let’s redress the gender imbalance.
Havoc’s resistance. I was incarcerated under my parents’ cruel oppression for 20 jizzin’ years of my life. But I wiped the stains of their toxicity off my fists. Didn’t I, Corey Black?
You symbolise the long stranglehold of WCF still blighting AW today, like that putrid vice-grip on the Hardcore division. Far from the empowering spectacle my command of the Cruiserweight scene proved. You think because you condescendingly nod your beak to some chicklings in “respect” that you’re a leader? Pfft.
Your defect ain’t inadequacy; you’re clearly effective. Your issue is you’re seduced by control, not challenge. Franky’s a gold slut but least he lifts his crown above the parapet. I pulverised Jaice Wilds thrice and left him to RIP. You dug up his corpse, haunted him for months and later reanimated that bozo on your own show. Holy overkill! Are you still magnificent, or a selfish bully paddling in shallow waters? I suspect the latter. Sunday, I’m gonna expose it.
Papa John’s Pimple, your sixth place finish 2 years ago was an aberration. You, that furry ball-sack Cormack and Dethwar dodo Damian are gonna topple like Domino’s.
Shakespeare wrote “Cry Havoc and let slip the dogs of War”. I love tragic comedies. Don’t you, Joey Flash, you old dog, you? It’ll be shitting hysterical when Havoc wreaks and the prince of War himself plays it like a pauper. Tragic that Alex Richards went regicide on ya, en route to his World Title crown! At this point, you’re Julius Caesar’s ghost shrieking impending damnation at that Brutus while the real fucking Emperor arises - QDT.
Don’t misconstrue… I ain’t one of those 58 dullards we’ll share a ring with; mindlessly flinging “overrated”, “over the hill” cliches. It’s seppuku to suggest recent losses spell your epitaph. You’re most dangerous when it matters most, not on random Clashes against that Grimey bastard Crow.
You’re an unparalleled myth. But mythology reveals your Achilles’ heel. You’re Narcissus always trying to be too fucking clever rather than getting the job done. You’ve become over-elaborate, ineffectual, self-indulgent. I could murk you but no need - you choke on the bile of your conceit.
Staying with bile and narcissism, blowhard Teo struggles through his perpetual identity crisis like an autistic 15 year old. Anything to mask what he’s achieved in A-Dub - nada. His greatest achievement’s becoming WCF Champion in the “everyone’s related to Adam Young” era… but even Young beat him to that punch.
On that note, I wanna punch you, K-Bish. Maybe that’ll jolt you from your archaic inertia. You lost your hunger, Brother.
Not that hunger’s pivotal in achieving success. Else that ravenous marshmallow Kaiju is a gazillion time Champ by now. Sorry, that was below your rather ample belt. Shouldn’t tar you with the WCF brush but I don’t give a flying turd about you soooo… Just no show, as usual.
I resist your legacies!
Havoc’s maturity; last year’s missing piece despite the prize of decimating Wade.
Let’s recall another scalp - I ruined the other Man Made God, FPV’s prestigious return last year, hammering that mendacious twerp outta MY match.
You’re ruthless, the quintessential big bout player. If I were to describe you in intimate vernacular, I’d opt for a mochaccino with a lil’ ice; the cool running through your veins. Combining vintage latte flavour with a lick of chocolate (hey Ramon), you thrive commercially with fair trade virtue signalling. Versatile enough for accoutrements but ultimately... too sweet and fluffy. Aftertaste’s like arse… thankfully not sufficiently strong to linger.
Personally, nothing beats a cuppa tea. Cup of that trusty QDT. Frank, I’m gonna mocha you scream again.
Odin never stopped screaming after I butchered him silly last year; screaming at clouds from his vanity throne. Still ruler in his warped reality, blissfully unaware his castle’s crumbled to a rubble pile.
Pile, how apt… another past victim, Karlie - haemorrhoid on AW’s anus. You and Nikki never go away, despite your only achievement being breaking up Jenna and I. Cheers!
Moving onto Cruiserweight Havoc fatalities. Hey ZMAC, zany, drug addled felcher. You never grow, only decay. Unlike Baker... again I’ll make you fall upwards like when I kicked your balls all the way to Clash. Upwards... and out. Keeton, you’re ultimately insignificant but I know you’re shuddering at our unfinished business. I’m coming for you.
My altruism formed many stars; burning ‘em up, helping them realise the weight of gravity. Vayden, I purged you from two consecutive Rumbles. Clobbered you to retain my Cruiserweight Title in the opener of last year’s Havoc. The COLOSSAL exertion of miraculously making you famous is the reason why later I only finished third, not first. You’re to blame for Mikey X… go hang yourself.
I arrive fresh this time. Fresh to triumph. Fresh to face A-Dick for the World Title at Evolution 3... Whom, by the way, I ALSO ELIMINATED last year. No doubt I’ll overthrow him once more.
My maturity reaps dividends!
Havoc’s purity - separating wheat from chaff. Just like I fractured Derrick the goat into Orion Artemis, hunter ram.
Quixote’s gonna flail that chaff so brutally, Azurine be hollering “National Jobberkill Day” - Smarts, Scott, Rage, Hot Shot. Bloody massacre. Wait a minute... “MaNATEe”? What the tit-wanking hell?! Who wrote that shit? Fire ‘em now. Nah, screw that, put that "creative" team nerd into Havoc and I’ll slaughter ‘em for ya.
Cult leader Carnivore won the TV Title, triggering millions to throw theirs outta windows and re-enact Jonestown. In lockdown too. Fuck. Least MadClan consolidated the crud. Now they split, we're punished with Raging Dead in additional segments? And his fugly wife Sara too?! A Pot House Deathmatch made in Hell.
I blame "IrresponsiDaddy" Wesley for this anathema. Your inexplicable upswing sowed the seed for chancers and jesters. The "what if?" you kindled keeps deadwood slow from the chopping block.
Daddy, let's compare legacies.
You - first 201 & Fun Champ... absolute joke. QDT - Decontaminated the booby prize bloodline, rocketed the division into its own critically acclaimed show, CruiserClash.
You aborted the Cool Kids when they needed you most. Estrella crashed and burned to FPV just as she was getting hot. Pick up the fucking pieces. Geri's so deluded she's marrying Vayden. A good Daddy would've shut that shit down on the first date.
Poor Teijin's next. My nurture radically transformed Idris and Orion. You make Grayson Ward look like Mary shaggin' Poppins.
You may be last into Havoc but Daddy... time for your vasectomy.
I purge impurities.
Havoc’s surety. D-Day’s right; I couldn’t stay away, even if he forced my hand. Washed up bellend couldn’t stand my shadow looming taller than his; too spineless to get back in that ring. He’s thrilled I left CruiserClash. Truthfully, me too. Now the prophecy can be fulfilled.
Speaking of double Ds, and not the fun variety, Dandy knows something about fulfilling prophecies. “Future Star” in 2018 awards. Whoopee. In 2019, you stole the World Title, finally vanquishing Lockhart. Months later, the award got upgraded to “Future World Champion”… guess who conquered that category? That’s right, QD-frickin’-T. As I went one better than you in the awards, I’ll go one better in affirming the oracles - winning the World Title at Evolution 3, the grandest stage.
But let’s not put a bow on this shit. You did it, yep, but you cut more corners than liposuction. Just like your probation requirements. I’ll perform valuable community service and condemn your scraggly, sneaky, walking STD, spoilt, lipdick bitchass back to your natural habitat - dat giggity quagmire.
Least you don’t labour a facade of decency, unlike your nemesis Kidsgrove. Sam, you personify the two scummiest, fakest types of people - actors and politicians. Can’t act, nor can you tow the party line; hence not even bothering to pretend to give a flying fuck about Havoc. Nor should you, Failure Flidsgrave. Too obsessed parading in low budget slasher romps with Nightingale.
Nurse Nightingale needs Gravedigger’s gang to inoculate him from that innocuous prick? Lacking sufficient PPE? Pee pee-eying yourself? Only 3 wins in 5 months yet INCESSANT hype. Why? My diagnosis - friendinhighplacesalitis.
Let’s address another sickness, Corey “Bull in a China Shop” as I call him. Not a Wuhan animal market, though you do resemble offspring of deviants inserting their dangs into bats and pangolins. As Lissie exposed, you have zero impulse control. If you envision your dreams becoming our nightmares, you need to wake the fuck up. Your life’s one big social isolation, ya big parasitic disappointment.
I have the surety to manifest my inevitable destiny!
Under a celestial blanket and a thin sheet resting atop lush remote hills, your hands explore my boxers, fondling with abandon as I remove your blouse. Wait... why am I hesitating?
I shouldn't be doing this.
I shouldn't either. But we’re doing it.
Without thinking, I’m on my feet, striding to my car.
I get it, Quixote. You’re fretting. Single mum wants to tie you down? No way, it’s JUST sex. I know that.
Now I’m at the wheel and the engine’s on. You stare incredulously as I speed off.
Not funny! COME THE FUCK BACK!
You stumble to stand. In your underwear, you limp as quickly as one intact leg will allow. What the hell am I doing?
I’ll die out here… QUIXOTE! FUCK YOU!
I avert my eyes from the wing mirror, muttering to myself wistfully. Sorry Alice.
Set them free.
Don’t weep for Alice, nor shed tears for my newborn baby girl. They’re in treacherous predicaments… but I trust they’re made of the right stuff to endure. You see, Havoc’s survival.
They’re the new shiny things but can you really envision ADD-ler Twins sticking around when the going gets, quoting Alice, “hard as fuck”? You’re obnoxious warts on the mangy, flaccid skin-flute of Gen Z, parroting your memey, culturally obscure snark BS. Perennial whispers of gossip echo that there's copious skeletons in the Addler closet. You vapid, stand-for-nothing dweebs gonna be skeletons in MY closet after Havoc. Sucks for you twin telepathy's a thing when I vivisect your identical vulva.
“Who will ‘do a QDT’ this year and break out from the doldrums?” Firstly, FALLACY - Already a 3 time Cruiserweight Champion last year. Only reason I shocked the world... it wasn’t paying proper attention.
That said, I’d be the last one to “Rain” on parades. I’d die laughing seeing noobs bukkake the likes of Odin and Bonnie.
Forgive me, you don’t get lengthy dissections. Scouting reports - Some mildly promising, most a Flash in the bedpan, others somewhere in between. Nobody special. None QDT calibre. Keep expectations low.
Word association will suffice. I’ll pop y’all some boners and clitty tingles with my charitable shoutouts. For you benefit, not mine -
Archimedes: “Frontman of The Ouijis” [Barry Gibbs tribute, not Stayin’ Alive, future endeavoured accidentally(?), Tragedy] like…
Mintzel: “Abominable Snowflake”, must be more…
John Black: “Violently Silent”, unlike…
Rain: “Pandora’s Fart Box”, which spawned…
Yamamoto: “Osaka Shit”, outta its...
Valliere: “Sphincter/Shrinkter Muscle”, hiding from a…
Gail: “Bum Bandit”, stole a Havoc spot so is…
Cranley: “Unstoppable like Diarrhea”, but ultimately...
Kancer: “Can’t Sir”, neither can…
Gabriel: “Gabriel’s Message Never Delivers”, nonsensical as...
Kuze: “Bal-Oni”, sandwich filler like...
Cameron Collins: “Peanutty Butty”
Regrettably, most will die on my operating table like Carter Shaw’s mo… Nah... too much, even for me. My condolences. Your scars are too raw for the Rumble; your head’s not in it. Unlike Ward whose scarred bonce appears to hide under a gimp mask. Grayson Gimp, bend over, I’m better than you!
I’ve prevailed through so much, always coming out stronger. I’ll survive you all!
Havoc’s revival. Most are too arrogant to adapt. Not Idris Vega. I inspirationally refashioned his reputation from a flip-Flop trodden under malodorous trotters to a gleaming gold belt. What he does next? Not my problem.
Crow McMorris? More of a problem. Kill or Cure? With your Lazarus shenanigans, Freddy Krueger’s rolling in his grave. Oh shit no, he’s back! Yawn. Riddle me this, the duality’s so bastarding tedious. Broken record echoes since you were gooky herpes on Zombie’s shaft. IT’S ALIVE!
Frankly, I’ve no designs on letting you perish. If you’re indeed immortal, your purgatorial persecution’s my remaining concern. You’ve still a chance at clemency. When I cast you over those ropes and your Crow’s feet hit that harsh floor, I hope you’ll caw for joy at the realisation - “I don’t have to fight anymore. QDT put me, and everyone watching, out of our miseries”.
Not KOS, though. Dude’s a misery fiend. You’re Bob Geldof bathing Sierra Leonean widows in crocodile tears while spamming TikTok with charity appeals via your iPhone 11. WILL SOMEONE SAVE THOSE FUCKING SLABS? You were the big fish but the pond got deep and swallowed you whole. Spence, I know you’re frantically DMing that Res(uscitate-)erection Man O’Neal because you’ll do anything to retain your fading importance boner… like anointing your new sympathy project Shaw with dat magic Triple dental Crown cleansing saliva.
Regarding saliva, look who just dribbled back. Unlike the current All Flash No Gnash expression of his poor pastiche, Lockhart does the business. Impressive. You’re durable and efficient like a German car. Yet it’s hard to get giddy like a size queen over a BMW when there’s such inadequate pounding on the engine that the roughest strokes consist of endless drives over Wilds lands and rear end bumps with “Mikey’s not working”. Get it? Mikey - my key? No?! Go anal probe yourself! 245 days?! Management pampered pussy. You were lucky to duck me at last year's Evolution.
I’m going to Evolution to revive the World Title!
Havoc’s deprival - No distractions. Hideous honeytrap Tawny depriving me of my daughter? Vindictive bitch, punishing our baby. She NEEDS ME.
Mr. Chavo Blue masquerades beneath shadows like a puppet master. Little do you realise, stupid mingeflaps, Tawny’s playing YOU. Whoever you are, you’re a fucking pathetic weakling poltroon guzzling my sloppy seconds. I’m gonna castrate you if your crippled Keyser Söze arse limps into Havoc.
Least I can respect Walter being man enough to reveal his hand in advance. So let me share mine. Walt Disney, that torturous device that subdues you will feel like a prostate vibrator compared to the abuse I inflict. Your debt’s too substantial to repay. The blood on your paws of the innocent women you consigned to cold graves is a karmic timebomb waiting to explode in your face.
You don’t fear that wrath though, do you? You should be fucking quaking in your 35AAs about the REAL vengeance that awaits. I haven’t forgotten Glory, oh no. I utterly slayed one monster that night in Leviathan. I took my eyes off the other, momentarily.
I’ve hunted beasts more terrifying than you - my inner demons are all exorcised. I’m FREE. Your lack of empathy renders your tomb in the tactical conundrum of Havoc. You’re a weapon, not a warrior. A target, not a sniper. As you confirmed lately, you’re prone to hiding... and I seek and destroy.
Ain’t wastin’ time speculating on vulture returnees. Show up, I’m spanking you over those ropes. Simple.
I’ve deprived myself of all doubts! Now I deprive you of everything.
I take a breath. One I won’t permit my opponents.
For all you cowards yearning to Rumble us with your concealed identities and mindgame masturbations, you’re in for a rude awakening, ‘cause the QDT you’re expecting won’t be there.
The Fortress is much greater, more robust than the threats my enemies wield. But, inherently, a Fortress is defensive. I carried the flag, advocating CruiserClash and the whole twatting division for 8 months. Launched it to unprecedented heights. Made everyone prosper in my presence.
This is NOT about you any longer. It’s ALL FOR ME and ME FOR ALL. I’ve been in sympathy far too long.
I own up - last year, I resorted to needless humility. Childish guilt crept in. Reality is, I obliterated Wade Moor’s career in a single clothesline. I killed the “IMMORTAL” of this business; the wrestler 16 year old QDT idolised. Naively, I tried to restore some value to him. I played along with his delusions and machinations, sought to “understand” that freak. But really, I was gracing him space to breathe rather than snuffing him out. The people’s love bewitched me, made me weak. Big mistake. Won’t happen again.
This ain’t 2019 Guillotine cleaving heads, seizing scalps. I’ll still fucking lacerate you cunts like the gaping wounds you are but, difference is, I don’t need to descend to your level, slip on your vaginal discharge, breathe in the stench of you pissing yourselves.
I granted Michael X, Holliday and Wade far too much latitude. No matter. They’re all gone, trembling in terror at their near escape. 2020’s my year.
I’m immune from everyone. This upper echelon’s too lofty, too sacred. The orchestrator remains standing. None of you pose enigmas. Nobody’s in my cosmos. Nothing to protect any longer; I’m vacating this Fortress. I’m hurtling on the fucking attack... from above where you can’t even dream to touch me - steady course, always in control, dropping bombs, SPITTING FIRE!
I hurl the photobook out the window. It plummets 600 feet to places unknown.
“The Spitfire” QDT will reign Honcho of Havoc, tyrannise another fucking Rumble and set the compass directly to the Action Wrestling World Title I was too merciful to claim as MINE last year.
Persistence, Resistance, Maturity, Purity, Surety, Survival, Revival, Deprival… nobody encapsulates the essential elements of Havoc like QDT.
I’m evolving…
And Alex Richards, let these words rifle through your veins as the rapid tick-tocking traumatises that big rickety heart of yours… Watch and see, from March 3rd to June 7th, my Evolution... will become... your… HAVOC.