Fe Ceiga (Blind Faith) [8991 Words]
Oct 18, 2020 18:53:28 GMT -5
Claire Hawkins and Stuart Slane like this
Post by The Lost Breed on Oct 18, 2020 18:53:28 GMT -5
UNO - NIGHTINGALE
Sunset on a sweaty Fall’s evening in Tijuana, Mexico. A procession of blacked-out SUVs drives together in unison through the run-down streets of the inner city. They finally arrive at their destination, grinding to a stop outside MS-13’s Tijuana Charter Clubhouse. The old-looking building appears battle-tested, it is riddled with old bullet holes, the windows covered in iron bars whilst the streets are lined with the parked motorcycles of the members currently occupying the Clubhouse.
From out of the SUVs climbs James Nightingale, David Sanchez, Claire Hawkins and Matthias Mintzel: The four members of The Lost Breed. The three men are all wearing tailored suits whilst Hawkins is in less formal attire. They are accompanied by Adrian, who leads them to the entrance of the Clubhouse. The humidity is unbearable the minute the group leave their air-conditioned vehicles; Nightingale wipes his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. He then swaps it for his custom made cigarette box, he slides out a cigarette then rolls it across his lip before finally lighting it.
From out of the Clubhouse appears Ramón, the President of the Tijuana Charter and Adrian’s childhood friend; together they share an embrace.
“Hola hermano,” says Adrian. “Yo necesito un tequila.”
“Si, Si,” replies Ramón, “Déjame presentarme Señor Nightingale.”
Nightingale steps forward and shakes Ramón's hand, “Hola Ramón, gracias por tu hospitalidad.”
“You speak Spanish Mr Nightingale? I’m impressed,” says Ramón.
“As am I with how you run things this side of the border,” replies Nightingale, “Gravedigger told me great things about you; let’s have a drink together.”
They all proceed to enter the Clubhouse as the sun finally sets over the city.
After a long night drinking with members of the Tijuana Charter, the members of The Lost Breed sit relaxed around a table with Adrian and Ramón.
“We have a big task ahead of us this week,” states Nightingale, “The Following are going to be looking for a statement win against us this week in Trios, we must stand united and show the three of them, and the rest of the participants, why we’re the most feared and dangerous faction this company has ever seen.”
“We have got to start winning,” replies Sanchez, “It’s imperative that the results of the last two weeks don’t continue to occur, that falls on all of us, even you James.”
Nightingale glares back at his fellow co-founder of the faction, “Thank you for that David, yes I failed to capture the World Title; just like you failed to win the Hardcore Title, and Matthias the Pure Title, as-well-as Claire’s failure to be coronated as the Queen. We must turn the corner, especially with the uprising of these Philidor clowns.”
Nightingale turns to Adrian, “Tell them what you told me on the ride over here.”
“Yes boss,” replies Adrian. “Back when Ramón and I were niños there was this religious cult. The leader, Mexia. He used to live a few blocks away from here, he used to perform these ‘cleansing rituals’ on his followers in his home; hapless people who were lost, and looking for their places in life. One day Mexia laced their punch with industrial solvent and next thing you know, lots of dead followers.”
“What’s the point of this story?” asks Matthias.
“The point of this story,” barks Nightingale, “Is that The Following’s leader, Kyle Kemp, has about as much fucking common sense as old Mexia did back then. He is leading his blind followers: Dandy and Wesley, to their certain demise at Trios. So whilst we’re on this side of the border; let’s use this history lesson as the much-needed inspiration we need to turn our shit around and get that win.”
“They were all taken to a local clinic for treatment; twelve of them died there,” states Ramón.
“Perfect I feel right at home in a hospital setting, I’ll go find some inspiration from the place where the followers all took their last breaths.” replies Nightingale.
“The majority of the followers are buried over at Gayosso Cemetery,” Ramón adds.
Matthias nods, “I’ll go check it out tomorrow; dead people don’t piss me off too much.”
“You say the house is a few blocks away?” Sanchez asks.
“Si, Si,” Ramón replies.
Sanchez leans forward in his chair, “I’ll go and check it out, see if I can get a feel for their leader and see if I can learn anything that we can use to defeat The Following.”
“Let me make a toast!” Nightingale raises a shot of Tequila in the air, his stablemates follow suit. “Here’s to both Mexia and Kyle Kemp; two failed leaders who both lead their cults to their deaths. Here is to family here in Tijuana and finally… to the long success of The Lost Breed; Action Wrestling’s soon to be crowned 2020 Trios Champions… cheers!”.
They all drink their shots and slam their glasses down on the table.
Inside the grim-looking clinic in Tijuana, we see a door with ‘Acceso Restringido’ written on its sign. The door handle starts to move down and then slowly opens; out appears Nightingale. He’s acquired a pair of surgical scrubs, old and bloodstained; his face concealed by a surgical mask. In his hands, he has a large file with ‘Suicidio Masivo - 12.14.1990’ written across the front in scruffy handwriting. Nightingale closes the door behind him and begins to walk through the corridor; suddenly, he is inadvertently shoulder barged from behind by a man, forcing him to drop the file on the floor and the contents pouring out.
“Lo siento,” the man slurs, as he carries on walking, albeit unsteadily.
Nightingale glares at him as he begins to pick up the documents, the pictures attached to the papers show the deceased corpses of the victims of the mass suicide. After retrieving the papers; Nightingale stands and focuses all his attention on the man who barged into him. He was in a scruffy looking suit, his shirt untucked and stained. He had a sweaty complexion, he appeared agitated and in desperate need for something as he continues to walk down the corridor, unaware that Nightingale has begun to follow him.
“Just look at this wayward soul. That’s an expensive-looking suit, at least it once was. It’s now dirty and spoiled by the junkie who wears it; so desperate for his next fix that he’s unaware of the trainwreck he’s become. I’ve seen many junkies throughout my years in the hospital; this guy is displaying all the classic signs and symptoms. It’s remarkable how far one can fall through the plight of addiction: Dandy DiVito is a classic example of this as well. Dandy was Action Wrestling’s Male Wrestler of the Year for 2019, he had a strong run as United States Champion before being the star to finally extinguish Lockhart’s flame and capture the World Championship. After having the second-longest reign in company history the future looked bright for Dandy. Undefeated at Evolution; it looked certain that he was building a Hall of Fame level career. However, that all came to a grinding halt when I pinned him on the Clash after Evolution III.”
The man stumbles into a resuscitation trolley; its top draw, which normally houses medications used during cardiac arrests, has inadvertently been left open. The man’s face is filled with the look of joy when he notices his luck that the draw has been left unsecured. He briefly looks to his right and left then quickly pulls the draw out further, rummaging through its contents. He pulls out a syringe, a needle and a vial of an unknown drug; he almost fumbles his new haul as he pulls it close to his body. He quickly carries on staggering down the corridor; Nightingale continues to stalk the man.
“You’re pathetic Dandy; you’re merely a shell of your former self. You were a killer in the ring, a rottweiler with a bone, pissed off with the world and you let nothing stand in your way as you raged your war on Action Wrestling. The Summer of DiVito quickly turned into the Year of The Action Wrestling Original. But now? Now instead of the star I quite frankly admired when I arrived in November, we are now left with this bumbling fool who is often seen wandering the backstage corridors of Monday Night Clash, a million miles away with a far away stare. Maybe Gravedigger was right? The Epitome of Violence normally is, just look at his decision to hand over the Presidency of MS-13 to me, it’s paid back on his investment tenfold. As 2020 pushes on, it looks more likely that your 2019 was a fluke, a flash in the pan. 2019 was your year, but 2020 is mine. The rise of The Angel of Death has quickly extinguished the flame that shone brightly within Dandy DiVito; you quickly became null and void as this shiny new toy entered the fray and stole your spotlight. Perhaps you succumbed to substance again Dandy? Just like this waste of oxygen in front of me now has; we know you struggled with substances in the past because you got busted for possession of a Class A drug; only Daddies money kept you out of a cold cell.”
“The drug holding you back now Dandy… is me!”
“Since I pinned you on Clash, your life has quickly spiralled out of control. Your arrogance was sickening as that match began; I could feel the disrespect radiating from yourself towards me. You thought I hadn’t earned my spot, that I had been given such a big opportunity too soon into my career and I was simply imitating yourself. After all, we both raged successful wars against Sam Kidsgrove; it’s easy to see why those comparisons were made about us. But in your eyes I simply was not the same standard as yourself; you even bet money on yourself being successful in the match. Sadly, you were unable to collect those winnings, the house is owned by yours truly and the house always wins.”
The man stops at a public toilet, he frantically tries to open the door, fumbling at the handle before finally forcing his way in. The toilet lid can be heard slamming down. After some rustling, the sound of relief is audibly heard by Nightingale, who sits on the chairs a little way back down the corridor. He opens the file and begins to look at the bodies of the dead victims of the mass suicide.
“These pictures are… beautiful. So much pain and anguish in their final moments; as they grasped at their throats whilst they suffocated on their own saliva, as they seized because the industrial solvent was eating away their bodies from the inside. The ones who survived suffered brain damage, although twelve died, in reality, many more lives were ended that night. Life as you knew it Dandy ended the night I pinned you on Clash. From there, your extremely impressive winning record quickly froze and the losses started racking up: Lockhart, Shaw, Howard Black, Ash Blake, the list goes on. Your fall from grace has been incredible, as has your change in attitude. You’ve lost your way; Yaz surely doesn’t even recognise the man you’ve become. Previously your only concern was causing chaos; spitting in the faces of anyone who stood in your way. Now your only concern is pandering to the audience, trying desperately to seek recognition and love from the fans whereas the old Dandy wouldn’t even have given a shit about that bollocks. Christ, you even shook Lockhart’s hand after your loss to him at Uprising. What happened to your balls? Did I take them too? Trust me, pandering to the audience, becoming a good guy, that won’t fix you.”
The toilet flushes; Nightingale quickly returns the papers into his file and closes it. After a moment the door opens and the man walks out, appearing more composed than before, now less agitated and he even has tucked his shirt in. He pays little attention to Nightingale as he walks more confidently than before; he heads for the clinic exit. Nightingale cracks his neck from left to right before standing to attention. He follows the man out of the exit door, he locates the man standing at the side of the road waiting to cross; the traffic is busy, blinding bright lights dazzling from the fast-moving traffic. Nightingale casually walks up to the man; sadistically smiling at him despite the lower half of his face being concealed by the surgical mask. After a moment the man finally notices Nightingale staring at him uncomfortably.
“VETE A LA MIERDA!” he shouts at Nightingale.
Without hesitation; Nightingale drives the file into the mans’ throat. He frantically grabs at his throat whilst gasping for breath. Nightingale notices a larger bright light approaching: an incoming truck. The Angel of Death grabs the man by the scruff of his jacket and the back of his trousers and throws him into the path of the incoming truck; it strikes him perfectly whilst he travels through mid-air before he can even hit the floor, blood sprays across the windscreen. After the truck comes to a grinding halt, and the man is left lying motionless on the road; Nightingale walks over to him. The man’s body is left contorted from the large impact as blood pools out from his head, his face now unrecognisable, his body twitching. Nightingale crouches down next to him, the file still in his hand.
“You think walking into that bright light at Clash 100 will bring the old Dandy back? Do not go into the light; ask this guy, going into the bright lights didn’t help his cause. He was fucked the minute I laid eyes on him. It didn’t matter what evasive action he took, his fate was already sealed, just as yours is. Do you think joining The Following will help you find yourself? Becoming Kyle Kemp’s meat puppet is a sure-fire way to put the final nail in your coffin. Wesley coming to you in the bright lights is not the final lifeboat evacuating the Titanic; your career has already sunken below unsalvageable depths. Kemp and Wesley; they cannot salvage your career now. I’m surprised Kemp is even prepared to take a gamble on you after he stood there and previously dismissed you, shaking his head at what you have become, he must now be desperate.”
Nightingale holds up the file, “This file, it’s proof that cults derived of weak-minded men marching to the beat of a drum of a leader, who is equally as stupid as his followers, never end well. Just ask all the victims in this file if they could have taken back their decision to join Mexia on his mass ‘cleansing’. Kyle Kemp’s record as a cult leader is laughable at best; just look at what he reduced Odin Balfore to. You are so far off the beaten track it’s going to take something far more sophisticated than the guidance of Kemp to put you back onto the correct trajectory. Quite frankly, you should have come crawling to The Lost Breed. We for one are not a cult, we are a brotherhood of equal minded individuals who have common goals and will stop at nothing to achieve them. I was the poison that broke your career; we had the antidote to fix it, yet you were too stupid to realise. Now you are following the wrong leader and it will lead you straight to your demise.”
“Adios!” Nightingale stands back up and rips off the surgical mask concealing his face. He lights up another cigarette as he turns and leaves the carnage he has caused behind him. He walks down a side alley and jumps into a parked SUV, where Adrian was waiting for him inside.
“Did you get what you needed, boss?” asks Adrian.
Nightingale stares out into the clear Mexican night for a moment, he takes a long drag of his cigarette, holding it for what feels like an eternity before finally exhaling. “Yes Adrian, I got what I needed. This file has inspired me more than you can imagine. This was a much-needed trip, hopefully, Mintzel and Sanchez find similar inspiration. I am feeling extremely inspired to end Dandy’s career at Trios and to quickly stomp out the small log fire that is The Following. Man Made Gods will be a handful, they have a proven track record. Philidor? Who the fuck knows what they are about. But The Following; we know what they bring to the table, Kemp has constantly over-promised and under-delivered. He thinks he is going to have Dandy fired up, that he has smartly recruited a future Hall of Famer. Perhaps Dandy will make the Hall of Fame still; only Torture and Gravedigger can decide that, but I know for certain that his 2020 definitely won’t help his chances. He is completely out of form, he’s lost his way. Unbeknown to him though, he’s following a blind man down a path which he cannot return from. The blind leading the blind; we couldn’t have asked for better Round One opponents .”
“Let’s get moving, we have places to be,” orders Nightingale, the SUV then pulls out of the alley. “Any news on the orders I gave you last week, have you made any progress? Have you found her yet?”
“Not yet boss,” replies Adrian. “I am confident we will make progress soon though, Brookes is following up on a lead as we speak. I’m confident that this one will pan out.”
“Good work, I want everyone you can spare on this, we must find her.” states Nightingale.
“I’ll find her,” Adrian says confidently.
“Another thing Adrian, I understand Yazmin Jones is quite the assistant. I think her diary is going to be cleared up after Monday night, how about we get Thomas give her a call? She’s going to be looking for employment after all, as her boss will no longer require her services.”
The SUV continues back towards the MS-13 Tijuana Charter Clubhouse, just as the local police arrive at the scene of the murdered man outside the health clinic.
DOS - MINTZEL
“aquí, ¿estás seguro?”
The taxi driver didn’t even try to hide his surprise. He looked at his passenger on the backseat who’d handed him a piece of paper with an address on it, the passenger stared deep into his eyes via the rearview mirror.
“Kein Spanisch”
“Er… You are sure... correct?”
“Kein English”
Matthias Mintzel lies, more to be awkward than anything else but he had no interest in trying to force a stunted conversation with a Mexican taxi driver.
The taxi driver shrugs. Tourists went to a handful of spots across the region, never here, but he could sense that this man wasn’t a tourist the second he looked at him. Then again, his job wasn’t to ask questions, it was to get paid and that was a lot safer with his colleagues around him at Tijuana bus station now, than it would be in 20 minutes when his passenger got out with no one around.
“Five zero zero Pesos”
Matthias has done his research and knows he’s basically being mugged but still wants to avoid interaction at all costs so hands the driver an American 50 dollar bill, the driver smiles, drops the handbrake and sets off. It was a relief to get off the fucking streets and be going somewhere, it seemed like a bullshit mission he’d been sent on but what else was he gonna go today, sitting in his hotel room and moping was his only plan.
Matthias sits, watching central Tijuana go by and cursing the fact that he was in this busy city, he was NOT in the mood for this place right now. His head had been racing 24/7, he was cranky, irritable, he wanted to climb into a hole for a week, not go on some mission in this stupid city.
Losing the Pure Title at Execution to Noris Cranley had put him in a mess for 2 weeks. The demons that had told him to never come back in the fucking first place had been screaming at him for the whole fortnight. But still, revenge at Clash 100 was going to be sweet though, that little non-entity was lightning that couldn’t strike twice right?
Then Noris Cranley knocked Matthias out.
How do you bounce back from that?
He still had no idea how it happened, he hadn’t even considered it a possibility, but it happened nevertheless and he was furious.
A world had come crashing down around Matthias and now he found himself getting ripped off in a city he didn’t know and didn’t want to be in, it wasn’t improving his mood.
15 minutes later Matthias gets out of the car, he doesn’t even look at the driver but then as he’s about to close the door he does look back.
“One hour?” he gruffly asks, giving up the ‘no English’ ruse.
“Five zero zero Pesos… for wait...”
Matthias rolls his eyes at the guy. The money he’d already handed him covered that, but what choice did he have? He had no interest in finding a local villager and trying to work out how to get back to his base in central Tijuana... Matthias hands over another 50 dollars, he growls:
“Sie Mexikaner sind alle Diebe...”
He turns and walks away from the taxi driver who gets out a porn mag to help him pass the time. The Mexican sun beats down on the stone white houses, a scene from a Summer’s day despite it technically being nearly Winter now. If Matthias was the type of man to feel refreshed by a change of scenery, this rural setting in glorious weather was surely the place to stir those feelings, but he wasn’t that type of man, so he didn’t feel a lot.
He wonders briefly about going to the reception of the Gayosso Cemetery but realises that would include speaking to someone else and trying to explain what the hell he was doing here, so he thinks better of it and walks in unannounced. There is one security guard who thinks it’s unlikely the enormous blonde foreigner is here for legit reasons but then decided, he doesn’t get paid enough to take a punch for asking him why he’s here.
The cool breeze feels nice, Matthias wonders what he can hear and he realises instantly that it’s something he hasn’t heard in a while, silence.
Matthias sits for minutes, barely moving, taking in this rare opportunity to just stop for a bit. He silently wishes he’d told the taxi driver 2 hours, he could sit there all day for all he was concerned.
The voices in his head were shutting up, it’s amazing how being surrounded by corpses can make you feel alive for the first time in weeks. There’s a stillness and quietness to a graveyard that people still living can’t compete with. Voices, opinions, abuse, sarcasm, aggression, arrogance, embarrassment, confusion, all the things Matthias had had to deal with since losing to Noris Cranley had, at least temporarily, been left behind.
He even allowed himself to think forwards to the reason he was in Mexico in the first place. For months, he’d been looking forward to trios as a 2 week holiday. He’d imagined himself taking his Pure Championship belt and recuperating in Barbados or maybe halfway up a mountain after punishing wins at Execution and then Clash 100. He hadn’t expected to be sat in a graveyard surrounded by the dead bodies of weird cultists, getting ready to attempt to win the whole thing. NATE had tried to convince him to be a team but obviously, that had been given a short shrift.
Tag teams and groups, in general, hadn’t been Matthias’ style at any point in his life, he was a lone wolf, but The Lost Breed offered an opportunity he’d be stupid to turn down. It was a vehicle to bigger and better things, with people he could actually rely on.
Since he’d revealed himself and hit a huge spinebuster on Walter of all people, other groups had formed. Philidor had revealed themselves to be a group of completely unrelated and random roster members with no obvious purpose and Wesley and Dandy Divito had become the latest followers of Kyle Kemp.
It was Wesley who most intrigued Matthias.
It was quite a shock to see you join The Following Wesley, I don’t think anyone expected that. It wasn’t long ago you had your own little cult leader vibe going on and now you’re a follower, in name and nature.
Can I guess why? You can tell me if I’m close.
Was losing the US title really that much of a blow to your self-esteem that you’re allowing yourself to be a servant to fucking Kyle Kemp now? I get it, you were US Champion for such a long time, same as I was with the Pure Championship and losing it is a mind fuck. I understand the temptation to run away and hide for a few months, I mean I’m personally not gonna do that because I’m not a complete pussy like you, but I understand why you did it.
And then, I guess, you go away and you realise that you’re not actually missed. No one’s really noticed you’re gone and new names have stepped in. 3 people have held the US title now since you did, you’re not even remembered as the most recent champion, that run becoming a more and more vague memory.
You did what any fading light about to be forgotten would do, you panicked. You’re not the first I’ve come across here and you won’t be the last, someone whose career is stalled and the only way you can think to bring it back to life is to do something really shocking, even if it’s stupid and makes no sense.
The metaphor is obvious, Matthias thinks as he glances around at the specific graves he’s been sent to visit. Vulnerable people who followed the wrong man because they panicked and thought they needed to do something big to bring some importance back to their lives. Most of them weren’t important for their entire lives, Matthias imagined, but probably some of them had done some impressive things in their various fields. He guessed some of them had suffered one minor setback, the equivalent in their careers of losing the US title once, and had given up. The man that brought them together, blatantly played by Kyle Kemp in the Action Wrestling version, has taken them from their stupor and told them he could make them something… and let them down in the worst possible way.
And this was the inevitable conclusion they were hurtling towards.
On the face of it, I’ve mirrored you, Wesley. We’ve dominated our own division for months on end and looked unstoppable doing so. Then we’ve both lost, let’s be honest to people we think aren’t fit to shine the shoes on our feet. And then we’ve both apparently gone down the same path, joined forces with others in a way most people don’t expect.
But it’s so different.
The Following is the graveyard where roster members go to die. You and Dandy know it, hence this awkward threesome that would look uncomfortable at a swingers night has formed. It was a fun moment when Grayson Ward was Kyle Kemp and Odin tried to use him to resurrect his career. Around all the inspirational, cult bullshit it was a pretty thinly veiled at trying to pick up the tag titles and it failed miserably, their only impact on the tag team title division was to get pinned by The Swallowing and cost Kill or Cure their titles, what a joke.
What the fuck inspired you to join?
Maybe you realised that it’s not easy having followers of your own. You had a grand total of one disciple when you were the leader and you ended up falling out with and then fighting Masuda Teijin. Nice one!
I’m not for one second believing that you and Dandy Divito actually think Kyle Kemp can improve you as people and wrestlers. I get that this is a platform that you think can shine a light in a crowded room back on you.
And that’s what this is, isn’t it?
It’s a rehash of what happened with Odin. It’s a short term plan to see if you can have short term success. Maybe you and Dandy can sneak a tag title win, I assume that’s the best you’re hoping for? Then when it doesn’t happen, as with Odin, you’ll all fall out and hope people care when you have a triple threat match on the mid-card of some big show. We can all barely contain our excitement…
A naive but curious elderly lady walks over to Matthias and interrupts his thoughts. She puts her hand on his shoulder, he jumps and growls as he turns around but softens slightly as he sees who he has been joined by.
“¿Estás aquí para despedirte de alguien?” she asks.
“Kein Spanisch,” Matthias says, hoping she’ll go away.
“Ah, Deutsch! Mein Mann war aus Hamburg, er ist dort begraben,” she says excitedly, not obviously sad at her husband being dead.
Matthias groans, how has he been found in this shithole village by someone who was married to a German man?!
He explains to the woman, in German, that he doesn’t know the people these graves are for, but that he was sent here to see them but really he just wants some space. She nods, seemingly understanding the significance of them, perhaps Matthias wasn’t the only person who sometimes made the pilgrimage out here, these days events like this are stories told online to fascinated Millennials, not that that’s what Matthias seemed to be.
“Ok, auf Wiedersehen, ende nicht so, folge nur den richtigen Leuten.”
“Auf Wiedersehen Frau,”
Matthias had to laugh, the wisdom of strangers, huh? “Only follow the right people” he repeats to himself.
If these people whose tombstones he was looking at now had only met the random old Mexican lady who was married to a German maybe they wouldn’t be here.
By its nature, The Following is doomed to collapse. Any group, in an environment like Action Wrestling with all the egos and ambitions that entails, that’s based on people being led by others is going to fail.
I haven’t spoken about why I’ve joined The Lost Breed yet, mainly because why the fuck is it anyone’s business? But the whole point is that it’s completely the opposite to what The Following will ever be. We’re not searching for someone to make us better, we’re not hoping that together we can find a significance and relevance that we used to have when Action Wrestling was a different place.
This company moves at 100 miles an hour. I’ve been knocked down but I’m not going to fall off and get left behind like Wesley. We are the future of this place, as a group, as individuals you’re going to be looking at The Lost Breed for a very long time. We’re going to dominate Action Wrestling, every division, hold every title and everyone will know to keep their distance from us.
Who else is winning this trios tournament, really? The patched-together mess that is Philidor? That group’s going to fall apart as soon as even the smallest amount of pressure is applied. The Swallowing’s flush is already busted, they’ll do well to function as a team ever again after the US title battle royal and they’ve brought down their average by making a charity case their third member? The man made gods who welcome back FPV who was the only person who made them interesting but hasn’t had a match in forever? One of the random patchwork teams who are here to make up the numbers?
Nope, this is our time to assert our dominance. The Following are a nice reminder of what Action Wrestling used to look like but we’re going to give you a glimpse of the future.
Matthias looks around the cemetery, he’s aware he’d told the taxi driver an hour and although he’s enjoying the tranquility he’s still in need of a lift back to central Tijuana so he can get himself back to his hotel. He wanders over to the plaque that stands on a small monument in the center of the graves he’s been sitting nearby. It’s been translated into a few languages:
“Here lie 12 victims of group suicide aged between 11 and 77. The leader of the cult was never charged.”
Matthias shudders.
Just think about it Wesley, is it really worth it? It’s inevitable, this is not the step you need now. Dandy’s a mess who needs this last hit of fame, Kemp’s a false idol who’ll do anything to try and stay in the limelight. They’ve got nowhere to fall, it’s a risk worth taking for them but you interest me because you don’t need this. You know what it’s all about, you’ve been on the other side, you were a leader. You were shit at it, fine, but you don’t need to punish yourself.
Trusting the wrong people is dangerous.
The Following is doomed to failure and the fall is going to take some people down with them that really should know better. As a group, they’re at the start of a tale that ends in disaster, just like these guys were when they trusted the wrong man.
There’s probably no saving Dandy, and it’s not going to be Kemp who takes the biggest fall, but this doesn’t make sense for you Wesley and the world can see it. I understand but use this as a warning that this isn’t going to end well for any of you, and you’re the one who has something to lose, don’t go down this path, don’t end up like this.
Matthias decides it’s time to get back, he walks out of the graveyard and finds the taxi driver exactly where he was on probably his third or fourth magazine. After demanding another 500 Pesos they start off back towards central Tijuana.
Matthias smiles internally, but not a warm and pleasant smile. The Pure Title would always be there, he was linked to it and one day he knew he’d have it back, but he was ready for Trios now.
The Following seemed like the perfect first opponents to Matthias. A group made up of 3 individuals who clearly didn’t fit together and was destined to fail.
The Lost Breed gave him purpose again. Under normal circumstances Matthias would’ve rocked up to Mexico City the night before the show, done his thing and gone home. Was he convinced at the idea of spending a day chasing down some cults’ gravestones? Not at first. But there was a valid point here and being here made it sink in.
Follow the wrong people and bad things happen, but having the right people behind him, at last, was going to make all the difference in the world.
"You smell that? Fuckin' whole damn country smells like a sulphur mine."
David's words penetrate the silence before the camera shot of Erin Fausse pushing a splintered wooden door back on its hinges comes into focus. Cautiously she crosses the threshold, scanning the darkroom with a flashlight. Next follows Sanchez, his shirt collar unbuttoned and purple tie nowhere to be found.
"I suppose Colombia smelled like rose petals and fresh linen?"
There were very few people the Mayor would allow to speak to him in this manner but Erin, however reluctantly at first, was one of them. She serves a sideways tilt of the head and a sarcastic smile to compliment her question graciously before resuming her default 'butter-wouldn't-melt' expression of indifference.
"Mexico is pretty much just a culturally downscaled South America for poor people who like their drugs cut with creatine powder. Compared to this place, the shanty-town in Bogota I grew up in smells like a fresh Summer's day. Look at you though!--making jokes and shit, getting all humorous. Who would have thought a thankless bureaucratic desk-job was what it would take to see those pearly whites."
Again she fights the smile forming on her face as Sanchez shines his torch upon a fuse-box adjacent to the entrance and flips the main circuit breaker upwards. After a ten-second delay where the cinder-block cottage creaks and shudders, making the kinds of noises you'd expect from a building where it can cough and splutter, a lone-hanging light bulb illuminates the abandoned building.
"Let there be light."
David surveys the property, cautiously stepping throughout of the small entrance hall and into the little living room. Overturned end tables and couches occupy most of the room but as rats scurry into their hiding places it is the chalk outlines upon the bare, dusty floorboards that pull focus from the furniture. White human-shaped silhouettes outline the room in a rough circle. Each of these represented an individual follower who blindly believed in the gospel doctrines of a travelling priest who later led them to die in this dirty, derelict den. There were twelve in total. Of the eighteen who had attended Mexias' unique 'cleansing' ritual that fateful night in Nineteen-Ninety.
"So I take it this isn't gonna be that date you promised me all those years ago?"
Erin pokes fun but her humour falls on deaf ears. The Mayor has already emotionally checked out. In his mind, he was in attendance of the ritual sacrifices made here thirty years ago. He imagined the cult leader of the sect standing in the centre of the circle. He could almost hear the ritual chanting of Federico Padres Mexias and the groans of discomfort from his flock as they faded into the afterlife. Dejected, the young Miss Fausse busies herself by investigating the neighbouring kitchenette while Sanchez himself turns the couch over and smacks the dust from the cushions before sitting down.
"Did you know that this Mexia guy allegedly had a temple of worship in Sun City? Some made-up holy land he'd created to feed his own hype. In reality, he held court in Los Angeles, or at least he trained under high priests there. Why he came to Tijuana, Mexico of all places to perform his little acts of indecency is an unsolved mystery to this day. If I were to hazard a guess though, it was probably because down here at that time and even still, there was a lot less hope to be found than there was in California. Which in turn meant that his offering of salvation would hit a lot more people… touch a lot more hearts."
The lingering smell of butane gas and rodent piss overpowered the previously mentioned aroma of the Mexican air in here. Dust particles dance in the air like fireflies as thin slits of sunlight break through the gaps in the tacky, floral drapes.
"From a temple in Sun City to a cesspool in Tijuana by way of church in California. That's quite a case of wanderlust and an impressive fall from grace, all in one fell swoop."
Erin mulls things over aloud as she walks back into the living room holding a large glass bowl. She sets it down on David's lap, the Mayor examining it as though it were some kind of alien species unknown to man. He runs his finger around the inside of the punchbowl then proceeds by dabbing his residue coated digit to his tongue. Smacking his lips together, he appears to agree with the police report. The punch was poison. Poison most foul.
"Do you know how he got away with it? Well, how he lived three full days longer than his victims in the free world instead of a holding cell?"
Sanchez spits out a wad of saliva onto the floor, clearing his mouth of the acidic tasting substance he'd just ingested but he doesn't wait for Erin to answer.
"The cops ruled that Mexia was just too damn stupid to pull something like this off. In the end, despite the rope found at the scene with a knot for each of the twelve victims. Despite the circular manner in which the bodies had been arranged and the toxicology reports all pointing to the tainted punch. Despite the plethora of reports from panicked neighbours who had heard cultish chanting for three full days until the expected time of death when these changed to screams and groans of stomach pain. Despite EVERYTHING… they ruled this mass slaughter as a series of accidental deaths caused by a leaking gas lantern spewing out carbon monoxide. I read all of this Kyle, and naturally, I thought of you."
Sanchez was no longer talking to the Chicago City Treasurer now. His tone had changed, his eyes now stared deep into the camera lens and Erin had all but faded into the background. He lights a cigarette, a Marlboro Red, with the spark of a Zippo and takes a hard drag.
"Those who died here at the hands of the man who called himself 'Don Federico' were drawn to him after rumours spread across Tijuana that he could cure the afflicted of disease and the unfortunate of their bad luck. Those whispers soon blossomed in bellows and those bellows were heard by many. It is believed that the evangelist lured his followers to this very house one by one where he gave them each a tailor-made spiel that promised them a place in God's kingdom. All this and more, in exchange for their participation in a ritual cleansing to take place on the twelfth of December."
Another inhalation later and smoke fills the Mayor's lungs before pouring from his mouth, followed by another lengthy history lesson.
"Is this sounding familiar to you yet Kyle? It should be. As far as I can see, the only difference between you and Don Federico that really stands out to me is the fact that he had the good sense to cross the Mexican border into a lawless hell like this. You, on the other hand, you braisant piece of shit, you pluck your people from here, there and everywhere before leading them to a compound on American soil. From there, you break them down and brainwash them before letting them re-enter society as brainless druids like Chase Jackson. Sure, your methods are a much less literal means of poisoning but the result still ends up the same. The bodies that once lay in a circle on these creaky floorboards might as well have belonged to Odin Balfore, Wayne Austin and the countless others whose careers you killed dead."
The lone lightbulb flickers in this skeletal structure in the heart of Tijuana. Sanchez adjusts his position on the stained fabric sofa, shoots Fausse a gentle nod and continues on.
"You're a killer just like the man who did all of this, Kemp-- a killer of careers. Wrestlers young and old come to you expecting miracles but find only murderous intent. People from all walks of life show up on the doorstep of the compound you use as your chapel. Whether they're from Poon-Guinea or Prague you take them in like wayward strays, strip away their personality traits to replace them with blind obedience and repurpose the poor souls as little more than walking, talking chum. It's a killing act. An execution of character followed by the birthing of faith. A faith they put in you and you alone. Their alleged 'saviour'; not the term I'd use to describe you, no. I'd go for something more suitable. Something like... 'shyster.' That seems to spring to mind almost every time I look at you these days. Sure you might not be chasing down ambulances in the street looking for legal fees, but you do deal in deception, don'cha Kyle? Nothing with you is ever all that it appears to be. Shit, ninety percent of the damn time nothing you do is anything at all but I'm able to admit when I'm at fault and on Clash 100? Well... you sure fooled me."
Barely a moment's pause ensues. Just long enough for Sanchez to ash his cigarette by stubbing the cherry red ember out on the dust and debris that adorn the floor.
"Of all the would-be witnesses to walk away from Don Federico's little ceremonies, not-a-one had anything negative to say about him. The survivors, neighbours, local businessmen, even the families of those whose lives he'd taken refused to accept that he was anything other than a deeply spiritual man whose best intentions had gone so frightfully wrong. Or, even better, as the police had surmised: A bumbling fool who thought that hard liquor and industrial-grade alcohol would have much the same effect when added to fruit punch. It's quite the unsolved mystery even still to this day as we approach the pearl anniversary of the Tijuana Sect Killings. Sure, Mexia died himself less than seventy-two hours later than his congregation but closure for the families of those to fall was never attained. Not unlike the enlightenment that they themselves sought out in the Don's embrace…”
“Which indeed, ain't unlike the betterment being offered by you Kyle and the bereavement being found instead. Odin had a family, so too did Wayne Austin. I can see why Adrian asked me to come here. Closure can be the catalyst that's the difference between courageously overcoming or being carelessly crushed by a loss. Even when the thing that's lost is a career and not an actual ability to keep drawing breath. Kyle, I've watched you lure countless cows to the slaughterhouse with promises of helping them to become better versions of themselves. But in the end, I've also watched as they're just ground up with your brand of tasteless, vanilla chuck and spat out as burgers. Mass-produced, 'Kirkland by Kemp' barbecue bait to be sold wholesale like fuckin' Costco. Ripe for a roasting but completely unfit for human consumption. More sawdust than substance as they're rebuilt into taxidermied likenesses of their former selves. Former champions and hot prospects being paraded out into the public eye like foot-soldiers marching in formation. No more nuances, zero quirks. Just copy-and-pasted caricatures of you-- a hopped up midcard mainstay with delusions of grandeur. One product, undivided... under Kemp."
Erin rests her hand on David's right shoulder as the Mayor starts to seem more agitated. He blamed Kyle for his inability to capture the Hardcore Championship from Frank Lowe last week. This much he'd told her. In the Mayor's mind, it was the Following's latest and most threatening form to date who were responsible for this outcome. In his mind he had the match won before Dandy and Wesley had appeared but in their wake, he found only defeat.
"What makes you so fuckin' alluring to the lost property personas in the back I'll never understand. You beat Walter once and everybody talks you up like you beat terminal fuckin' lung cancer. You ain't no healer, boy. You're a hack surgeon making Human Centipede creations out of bits of this and that. Whatever flawed philosophies from your former partners you find lying around your repressed memories loosely stitched onto whoever walks through your revolving door next. Nothing about you is exceptional, nor is there a solemn unique tool at your disposal. There's a beach somewhere on the banks of yesteryear laden with twenty other cunts just like you. All of whom did it better, cheaper and with half the fuckin' false hype you get handed on a flawless diamond dish plate.”
“The only thing you had going for you last week Kyle was the element of surprise. Knowing that while Odin, Frank and I were going out there to show that we could get things done for ourselves in that ring. You on the other hand were going out there to prove that no matter how hapless and weak you might appear to be. There are always idiots in this world ready to believe that self-improvement is something which can be brought about by a third party wolf without fangs in his best Bo Peep costume. The cat's outta the bag now though huh? The dust's all settled and we see you three for what you are. A meth-head who couldn't hack the hard stuff or handle his own plummet from the pedestal. A flip-flopper in flux whose own flock already failed to do anything of any merit. And finally, you: A third-rate, second fiddle, atheist-evangelist of sorts whose best has been and gone-by without making as much as a lasting impression."
Sanchez stands up, his ageing bones stiffening at the knees forcing him to stretch them at the joint. He turns to Fausse and taps at his watch, signalling that the time had come for whatever came next.
"Last week I spoke of how we'd debuted in the WCF at around about the same time, at least the same era, Kyle. I spoke of how we'd spent the better part of the next six years passing by one another like ships in the dead of night. Skimming so close that it was inevitable for us to one day collide. Last week we finally got that 'culmination of the years' encounter. In Vegas, on the biggest televised show Action Wrestling has ever given the worldwide audience nonetheless. A perfect chance for one of us to surpass the other in every single way. But instead? You threw all that history to the wind in favour of proving to two schmucks that you're some selfless symbol of what they too could someday aspire to become. You robbed the world of a showdown for the ages just so that two fresh followers, one of whom has already accomplished more in two years here than you've managed in six years ANYWHERE, wouldn't see you fail. Why did you even bother walking away? To save face for seven whole days of suckmongering only to find yourselves in a fair fight that you can't possibly hope to win.”
“There are no more rabbits in your magic hat now. No smoke and mirrors to distort the screen while you scurry off into the sunset with your tail between your legs. This time it's the three of us against the three of you in Monterrey, Mexico-- Trios style. Who do you think that favours exactly? You? You never even made the final cut for a callback in any of your old alliances when Trios came around Kyle. Shit, I watched Jared Holmes choose Andre Aquarius and Dustin Beaver ahead of you to represent #beachKrew in 2017. Then last year I watched Mikey and Teo carry your deadweight like a bag full of bowling balls to a fruitless victory in a tournament full of thrown together threesomes and B-list blasts from the past. I have NEVER lost a Trios Tournament match in my career Kyle, not here and not ANYWHERE else. 2017 Trios Cup Winner, 2017 Trios Cup MVP, one-third of the final WCF Trios Champions. I LED Everest to Trios supremacy while you had to be physically DRAGGED to the same damn altar with a new, blue and yellow paint-job, three years later.”
“Corey Black used to wrongly refer to himself as the King of Trios until clown-paint and Faygo broke his spirit. When his time on that particular throne ended and Pantheon was put to the sword, it was ME who stepped up to the plate. Make no mistake about it, I'm the one true King of Trios and I will remain to be so until the crown's ripped from my cold, dead hands. Sure, a team or two have taken liberties in my absence and carved out their own claims but all roads made damn sure to avoid me at all costs. The Lost Breed, Kyle-- we're about to remind you that beneath all the bullshit about making people better you're still not even good enough at this yourself. Not for how much you go on about others and their untapped potential. Not now and nor have you ever been. I guess it's my job to prove that fact to the world. But really Kyle, in Mexico, who Better?"
Fausse returns from the kitchenette with her hand over her mouth and makes towards the front door. The hissing of a gas stove is heard and soon the accompanying smell that never followed too far behind.
"Are you still sure about this? I mean, he might've just wanted you to come here for inspiration."
Sanchez laughs in an almost unbearably condescending manner as he follows her out the same door they'd entered through and back out onto the street. Just before the door closes and the scene fades, he sparks his Zippo one last time and tosses it back inside the cinder-block cottage before delivering his parting thoughts.
"Erin, sweet girl. MS-13 aren't in the inspiration business… they're in the CLOSURE business. A lot of people lost their loved ones in that shithole and nobody ever paid for it. Nobody survived long enough to go down for the murders, sacrifices, whatever. At least now they won't have to look at the building when they're buying fuckin' tortillas. They're a fanatical bunch, the Mexicans. Maybe this makes people sleep a little easier knowing there's not 12 undead, ethnic ghosts still clawing the walls inside. Maybe not, who cares? Sometimes it's just fun to blow things up."
Fausse and Sanchez are but twenty feet from the building when the explosion rocks the rough terrain. The glass windows are blown out, the passing pedestrians flee in terror as chickens flap frantically in their cages and the scene fades to black.
TRES - SANCHEZ
"You smell that? Fuckin' whole damn country smells like a sulphur mine."
David's words penetrate the silence before the camera shot of Erin Fausse pushing a splintered wooden door back on its hinges comes into focus. Cautiously she crosses the threshold, scanning the darkroom with a flashlight. Next follows Sanchez, his shirt collar unbuttoned and purple tie nowhere to be found.
"I suppose Colombia smelled like rose petals and fresh linen?"
There were very few people the Mayor would allow to speak to him in this manner but Erin, however reluctantly at first, was one of them. She serves a sideways tilt of the head and a sarcastic smile to compliment her question graciously before resuming her default 'butter-wouldn't-melt' expression of indifference.
"Mexico is pretty much just a culturally downscaled South America for poor people who like their drugs cut with creatine powder. Compared to this place, the shanty-town in Bogota I grew up in smells like a fresh Summer's day. Look at you though!--making jokes and shit, getting all humorous. Who would have thought a thankless bureaucratic desk-job was what it would take to see those pearly whites."
Again she fights the smile forming on her face as Sanchez shines his torch upon a fuse-box adjacent to the entrance and flips the main circuit breaker upwards. After a ten-second delay where the cinder-block cottage creaks and shudders, making the kinds of noises you'd expect from a building where it can cough and splutter, a lone-hanging light bulb illuminates the abandoned building.
"Let there be light."
David surveys the property, cautiously stepping throughout of the small entrance hall and into the little living room. Overturned end tables and couches occupy most of the room but as rats scurry into their hiding places it is the chalk outlines upon the bare, dusty floorboards that pull focus from the furniture. White human-shaped silhouettes outline the room in a rough circle. Each of these represented an individual follower who blindly believed in the gospel doctrines of a travelling priest who later led them to die in this dirty, derelict den. There were twelve in total. Of the eighteen who had attended Mexias' unique 'cleansing' ritual that fateful night in Nineteen-Ninety.
"So I take it this isn't gonna be that date you promised me all those years ago?"
Erin pokes fun but her humour falls on deaf ears. The Mayor has already emotionally checked out. In his mind, he was in attendance of the ritual sacrifices made here thirty years ago. He imagined the cult leader of the sect standing in the centre of the circle. He could almost hear the ritual chanting of Federico Padres Mexias and the groans of discomfort from his flock as they faded into the afterlife. Dejected, the young Miss Fausse busies herself by investigating the neighbouring kitchenette while Sanchez himself turns the couch over and smacks the dust from the cushions before sitting down.
"Did you know that this Mexia guy allegedly had a temple of worship in Sun City? Some made-up holy land he'd created to feed his own hype. In reality, he held court in Los Angeles, or at least he trained under high priests there. Why he came to Tijuana, Mexico of all places to perform his little acts of indecency is an unsolved mystery to this day. If I were to hazard a guess though, it was probably because down here at that time and even still, there was a lot less hope to be found than there was in California. Which in turn meant that his offering of salvation would hit a lot more people… touch a lot more hearts."
The lingering smell of butane gas and rodent piss overpowered the previously mentioned aroma of the Mexican air in here. Dust particles dance in the air like fireflies as thin slits of sunlight break through the gaps in the tacky, floral drapes.
"From a temple in Sun City to a cesspool in Tijuana by way of church in California. That's quite a case of wanderlust and an impressive fall from grace, all in one fell swoop."
Erin mulls things over aloud as she walks back into the living room holding a large glass bowl. She sets it down on David's lap, the Mayor examining it as though it were some kind of alien species unknown to man. He runs his finger around the inside of the punchbowl then proceeds by dabbing his residue coated digit to his tongue. Smacking his lips together, he appears to agree with the police report. The punch was poison. Poison most foul.
"Do you know how he got away with it? Well, how he lived three full days longer than his victims in the free world instead of a holding cell?"
Sanchez spits out a wad of saliva onto the floor, clearing his mouth of the acidic tasting substance he'd just ingested but he doesn't wait for Erin to answer.
"The cops ruled that Mexia was just too damn stupid to pull something like this off. In the end, despite the rope found at the scene with a knot for each of the twelve victims. Despite the circular manner in which the bodies had been arranged and the toxicology reports all pointing to the tainted punch. Despite the plethora of reports from panicked neighbours who had heard cultish chanting for three full days until the expected time of death when these changed to screams and groans of stomach pain. Despite EVERYTHING… they ruled this mass slaughter as a series of accidental deaths caused by a leaking gas lantern spewing out carbon monoxide. I read all of this Kyle, and naturally, I thought of you."
Sanchez was no longer talking to the Chicago City Treasurer now. His tone had changed, his eyes now stared deep into the camera lens and Erin had all but faded into the background. He lights a cigarette, a Marlboro Red, with the spark of a Zippo and takes a hard drag.
"Those who died here at the hands of the man who called himself 'Don Federico' were drawn to him after rumours spread across Tijuana that he could cure the afflicted of disease and the unfortunate of their bad luck. Those whispers soon blossomed in bellows and those bellows were heard by many. It is believed that the evangelist lured his followers to this very house one by one where he gave them each a tailor-made spiel that promised them a place in God's kingdom. All this and more, in exchange for their participation in a ritual cleansing to take place on the twelfth of December."
Another inhalation later and smoke fills the Mayor's lungs before pouring from his mouth, followed by another lengthy history lesson.
"Is this sounding familiar to you yet Kyle? It should be. As far as I can see, the only difference between you and Don Federico that really stands out to me is the fact that he had the good sense to cross the Mexican border into a lawless hell like this. You, on the other hand, you braisant piece of shit, you pluck your people from here, there and everywhere before leading them to a compound on American soil. From there, you break them down and brainwash them before letting them re-enter society as brainless druids like Chase Jackson. Sure, your methods are a much less literal means of poisoning but the result still ends up the same. The bodies that once lay in a circle on these creaky floorboards might as well have belonged to Odin Balfore, Wayne Austin and the countless others whose careers you killed dead."
The lone lightbulb flickers in this skeletal structure in the heart of Tijuana. Sanchez adjusts his position on the stained fabric sofa, shoots Fausse a gentle nod and continues on.
"You're a killer just like the man who did all of this, Kemp-- a killer of careers. Wrestlers young and old come to you expecting miracles but find only murderous intent. People from all walks of life show up on the doorstep of the compound you use as your chapel. Whether they're from Poon-Guinea or Prague you take them in like wayward strays, strip away their personality traits to replace them with blind obedience and repurpose the poor souls as little more than walking, talking chum. It's a killing act. An execution of character followed by the birthing of faith. A faith they put in you and you alone. Their alleged 'saviour'; not the term I'd use to describe you, no. I'd go for something more suitable. Something like... 'shyster.' That seems to spring to mind almost every time I look at you these days. Sure you might not be chasing down ambulances in the street looking for legal fees, but you do deal in deception, don'cha Kyle? Nothing with you is ever all that it appears to be. Shit, ninety percent of the damn time nothing you do is anything at all but I'm able to admit when I'm at fault and on Clash 100? Well... you sure fooled me."
Barely a moment's pause ensues. Just long enough for Sanchez to ash his cigarette by stubbing the cherry red ember out on the dust and debris that adorn the floor.
"Of all the would-be witnesses to walk away from Don Federico's little ceremonies, not-a-one had anything negative to say about him. The survivors, neighbours, local businessmen, even the families of those whose lives he'd taken refused to accept that he was anything other than a deeply spiritual man whose best intentions had gone so frightfully wrong. Or, even better, as the police had surmised: A bumbling fool who thought that hard liquor and industrial-grade alcohol would have much the same effect when added to fruit punch. It's quite the unsolved mystery even still to this day as we approach the pearl anniversary of the Tijuana Sect Killings. Sure, Mexia died himself less than seventy-two hours later than his congregation but closure for the families of those to fall was never attained. Not unlike the enlightenment that they themselves sought out in the Don's embrace…”
“Which indeed, ain't unlike the betterment being offered by you Kyle and the bereavement being found instead. Odin had a family, so too did Wayne Austin. I can see why Adrian asked me to come here. Closure can be the catalyst that's the difference between courageously overcoming or being carelessly crushed by a loss. Even when the thing that's lost is a career and not an actual ability to keep drawing breath. Kyle, I've watched you lure countless cows to the slaughterhouse with promises of helping them to become better versions of themselves. But in the end, I've also watched as they're just ground up with your brand of tasteless, vanilla chuck and spat out as burgers. Mass-produced, 'Kirkland by Kemp' barbecue bait to be sold wholesale like fuckin' Costco. Ripe for a roasting but completely unfit for human consumption. More sawdust than substance as they're rebuilt into taxidermied likenesses of their former selves. Former champions and hot prospects being paraded out into the public eye like foot-soldiers marching in formation. No more nuances, zero quirks. Just copy-and-pasted caricatures of you-- a hopped up midcard mainstay with delusions of grandeur. One product, undivided... under Kemp."
Erin rests her hand on David's right shoulder as the Mayor starts to seem more agitated. He blamed Kyle for his inability to capture the Hardcore Championship from Frank Lowe last week. This much he'd told her. In the Mayor's mind, it was the Following's latest and most threatening form to date who were responsible for this outcome. In his mind he had the match won before Dandy and Wesley had appeared but in their wake, he found only defeat.
"What makes you so fuckin' alluring to the lost property personas in the back I'll never understand. You beat Walter once and everybody talks you up like you beat terminal fuckin' lung cancer. You ain't no healer, boy. You're a hack surgeon making Human Centipede creations out of bits of this and that. Whatever flawed philosophies from your former partners you find lying around your repressed memories loosely stitched onto whoever walks through your revolving door next. Nothing about you is exceptional, nor is there a solemn unique tool at your disposal. There's a beach somewhere on the banks of yesteryear laden with twenty other cunts just like you. All of whom did it better, cheaper and with half the fuckin' false hype you get handed on a flawless diamond dish plate.”
“The only thing you had going for you last week Kyle was the element of surprise. Knowing that while Odin, Frank and I were going out there to show that we could get things done for ourselves in that ring. You on the other hand were going out there to prove that no matter how hapless and weak you might appear to be. There are always idiots in this world ready to believe that self-improvement is something which can be brought about by a third party wolf without fangs in his best Bo Peep costume. The cat's outta the bag now though huh? The dust's all settled and we see you three for what you are. A meth-head who couldn't hack the hard stuff or handle his own plummet from the pedestal. A flip-flopper in flux whose own flock already failed to do anything of any merit. And finally, you: A third-rate, second fiddle, atheist-evangelist of sorts whose best has been and gone-by without making as much as a lasting impression."
Sanchez stands up, his ageing bones stiffening at the knees forcing him to stretch them at the joint. He turns to Fausse and taps at his watch, signalling that the time had come for whatever came next.
"Last week I spoke of how we'd debuted in the WCF at around about the same time, at least the same era, Kyle. I spoke of how we'd spent the better part of the next six years passing by one another like ships in the dead of night. Skimming so close that it was inevitable for us to one day collide. Last week we finally got that 'culmination of the years' encounter. In Vegas, on the biggest televised show Action Wrestling has ever given the worldwide audience nonetheless. A perfect chance for one of us to surpass the other in every single way. But instead? You threw all that history to the wind in favour of proving to two schmucks that you're some selfless symbol of what they too could someday aspire to become. You robbed the world of a showdown for the ages just so that two fresh followers, one of whom has already accomplished more in two years here than you've managed in six years ANYWHERE, wouldn't see you fail. Why did you even bother walking away? To save face for seven whole days of suckmongering only to find yourselves in a fair fight that you can't possibly hope to win.”
“There are no more rabbits in your magic hat now. No smoke and mirrors to distort the screen while you scurry off into the sunset with your tail between your legs. This time it's the three of us against the three of you in Monterrey, Mexico-- Trios style. Who do you think that favours exactly? You? You never even made the final cut for a callback in any of your old alliances when Trios came around Kyle. Shit, I watched Jared Holmes choose Andre Aquarius and Dustin Beaver ahead of you to represent #beachKrew in 2017. Then last year I watched Mikey and Teo carry your deadweight like a bag full of bowling balls to a fruitless victory in a tournament full of thrown together threesomes and B-list blasts from the past. I have NEVER lost a Trios Tournament match in my career Kyle, not here and not ANYWHERE else. 2017 Trios Cup Winner, 2017 Trios Cup MVP, one-third of the final WCF Trios Champions. I LED Everest to Trios supremacy while you had to be physically DRAGGED to the same damn altar with a new, blue and yellow paint-job, three years later.”
“Corey Black used to wrongly refer to himself as the King of Trios until clown-paint and Faygo broke his spirit. When his time on that particular throne ended and Pantheon was put to the sword, it was ME who stepped up to the plate. Make no mistake about it, I'm the one true King of Trios and I will remain to be so until the crown's ripped from my cold, dead hands. Sure, a team or two have taken liberties in my absence and carved out their own claims but all roads made damn sure to avoid me at all costs. The Lost Breed, Kyle-- we're about to remind you that beneath all the bullshit about making people better you're still not even good enough at this yourself. Not for how much you go on about others and their untapped potential. Not now and nor have you ever been. I guess it's my job to prove that fact to the world. But really Kyle, in Mexico, who Better?"
Fausse returns from the kitchenette with her hand over her mouth and makes towards the front door. The hissing of a gas stove is heard and soon the accompanying smell that never followed too far behind.
"Are you still sure about this? I mean, he might've just wanted you to come here for inspiration."
Sanchez laughs in an almost unbearably condescending manner as he follows her out the same door they'd entered through and back out onto the street. Just before the door closes and the scene fades, he sparks his Zippo one last time and tosses it back inside the cinder-block cottage before delivering his parting thoughts.
"Erin, sweet girl. MS-13 aren't in the inspiration business… they're in the CLOSURE business. A lot of people lost their loved ones in that shithole and nobody ever paid for it. Nobody survived long enough to go down for the murders, sacrifices, whatever. At least now they won't have to look at the building when they're buying fuckin' tortillas. They're a fanatical bunch, the Mexicans. Maybe this makes people sleep a little easier knowing there's not 12 undead, ethnic ghosts still clawing the walls inside. Maybe not, who cares? Sometimes it's just fun to blow things up."
Fausse and Sanchez are but twenty feet from the building when the explosion rocks the rough terrain. The glass windows are blown out, the passing pedestrians flee in terror as chickens flap frantically in their cages and the scene fades to black.