Post by Samson Saltair on Nov 12, 2020 2:45:43 GMT -5
Everything was white. From the walls to the table cloths, the chairs circled around them and the couches against a far wall. The banquet room was filled already with smiling faces, people having just arrived at the soiree. A long buffet-style table stretched by the tables, plates and appetizers available to all, a large bowl of punch the splash of red amongst the white. Carter Shaw pulls at the collar of his dark green dress shirt, his business-casual dress a far cry from his usual hoodie, white tees and ragged jeans. Certainly an adjustment, as he yanks at the cuffs of his wrists as well, trying to find comfort. He looks around the room with a palm flat across his stomach.
He’d never seen anything like the room. Corporate yet relaxed: Philidor Holdings L.L.C. banners hung proud on several walls of the room, tragedian masks hanging beside them for added decor. Shaw walked slowly through the room with a swagger, nodding with a smirk to some faces he’d never seen before. Familiar ones were scattered through, and as he met eyes with Ash Blake across the room, the two exchanging a confident nod. The unmistakable towering figures of the H.R. Department finished setting the table, both slowly turning around to greet Shaw. They exchange fist bumps, Shaw hiding the fact that his head was swimming in the environment.
“You clean up nice for a street rat,” the voice of Noris Cranley broke the surrounding murmur. Shaw rolled his eyes as he reluctantly shook the extended hand.
“Yeah, not too bad yourself for a social media junkie.” He retorted back as Shaw quickly turned from his former foe and reached out to slap Derrick Vayden on the shoulder, The Wanderer turning around for the two to exchange a firm shake and “good to see ya”s. Jim Mud whipped by quickly, slapping Shaw on the back while making his way over towards Samson Saltair, whispering in the big man’s ear while gesturing at the punch bowl beside them. Shaw’s eyes roamed the entire room once more as the tiniest of smirks creeps across his face. He settled in away from the few dinner tables, resting his hands in his pockets as he exchanged soft-spoken hello’s with passersby.
His eyes caught a beautiful blonde, one he had never seen before speaking closely with Ash Blake across the room. Blake made eye contact with Shaw the entire time, and suddenly the blonde did the same. Shaw swallowed a pit as the blonde slowly made her way toward him, walking with the grace of an angel.
“No, thank you though. You are?” He asked as he gently reached his hand out.
“What do you do for Philidor, Sarah?”
Behind Shaw, Samson Saltair wandered the table with something in hand. Whatever contents he held in a cup were quickly dumped into the large punch bowl. Shaw noticed over to his side that Jim Mud jumped up with a fist pump as he began excitedly talking to select people. Noris stood against the far wall, taking a picture of the gathering on his phone. His attention was quickly drawn back to “Sarah”.
His eyes roamed the room as the smirk broke the usually straight face. Steam might as well have come from his shirt collar as he cleared his throat and fought through his hesitations. He looked around before whipping over his shoulder towards the beverage awaiting the party.
“So, about that punch!” he said, looking for anything to drink as he warmed.
Shaw took the two cups from Sarah, holding them out to be the first served, Peter Garvey digging in with the serving ladle and hitting both cups with two good scoops. Shaw turned back to Sarah as she giggled like a schoolgirl, eyeing Carter up and down. He held a hand out over towards the far couch as an invite, the two stepping away from the table to speak.
Jim Mud hurried to the table, holding a cup out for Garvey to fill. Another unknown person approached the table, curious about the offerings. Jim leaned towards him.
“Drink the punch, son. This night’s gonna be AWESOME.” He said as he downed what was filled into his cup, holding it back out for a refill as Garvey let a laugh slip through his lips.
On the far couch, Shaw was already listening intently to the beautiful girl speaking with him. While he nodded his head, he lifted his cup to his mouth.
Imagine having the weight of the world on your shoulders. Imagine choosing to bear such a burden, knowing that the whole world is watching with baited breath, eager to watch you fail. How could you set such expectations for yourselves, knowing you could never clear the bar you’d set? How could you decorate yourself in such sickening pomp and circumstance, only to be proven to be the naked emperor parading proudly before the crowd? It must hurt to be so transparent with so many eyes on you.
But the fact is, Graham – Frank – you’ve nobody to blame but yourselves.
There’s a certain audacity that ought to be admired in this shuffling pastiche calling itself the Man Made Gods – two harlequin-make-up’d imitations forged in the mold of Torture and Jayson Price, draped over the shoulders of Corey Black like the minks slaughtered for COVID used to make his cloak. Two trophy wives of various stages of growth: the young and the prestigious. But in the end of the day, you’re two whores dripping with his seed to bear his empty title. The audience is not entertained.
You do understand – don’t you – that the two of you are formalities. In every sense of your existence and career, you serve one purpose and one alone: ornamentation on the arms of the King of All Wrestlers. Graham Baker: the cocky upstart that was abandoned the moment He saw his opportunity to move up. Frank Venable: the wandering factotum, neither alive nor dead, lost in the world and desperately searching for his script.
Graham, darling, we know exactly why you’re here. You’re where you always belong: at Corey Black’s side. It’s been almost cute – if not downright quaint – to watch how gleefully you’ve thrown your career upon the train tracks for another man’s name tag. Sometimes one has to wonder if you see how degenerate and slothful your own brand has become. Like a festering sewer slug, leaving a fetid and wretched trail behind it, we can trace the steps towards oblivion you’ve made in one year. And yet, beyond that mere impression, the actual collapse is so much more inspiring.
This year started strong for you, Baker. One would almost wonder where it went wrong. But we don’t wonder, Graham – we can see exactly where you were led astray.
Do you remember the day? I’m sure you can hardly forget it. It’s so unfortunate you forgot a more important saying:
You went to war with Corey Black. You gave the future champion a run for his money. You should have seen in that moment the mirage before you, but you’re a stupid, stupid boy, aren’t you, Graham?
Do you ever squint at that moment in your career, like a Magic Eye poster so desperate to make out the design?
From United States Champion to the do-nothing Boy Prince of a Tag Team Championship obliterated by the faint winds of Ryan Lockhart’s footsteps. The sneering fighter who balked at the challenger of the Cruiserweight Champion and patted himself on the back as clever, only to be made short work of the same beast your master brought to heel. You can call yourself the Man Made God, and Corey Black can dress you in his Sunday best – but it’s only too obvious to anyone as to what you truly are, Graham.
You are a boy in a man’s shoes. Bred for success and set up for failure. The young and dumb meat bag the King of All Wrestlers will push in front of Frank Venable so he can feast alongside a misogynistic murderer.
W̴̹̽̎̃̇͒̔͛͐̔̃̚͠h̴̨̧̦̦̳̜̼̹̩̭̘̤̉̒e̷̡̗͍̲͖̺̅̅̃̆̿͛̒̏̃̚̚̚͜ń̸̫̦̮̬̹̽̋̓̈̅̑́̏̍̚͝͠͝ ̶̨̢̳̗͎̜̃̇̓̈́́̔̔̅͒̓̐̔́͝ͅe̷̢̪͇͔̻̹̪̪͔̮͇͑͒̎̾̀̔͛̈͠v̵̯̙̖̯͚̰̱̥̱̹̏̔̿̀̈́ě̶̖͔͕͖̲̻͖͉̣͎̜̹̮͌̄̓̃͜͜ŗ̶̛̱̩̯͔̏̕ŷ̸͚̞̥̝͎̻̼̰̻̈́̏̊̍͐͂̂͌͌̒̑̈́͌͜͝t̶̨̡͚̰̞̦̼͔͇̳͇̃̈́͒͆͗̌͘͘͠ḩ̵̡̼̖̞͎͙̬̪͚̼̲̗͚̜͒ĭ̵͈̘̍̇͂̿͌̓̈̋͆̾̌͘ṋ̸̨̠̖͉̳̙͔̣̿̒̕g̴̡̛̲̥̣̙̥̈́́̒͌̉̒̌̅͆̚͘ͅ ̵̗̮̹͈̑y̷̧̧̬̳̝͚̹̠̩̑̓ͅo̶̢̬͚̙͛̐̓̃̐͘͝ü̸̧̗͓̬̳̋̒̋͜ ̸͙͎̻̠͉̟̹̙̙̥́̀̚ş̸̨̝̙̠̤̝̬̀̌̌̃̈́̽̓̓̒t̵̢̝͕͈̩̯͚͂͒̔̾̂̽̕͝ő̶̧̝̣͙͙̗̒̈ŏ̵̢̢͙͎͕͈̹̟͇̦̭̜̻̃̄͛̌͠d̴̢̩̣̥̎̅̓̾́̽́͆̚̕ ̵̡̛̼̟͙͓̻̼͎͆͑̊f̷̡̖̲̃́̈́̅̾̈́͌̉͠o̵͖̮͉͕͎̍̑̿͛̾̇̈́̑̀̄͝͝͝r̷̘͔͓͎̫̾͐̏ ̸͎̤͎̣͚̭͎̳̫͉̠̫̐͜͝f̴̜̳̄̋̅́̈́̚a̸͇̗̩̙̗̖͕̝̰͇̖͍̯̅͌̾̕l̴̀́̔͒̏̍͆́̏̕͜l̴͇͇͇̟̟͉̦̭̘͕̰͆͊͋̚͝ş̴̲̙̜̳̝̾͆̓́̊̀́͗͜͝,̶̡̡͉̠̞͙̥̹͍̼͓̼͓͑̊ ̶̡̟͙̘̤̺̳̙͕̼͒̒̇͛̇̏̅̄̎͘w̸̡̨͕̞͈̲̟̗̣̎̔̈́h̴̛͍̰̘̪̓̐̂̓̀̐̋̒͂͛̿̌̑̐ë̶̠̤͉͔͓̝͔̠͔̟́̑r̷̛̜̥̦̣̙͇̣̤̃̉̈́̄̋̊̋́̑̚͝͝ͅȅ̶̺͚͔̩̜͕͌̚ͅ ̸̞̻̊̿́͌̈́̃̽̆͐̌̉̈̑̽w̶̯̖̤̣̖͒ͅi̴̧̳̝͈̞̟̫͍̤̬͚͆̐͂ļ̵̼̯̠͇͍̹̯̭͇̫̻͑͜l̷̛͕͗͒͂̀̈̔͛ ̵̡̢̛̛̟̟̜͕͖̓̎̈́̃̾̔͗̔͂̕̕͝͝ŷ̶̨͚͔̪͍͔̅̆́́̂ǫ̴̢̡̲̳̟̥͓̳͎̹̹͇͔̼͊̐̍̊͆̃̿͊̊̓̕ų̸̩̟̻͔̯͕͔̘͙̫̱̹͆̈́͛̃̎̃̿̆̊̆̌͒̕ ̸̛̯̝̱͍͖̲̳͓̎̅͑͊̅̇͌̚͜s̶̨͙̻̤̣̞̦͓̮̖̺̩͓̀͑̂̈́̊͜t̵͔̬͓̺̙̗͔͗́̌͜ȧ̵̛͕̪̹̻̝̹̠̲̬̳̬̻͕̈́́͆̉̃͆͛̃͌͐͘͜ņ̴̡͎̞̳̬͉̖̐̄̀̈́͆͋͗̆͒̅̉͂̚ͅͅḑ̶̗̥͉͍͇̤̭̩͖̙̮͚̞̑́́̈́̊̊̔̃͗̋?̵̡͔̾
Carter Shaw now has 3 girls standing around him. They’re all sharing laughs as Shaw is telling stories, becoming more and more uncharacteristically animated. They all keep reaching towards him with a hand, whether it be a brush of the wrist or a rub down the chest. The man who was once uncomfortable with the surprise attention now seemed like the biggest ladie’s man on the planet. He sipped some more from his cup, now a refill.
“Excuse me for a moment, ladies.” He said suavely as he took a few steps away and faced the corner of the room as he clenched his eyes shut for a moment. He was getting even hotter, a bit of sweat forming at each brow. He wiped with his sleeve as he tried to control his breathing. He could feel each beat of his heart, as if it were knocking at a door. He shook his head around, only making it worse as he began to get the spins. He rubbed at his eyes as he looked up and jumped back from the tragedian mask that was hanging in front of him as decoration.
“FUCK!” He yelled in surprise. His eyes danced along the wall in front of him as he assessed every single thing his body was doing.
But suddenly, as quick as everything had hit him, it surpassed. He looked confused as the thoughts in his head felt like crystal clear photographs. He shook his arms loose a bit, drinking from his cup again, looking down into the cup as he brought it back down to his side. He slowly looked over to his left at the punch bowl being consumed by every single person in the room. He cocked an eyebrow before turning back to the ladies awaiting him. He hopped right back into conversation, putting a hand on the hip of the brunette he had been most drawn to.
fun.
“FrankLoweFrankLoweFrankLoweFrankLoweFrankLowe”
Ṱ̷̛̙͎̣̯̪͉͈̤̙͖͍̼̗̇͌͛̐̐͊̇͘͜͜ḩ̶͍͓͚̜͈̳̟̥͙̙̫̓̇̌̆͆̈̿̉̄̀̑̾̈́͑̚͝͝ę̴̨̢̨̨͇̦̦̲̮͍̭͓͚͋̈́͗̀̌͆̽̈̈̇̀͑̍̓̔͘͜ÿ̷̕͘͜ ̴̡͇̓̿̈̂k̶̢̢͍̦̘͍̟̻͈̖͉͈͖̳̖̇̌̏̋͐̍̀̑̐̋̊͋̄͘n̸͕̘̅̽̒ẽ̶̮̫̗͔̩̚w̷͍͍͔͊̏̊͆͒̈́̅̓̓̋̌́̾͌̇͘ ̴̡͇̫͉̪͔̪̳͇̻̳̲̮̤̩̠̝͛͊̕ẃ̷̢̧͍͔̹̩̀͐͒h̶̨̤̫̹͙͖̜̼͎̖̞̲̻̤̀͘͜͝ǎ̷̧̨̧̨̻̭̥̱̠̝̺̝͎͂̀͋̆ţ̷̭̘̮͓̞͕̫̼̹̣̳͔͕̹̾̈́̅̒̈́͝ ̶̛̠̥͔̉̀̾̏̍̎͒̍̕͜t̷̨̡̬̪͙̟̖̱̥̥̻͆ḣ̷͚̠̹͕͍͚̖͛̈́̇́̓̄̀̎͑̐̎͘̕͝ę̴̼̝͓̠͖̭̲̬̗̠̣͙̇̇̂̍̀̏̍̿̚͜y̸̩̲̜͉̮̯̜̲͊͐̂̐̄̚̕ ̵̢̡̢̮͚̜̀͆̓͊̄̌̎̅̇͛̓̌̽͛̉̕͝ͅȟ̴̢̛̦͍͔̦̳̪̻̩̠̜̘̹͆͂͆̀̉͘̕a̶̢̻̞̻͚̗̱̤͎͚̮̗̘̙͌̔̽̈́̒̋͋̅̊d̴̢̥͈̭̦͈͙̖̺̜͎̗́̏̊͆̎̋̆͋̍͒͝͠ͅ ̸̬͈͎̝̘͖͕̲̯͕̮̰̹͙̙͛̐̒̍ͅt̷̢̻̦͚͎̝̓̃͐ȯ̵̜̓̏̓̆͑̎̃̎̇̚͝ͅ ̷͈̗̣̦̘̤̼̥̉̓́̃̾̌̈̈́̍̅͗̚̕͜͝ḑ̷͖̖̬̥̹̍̔̌̍͠͠o̵͓͊͐͛̌̅̈́̽̋̂͌̿͆̿̚͘̚.̴̭̤͓̭̳̬̖̟̹̰̮̪̘̖̾̄̽̉́̐͐̎̿́̒͘͝ͅͅͅ
Ą̸̥̜̩̞̼͓͖̜͉͔̻̬̞̈̀̓̍́̉̏̅̓̉͆̽̾̈̃̓͗̈́͐̕̚͝͝͝n̷̨̛̛̹͎̝͍̰̺̫̝͔͚͙̝͇̥͌͌͋̈́́̽͐̉ͅͅͅḑ̸̣̹͓̹͚̟̫̪̯̹̦̀̀ ̶̡̧̧̧̡̛̰̜͉̺͓͉͇̬͇̱̘̮̻͉͇͇̮͓͚̹̠̠̮̬͇̦̹̠̃̒̄̑͗̓͑͐̒́͂̍̀̇̈́̕̕͠ͅͅș̵̢̧̢̘͈̲͈̬͉͇̦̭̮̪̭͕̣̼̝͇͓̻̮̭̹͚͖̳͛͐̔͑̐̎̀̈́̈̈́̿̈́͐̐̚͘̚͜͜͝͠͝t̶̡̛̪̝̬͔̯̓͆̊̏͋̍͆̄̇̒̓̎͌̽̿̏̈́̌̀̀̌́̈́͐̂͒́̂̒̄͝͝͝â̶̧̧̧̡̨̭͚̥͕̹̹̘̥̘̣̪̦̯̼̟̘̦͉̠̞͓̖͓͕̮̙̞͉̜̝͓̟͛̌̔̏r̶̡̧̢̹̰̟̖̰͓̗̪̼̩͙͇̟͔͕̹̰̼͕͈̬̜̝͉͌̏̌̊̾͑͑̀̇̔̽̅̽̎̿́͜ṭ̵̡̧̧̨̡̨͔̣͔̼͍̫̯̗̦̣̺̱̪͇̪͉̭̼̼͚͚̺̰͖̿̂̀ȩ̴̨̧̧͔̘̠̫͈͔̯̲̝̏͆̉̈́̓͑͐̒̽̍̽̋̓͑͆̿͆̐͌̿̋͗̃͘͝͝ͅḑ̶̡̧̛̼͖̼̹̮͍̹̗͉͙͚͍̬̻̫͙̜̪̩͇̖͉̍͊́̄͐̊̂͂̑̈͛͊͛͐̓͊̐̕͝͠͠ ̷̛̖̥̲̉͌̽̓̃͋̎̿̔͛̀̒͐̐͌̑͂͌͐̄̐̂͘̕͝ṫ̶͕̰̒̆̍̏̒̀͊̇͗̊̋͗̄̔̈́̃̇̋̀̽̚͝h̴̺͚͆̿̉̈̋̌͗͐͆́͌͛̆̆̅̋̈́̋͠͝͠ȩ̶̼̦͒͗͌̊͛̊͂͘͘i̴̖̗̟͉̼̖̠͊̽̆̉̄̐͐͋̄̎̃͆̿̈́͌͆͌̈́́͛́̍͐́̈̚͘͝͝͝͠͠͝r̸̛̛̻̱̲̈́̾͌̉́͊͗͑̃̎̃̊̓͂̈́̑̏̋́̇̀͋͂̌̈́̌̆̆̓̎̌̚͘͝ ̸̧̧̡̧̛͉͍͇̠̰͓̮͙̞̲͉̹͙̟͓̰̜̘̩̭͇͖̱̝͓̼̥̔̂͂̃̈́͜ņ̵̟̤̬͕̻̬̱̫̭̪̞̹̖̱͎͍̝̬̰̼̬̺̝̂͗͋́̿̓͆̅̄̊̌̚͜ē̵͕̼̼̩̈́̀̒̿̔̓͗̏͐̅̂̒́̚͠w̴̢̨̢͚͖͓̫̖̺̹̬̟̫̹̩̞̼̠̭̠̻̥̮̯͍͚̩͉̉̈͛͂̿̽̽̿̒̕͝ ̷̡̧͇̳͉͈̹̮̪̱̲͕̼̻͈͍̻̖͖̤́̽͊̊̀͌͑l̷̢̛̜͙̦̠̭̫̠͍̹̬̣̦͍͎̻̄̽͌̉͌́̄̎́͘͘͝͠i̸̧̹̫͉̬̙͈̦̍̅͌̍͐̎͠v̴̧͓͔̹͑̎̇́ȩ̸͚̘͕̤̩̬̳̖̙͖̤͙̻̜̺͕̺̬̺̏͒͌̅͐͗̒̀͗̿̾͂̕͜͠ͅs̷̭͐ ̴̧̰̙̣̲͎̬̪͖̜̬̜̦̀̃̑̅͊̀̓̈́̊̆͜͜͜͝͠ţ̷̢̛͙̣̘̹̱̪̱̙̩̪͈̩͍̰̰̜͉̞͔͔͉͈̎͂̓̈́̈̂̿̃̋̍̇̏̇̆̅̄͑̿͊̄͊͆͊͋̀͒̚͠͝͝͝͝͠ͅǫ̸̧̛̞͇̻̺̘̝̩̲̼̺̪̫̪̹̘̣̠̝̹͇͚͎͚͉̮͊͑͗́̋̈́͜͠d̵̖̰̼͈̱̰̰̺͙̖̦̼̙̥̼̺̭̤̹̝͕̭̙͇̥̯̪̣̄̅͜͜͜ͅͅa̶̢̡̢̼̬͇̻͙̯̫̯̤͇̖̟̭͇͕̤̯̖͉̪̳͉̍̋́͂̉͠ͅy̶̨̢̛̛̩͕̝̱̩̜͍͖̰̼̫̣̪͉̘̱̳̩̬͉̗͛́́̇́͋͛̅̎̽͐́͗̈̏̋̓̈̃͋̚̚̕͝͝ͅͅ
̶͔̙̫̭̥̞̒̈́͒̃̋̾̾̅̀̇͋́̎̒̑̃̓͛̈̏̽́̋̃͊̒͌̓̕̕̚͝͝͝
He’d never seen anything like the room. Corporate yet relaxed: Philidor Holdings L.L.C. banners hung proud on several walls of the room, tragedian masks hanging beside them for added decor. Shaw walked slowly through the room with a swagger, nodding with a smirk to some faces he’d never seen before. Familiar ones were scattered through, and as he met eyes with Ash Blake across the room, the two exchanging a confident nod. The unmistakable towering figures of the H.R. Department finished setting the table, both slowly turning around to greet Shaw. They exchange fist bumps, Shaw hiding the fact that his head was swimming in the environment.
“You clean up nice for a street rat,” the voice of Noris Cranley broke the surrounding murmur. Shaw rolled his eyes as he reluctantly shook the extended hand.
“Yeah, not too bad yourself for a social media junkie.” He retorted back as Shaw quickly turned from his former foe and reached out to slap Derrick Vayden on the shoulder, The Wanderer turning around for the two to exchange a firm shake and “good to see ya”s. Jim Mud whipped by quickly, slapping Shaw on the back while making his way over towards Samson Saltair, whispering in the big man’s ear while gesturing at the punch bowl beside them. Shaw’s eyes roamed the entire room once more as the tiniest of smirks creeps across his face. He settled in away from the few dinner tables, resting his hands in his pockets as he exchanged soft-spoken hello’s with passersby.
His eyes caught a beautiful blonde, one he had never seen before speaking closely with Ash Blake across the room. Blake made eye contact with Shaw the entire time, and suddenly the blonde did the same. Shaw swallowed a pit as the blonde slowly made her way toward him, walking with the grace of an angel.
“Would you like any punch, Mr. Shaw?” The girl asked as she neared, grabbing two cups from the table.
“No, thank you though. You are?” He asked as he gently reached his hand out.
“I am whoever you want me to be,” she said in a seductive whisper. “But in the meantime, you can call me Sarah.” She held both empty cups in hand as she settled in closely to the uncomfortable Shaw.
“What do you do for Philidor, Sarah?”
“Oh, you know...a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Isn’t Ms. Blake somethin’? So brilliant, so empowering,” she said as she looks over her shoulder at Ash Blake, who winked before turning away.
Behind Shaw, Samson Saltair wandered the table with something in hand. Whatever contents he held in a cup were quickly dumped into the large punch bowl. Shaw noticed over to his side that Jim Mud jumped up with a fist pump as he began excitedly talking to select people. Noris stood against the far wall, taking a picture of the gathering on his phone. His attention was quickly drawn back to “Sarah”.
“But more importantly, Mr. Shaw, what, I mean, who are you going to do for Philidor?”
“So, about that punch!” he said, looking for anything to drink as he warmed.
Shaw took the two cups from Sarah, holding them out to be the first served, Peter Garvey digging in with the serving ladle and hitting both cups with two good scoops. Shaw turned back to Sarah as she giggled like a schoolgirl, eyeing Carter up and down. He held a hand out over towards the far couch as an invite, the two stepping away from the table to speak.
Jim Mud hurried to the table, holding a cup out for Garvey to fill. Another unknown person approached the table, curious about the offerings. Jim leaned towards him.
“Drink the punch, son. This night’s gonna be AWESOME.” He said as he downed what was filled into his cup, holding it back out for a refill as Garvey let a laugh slip through his lips.
On the far couch, Shaw was already listening intently to the beautiful girl speaking with him. While he nodded his head, he lifted his cup to his mouth.
And drank.
Imagine having the weight of the world on your shoulders. Imagine choosing to bear such a burden, knowing that the whole world is watching with baited breath, eager to watch you fail. How could you set such expectations for yourselves, knowing you could never clear the bar you’d set? How could you decorate yourself in such sickening pomp and circumstance, only to be proven to be the naked emperor parading proudly before the crowd? It must hurt to be so transparent with so many eyes on you.
But the fact is, Graham – Frank – you’ve nobody to blame but yourselves.
There’s a certain audacity that ought to be admired in this shuffling pastiche calling itself the Man Made Gods – two harlequin-make-up’d imitations forged in the mold of Torture and Jayson Price, draped over the shoulders of Corey Black like the minks slaughtered for COVID used to make his cloak. Two trophy wives of various stages of growth: the young and the prestigious. But in the end of the day, you’re two whores dripping with his seed to bear his empty title. The audience is not entertained.
You do understand – don’t you – that the two of you are formalities. In every sense of your existence and career, you serve one purpose and one alone: ornamentation on the arms of the King of All Wrestlers. Graham Baker: the cocky upstart that was abandoned the moment He saw his opportunity to move up. Frank Venable: the wandering factotum, neither alive nor dead, lost in the world and desperately searching for his script.
The Father – the Son – the Holy Spirit. A-fucking-men.
Graham, darling, we know exactly why you’re here. You’re where you always belong: at Corey Black’s side. It’s been almost cute – if not downright quaint – to watch how gleefully you’ve thrown your career upon the train tracks for another man’s name tag. Sometimes one has to wonder if you see how degenerate and slothful your own brand has become. Like a festering sewer slug, leaving a fetid and wretched trail behind it, we can trace the steps towards oblivion you’ve made in one year. And yet, beyond that mere impression, the actual collapse is so much more inspiring.
This year started strong for you, Baker. One would almost wonder where it went wrong. But we don’t wonder, Graham – we can see exactly where you were led astray.
May 11, 2020.
Do you remember the day? I’m sure you can hardly forget it. It’s so unfortunate you forgot a more important saying:
“If you can’t beat them, join them.”
You went to war with Corey Black. You gave the future champion a run for his money. You should have seen in that moment the mirage before you, but you’re a stupid, stupid boy, aren’t you, Graham?
After all, who else would like to sit down for a pint with a mongrel?
Television Title.
United States Title.Tag Team Champions.
Destroyed in the Quarter-Finals by a man you now need to work on the same team with.Graham, you stupid, stupid boy – you’ve been e̷̥̓͑́͋̀a̴͕͓͉̰͊̃͆̀̾̔̃̈́̅̾ͅͅt̵̡̛̖̭͈͉̦̹̩̪̦̙̗̹̕ͅē̵̡̛̲̞̻͕̱̥͓̠̪̋̈̃̅͆̃̔͛̏̄̾́͝ͅṅ̶̵̢̢̨̡̛͚͇̪̣͈̬̻̱̙̞̝̩͈̮̝͖̺̿̓̃̎̈́̈̍̐͂̓͐̆̓̅̊̅͌́͊̈́̕͝͠ͅ
From United States Champion to the do-nothing Boy Prince of a Tag Team Championship obliterated by the faint winds of Ryan Lockhart’s footsteps. The sneering fighter who balked at the challenger of the Cruiserweight Champion and patted himself on the back as clever, only to be made short work of the same beast your master brought to heel. You can call yourself the Man Made God, and Corey Black can dress you in his Sunday best – but it’s only too obvious to anyone as to what you truly are, Graham.
Beyond the smirk.
Beyond the smack talk.
Beyond the endorsements.
You are a boy in a man’s shoes. Bred for success and set up for failure. The young and dumb meat bag the King of All Wrestlers will push in front of Frank Venable so he can feast alongside a misogynistic murderer.
A toast: to our enemy’s enemies. Unless they lay with them against us.
The old adage rings forever true. A team is only as good as its weakest link.
Walter. Former world champion and all around unstoppable monster. Corey Black, current world champion. Mongrel slayer. FPV, the first ever three time world champion…
Graham Baker… Uh… Let me think. You… took second in the first Cruiser Havoc Rumble. Held the TV title for like, two weeks? I’m sure those are accomplishments for somebody.
All jokes aside, Graham, you are far and away the least deserving of your spot in the Man-Made Gods. You somehow managed to be less valuable to the group than RJ Collins was. The only reason you’re there at all is because Corey Black needed someone to carry his bags for him and FPV was too busy. Corey beat your ass so badly so often during your Hardcore title bouts he correctly assumed you were an easy little bitch to boss around who wouldn’t put up any sort of resistance. Why? Because you’re such a fame hungry whore you’re willing to sell all your fucking dignity in exchange for The King’s table scraps.
You can build your little so-called kingdom in these podunk promotions, where you can feel like a big draw for a few moments all you want. But the fact is you’ll have to show up in AW again soon, and you’ll once again realize how fucking small you truly are.
Out there, in the fucking cesspit that is Twitter, you may be a ruler. Some may say a god. But here in Action Wrestling, where it actually matters… you’re nothing but a mere peasant. You think you’re a wolf, hunting with the alphas, preying upon the weak animals around you when you’re just a little pup who has yet to even open its eyes. You think the fire in your eyes makes you a tiger in disguise? Dream on, you goddamn pussy.
You claim to be such a big tough guy. You run your mouth on social media, hyping yourself to anyone who has the displeasure of getting caught in your shitstorm about how you’re going to tear Philidor to the ground.
Let’s just… ignore the fact that you’ve had multiple chances to take us out and yet you sat on your hands and did nothing. When we were beating your boy like he was our personal tackling dummy, you waited in your locker room like a good little bitch, too scared of the numbers game to do anything other than twiddle your thumbs away on your phone.
It must be kinda frustrating, right Graham? Everything you claim to do, we already did. We know how to get shit done, pick up where you fail time after time. You want to beat us? We take you and the rest of your squad out. You say you’re going to beat Walter? We kick his ass on multiple occasions. We leave The Mongrel laying flat on his back while he leaves you drowning in your own blood. We are not equal, GB.
All this to say… you’re all talk, Graham. Meanwhile, we’re doers. That’s not to discredit all the stuff you’ve accomplished in your time here. But the fact is you could have and should have done so much more. But you’re too busy running your mouth, saying all the things you’re going to do, to do any of those things.
Let’s call you what you are, Graham. You’re the equivalent to the President’s PR manager. Your best quality is tweeting any nonsensical shit your king says while on the toilet.
Graham, I want you to listen to me very carefully. You can surround yourself with all the kings you want, but you need to face facts. In a courtroom full of royalty, you’re but a shitty jester. You never have been anything more and you never will be.
But you’re no stranger to failure and disappointment, are you Franklin?
We must admit, we’re surprised: normally your imminent return is much more short-lived and lackluster – why, we’re downright delighted you didn’t cost your team the win by now. Keep it up; you may find yourself with yet another pity opportunity – or, that would be the case if it didn’t all end here.
I see you, swaggering gunslinger. We’ve watched you make your way through company after company, carving a path and staking gold. Contender – interviewer – tag partner. Frank Venable: jack of many, king of none. Merely the haggard hand-servant of the King of All Wrestlers. But let’s not mince the present, Franklin – let’s examine the past.
You made a career for yourself as white knight. You’ve fought valiantly, always on a side you’d consider good, always standing up for your imagined little man and every other skittering rodent you identify with. From the Polar Phantasm to Corey Black – an upgrade in skill along with a deficit in personal fiber. From facing off with the Six God to shaking hands with Man Evolved – a fetishistic attraction to megalomania runs in your blood. Only natural of the hand-servant of the King of All Wrestlers.
I wonder if you question your position, Frank. When the music hits and the audience swells in cheers – as you walk out alongside that behemoth Walter – do you smell the blood on his hands? When you clasp them together to take a bow, do you see their stain on yours? And as your brother sits out in the audience in a faded old People’s Choice t-shirt and claps, what do you think goes through his mind? Do you think you he’s proud? Or do you think he sees you for the reality?
Nothing more than a simpering…
….slithering…
moral
midget.
Such audacity of you – of any of you – to stand before us with the hulking beast at your side. How quickly you turned from disgust and horror to appreciation of his baser ways over a broken moment.
Philidor attacked Walter. Philidor attacked Corey Black. Therefore, Corey Black and Walter are united against Philidor.
Consider your allegiance, Frank, as Roosevelt must’ve wondered as he stood alongside Stalin and Churchill. Perhaps you find this an apt metaphor – a small-souled and weak-minded individual such as yourself could only too quickly equate a ruined celebration with intolerable acts, willing to make you find camaraderie with a man who has dedicated his life to the execution and dismemberment of innocent women. Does this seem uncouth? I wonder if Roger Payton finds it uncouth.
This is a stain on your record, Frank. It is a stain that goes far beyond the means of wrestling for a man vainglorious enough to host a regular event in his image and honor. Beyond siding with that man using his vainglorious event for an attempt – an attempt that will result in failure – destruction of people bold enough to raise hands with him. Beyond siding with that man using his event and embracing the fetid paw of a predatory beast.
Look in the mirror, Frank. In your eyes, see the horrified stares and screams of every girl (and I do mean girl) Walter preyed upon. In your slackened expression, see the ever still death mask of every daughter and sister he brought doom to. As you pat yourself on the back and say “I’m not a misogynist, the person who holds Walter’s collar is a woman”, think of every child – every brother, son, sister, and daughter – who watches you deliver a tag to the same palm and fingers which once wrapped around the throat of someone weighing a third of themselves.
You, Frank, are a disgrace to your lineage.
When one considers heroism, it goes so far beyond the four posts of the ring. It goes beyond the beginning and end chimes of a bell. Life is not a comic book – you cannot so easily close your eyes to the implications. The United States drops bombs upon a Pakistani hospital to kill a terrorist – China sterilizes Uighur Muslims to preventthe proliferation of radical Islamism – and the Man Made Gods make their bed against Philidor Holdings.
Actions have consequences.
How quickly – how blindly – you walked off the cliff to your own denigration, unlikely that you ever hesitated a step. And, with a smirk on your lips, your retort likely to be: “save it, nerds”.
There’s no room for a Frank Patrick Venable in 2020. The one standing before us is little more than a shade, slouching and shuffling towards Bethlehem, baring the neon signs of faded glory upon his back. You deserve no mercy; you will be shown you no mercy; do not request mercy. Poor, poor Frank – there’s no home for you here.
The Man Made Gods will realize in due time they’ve taken a genie out of a bottle that cannot be returned. Graham Baker cannot again be an untainted prodigy – Frank Venable cannot be an intimidating returning conqueror – and Corey Black cannot be a dominant champion. But we admire your bravado; it’s not every day such a number of men would walk so assuredly into a demise of their own design. No matter the outcome of XIII, Philidor Holdings goes on – you cannot rend the All-In briefcase from Carter Shaw – you cannot save the soul of Derrick Vayden – you cannot snuff Mister Garvey and Saltair in the crib – you cannot undo the ascent of Ashley Blakesly. But when this entire pantomime of fury is over, when we see all of your effort result in naught, what can be said of you?
What is Graham Baker, rendered a lost boy? Where will Frank Venable find a home when turned back to wandering in search of a legacy? When will Walter be able to find his wolves’ snarl once reduced to the kicked yelp of a pup? Who is Corey Black but a paper champion?
A philosopher killed God so long ago: and now, from his tomb, three apes have risen draped in his remains. Your existence in travesty, and your actions are blasphemy. You will not leave XIII unpunished for your crimes. And in the ashes of the wake, you’ll face what you’ve done.
W̴̹̽̎̃̇͒̔͛͐̔̃̚͠h̴̨̧̦̦̳̜̼̹̩̭̘̤̉̒e̷̡̗͍̲͖̺̅̅̃̆̿͛̒̏̃̚̚̚͜ń̸̫̦̮̬̹̽̋̓̈̅̑́̏̍̚͝͠͝ ̶̨̢̳̗͎̜̃̇̓̈́́̔̔̅͒̓̐̔́͝ͅe̷̢̪͇͔̻̹̪̪͔̮͇͑͒̎̾̀̔͛̈͠v̵̯̙̖̯͚̰̱̥̱̹̏̔̿̀̈́ě̶̖͔͕͖̲̻͖͉̣͎̜̹̮͌̄̓̃͜͜ŗ̶̛̱̩̯͔̏̕ŷ̸͚̞̥̝͎̻̼̰̻̈́̏̊̍͐͂̂͌͌̒̑̈́͌͜͝t̶̨̡͚̰̞̦̼͔͇̳͇̃̈́͒͆͗̌͘͘͠ḩ̵̡̼̖̞͎͙̬̪͚̼̲̗͚̜͒ĭ̵͈̘̍̇͂̿͌̓̈̋͆̾̌͘ṋ̸̨̠̖͉̳̙͔̣̿̒̕g̴̡̛̲̥̣̙̥̈́́̒͌̉̒̌̅͆̚͘ͅ ̵̗̮̹͈̑y̷̧̧̬̳̝͚̹̠̩̑̓ͅo̶̢̬͚̙͛̐̓̃̐͘͝ü̸̧̗͓̬̳̋̒̋͜ ̸͙͎̻̠͉̟̹̙̙̥́̀̚ş̸̨̝̙̠̤̝̬̀̌̌̃̈́̽̓̓̒t̵̢̝͕͈̩̯͚͂͒̔̾̂̽̕͝ő̶̧̝̣͙͙̗̒̈ŏ̵̢̢͙͎͕͈̹̟͇̦̭̜̻̃̄͛̌͠d̴̢̩̣̥̎̅̓̾́̽́͆̚̕ ̵̡̛̼̟͙͓̻̼͎͆͑̊f̷̡̖̲̃́̈́̅̾̈́͌̉͠o̵͖̮͉͕͎̍̑̿͛̾̇̈́̑̀̄͝͝͝r̷̘͔͓͎̫̾͐̏ ̸͎̤͎̣͚̭͎̳̫͉̠̫̐͜͝f̴̜̳̄̋̅́̈́̚a̸͇̗̩̙̗̖͕̝̰͇̖͍̯̅͌̾̕l̴̀́̔͒̏̍͆́̏̕͜l̴͇͇͇̟̟͉̦̭̘͕̰͆͊͋̚͝ş̴̲̙̜̳̝̾͆̓́̊̀́͗͜͝,̶̡̡͉̠̞͙̥̹͍̼͓̼͓͑̊ ̶̡̟͙̘̤̺̳̙͕̼͒̒̇͛̇̏̅̄̎͘w̸̡̨͕̞͈̲̟̗̣̎̔̈́h̴̛͍̰̘̪̓̐̂̓̀̐̋̒͂͛̿̌̑̐ë̶̠̤͉͔͓̝͔̠͔̟́̑r̷̛̜̥̦̣̙͇̣̤̃̉̈́̄̋̊̋́̑̚͝͝ͅȅ̶̺͚͔̩̜͕͌̚ͅ ̸̞̻̊̿́͌̈́̃̽̆͐̌̉̈̑̽w̶̯̖̤̣̖͒ͅi̴̧̳̝͈̞̟̫͍̤̬͚͆̐͂ļ̵̼̯̠͇͍̹̯̭͇̫̻͑͜l̷̛͕͗͒͂̀̈̔͛ ̵̡̢̛̛̟̟̜͕͖̓̎̈́̃̾̔͗̔͂̕̕͝͝ŷ̶̨͚͔̪͍͔̅̆́́̂ǫ̴̢̡̲̳̟̥͓̳͎̹̹͇͔̼͊̐̍̊͆̃̿͊̊̓̕ų̸̩̟̻͔̯͕͔̘͙̫̱̹͆̈́͛̃̎̃̿̆̊̆̌͒̕ ̸̛̯̝̱͍͖̲̳͓̎̅͑͊̅̇͌̚͜s̶̨͙̻̤̣̞̦͓̮̖̺̩͓̀͑̂̈́̊͜t̵͔̬͓̺̙̗͔͗́̌͜ȧ̵̛͕̪̹̻̝̹̠̲̬̳̬̻͕̈́́͆̉̃͆͛̃͌͐͘͜ņ̴̡͎̞̳̬͉̖̐̄̀̈́͆͋͗̆͒̅̉͂̚ͅͅḑ̶̗̥͉͍͇̤̭̩͖̙̮͚̞̑́́̈́̊̊̔̃͗̋?̵̡͔̾
“Excuse me for a moment, ladies.” He said suavely as he took a few steps away and faced the corner of the room as he clenched his eyes shut for a moment. He was getting even hotter, a bit of sweat forming at each brow. He wiped with his sleeve as he tried to control his breathing. He could feel each beat of his heart, as if it were knocking at a door. He shook his head around, only making it worse as he began to get the spins. He rubbed at his eyes as he looked up and jumped back from the tragedian mask that was hanging in front of him as decoration.
But suddenly, as quick as everything had hit him, it surpassed. He looked confused as the thoughts in his head felt like crystal clear photographs. He shook his arms loose a bit, drinking from his cup again, looking down into the cup as he brought it back down to his side. He slowly looked over to his left at the punch bowl being consumed by every single person in the room. He cocked an eyebrow before turning back to the ladies awaiting him. He hopped right back into conversation, putting a hand on the hip of the brunette he had been most drawn to.
Shaw walks excitedly across the room. He now has the trademark Philidor tragedian mask on the back of his head as he finds himself beside Derrick Vayden.
“Yo, DV. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had fun in my life. Like, literally. I feel great tonight, fuck. You havin’ fun?” Shaw asks shoulder to shoulder. When he doesn’t get an answer, he looks over to DV with concern.
“He..hey. Vayden, you alright?”
Vayden doesn’t look over in response, his eyes stay wide and straight forward. A big smile is on his face while tears form in his eyes.
“What is it? Hey, Vayden…”
Still no response. Shaw slowly backs away as Vayden begins laughing behind the genuine smile.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Shaw says as he perks his ears over to the song that has just come on, lightly playing in the background. “Oh man! This is my jam! I’ve never heard this before!” He starts shimmy shaking his way through the crowd. Vayden finally looks over a moment to see the back of Shaw’s head, the tragedian mask, walking away. He laughs harder.
“It’s crazy, right?! It’s just, like, I’ve never had this kind of support system before. I mean, except for you ofcourse, but this is different. The money? The influence? Look at this party, for christ’s sake!” Carter Shaw says to the empty seat beside him on the couch. His body is turned as if he were facing someone. But no one is there. “It’s so cool, Ma. It was a crazy decision, I know. Hey, remember that time wh-”
Noris Cranley comes over to the couch and goes to sit down next to Shaw, but Shaw reaches forward quickly with his free hand to stop him.
“HEY! Fuck, Cranley, you almost sat on my mom!”
Cranley’s eyes go back and forth between Shaw’s and the rest of the empty couch. Smartly, he just walks away. Shaw looks angry for a moment before everything lightens right back up. He drinks. “So, as I was saying…”
Stepping back into the room from the bathroom, Shaw takes it all in once more. The room was no longer an intimidating unknown. The mysterious faces were all now soft and welcoming. It was less like walking into a rainstorm and more like the glow of a Spring sun. Warm. Invigorating. Walking over to the table, Shaw looked up towards Peter Garvey. His eyes slowly melted down his face, his lips running north to avoid the falling boulders. His bald head became mountainous, maybe more like desert hills. The eyes were mad as they settled in at the base of his chin, looking at one another.
Samson Saltair was next to him, and as Shaw looked over slowly to the other tower of H.R., not a single thing changed. His jawline was stronger than ever, his cranium ready to take any brick you could hit it with. His long hair was pretty. His broad shoulders were comparable to an NFL linebacker that had already stuffed the shoulder pads into the jersey. Garvey, though, now his nose was in on the action, having snorted an eyeball into each nostril.
“Fuck yah doin’, Shaw?” Garvey asked, looking at paralyzed glaze of the man staring back at him. Shaw blinked a few times, looked down to the ground and back up at Garvey. All things were back in place. Shaw slowly looked back and forth one more time to the H.R. monsters.
“Ya know what, I like you guys,” Shaw says as walks away feeling light as a feather. His mind felt so content. It was such a foreign concept to Shaw, this feeling of...this experience of…
fun.
Is this what you wanted?
Is this what you've been pining for, screaming for, fantasizing about ever since we introduced ourselves at your tangential expense almost a month ago?
You're an open book, Walter. You just can't help yourself from screaming our name every chance you can possibly get. You want Philidor; and more specifically, you want us. The men who've taken the act of victimizing you from a theoretical improbability and turned it into a goddamned artform. The men who took more from you with the press of one button than a murderer's row of talent could if they were armed to the teeth. The men who drove you, tail tucked between your misshapen legs, right into the waiting arms of the bearded midget who kicked your head off your shoulders.
Did they give you a T-shirt? A soft little memento to drape across your mangled, twisted body to remind yourself of the moment the Beast, the Man Evolved, the Mongrel, became little more than a neutered little cuckold. The moment the victimizer became the victim, because that's always how the cycle goes. It's all fun and games when the brutality comes from your hand, and the victims are women so powerless and pliable to your force that you might as well be pulling the wings off flies, or the legs from spiders.
Weakness begets weakness, Walter. And from October twelfth until now, weakness is all you've shown us. The weakness of a man to see the last frayed strands of sanity he has left ignite the second he's faced with a fraction of the violence he's so wantonly dished out unto others. The weakness of a man so eager to throw himself into impossible scenarios for the merest pound of flesh to soothe his ailing pride and shut up the raging ego at the base of his skull. The weakness of a man so desperate for revenge he's willing to swallow his pride and get down on one knee to look Corey Black in the eye and watch over him as he parades around with the belt he ripped from your grubby mutant hands.
Tell me, Walter, why do they bother with the device when you'll roll over and play lapdog the second a treat is dangled in front of you? Remember, you wanted this. You wanted this so badly you threw your chips in with the same people who got PepsiCo to spend untold hundreds of thousands of dollars to flaunt the names of every single one of your indiscretions as a marketing campaign.
And to what end? Because your feelings got hurt. Because you couldn't make it to the lightswitch before we had your neck in our hands. All of this is for petty vengeance.
How fucking pathetic is that? How pathetic, how endemic of the state of this business is it that a supposed manbeast who stands on a pedestal, head and shoulders above the rest of his alleged competition, is ultimately so weak-willed that he took this personally.
But of course, that's the rub. The inconvenient truth at the heart of this whole, sordid affair. Because of what's expected out of men of your size and stature in this industry of yours, the fact that you can string together three syllables without your tongue swandiving down your throat qualifies you for MENSA. Because of your eloquence, you're able to con people into believing that you are who you purport to be. Man, Evolved. But make no mistake, you're as evolved as Jeffrey MacDonald is innocent. As evolved as your idol Elliot Rodger was the 'Supreme Gentleman'.
You're an emotionally stunted incel who hit a growth spurt. Your posturing as a new-age ubermensch rings hollow when you're more prone to fits of inconsolable rage and property destruction than the literal gangbangers in The Lost Breed. At least they make the effort to masquerade as chessmasters, no matter how unconvincing of an impression it is.
Your eloquence exists only in the minds of the graceless, artless philistines who consume this product on a weekly basis. Thin literary references and metaphor overdoses aren't signs of intelligence; they're red flags of pretension.
But really, it's all pretension with you. The pretension to hold your head above any of the other no-hopers who found themselves drawn to this industry for the same reason as you: because violence is all they're capable of. Because it was this or jail, and you dodged that bullet, alright. Your philosophy is little more than a sad, broken little child constructing a fantasy where their trauma is their strength.
It doesn't work like that. Your damage will always preclude you from enlightenment. From evolution. Because no matter how you try to spin it, cruelty without compassion isn't evolution; it's a defect. And what you preach isn't evolution, it's regression. Regression to the brutal world of animals. Isn't that right, mongrel?
To give into the basest instincts of our reptilian brains, to be unshackled by the laws of human morality and judgment. He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man, doesn't he?
But ultimately, you're neither man nor beast. We've proven this already. You've made your bones breaking down and slaughtering people smaller than you. Weaker than you. First as a brutalizer of girls and then as a supposed man among boys.
And what happened when you finally stood face to face with men your own size? Men just as capable of dishing out violence as you?
The flip gets switched, and for all that was taken from you, we left you something. A gift, you could call it. Empathy.
We gifted you with experience, Walter.
When you were left powerless, a lifeless doll in Peter and I's hands, awake but unmoving, you learned just what it was like to be every single woman whose life ended by your hands.
And we could have left it at that.
But now, we have to go all the way. Finish the job. Shut the lights off.
Remember, you wanted this.
The walls were screaming silently. That, at least, was the closest that Derrick Vayden could describe the actions of the walls – how else would one describe them opening their mouths in unison? It wasn’t often that walls opened their mouths, to scream or otherwise. In fact, walls didn’t usually have mouths. This didn’t occur to Derrick Vayden because the walls were screaming silently, and that wasn’t something to be taken lightly.
On the floor before him, the crowd ebbed and flowed in an ugly, phosphorescent mass. Like a hideous chevron blinking in eyes and lights, it cut out away from him, slowly writhing and surging around like two insect pincers. With a trembling foot, he took a step back. The floor trembled in ecstasy at his touch. Continuing his pace to the corner, the tile underneath him moaned and cooed – the oncoming horde of faces and molting cloaks did not cease in their pursuit.
As the mass of flesh washed forward on the glittering shores, the white porcelain faces peaked out from the stygian mass. At first, there was one – then another – then another. Black fabric and white faces, all staring at him like owls in a perch; beneath the throb of the music, Vayden could only faintly hear himself scream.
His legs were weak and ugly as he fell upon hands and knees, each labored breath making the electric air about him vibrate in universal hums. A hand on his shoulder – the familiar knuckles of Carter Shaw – phased through him as his compatriot faded between lines and oceans of static. His name forgotten, he lurched towards salvation. In the corner, the Dark Man stared.
As Vayden’s eyes rose back to the phantasmagoria, one of the porcelain owls fluttered out of the mire to sit before him. A tear slid down his cheek – both Vayden’s and the owl’s. Vayden thought this was odd – could an owl shed a tear, let alone one made of porcelain? Nonetheless, the viscous bird raised a clawed talon to its face and let part its façade. The eyes that met Vayden’s were gentle and familiar.
The shade of Nathan Gust smiled gently at him, a tendril of tar emerging from his neck to reach out and caress Derrick’s cheek. It was warm – it was comforting – it made the throbbing glow around him cede. With no resistance, Vayden allowed himself to be pulled forward into the embrace of his deceased friend, the glow of the owls around him laying on hands. With each new touch, the pain Derrick Vayden knew disappeared:
The torment of his youth… Every punch, every insult, every hurtful nickname, breaking away every last bit of his self-esteem until he was nothing but a shell of himself.
Watching from the corner of the ring, watching as Geri Miller kicked his then-girlfriend Amy in the face and hitting her with A Miller’s Tale. Smirking as he kneels down to announce to the fallen woman that they were over, and that he was with Geri now, relishing in the chorus of boos and steady rain of garbage from the angry fans… The pain, the regret. How badly he wished to apologize to Amy for how he handled things, how he wished to make amends…
Perhaps it was karma, everything that happened with Frank Lowe. All he wanted was to make things right. Bring the murderer of his best friend to his own brand of justice, even if that justice involved burying Lowe twelve feet underground.
But… that didn’t happen. No, instead… the bad guy won.
A blow most couldn’t recover from. Barely clinging to consciousness as he watched the cement poured into the grave containing his best friend, Nathan.
Get up. Get the fuck up. You can’t let this happen. You can’t let another person die! What are you waiting for??
It’s a pain just to breathe. Every breath makes his whole body ache. He struggles to rise, but his muscles don’t allow it. He looks up to Frank Lowe… fire in his eyes as hopelessness sets in…
Standing in the church, Geri to one side, Sara Pettis to the other. The place is packed with people to say goodbye to their friends, their family. It’s all too familiar...
Many many years earlier, a funeral not too unlike Nathan’s, only with way less people. And instead of the picture of a grizzled pro wrestler, it’s of a young girl.
Her parents are crying, her brother and sister are crying, and chief among them… a teenage Derrick is crying. His best friend, his only real friend, taking her own life so young…
It’s all his fault.
He wasn’t strong enough, he couldn’t stand up to the bullies. Too afraid to fight back. His fear, his incompetence, that is what killed her…
I’m sorry, Natalie… I’m so fucking sorry. Please. Please forgive me. Please!
As Derrick opened his eyes, he looked up at the owl before him. Nathan Gust was gone. But from the black void of the bird’s pursed lips, the voice of Ash Blake sounded so sweet and comforting.
“Come. It’s time.”
...I remember the first time I saw a car accident.
You grow up and you watch these movies and all of these dramatic, exaggerated impacts. An explosion of some sort, cars flying from left to right, thrown like toys. You see shit like NASCAR, and these cars that go airborne doing flips and spins. But then, in reality, you see a car accident and it’s a bit...underwhelming. Just the simple bang of metal on metal with no added acoustics. Sure, the impact is there. The danger is there, but it’s a letdown to the grandeur you’ve come to expect.
That’s what it was like clashing with Corey Black on last week. Getting to experience the World Champ, getting to experience the KING of all wrestlers. The impact was real, sure. He got me for that three count. The danger was real, sure. I was icing my jaw later in the night. But the grandeur? The hype that surrounds him, the grandeur I had come to expect from the showdown? Underwhelming.
I guess it’s hard to measure up to a royal expectation. But Corey Black got the well-deserved win and we both learned something about each other having finally gotten to throw down. I hope Black learned that Carter Shaw is for real. I know he felt those shots for the days following just like I did, and I hope that resonates with him. I hope it resonates with him that I’m not just another Johnny-come-lately learning how to make his bark surpass his bite. I will never speak a word I don’t intend to back up, nor a word that I don’t have the ability to back up.
So know I mean it when I say this ain’t done after one, Corey. And it won’t be done after this battle of attrition either, because the roles remain and the fire only gets higher with time. You still sit on your throne. King. Overseer. And me? I still await the moment I decide to pour poison in your fucking chalice.
Me?
This All-In briefcase?
Consider us your shadow. And after our fight last week, when I decided to level you with that briefcase and the world collectively stood to watch a contract come to life...did I really want to cash in on you? Was it all for show, my continued smoke-screen?
Well, Baker and FPV came running down instantly to have their buddy’s back, so I guess we’ll never know. It’s interesting though, and quite intriguing to me that I not only have you forcefully dancing to my tune…
But I’ve got your back-up dancers moving and grooving too. I guess being Mr. All-In grants me a unique power over ALL of the Man Made Gods. It’s nice to see that unity always on display, however, and I know you’re all BANKING on that brotherhood to be your difference-maker this Friday the 13th. Add WALTER to that mix, though? Put the mongrel IN your corner?
He’ll just as quickly turn and stick the metaphorical (hopefully) shiv into the throat of Man Made Gods as he will anyone with Philidor. He can walk in like the genetic robot he is, but did you SEE how these fellas right here handled him? The H.R. Department of Philidor Holdings. Garvey and Saltair are the strength of Walter, the viciousness of Walter, but without the morality dumpster.
I feel like I have my eyes set squarely on you, Mr. World Champ. Is it ‘cause you sent me packing in the first round of Turmoil? Uh, yeah, probably. But also, at this point, call it situational distaste.
I could sit here and tell you I respect you some more, but I’d much rather tell you that if you wore fucking guy-liner and shaved the beard you’d look like a great fit for the Final Girl battle royal.
I want to make like Graham Baker and hit you with rights and lefts until your eyes swell shut. I want to make like Venable and superkick your fucking head off...I wanna make like WALTER and find out what your fucking blood smells like. An all-around taste of your own medicine on this night. Hit me with that Royal Beheading again, come on, I love that shit.
And when your partners fail you...when WALTER has gotten over his current phase of toddler-anger at Philidor and walks away like Big Foot going back into the woods...when FPV and Baker lie strewn about around you like fallen soldiers that have failed their king...the Royal Beheading will come back around to you and I’ll dangle the briefcase over your carcass YET again.
Will he?
Won’t he?
You’ve gotta pick your focus, Corey. Don’t act like you’re not starting to get a bit gassed. After I took you to the limit, you’ve had another Turmoil match, you’ve got the semi-finals ahead of you next week, you’ve got XIII on your plate now in the middle of everything. Are you gonna give your all towards avenging a Clash 100 moment that has already come and gone from the memories of your allegiant? And risk being tattered and broken for Howard Black to step over towards that Wrestler Of The Year bragging right?
I wouldn’t want to be you right now.
I just want you to know that I will not stop charging. Despite all of the elements surrounding both of us. Man Made Gods. Philidor. Walter. I will keep comin’ at you like a train, Champ. Because I know every shot I connect with sinks into you. And like throwing pebbles into the washing machine, I just want to keep giving your brain more to rattle around. Doubts, fears, worries, concerns. All of it. I’ll press it into you like I’m fucking ironing out the wrinkles of your being.
I want to be the one to end your reign, King Corey. But I’m not done fucking with you yet.
In the meantime? I just want to bury you 6 feet under your own damn pride.
Though tightly moored, the room seemed to sway. The floor seemed to shake with each hit of percussion from the lifeless muzak filling the air from an implacable source. The crowd, the flock of owls congregated throughout stood still, motionless. Still, they carried with them the same energy that flowed all around; a dark invocation. A creeping dread. A lingering threat among the stuffed shirts and expensive suits.
An energy personified by the man whom all eyes seemed to fall upon, despite the thump of heavy footsteps from beyond the congregation.
As the men stared in transfixed awe at Samson, a muffled groan rose from within the crowd. The flock of owls parted - standing between them was Peter Garvey. It was not Mister Garvey from whom the cry had originated; it was the pitiful creature attached by a leather collar to the leash in Mister Garvey’s hands. As Garvey trundled forward, he dragged the broken and emasculated HocusBogus behind him.
As the quivering figure was dumped at their feet, the four men stepped back in shock. From the wings, Ash Blake regarded them with thin amusement, her pearly teeth gleaming from parted lips behind the white porcelain mask. Samson Saltair’s eyes went from Vayden to Mud to Cranley to Shaw. The Dark Man spoke softly.
“Do it.”
The naked man rose hands with broken fingers to shield his eye, his eyes clenched shut as tears dripped past his mouth full of broken teeth. As Vayden stared down at the pathetic mongrel, his fist tightened involuntarily. His lips trembled, his voice an almost meditative chant:
Carter Shaw was rooted in place. His mind spun and whirred on its axis. He could not block out the sobs. From behind a porcelain gaze, Sarah was watching. The whole world was watching. He hated the simpering, groveling creature at his feet, so weak and easily driven to begging and whimpering. He saw Graham Baker - he saw Frank Venable - he saw Corey Black - he saw Walter. The man’s stench filled their noses, pungent and disgusting. It rolled itself into a ball of flesh and bone, steeling itself against the coming onslaught.
Ṱ̷̛̙͎̣̯̪͉͈̤̙͖͍̼̗̇͌͛̐̐͊̇͘͜͜ḩ̶͍͓͚̜͈̳̟̥͙̙̫̓̇̌̆͆̈̿̉̄̀̑̾̈́͑̚͝͝ę̴̨̢̨̨͇̦̦̲̮͍̭͓͚͋̈́͗̀̌͆̽̈̈̇̀͑̍̓̔͘͜ÿ̷̕͘͜ ̴̡͇̓̿̈̂k̶̢̢͍̦̘͍̟̻͈̖͉͈͖̳̖̇̌̏̋͐̍̀̑̐̋̊͋̄͘n̸͕̘̅̽̒ẽ̶̮̫̗͔̩̚w̷͍͍͔͊̏̊͆͒̈́̅̓̓̋̌́̾͌̇͘ ̴̡͇̫͉̪͔̪̳͇̻̳̲̮̤̩̠̝͛͊̕ẃ̷̢̧͍͔̹̩̀͐͒h̶̨̤̫̹͙͖̜̼͎̖̞̲̻̤̀͘͜͝ǎ̷̧̨̧̨̻̭̥̱̠̝̺̝͎͂̀͋̆ţ̷̭̘̮͓̞͕̫̼̹̣̳͔͕̹̾̈́̅̒̈́͝ ̶̛̠̥͔̉̀̾̏̍̎͒̍̕͜t̷̨̡̬̪͙̟̖̱̥̥̻͆ḣ̷͚̠̹͕͍͚̖͛̈́̇́̓̄̀̎͑̐̎͘̕͝ę̴̼̝͓̠͖̭̲̬̗̠̣͙̇̇̂̍̀̏̍̿̚͜y̸̩̲̜͉̮̯̜̲͊͐̂̐̄̚̕ ̵̢̡̢̮͚̜̀͆̓͊̄̌̎̅̇͛̓̌̽͛̉̕͝ͅȟ̴̢̛̦͍͔̦̳̪̻̩̠̜̘̹͆͂͆̀̉͘̕a̶̢̻̞̻͚̗̱̤͎͚̮̗̘̙͌̔̽̈́̒̋͋̅̊d̴̢̥͈̭̦͈͙̖̺̜͎̗́̏̊͆̎̋̆͋̍͒͝͠ͅ ̸̬͈͎̝̘͖͕̲̯͕̮̰̹͙̙͛̐̒̍ͅt̷̢̻̦͚͎̝̓̃͐ȯ̵̜̓̏̓̆͑̎̃̎̇̚͝ͅ ̷͈̗̣̦̘̤̼̥̉̓́̃̾̌̈̈́̍̅͗̚̕͜͝ḑ̷͖̖̬̥̹̍̔̌̍͠͠o̵͓͊͐͛̌̅̈́̽̋̂͌̿͆̿̚͘̚.̴̭̤͓̭̳̬̖̟̹̰̮̪̘̖̾̄̽̉́̐͐̎̿́̒͘͝ͅͅͅ
Ą̸̥̜̩̞̼͓͖̜͉͔̻̬̞̈̀̓̍́̉̏̅̓̉͆̽̾̈̃̓͗̈́͐̕̚͝͝͝n̷̨̛̛̹͎̝͍̰̺̫̝͔͚͙̝͇̥͌͌͋̈́́̽͐̉ͅͅͅḑ̸̣̹͓̹͚̟̫̪̯̹̦̀̀ ̶̡̧̧̧̡̛̰̜͉̺͓͉͇̬͇̱̘̮̻͉͇͇̮͓͚̹̠̠̮̬͇̦̹̠̃̒̄̑͗̓͑͐̒́͂̍̀̇̈́̕̕͠ͅͅș̵̢̧̢̘͈̲͈̬͉͇̦̭̮̪̭͕̣̼̝͇͓̻̮̭̹͚͖̳͛͐̔͑̐̎̀̈́̈̈́̿̈́͐̐̚͘̚͜͜͝͠͝t̶̡̛̪̝̬͔̯̓͆̊̏͋̍͆̄̇̒̓̎͌̽̿̏̈́̌̀̀̌́̈́͐̂͒́̂̒̄͝͝͝â̶̧̧̧̡̨̭͚̥͕̹̹̘̥̘̣̪̦̯̼̟̘̦͉̠̞͓̖͓͕̮̙̞͉̜̝͓̟͛̌̔̏r̶̡̧̢̹̰̟̖̰͓̗̪̼̩͙͇̟͔͕̹̰̼͕͈̬̜̝͉͌̏̌̊̾͑͑̀̇̔̽̅̽̎̿́͜ṭ̵̡̧̧̨̡̨͔̣͔̼͍̫̯̗̦̣̺̱̪͇̪͉̭̼̼͚͚̺̰͖̿̂̀ȩ̴̨̧̧͔̘̠̫͈͔̯̲̝̏͆̉̈́̓͑͐̒̽̍̽̋̓͑͆̿͆̐͌̿̋͗̃͘͝͝ͅḑ̶̡̧̛̼͖̼̹̮͍̹̗͉͙͚͍̬̻̫͙̜̪̩͇̖͉̍͊́̄͐̊̂͂̑̈͛͊͛͐̓͊̐̕͝͠͠ ̷̛̖̥̲̉͌̽̓̃͋̎̿̔͛̀̒͐̐͌̑͂͌͐̄̐̂͘̕͝ṫ̶͕̰̒̆̍̏̒̀͊̇͗̊̋͗̄̔̈́̃̇̋̀̽̚͝h̴̺͚͆̿̉̈̋̌͗͐͆́͌͛̆̆̅̋̈́̋͠͝͠ȩ̶̼̦͒͗͌̊͛̊͂͘͘i̴̖̗̟͉̼̖̠͊̽̆̉̄̐͐͋̄̎̃͆̿̈́͌͆͌̈́́͛́̍͐́̈̚͘͝͝͝͠͠͝r̸̛̛̻̱̲̈́̾͌̉́͊͗͑̃̎̃̊̓͂̈́̑̏̋́̇̀͋͂̌̈́̌̆̆̓̎̌̚͘͝ ̸̧̧̡̧̛͉͍͇̠̰͓̮͙̞̲͉̹͙̟͓̰̜̘̩̭͇͖̱̝͓̼̥̔̂͂̃̈́͜ņ̵̟̤̬͕̻̬̱̫̭̪̞̹̖̱͎͍̝̬̰̼̬̺̝̂͗͋́̿̓͆̅̄̊̌̚͜ē̵͕̼̼̩̈́̀̒̿̔̓͗̏͐̅̂̒́̚͠w̴̢̨̢͚͖͓̫̖̺̹̬̟̫̹̩̞̼̠̭̠̻̥̮̯͍͚̩͉̉̈͛͂̿̽̽̿̒̕͝ ̷̡̧͇̳͉͈̹̮̪̱̲͕̼̻͈͍̻̖͖̤́̽͊̊̀͌͑l̷̢̛̜͙̦̠̭̫̠͍̹̬̣̦͍͎̻̄̽͌̉͌́̄̎́͘͘͝͠i̸̧̹̫͉̬̙͈̦̍̅͌̍͐̎͠v̴̧͓͔̹͑̎̇́ȩ̸͚̘͕̤̩̬̳̖̙͖̤͙̻̜̺͕̺̬̺̏͒͌̅͐͗̒̀͗̿̾͂̕͜͠ͅs̷̭͐ ̴̧̰̙̣̲͎̬̪͖̜̬̜̦̀̃̑̅͊̀̓̈́̊̆͜͜͜͝͠ţ̷̢̛͙̣̘̹̱̪̱̙̩̪͈̩͍̰̰̜͉̞͔͔͉͈̎͂̓̈́̈̂̿̃̋̍̇̏̇̆̅̄͑̿͊̄͊͆͊͋̀͒̚͠͝͝͝͝͠ͅǫ̸̧̛̞͇̻̺̘̝̩̲̼̺̪̫̪̹̘̣̠̝̹͇͚͎͚͉̮͊͑͗́̋̈́͜͠d̵̖̰̼͈̱̰̰̺͙̖̦̼̙̥̼̺̭̤̹̝͕̭̙͇̥̯̪̣̄̅͜͜͜ͅͅa̶̢̡̢̼̬͇̻͙̯̫̯̤͇̖̟̭͇͕̤̯̖͉̪̳͉̍̋́͂̉͠ͅy̶̨̢̛̛̩͕̝̱̩̜͍͖̰̼̫̣̪͉̘̱̳̩̬͉̗͛́́̇́͋͛̅̎̽͐́͗̈̏̋̓̈̃͋̚̚̕͝͝ͅͅ
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