Post by Mr. Zaigon Carter on Nov 13, 2020 23:37:47 GMT -5
It's Friday, before Clash
We see Mr. Zaigon Carter pacing in a hotel room, but the windows are drawn so it's unclear his location. His stubble, mostly dark with gray specks, is prominent. His movement isn't of someone who is distressed, but more someone who is anxious.
Waiting.
Preparing for something.
He stops, taking a deep breath.
What you're all in the middle of seeing is creation. It won't take seven days like God did to create Earth, it'll take more than that. What is growing, what is happening though is all to plan. Two weeks in a row you've seen the lion throw red meat, yet people ask surprised when that creature ends up covered in blood. Not its own of course; the blood of an unfaithful servant and a washed up waste of skin and bones. Both needed to be eradicated, and both have been. Both fell at my feet, victims of the emerging king.
It all takes time. Time I have. Time that other people will wish I didn't.
This week though, it seems I've been given a double helping of soon to be casualties. What a delightful, dare I say even pleasant opportunity has been presented.
One of you is a bit familiar. Tom Frost gives me a lot of Randy Buster vibes. Some karaoke idol who thinks because he can beat up Sal from the steel mill and Jim from the insurance company he can step between those ropes. The barman compliments your shitty jab a couple times, and you have the audacity to think that you can stand in with the real men? With the real violent players in this industry? Your arrogance would be amusing if it wasn't so insulting. An insult to me personally, as someone who has overcome so much to regain his livelihood. You're looking to stroll in, take my spot, my money, my spotlight.
No, absolutely fucking not.
Here's your free advice Tom. Book a gig Monday night. See what lushes will pay you to belt out Living On a Prayer or Don't Stop Believin', because the only thing waiting for you at your debut is horror. Your entire existence is disrespectful, and the last two men who disrespected me ended up in the hospital. That awaits you when you get in the ring with me, because I won't stop until they carry you out of my ring and back into whatever dive bar you crawled your sorry ass out of. You are not good enough to face me, which is your problem not mine. You are beneath me in every way, and come Monday you will be again. This time it'll be beneath my feet, as I do my everything to end you.
Mr. Carter stops, taking a few steps before another deep breath.
Then there's this giant called Nate. The pride of Toad Suck, Arkansas where you're looked at weird if you don't fuck your cousin once a week. A fine city that has produced some of the best methamphetamines and convicts the United States has ever seen. Nothing good has ever come out of that pit located in the rotting asshole of America, and Nate you're no exception. Though I'm sure that's not what you're used to hearing. I'm sure your mama and that tutor of yours and all the mud stained hicks back home are so proud of you. They got them someone on the moving picture box after all! As they sit around popping Oxys and complaining about the same government that pays their welfare, they're all watching you big man. They're putting every single ounce of their faith in you. You're the one that's going to make it, you're the one that's going to put Toad Suck on the map!
All those people are lying to you, just like they lie to those police officers when they say "Those aren't my pills" or "that was on fire when I got here."
You're a slob, unfit for anything except medical experiments or a circus freak show. You are repulsive, disgusting, and in no way fit to live. There is no better argument for any term abortion than you. Unfortunately even I am not rich enough to create time travel, otherwise I could go back to that day your mother plopped you out of her surely diseased fuck hole, smash your soft skull with a hammer, and then come back to this time only having to stare down the Tambourine Man. Instead though I'll have to do what should have been done all those years ago on national television, in front of all those people who love and support you.
I will end you. I will end your hopes, your dreams, and the hopes and dreams of all those slobs in that fetid crater you call a home. All of you will feel the end at my hands, and I promise you I'll smash every single one of them with a smile on my face and a tune in my heart. A tune not even you Frost will be able to sing, because the first thing I hope to do is break your jaw bad enough they'll wire it shut for good. Both of you are victims, you are not heroes. Only I get to be a hero, only I get to be a king.
It'll just take time. Something you're both about to be out of.
Now, if you'll excuse me. I have some business to take care of. You're not the only ones who need to understand exactly what is happening.
Mr. Carter reaches down, grabbing a not before seen duffel bag off the floor while heading for the door. He stops, reaching over slightly out of camera range and picking up something. His arm comes back into scene, and in his hand is a dark black motorcycle helmet. A swift yet somehow off putting wink to the camera, as he opens up the door before slamming it behind him.
We see Mr. Zaigon Carter pacing in a hotel room, but the windows are drawn so it's unclear his location. His stubble, mostly dark with gray specks, is prominent. His movement isn't of someone who is distressed, but more someone who is anxious.
Waiting.
Preparing for something.
He stops, taking a deep breath.
What you're all in the middle of seeing is creation. It won't take seven days like God did to create Earth, it'll take more than that. What is growing, what is happening though is all to plan. Two weeks in a row you've seen the lion throw red meat, yet people ask surprised when that creature ends up covered in blood. Not its own of course; the blood of an unfaithful servant and a washed up waste of skin and bones. Both needed to be eradicated, and both have been. Both fell at my feet, victims of the emerging king.
It all takes time. Time I have. Time that other people will wish I didn't.
This week though, it seems I've been given a double helping of soon to be casualties. What a delightful, dare I say even pleasant opportunity has been presented.
One of you is a bit familiar. Tom Frost gives me a lot of Randy Buster vibes. Some karaoke idol who thinks because he can beat up Sal from the steel mill and Jim from the insurance company he can step between those ropes. The barman compliments your shitty jab a couple times, and you have the audacity to think that you can stand in with the real men? With the real violent players in this industry? Your arrogance would be amusing if it wasn't so insulting. An insult to me personally, as someone who has overcome so much to regain his livelihood. You're looking to stroll in, take my spot, my money, my spotlight.
No, absolutely fucking not.
Here's your free advice Tom. Book a gig Monday night. See what lushes will pay you to belt out Living On a Prayer or Don't Stop Believin', because the only thing waiting for you at your debut is horror. Your entire existence is disrespectful, and the last two men who disrespected me ended up in the hospital. That awaits you when you get in the ring with me, because I won't stop until they carry you out of my ring and back into whatever dive bar you crawled your sorry ass out of. You are not good enough to face me, which is your problem not mine. You are beneath me in every way, and come Monday you will be again. This time it'll be beneath my feet, as I do my everything to end you.
Mr. Carter stops, taking a few steps before another deep breath.
Then there's this giant called Nate. The pride of Toad Suck, Arkansas where you're looked at weird if you don't fuck your cousin once a week. A fine city that has produced some of the best methamphetamines and convicts the United States has ever seen. Nothing good has ever come out of that pit located in the rotting asshole of America, and Nate you're no exception. Though I'm sure that's not what you're used to hearing. I'm sure your mama and that tutor of yours and all the mud stained hicks back home are so proud of you. They got them someone on the moving picture box after all! As they sit around popping Oxys and complaining about the same government that pays their welfare, they're all watching you big man. They're putting every single ounce of their faith in you. You're the one that's going to make it, you're the one that's going to put Toad Suck on the map!
All those people are lying to you, just like they lie to those police officers when they say "Those aren't my pills" or "that was on fire when I got here."
You're a slob, unfit for anything except medical experiments or a circus freak show. You are repulsive, disgusting, and in no way fit to live. There is no better argument for any term abortion than you. Unfortunately even I am not rich enough to create time travel, otherwise I could go back to that day your mother plopped you out of her surely diseased fuck hole, smash your soft skull with a hammer, and then come back to this time only having to stare down the Tambourine Man. Instead though I'll have to do what should have been done all those years ago on national television, in front of all those people who love and support you.
I will end you. I will end your hopes, your dreams, and the hopes and dreams of all those slobs in that fetid crater you call a home. All of you will feel the end at my hands, and I promise you I'll smash every single one of them with a smile on my face and a tune in my heart. A tune not even you Frost will be able to sing, because the first thing I hope to do is break your jaw bad enough they'll wire it shut for good. Both of you are victims, you are not heroes. Only I get to be a hero, only I get to be a king.
It'll just take time. Something you're both about to be out of.
Now, if you'll excuse me. I have some business to take care of. You're not the only ones who need to understand exactly what is happening.
Mr. Carter reaches down, grabbing a not before seen duffel bag off the floor while heading for the door. He stops, reaching over slightly out of camera range and picking up something. His arm comes back into scene, and in his hand is a dark black motorcycle helmet. A swift yet somehow off putting wink to the camera, as he opens up the door before slamming it behind him.