7) Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.
Nov 23, 2020 15:51:33 GMT -5
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Lissie Hope, Addy A, and 5 more like this
Post by David Sanchez on Nov 23, 2020 15:51:33 GMT -5
November and the Winter's beginning in Florida was much like every other season around these parts-- relentlessly humid. A wet , unwelcome heat washed across the scorched Everglades to concentrate the sun's elemental fury on the tourist-trap of Celebration, birthplace of both whimsy and bad decisions. The camera cranes across the town, looking down upon an endless flood of cars packed bumper to bumper, five lanes thick. Starting to lower as it approaches the Magical Kingdom, Walt Disney World itself. Before the lens can even penetrate the thick air pollution being pumped out by the park a voiceover can be heard.
"Feels like you've got everything going right for yourself nowadays huh? Probably feels like you've got the only Golden Ticket in circulation and Willy Wonka's just told you he's got that foot-taking diabetes diagnosis. And for what? What is it that makes you think you earned that fuckin' contract-come-crutch you're using to hobble aimlessly from A to G by way of P? Huh? You climbed a ladder faster than half-a-dozen walking DNA disasters and a guy who just ran back off to the indies to regain 'doting darling' status for the ninth time in his career. That doesn't make you a better wrestler than the rest of us Carter, it just means that in a nutshell, Crow's a pussy and for the briefest of moments, some cushioned cunt in corporate was considering your worth."
Although it seems like the rant has been underway for quite some time when the camera closes down on David's current dilemma it's far from the scene we'd grown to expect from him. Chicago's sneering Mayor growls from his static position at the front of the Splash Mountain cue, surrounded by tourists and their unruly spawn by the bus load. Cartoonists would struggle to draw a more conflicting contrast between the upbeat music of yesteryear that loops infinitely over on itself and the expression of utter bemusement branded onto the Exile's face as if by searing hot iron.
"Yet, here you are living vicariously through the very same piece of paper you won in a climbing contest and claim not to put much stock into. Hiding behind the small print and exigent entailed within. This is why I shudder and sigh every time one of you 'I can do it myself!' douchebags wins this prize. It becomes more about proving how much you DON'T need the contract and less about just doing what the damn thing all but declares it should be used to do. The whole fuckin' concept in itself becomes some jaded attempt to do things the hard way. Another toy given at Christmas to the kid who already had all he could ever play with and more."
Finally at the front of the cue, Sanchez scuffs his wingtips on the sticky floor and curls his nose up in utter disgust. Before he can continue on any further semblance of a rant however he is directed by a steward into the front seat of the log flume carriage as it pulls back into the 'station' and forced to wait as families filter two-to-a-seat into the rest of the available spots.
"You were doing fine without winning that All-In match though, right? That never gets old. You'd put your name out there through blood, sweat and tears. A lifetime of hard work coupled with a 'never say die' attitude. That's the fuckin' real reason you're getting to parade around on a false air of superiority, right? Not the Philidor Holdings endorsement of time, resources and financial backing. It's funny, when I arrived in Action Wrestling back in June before I even broke breath to anybody in the back I'd picked you out of the line-up and already knew you were destined to do big things in this sport-- that's the kind of flufferpiece I'm supposed to churn out here. Some heartfelt, passing of the torch bullshit that gives you a friendly shove in the right direction…"
The bar snaps down over David's chest and holds him firmly in place as the ride stirs back to life and the log flume begins climbing up the tracks. Friendly woodland critters continue to sing mind-melting, upbeat music in the background whilst the Mayor frantically tries to straighten the crease that the restraints have created in his necktie.
"You've got the wrong gatekeeper, friend. What's Mikey doing these days? See, while that might be a 'best for business' buff, it's sure as shit not what you're in the process of being handed. No, instead, you're getting a living Litmus Test. It just so happens that yours comes in the shape of a Colombian killing machine with little left to lose and nothing of worth to gain. What? A multi-billion dollar company and a suspiciously long stint as elected leader of Chicago? Sure, those are things I can lose, technically speaking. But to a man of your disposition? Highly doubtful. Not because you lack the ambition to lead, no. But because you're all too happy to follow the orders handed blindly down from some nondescript management above, by way of some wallflower, resting bitch-face mouthpiece with no relatable ring experience.
Way to seize the day, kid. Really...
I know the Icarus idea, 'don't fly too close to the sun' et cetera. But if you keep hovering around two-feet above the floor I'm going to seize those wings you've been granted and replace them with fuckin' inflatable armbands so you don't drown in your own doubt. When I won Final Destination I immediately severed my ties to Pantheon, stepped out of Corey Black's shadow and recruited my own guys in Ethan King and Steven Singh. We then celebrated our arrival by piledriving Joey Flash straight into the 'disability cheque' demographic, just to make a point. Those were truly fun times. You, on the other hand just submissively agreed to taking a back seat and riding along with whatever the fuck Philidor is doing exactly, supporting Olivia Adler's ascension to semi-employed staff supervisor every sixth Saturday? I'm struggling to keep up, it's all such CUTTING EDGE SHIT. A little too veiled and suggestive for a man of my savage roots, but if I had to script it: Here's a group of guys with in-house security goons beating down the glorified group of talent three tiers above them while Ash Blake serenades the world with 'it's a necessary evil' in F Minor. Way to make a difference, you fuckin' chump."
Sanchez rolls his eyes as the flume thunders down the first slope, fighting back the urge to throat punch the obese father and son meal deal behind him for flailing their arms and invading his personal space. The cool water soaks into David's charcoal prada suit and evaporates almost immediately in the heat.
"By now I bet you've probably CONCEDED (because that's your thing, right?) to thinking: 'Okay, fair point Dave. We're just doing the same thing every newly founded group does but with added business jargon… now why the fuck did you feel the need to go to Disney World in order to convey these thoughts?' Something along those lines at least, I'm paraphrasing of course. Well worry that personality widowed soul no longer Carter because your career and Walt Disney's flagship theme park actually have a lot of similarities when you cut through the piss poor marketing pitches that you also kinda share. I dunno how it was in this more evolved America growing up but back in Bogota we didn't really have amusement parks to look forward to. I mean what the fuck were we gonna do? Not many kids gonna cue up for Castro-land. Our fascist regime must not have been as Whimsical as the one Walt went along with. But that's feedback for Fidel, his poor salesmanship of wholesome not-quite Nazi values clearly cost us our collective childhoods because their aint no fuckin' log flumes in the jungle. No, we didn't dream of going to lame-ass Disney World withe the parades and shit, no. When we slept, our REM produced moving pictures of our captors being disemboweled by wild animals. A slight difference from… well, all of… This."
Sanchez gestures out at the park as the log flume edges atop another steep slope, allowing for a full view of the park and all the wonderful sights contained within.
"As a kid you thought you had fuckin' endtimes problems because you never knew what real problems were. As an adult you learned to finely tune the narrative of those problems to appear bigger than they actually were to essentially go 'double or nothing' on your desperate pleas for fleeting attention, rather than own the fact that you'd been over-reacting. You didn't do this out of malice, or a lack of empathy though. Just a lapsed understanding of the world that exists outwith the United States. I mean, how was an adolescent Carter Shaw ever to know how much of a whiny bitch he sounded like complaining about his life? You didn't have any real perspective because you were born in a fuckin' protective bubble. Whiter than picket fences in nature, all it fuckin' took to spawn that chip on your shoulder was a failed parent to decide you wanted to fight for a few bucks. After all, what's a few bruises in exchange for a thankful mother's smile from Angela as you put bread on the table? Your whole life is pretty much a bare-bones Disney film Carter, and in truth you're just a wise-cracking animal sidekick and musical outburst away from being hailed as it's Princess. I brought you here to the Magical Kingdom to really drive on home everything that Corey Bull was too fuckin' thirsty to properly put out into world without prematurely ejaculating his own agenda all over the cotton sheets. Your life has been full of niceties and nuance, rollercoasters and revelry. But this latest ride you've got in line for? It's not quite like the others."
The flume plunges down another steep drop and again water splashes the lone rider in the front seat of the carriage. Less than impressed with this, Sanchez snarls as he shakes the drips from his sleeves and tries to fight back the urge to capsize this makeshift toboggan with everybody inside.
"Princess Carter Shaw of Philidoria, take a bow and grab a seat between Merida and Mulan in the misfits section. Every time you open your fuckin' mouth-hole and make words I find myself fighting back the urge to have Rose brought to City Hollow for a minority lynching Walt Disney would be proud of, y'know, if I was a few shades whiter and believed in anything. That's just who you are though and I guess that's your intent because it seems to fit you like a glove. Besides, I could rape and gape that slut seven ways wide and all it would do is give you another 'traumatic event' trigger to talk about for the next twenty years. You see? No fuckin' gains here. Not for me at least, no… In this metaphor, I'm the fucking fabled log flume and you're the fat-as-fuck family of five looking for fun times and photo opportunities within. Like most idiots, you wanted to take this ride because you thought it would bring you closer, or in your case, closer to something: Whatever comes next, I guess. Well congratulations Carter, you finally passed the 'emotional height' marker and as such I can now legally pulverise you from pillar post before leaving you a bloodsoaked, exhausted heap twelve steps further from greatness than you were before you got on board. Splash Mountain Feelings, bay-bay, it's Dark Knight 2020."
The wind swooshes and distorts random patches of David's dialogue before the rollercoaster slows dramatically and builds towards it's big finish, climbing the final slope at a snail's uphill pace.
"A match with me is neither the ride you want or need… it's the one you DESERVE. The one you earn every time you luck out and beat the next lowly midcarder out by a narrow margin. You cued up for an eternity to get wet and walk around in damp clothes for the rest of the day. A decision so dumb it could only be made by Americans, why don't you run for Mayor against me while you're at it? You're already practically a river to my Darwin doubting people in your actions alone. Just imagine the damage you could do if somebody taught you to pander to people who aren't paying you! The possibilities are endless for you, really. Or at least they would be if you had actually thought things through, stayed the fuck away from me and just picked your spot with that contract to pass me by flawlessly. Now, unfortunately… you're looking at the same fate that befalls every grown man who still masturbates the minute it's over. That blind shame of mopping up your own naval with a Kleenex, thinking: 'what the fuck did I do that for? I'm a grown man.' Yeah, that's your future at Turmoil when I make you look like the teary-eyed kid whose hat flew off thirty seconds into the ride.
Nothing but shame and regret awaits you here either Carter. You talked your ass into an unavoidable outcome and childishly thought your poking of the bear would never lead to the bear being allowed to poke you back. I might be a HUMBLE politician at face value these days Mr. Shaw, but behind my well-dressed decorum and fancy, third-party ways of calling you inept. There's a real life, true to form monster inside of me that can't wait to make your acquaintance. A vindictive, savage soul that's been waiting patiently since the day you laughed as an exploding dye cartridge burnt my eyes and stained my skin at Execution. Crossing off the days on the calendar like a kid counting down the days 'til Disney World. Now that it's upon us, I'm awash with ideas on how to aptly end your lacklustre life. Do I simply outperform you, beating you clean and comfortably through grit and technical prowess and hope it's enough to open your eyes? Or do I go out of my way to maim and dissect you, ensuring that your ability to walk again is the thing people are left to question as opposed to your ability to compete at this level? I'm spoiled for choice. Maybe you're Splash Mountain after-all and I'm the tourist, who fuckin' knows anymore.
All that I'm certain of is this Carter: For the better part of my time in Action Wrestling I've had to watch the infant Shaws, Bakers and Hopes of today's product aimlessly sauntering up and down the card like rogue dementia ward walkers. This ends at Turmoil and it ends with my foot being driven repeatedly through your skull until you stay down for long enough to satisfy my ego. I'm not Corey Bull, this isn't about a nice thing that I want which you happen to have. I'm not Noris Cranley, this isn't about me appearing to be the better, more athletic man than you. I'm unlike any person you've ever encountered or any obstacle you've ever overcame Carter. See, while your career and indeed your personal life might be akin to this fuckin' Disney endorsed cesspool, until now, they've been just that and no more. Simulated excitement in a safe environment… little risk for little reward. The way it'll stay until you take the training wheels off.
In a fast-paced rollercoaster of a world full of corkscrews, loops and sheer drops you're riding a fuckin' log flume up the slow lane. Scared to get on the bigger, more alluring thrillseeker rides because they might break you and your fragile demeanour. Too proud to board the teacups and be seen enjoying them for fear that somebody decides that's where you truly belong. So instead you aim for Splash fuckin' Mountain. The staple of stability. 'It might be fun, but it WILL get you wet.' If those are the kind of pussyfoot assurances you need in your life I have nothing but pity for where this company is headed if it's truly left to be carried in your manicured, feminine hands. Politically speaking from a place of indifference, as I ALWAYS do… you suck, man. If I had half the opportunities handed to me in my seventeen year career that you've had in six months here I'd be King of the fuckin' Galaxy by now. Once you won that contract it should be Space Mountain or bust, bitch. Better yet go to Downtown Disney and get lit on $9 Coronas. I know Vayden needs constant adult supervision to stop him wandering into traffic though so probably don't get too carried away."
The final plummet beckons, leaving the carriage teetering vicariously over the edge of the synthetic white water rapids below.
"That's just you all over though, ain't it? Doing things by halves and quarters. On Clash 100 you could have punctuated Philidor's arrival by pinning Corey Black and cemented your place in AW lore forevermore. BUT… of course, then you'd have to deal with a Corey Black rematch clause, because you KNOW that prized cunt has a gilded contract with all the trimmings. That hypothetical was enough to make you piss the bed in itself, so you chose not to because 'you didn't need to lower yourself.' Looks pretty solid on paper, it's a shame the puddle of yellow fluid running down your inside leg gave the game away, huh? Don't worry though Carter, after I'm done with you at Turmoil nobody will expect anything you can't deliver ever again. I've been where you are and it's a heavy bag to cart around… so let me lighten the load and show the world Carter Shaw in all his true glory:
Not the next big thing...
Just the second pussy in history to die on Splash fuckin' Mountain."