Post by Graham Baker on Jan 17, 2021 14:42:15 GMT -5
A phone rings in an empty room. Suddenly, a hand picks it up, and we're greeted with the cold and hard voice of Graham Baker on the other end. The Guillotine wastes little time.
"Every family's got a black sheep-you know, the kid with a plate in his skull who they keep locked up in the attic, feeding him through a slot in the door because they're too fucking ashamed to look at him. They don't want to remind themselves that this aberration, this apparent waste of carbon, oxygen, and flesh carries the same blood in its veins that they do. I look at Crow, I look at Kaz, and I see some rough and tumble competitors. Some real motherfuckers, you know, some guys who are willing to do whatever it takes to succeed in this business, to hold gold as Crow has with so many, as Kaz did for so long with that Cruiserweight Championship. It's really an honor to be able to complete my little collection of matches with the McMorris men, or rather, I wish I could say that. Kaz and Crow? They're competent competitors, and even in failure, they look the part. I'd expected something comparable for when I came for my last little piece.
Then, I looked at you.
What are you, anyway, ZMac? Some coked up old dude on a bender that prevents him from 'feeling pain?' Some addled addict aiming to ascend to some apex unseen by so many, thinking that a dude who hits the bottle and the pipe every waking moment has a better shot of making it there than someone like me. You can call me what you want-nuthanger, Corey's cock holster, or you can throw some of those slurs you've so frequently favored in the past at me, but shit doesn't bug me too much. I've had smarter, bigger, and more adept opponents throw harsher insults my way, and I took them the same way I'll take this;
Like water off my back.
Shit through a goose.
Cum through a whore.
I don't give a fuck about gimmicks, but from what I can see, the word 'zombie' most adequately represents you if you're taking that big ol' brain of yours into consideration. Yours rotted out through them separated nostrils of yours a long time ago, didn't it? Or maybe it rotted out from age, being how you are whatever the fuck you are, you've been everywhere and anywhere, dominated the best and the worst, and, largely, dragged around an empty trophy case with you. Whenever they decide to inter that old, too-many-mile corpse of yours, they'll have to leave the headstone empty, same with the funeral, because while your life may've been long, your legacy'll be temporary.
Nothing to remember you by.
Hell, even now, ZMac, I couldn't have said in the wildest of my dreams I would've wanted this match. I scraped my teeth in the hardcore realm a long fuckin' time ago, and even if I was aching to get back into it, I wouldn't want to carry some old timer like you on my shoulders, take it slow through every spot. But this ain't about you. I've got no ill will toward you, Z, despite what you clearly feel about me. You might be a brainless waste of flesh, but like most brainless wastes, you have no clue that you're being used as a pawn. That someone like you doesn't understand the political intricacies of what's happening here.
Because with Max setting you up against me, he's planning on fucking one of us.
And I'm willing to bet it's me.
By hook or by crook, the odds are against someone like Graham Baker, someone who ruined Max Daemon's oh-so-lavish moment in the sun where he beat a UFC retiree clean as a whistle with a blow to the head in just under twenty seconds. You'll put me on the ground, and he'll count fast. Or I'll put you on the ground, and he'll count slow. Max Daemon got this show, and he wants this to be a little exchange between contenders? A shot between shooters? That's what it'll fuckin' be. If I need to put you on the ground for the rest of eternity, do what no man's done before, to win this fucking match? I'll do it.
Because even with your paltry accolades, your family name, your reputation and your inability to fuck off and die, you're ill equipped for what's coming for you. You're lacking the necessary parts for this dick measuring contest, and when we get down to throwing heat, you'll be shooting blanks into that pocket pussy while I'm skullfucking you and blowing a load through the back of your fucking head. This isn't about you, Z, but if you're standing in my fucking way, I'll gladly reduce you to a state of permanent worm-food so that you leave the adults to do what they do. I'm no Man Made God, not anymore, I'm a fucking monster, and once I've mauled that rotten apple of a brain from your skull, I'll step over your corpse and walk straight up to the guy Max Daemon, and make his ass quit.
You're not a challenge, not impassable-you're less a roadblock and more a speed bump, a carcass left out to rot on the freeway.
But this train, brother, it don't stop for carrion.
And it sure as shit ain't stopping for you."
The voice cuts off. We hear a dial-tone ring out, before the phone is hung back on its receiver. Cut to black.
"Every family's got a black sheep-you know, the kid with a plate in his skull who they keep locked up in the attic, feeding him through a slot in the door because they're too fucking ashamed to look at him. They don't want to remind themselves that this aberration, this apparent waste of carbon, oxygen, and flesh carries the same blood in its veins that they do. I look at Crow, I look at Kaz, and I see some rough and tumble competitors. Some real motherfuckers, you know, some guys who are willing to do whatever it takes to succeed in this business, to hold gold as Crow has with so many, as Kaz did for so long with that Cruiserweight Championship. It's really an honor to be able to complete my little collection of matches with the McMorris men, or rather, I wish I could say that. Kaz and Crow? They're competent competitors, and even in failure, they look the part. I'd expected something comparable for when I came for my last little piece.
Then, I looked at you.
What are you, anyway, ZMac? Some coked up old dude on a bender that prevents him from 'feeling pain?' Some addled addict aiming to ascend to some apex unseen by so many, thinking that a dude who hits the bottle and the pipe every waking moment has a better shot of making it there than someone like me. You can call me what you want-nuthanger, Corey's cock holster, or you can throw some of those slurs you've so frequently favored in the past at me, but shit doesn't bug me too much. I've had smarter, bigger, and more adept opponents throw harsher insults my way, and I took them the same way I'll take this;
Like water off my back.
Shit through a goose.
Cum through a whore.
I don't give a fuck about gimmicks, but from what I can see, the word 'zombie' most adequately represents you if you're taking that big ol' brain of yours into consideration. Yours rotted out through them separated nostrils of yours a long time ago, didn't it? Or maybe it rotted out from age, being how you are whatever the fuck you are, you've been everywhere and anywhere, dominated the best and the worst, and, largely, dragged around an empty trophy case with you. Whenever they decide to inter that old, too-many-mile corpse of yours, they'll have to leave the headstone empty, same with the funeral, because while your life may've been long, your legacy'll be temporary.
Nothing to remember you by.
Hell, even now, ZMac, I couldn't have said in the wildest of my dreams I would've wanted this match. I scraped my teeth in the hardcore realm a long fuckin' time ago, and even if I was aching to get back into it, I wouldn't want to carry some old timer like you on my shoulders, take it slow through every spot. But this ain't about you. I've got no ill will toward you, Z, despite what you clearly feel about me. You might be a brainless waste of flesh, but like most brainless wastes, you have no clue that you're being used as a pawn. That someone like you doesn't understand the political intricacies of what's happening here.
Because with Max setting you up against me, he's planning on fucking one of us.
And I'm willing to bet it's me.
By hook or by crook, the odds are against someone like Graham Baker, someone who ruined Max Daemon's oh-so-lavish moment in the sun where he beat a UFC retiree clean as a whistle with a blow to the head in just under twenty seconds. You'll put me on the ground, and he'll count fast. Or I'll put you on the ground, and he'll count slow. Max Daemon got this show, and he wants this to be a little exchange between contenders? A shot between shooters? That's what it'll fuckin' be. If I need to put you on the ground for the rest of eternity, do what no man's done before, to win this fucking match? I'll do it.
Because even with your paltry accolades, your family name, your reputation and your inability to fuck off and die, you're ill equipped for what's coming for you. You're lacking the necessary parts for this dick measuring contest, and when we get down to throwing heat, you'll be shooting blanks into that pocket pussy while I'm skullfucking you and blowing a load through the back of your fucking head. This isn't about you, Z, but if you're standing in my fucking way, I'll gladly reduce you to a state of permanent worm-food so that you leave the adults to do what they do. I'm no Man Made God, not anymore, I'm a fucking monster, and once I've mauled that rotten apple of a brain from your skull, I'll step over your corpse and walk straight up to the guy Max Daemon, and make his ass quit.
You're not a challenge, not impassable-you're less a roadblock and more a speed bump, a carcass left out to rot on the freeway.
But this train, brother, it don't stop for carrion.
And it sure as shit ain't stopping for you."
The voice cuts off. We hear a dial-tone ring out, before the phone is hung back on its receiver. Cut to black.