Post by Torture on May 11, 2018 20:31:30 GMT -5
It’s an old place. It’s been filled with new things; the carpets pulled up and replaced, the pews all meticulously rebuilt by hand, the cracked and broken windows all replace with beautiful new colorwave stained glass. That old church smell of mildew and incense and molestation replaced with crisp wafts of actual truths and Faith in yourself above all else. Despite what your eyes or nose tell you about this place’s novelty, about its infancy, when you stand in The Church you know it to be old. The bones are old. The pillars that its built on--and built by--are not new to this world and they’ve held up structures before this one, likely to hold up thousands after. But this is the one we’re in right now. As is Action Wrestling, an organization with that new fed smell, filled with pristine lines and just the right accents at every turn. Still, it’s built on old bones, it’s held up by familiar pillars. That is why it is sound. This Church, this organization, are both built upon groundwork laid by others before them. It is their prerogative to take those old bones and fashion a new, better skeleton. And that is what The Church as well as Action Wrestling have done. Though the former would NEVER admit that about the later.
At the front of the church, sits a man obscured by shadow, his legs crossed at the knee, loafer in the air, tapping out a rhythm to some unheard hymn to his own greatness. The back of the chair he rests upon reaches a good foot above his head cresting into a wooden cross carved by hand. We can make out a finely tailored, deep-blue suit hugging the man’s torso which also appears to have been fastidiously carved from oak or some other nearly timeless substance. Zoom in on the man, his face still shadowed but the camera no longer interested in the details of The Church around him, he is centered and we peer up at him, as though nearly kneeling. Behind and above him there is an enormous golden cross mounted to the wall, flickered upon by dozens of candles, giving it an impression of dancing. The man snaps his fingers and projected behind him upon the cross is a wall-sized Action Wrestling logo.
I must be honest with you, at least as much as someone with a shadow over their face can truly be: I did not expect to find myself here. Not here as in this Church but here as in, entering the Havoc Rumble in…
A visible shutter from the barely visible man.
Action fucking Wrestling. Listen, I don’t mean to belittle the place but...Oh wait, just kidding, yes I do. That’s exactly what I mean to do. Look at this two-bit, dollar-store, bargain-bin operation. Cowards hiding behind weight classes and divisions and limits. Rules. What good have they ever done anyone? If we’re being honest, all they do is provide unscrupulous men like the one sitting before you a less-traveled avenue to victory. So let’s do away with the regulations. Come on you crusty old shitbirds, let all the animals play together. Don’t shield the soft bellied little 201 pups from the sharks and the serpents. Throw open the cages and let us feast! Sink or swim! Eat or eaten! Fuck or be fucked! I think that’s what Darwin said. Regardless, I’m pleased to be stepping foot future 404 error at the one time of the year when the cuffs are off and I get to piss down the throats of your roster from top to bottom and then top again. Wait, that should be “bottom to top to bottom again.” There’s definitely more bottoms in this place than there are tops. So let’s explore this food chain that I’m bout to effortlessly snap into a million pieces.
A snap of the man’s fingers and the giant Action Wrestling logo changes to a pyramid split horizontally into four different sections labeled from bottom to top: PLANTS, HERBIVORES, PRIMARY PREDATORS, SUPER PREDATORS. Under each heading are the logos Action Wrestling stars, their density decreasing as we ascend the pyramid.
Let’s begin at what Action Wrestling is really known for: the bottom of the barrel.
Another snap and the graphic changes to just the “PLANTS” portion of the pyramid, filled to the brim with the logos or names of AW talent.
These unfortunate few dwelling at the bottom of the chain should’ve been dwelling at the bottom of a fucking well as soon as they were born. Or maybe the bottom of a bio waste bin before that. I don’t want that to be too nebulous: I wish you had all been aborted. Do any of you uncreative cuckolds have access to a time machine so I could make that happen? Is Jay Omega masturbating in a closet somewhere nearby? L Verez can you send him an intergalactic SMS or something or are you still in roaming? Nevermind, I’ll chat with you later. Back to the dregs at hand: anyone in the 201 and Fun division deserves the brain-bashing about to provide. This is not sport is not for fun. This sport is not for shits and giggles. It’s not for the Flippy Bros to do a gymnastics routine and denigrate the purity of our pugilism. Now if I could only go back and abort ONE Flippy which would it be? I believe that’s what Sophie’s Choice was about. And obviously Ricky is the superior Flippy, not due to his seniority here but because his official AW bio manages to not mention his TWIN BROTHER WHO IS IN THE SAME EXACT OCCUPATION AND FEDERATION ONCE. This is, undoubtedly the best shoot either Flippy has ever done. Unless the shade is unintentional and he’s literally just so dumb he forgot about his twin? That feels very possible. It IS known that twins’ IQs are generally 40-60% that of normal humans and can only be born to genetically bankrupt, monster truck-loving hicks that eat pizza in the bathtub. I’ve already wasted too much time with everyone in this category, let’s move on before I vomit.
His fingers snap the heading to “HERBIVORES” and more AW logos and names.
So we’re a step up from those that should’ve never been and onto those who exist purely to be fed upon by those superior to them. Which is, basically everyone. This feeding trough of troglodytes is populated by men Kaine, women like Claire Hawkins, and who’s-a-what’s-it’s like L Verez. L oh L, I cannot believe our paths are crossing again and it truly does provide me an audible chuckle. Especially when I take a peek at that little three-person Aryan Race triad you’re living with. Please protect the universe from your own rote ideas of how exciting the intersection of sexual ambiguity and sci-fi might be. I’ll just rent Emmanuelle in Space, thanks.
Now who else is a fucking herb(ivore)? How about Chris Stapleton Jr and Rick Shaw, better known collectively as Power Bottoms Kill? Surely these two CHAMPIONS must be able to provide a modicum of a challenge. As per my research--which admittedly, I’ve barely done any of because I find this entire roster depressing just to think about--but as per my research, the answer is decidedly not. The best part of Reece’s Piece of Shit existence is that “Archbishop of Banterbury” handle; I’ll admit that’s a tasty little phrase you’ve turned. It’s no Shakespeare of Shoot or Trash Talk Tolstoy but it’s certainly not bad. But it’s wasted on a London tryhard dandy who doesn’t realize that the old white dudes who designed his overpriced outerwear would happily see men of his ilk lynched if they weren’t happily handing over half their paychecks for faux-leather jackets and jeans so tight they drop your sperm count. Still, your impotence is probably for the best, we don’t want you procreating and populating the world with more pseudo-intellectual dropouts drips who carry their country-music tag partners to middling success and believe themselves to be greater than they are.
That’s the gimmick right, Felix? Burnt out country singer? No? Wait, hold on...Oh that’s right you’re a former bouncer with “a cigarette problem and a deathwish.” Well call me Robin fucking Williams because your wish is my command; I’d be happy to snap that greasy neck of yours. But let’s be serious, a former bouncer and you’re not doing your damnedest to channel Dalton? You’re not making sure people “be nice” or telling them that “pain don’t hurt?” Jesus, it’s like you’re too stupid to have a good time. (See how easy it is, dipshit?)
An audible sigh from the darkened figure in the chair.
Let’s move onward and upward.
Another snap of the fingers and the background image reads “PREDATORS” and we see logos and names of more accomplished AW stars, including a number of its current and former Champions. As our orator continues, the smile on his face can almost be heard.
This is more like it. Here we have the true midcard mulkies, those who’ve feasted on the inferiority of those below them on the chain, foolish enough to think they belong in the ring with men like me. Men who--once they are in that ring with a man like me--are quickly and unceremoniously dispatched. Let’s be more specific, shall we?
Shadowlove, the man with all the potential in the world but none of the wherewithal. His bio is just a series of times he was “right on the cusp” which, newsflash Hideous Halfwit, is jobber-speak for “never-made-it.” I can’t wait until you show back up in the Dub with another line in your bio about how you were “right on the cusp” in this flaming trash heap of a federation.
Onto Little Bonnie Blue always blowing her own horn. I suppose that’s necessary because Golden God knows there isn’t another damn soul in the business that actually respects her. Why would they? What have you done, Bonnie? Other than tuck tail when the going got tough? What would old man Reb say about that? Here you are dropping Tag Titles to guys with ceilings even lower than their IQs after leaving a trail of period blood and tears behind you on your way out of the “Dub Sea Eff” because you FAILED in back to back shots at a World Title. THE World Title. You know, the one you’ve never put those pretty little hands on. It’s odd that you keep the name of that “trash promotion” on your Moor-stained lips since it’s so meaningless, unoriginal and blah blah blah. Oh Bonnie, never change. (That is to say, keep playing jobber to the stars.)
Let’s touch on one of her running buddies, Alex Richards. Well, let’s not LITERALLY touch on him because that’d be disgusting. The King of Mass Confusion About How This Guy Has Ever Been Relevant. That’s his actual, full title I do believe. I shouldn’t take this fat bastard so lightly though, last time I did that he actually caught me with that Final Enlightenment and managed a pin over me; not a claim many can make. So for that, Uncle Festering head wound, I’m saving an extra special bit of Smite. I do, however, love your new anti-Action Wrestling bit you’re doing. I mean, I don’t believe it for a second; everybody knows you’ve got proper vitriol for the Dub where you were a proper never-were. I do like that you named your bar after your promo style though, “Drunken Drag On and On and On.”
Speaking of familiar failures, Kyle Kemp ole boy! I must pay you a compliment: you may in fact have the greatest gift for self-delusion I’ve ever seen in this game. Congratulations there is no one with a more cocksure, championish swagger that I’ve ever laid eyes on who has done less. I find it truly impressive that you straight-facedly announce yourself better than everyone while barely sniffing the sweat stains left on the mat after a main event. You’re a mid-card lifer, Kemp, whose best work is already behind him. The man who’s never held a World Title touting a move called “Back to the Minors” smacks of either deep irony, stupidity or both. It makes no difference to me though, I’m going to slap the Alanis Morishitte out of you either way.
How about some fresh meat: John Frost, an Action Wrestling original which, of course, immediately signals to me that he’s a second-rate reprobate. The other thing tipping me off that you’re an utterly unimpressive useless eunuch of a competitor is that in studying one of your tapes, in what should have been an incredible moment for you and a source of pride for Action Wrestling as you captured the UCI Title (RIP the OTHER poor man’s WCF), the announcers couldn’t even be bothered to get your name right. Old Billy boy exclaimed “WE HAVE A NEW UCI CHAMPION!” and then followed it quickly up with “Bug John Frost is UCI Champion!” I mean, I could pin that on general AW incompetence but I really think the fact that you’re the most generic, vanilla, one-note “badass” I’ve ever seen is to blame. I guess maybe the hook is supposed to be that you’re, presumably, like 57 years old? It’s got to be in that ballpark right? Because that’s the only way someone could be convicted of MULTIPLE felonies at eighteen, likely have his sentence lengthened due to a laundry list of violent behaviors, THEN sent to Petak Island and eventually released back into society. I mean, you should’ve at least gone with “broke out” but no, you’ve allegedly been “released.” For good behavior one presumes? Well that can’t be it, you’re a violent bad ass. So we’re back at “time-served” I guess which makes you approximately 64 years of age. Congrats on your AARP membership but this Rumble isn’t solitary confinement, Granpappy Frost, and your size doesn’t intimidate me. I believe the phrase goes, the bigger you are, the harder you job.
While we’re on the topic of oversized, overhyped, but-still-never-over fuckchops, Corey Bull come on down! Everything I said about Bug John Frost? It goes double for your flabby ass. I’m sure there’s part of you that thinks dropping that title is part of some big plan for you to rise up the ranks now and have a hell of a showing at Havoc. That isn’t in the cards though. You and Frost should really just hang out some more since you’re another ignorant twat who apparently “opted not to go to prison.” I can’t believe more people don’t just take that option. You should really spread the word to other delusional maniacs that spend half their life in an insane asylum that they can just “opt out” of being institutionalized; I’m sure they’d really appreciate it. You don’t belong in the top tier here nor anywhere else. Scratch that, you’re probably the most desirable “bear” at your local gay bar so maybe go hang out there if you truly want to be number one because Havoc isn’t for you.
Speaking of bull, let’s chat on everybody’s favorite bull dyke, Karie Nash! I know you’re not in it, but I couldn’t stand to waste that great segue. I guess could’ve just called TFK a bull dyke, and though less accurate, he probably wouldn’t have noticed. Because he might be legally retarded. Thadward, I actually like you. I find what you’re doing at least mildly entertaining but unfortunately you’re just a silver-spoon simpleton who isn’t quite cut out for this business. This is a business filled with men like me, me who paid their dues, men who have drug themselves up for nothing. This is not a business for men who’ve walked a rose-petaled path laid down by their harder-working father. And this certainly isn’t a business for men with a film-based gimmick dumb enough to call themselves The Franchise Killer. You realize that implies that you kill franchises right? Like...movie franchises. As in, maybe The Fast and The Furious is cruising along in all its much-loved mediocrity then they stick you in a sequel and everyone Paul Walkers themselves instead of having to go see you on their screen. That’s the only way you kill Franchises, TFK. Let’s wrap this shit up…
A final snap of his fingers and the heading behind him changes to “SUPER PREDATORS” and includes the names of some former and future AW World Champions.
Donald Deruty, former AW World Champion and now someone who has had the rather distinguished honor of getting pinned by Spencer fucking Adams. The reason this is such an achievement because where I’m from--where you were once from--NOBODY jobs to that midcard mook. So congrats on being a true innovator of the sport: the man who lost to the Antidote To Talent. But here's your chance to get back to the top of that pile, right? If you really dig deep, really put your back into it maybe you can get tossed by somebody who's just breezing through here on a lark and doesn't actually give two shits about Action Wrestling, its World Title, or any of its punchline pugilists. So yeah, please whisk us away on another heart-wrenching tour of the old basketball stomping grounds that taught you how to deal with betrayal and bullies and all the other "turds" that you so ineloquently references. Your fecal fixation aside, I find your walks down memory lane masterfully mundane. I can't believe, another bullied little pissant that's here to stand up to big bad Roy Speede. Oh just the thought of Speede passing for a bully around here really tickles me. But that's the narrative you've chosen to build, one of the poor little put upon victim rising up and overcoming. Unfortunately this is a match for the bullies. This is forty plus men ready to gangbang that empty little skull of yours all the way back to your own childhood trauma. Except this time you don't even have a mother with a needle hanging out of her arm to come scrape your sorry ass up off the pavement.
Speaking of grown men attributing their failures to everything but themselves, Ryan "The Curse" Lockhart you're pathetic. You think capital L Luck is what's created your mediocre life from a mediocre line of mediocre men? It's not some cursed gene, Schlockhart, it's that very belief. If you've convinced yourself of your mediocre destiny, then that's exactly what you'll find. I'm surprised a youth of such "introspective nature" hasn't already come to that conclusion, I'm surprised at the lack of accountability you demand from yourself or your ancestors. You've been here since the Massachusets Colony was formed, your bloodline has some 200-odd year roots but the tree of your confidence is casually chopped down with nothing more than an axe of supposed predetermination, of a "curse." You're cursed with a hare-brained idea, with an explanation that absolved your forefathers of their failure. You equate bankruptcy and exile to illness and death? You think those are all the same scorns from Lady Luck? The formers fall on the heads of those who experience them, whereas the later actually MIGHT be passed down via a gene. Your talk of genetically predisposed failure though seems unlikely, from how idiotic this entire thing is it seems more likely that you're straight up missing a chromosome than getting passed a faulty one you mid-card mongoloid. Maybe that's the "fervor and spirit" the Lockharts have always displayed, it's just an inability to understand that they should be moving UP, that the only point of serving in a militia is the money you're paid to do it, is the ability to improve your station in life. Maybe go watch Hamilton or something. I'm pretty sure they'll give free tickets to a guy who might be...how do I put this..."down with the syndrome?" Hold whatever excuses you have for your own failures close Calista Lockhart, because you're going to need them when you can't even turn the last entry of Havoc into a World Title shot you perpetual poonbag, you forever fuck-up, you eternal edgelord of excellence.
Let's move onto a few more proper predators: one by land and one by sea. Wade Moor, you salty sea-sucking sally how've you been?! Oh it's such a pleasure to see you land on your swollen, water-logged feet after you were run out of the WCF by your own perpetual failures. It’s almost a shame that I’m going to slap the sea-cucumber shaped dick out of your mouth here in AW instead of WCF.
And then there’s the Coked Up MadMan himself, Zombie McMorris. The man who SHOULD be a World Champion in multiple places. The man who turns words upside down and inside out the same way he does to his opponents. The man who SHOULD be favored to win. But he’s not. Because he lacks the conviction, the focus to win a match like this, to carry something like a World Title. His coke-addled attention span disavows him from his potential, sadly. Instead, he’s stuck being another man’s harbinger, another man’s mouthpiece, ,another man’s twaddling little bitch scampering behind him wherever he goes...And now that man has gone to Action Wrestling. And now I come for him again.
With that the figure stands up and we exist the aged confines of the church and enter a small room down a hallway. The door is protected by a four digit passcode and snaps open with haste upon its input. Inside are a half dozen monitors which snap to life immediately upon the figure entering the room. The views on the monitor are familiar to those paying attention.
So Action Wrestling if I think so little this place and of all of you--which I do--then why am I here? Why did I leave the hallowed halls of the WCF? I am a single-minded man and I have come here for one reason, to injure, maim or destroy one man.
There’s one screen showing Poon Guinea, one the Lyfefort, one the Dethfort, and then various other places. The figure speaks again, palms pressed down on the desk before him, eyes darting from screen to screen before resting on one showing Zombie McMorris riding with Jam Willy and….
Odin Balfore, you are not rid of me. And you cannot hide in the lesser ranks of Action Wrestling. The Golden God of the WCF is here to Smite the Se7en God and steal this moment...like a Thief In the Night.
With that the figure steps forward out of the shadow, revealing himself to be Stephen Singh to those who are still too dense or ill-informed to pick up on it. So...almost all of, AW.