Thesis 10: a New Testament
Mar 28, 2021 11:11:44 GMT -5
The Golden Idolo, Johnny Bacchus, and 1 more like this
Post by Deleted on Mar 28, 2021 11:11:44 GMT -5
Phoenix welcomes the arise of purple Tatooine at dawn, wherein the Great American Revival tour bus capsizes on its final voyage. Lackluster on exhale, Mr. Abraham watches a car crusher devour it whole.
There’s a cathedral but no signs of Meatloaf. People have the cultish trappings around candlelight. Expectation swirl until the same weather look of Mr. Abraham appears from behind a wall in an all-white suit caked with the trail of red sands. It clings to his strong, dimpled chin with a thick, unkempt shadow.
“Welcome to the next phase. What an absolute journey to this day, my brethren. If you are expecting pseudo-Latinate or Lovecraft—today’s not your day, I’m afraid. Appearances that suit us better this way. Shadows cloak us, brethren, and make us what we are supposed to be: better than yesterday.”
He makes rounds of the long pews in this nondescript church before dozens of cloaked and secretive figures of all shapes, age, gender and expression. He then motions to open their veils with those large hands of an ardent healer.
“That’s much better… alas, we have made such a swallow splash in the field to date that I regret saying my methods were perhaps too convoluted. Yes! I admit that my intentions with Action Wrestling continue to confound those in our midst. Fortunes have transpired, however, in the form of our prime target.
Just as I targeted each of you for your various skills to pilot a dreadnought via skeleton crew, we must bargain the last remainder of our chips into Byron Bathory. Why? Well, to be blunt, he cannot be bought by anyone. He refuses to play by rules. As such, getting him here today was not an easy task.”
He motions to that back entrance where a hooded hostage emerges while bound to an office chair. The man pushing him out looks smug about his deed while wearing similar trappings to the rest in attendance--except for the special stole covering both shoulders. He deposits their hostage and unveils it as none other than Byron Bathory in a doped state.
“Your champion! The Sin Eater! The man who will change Action Wrestling forever!”
Every hint of Southern Baptist Abraham affect in the past has left him, bringing his true voice back to life.
“Just as my premonitions foretold, everyone here is prepared to make the next grand sacrifice so that Bryon Bathory can become our new reaper… the one to heal this world.
“Our lives begin here. My role has also begun. Now, let us make it official! Jonah, hand me the vessel.”
Now uncloaked—proclaiming that his deacon was none other than UCI alumnus Jonah St. Remington—Jonah hands over a pewter vessel shaped in the traditions of Turkish caliphates. Remington pulls back Bryon’s head so that Abraham can rinse his forehead with sacred oil. Finally, he presses a sign with his thumb to make a wax seal not seen since the days of WCF’s Brotherhood: a plague doctor’s mask.
“Awake Sin Eater! Awake and dominate the field at Time Bomb. Scare them. Terrify them. Destroy everything that these fans think is worth their consumption… please, Jonah, dispose of him until then. Our mistress will do the rest. Praise to the Sin Eater.”
Jonah smirks as he throws the hood back over the dazed and dilated pupils of Byron Bathory.
Mr. Abraham has since reconvened with the others in attendance, letting them address from a semi-circle.
“Corey Bull is still a scary and powerful athlete. You’ll need to face him in the same way you confronted Nate. Otherwise, he can be the power of this match—where you must excel and dominate.”
“Of course.”
“John Black is the expected winner. And if we gage social media, the margins are not even close.”
“Winning? Who said we’re about winning?”
“You said to analyze his methods on social media and see how John Black is reaching followers. He’s an influencer and activist the new generations fawn over.”
“Again, this is empty analyst work. We are not trying to reproduce “Money Ball” in the ring, people. Buckle into the situation and remember that we are here to shield Byron Bathory until he reaches peak performance. For once he gets started, brethren, there won’t a challenger left in the Action Wrestling.”
Everyone around him shies back when another voice comes from backroom door.
“Seems this party started early.”
“Ah, Lamarche, so good of you to join us.”
“Well you didn’t roll out any goddamn red carpet. How was I supposed to know when to extend secret handshakes.”
“Well, the seed was planted. The rest is left to Lady Sin.”
Julius Lamarche, dressed in a scuffed up and torn Versace suit takes the final seat to complete the circle around an elevated throne. His seat at the throne’s right hand—and opposite Mr. Abraham’s—gives this disheveled man a platform.
“I’m not going to give a TED on this bullshit. We all know why we’re here. Because this fucking business is broke to where polar opposites rule. It’s not meant to be that way. It’s not! So we have to balance this company before it all gets fucked.”
“Thank you, Julius, as astute as always, my dear friend… but the Lamarche is correct. We have to balance everything so that Bathory can build his church atop even ground.”
Words exchange over the next hour until all but Lamarche and Mr. Abraham remain in foldout chairs. His opposite stares with a discerning brow.
“Do you really think this is the one?”
“Yes.”
“But you’ve been wrong before. Unless you wanna unleash another Masuda on the world.”
“He was evil, but Jason Price slayed that monster. Can we focus on what’s next.”
“Oh yeah, and what the fuck is that?”
“Time Bomb. When we make our next statement.”
Lamarche nods at first and then get ups laughing.
“You always were the crazy one, man. I guess we’ll be seeing you Sunday… Lester.”
There’s a cathedral but no signs of Meatloaf. People have the cultish trappings around candlelight. Expectation swirl until the same weather look of Mr. Abraham appears from behind a wall in an all-white suit caked with the trail of red sands. It clings to his strong, dimpled chin with a thick, unkempt shadow.
“Welcome to the next phase. What an absolute journey to this day, my brethren. If you are expecting pseudo-Latinate or Lovecraft—today’s not your day, I’m afraid. Appearances that suit us better this way. Shadows cloak us, brethren, and make us what we are supposed to be: better than yesterday.”
He makes rounds of the long pews in this nondescript church before dozens of cloaked and secretive figures of all shapes, age, gender and expression. He then motions to open their veils with those large hands of an ardent healer.
“That’s much better… alas, we have made such a swallow splash in the field to date that I regret saying my methods were perhaps too convoluted. Yes! I admit that my intentions with Action Wrestling continue to confound those in our midst. Fortunes have transpired, however, in the form of our prime target.
Just as I targeted each of you for your various skills to pilot a dreadnought via skeleton crew, we must bargain the last remainder of our chips into Byron Bathory. Why? Well, to be blunt, he cannot be bought by anyone. He refuses to play by rules. As such, getting him here today was not an easy task.”
He motions to that back entrance where a hooded hostage emerges while bound to an office chair. The man pushing him out looks smug about his deed while wearing similar trappings to the rest in attendance--except for the special stole covering both shoulders. He deposits their hostage and unveils it as none other than Byron Bathory in a doped state.
“Your champion! The Sin Eater! The man who will change Action Wrestling forever!”
Every hint of Southern Baptist Abraham affect in the past has left him, bringing his true voice back to life.
“Just as my premonitions foretold, everyone here is prepared to make the next grand sacrifice so that Bryon Bathory can become our new reaper… the one to heal this world.
“Our lives begin here. My role has also begun. Now, let us make it official! Jonah, hand me the vessel.”
Now uncloaked—proclaiming that his deacon was none other than UCI alumnus Jonah St. Remington—Jonah hands over a pewter vessel shaped in the traditions of Turkish caliphates. Remington pulls back Bryon’s head so that Abraham can rinse his forehead with sacred oil. Finally, he presses a sign with his thumb to make a wax seal not seen since the days of WCF’s Brotherhood: a plague doctor’s mask.
“Awake Sin Eater! Awake and dominate the field at Time Bomb. Scare them. Terrify them. Destroy everything that these fans think is worth their consumption… please, Jonah, dispose of him until then. Our mistress will do the rest. Praise to the Sin Eater.”
Jonah smirks as he throws the hood back over the dazed and dilated pupils of Byron Bathory.
Mr. Abraham has since reconvened with the others in attendance, letting them address from a semi-circle.
“Corey Bull is still a scary and powerful athlete. You’ll need to face him in the same way you confronted Nate. Otherwise, he can be the power of this match—where you must excel and dominate.”
“Of course.”
“John Black is the expected winner. And if we gage social media, the margins are not even close.”
“Winning? Who said we’re about winning?”
“You said to analyze his methods on social media and see how John Black is reaching followers. He’s an influencer and activist the new generations fawn over.”
“Again, this is empty analyst work. We are not trying to reproduce “Money Ball” in the ring, people. Buckle into the situation and remember that we are here to shield Byron Bathory until he reaches peak performance. For once he gets started, brethren, there won’t a challenger left in the Action Wrestling.”
Everyone around him shies back when another voice comes from backroom door.
“Seems this party started early.”
“Ah, Lamarche, so good of you to join us.”
“Well you didn’t roll out any goddamn red carpet. How was I supposed to know when to extend secret handshakes.”
“Well, the seed was planted. The rest is left to Lady Sin.”
Julius Lamarche, dressed in a scuffed up and torn Versace suit takes the final seat to complete the circle around an elevated throne. His seat at the throne’s right hand—and opposite Mr. Abraham’s—gives this disheveled man a platform.
“I’m not going to give a TED on this bullshit. We all know why we’re here. Because this fucking business is broke to where polar opposites rule. It’s not meant to be that way. It’s not! So we have to balance this company before it all gets fucked.”
“Thank you, Julius, as astute as always, my dear friend… but the Lamarche is correct. We have to balance everything so that Bathory can build his church atop even ground.”
Words exchange over the next hour until all but Lamarche and Mr. Abraham remain in foldout chairs. His opposite stares with a discerning brow.
“Do you really think this is the one?”
“Yes.”
“But you’ve been wrong before. Unless you wanna unleash another Masuda on the world.”
“He was evil, but Jason Price slayed that monster. Can we focus on what’s next.”
“Oh yeah, and what the fuck is that?”
“Time Bomb. When we make our next statement.”
Lamarche nods at first and then get ups laughing.
“You always were the crazy one, man. I guess we’ll be seeing you Sunday… Lester.”