Post by Lissie Hope on Aug 26, 2021 12:20:55 GMT -5
The Villagers swarmed the courtyard by the dozens, their faces glowing under the vibrant swaths of flames held overhead. Charred embers fluttered in the punishing wind as they marched forward in-sync, chanting, their boots imprinted in the soil. I watched from behind the hedgerow, the thick brush poking every inch of my exposed arms. My shirt was glued to my body from my perspiration; a mixture of heat. Of nervousness. Of fear. I won’t let them capture me. I watched them surround the apparatus erected in the center of the courtyard. The Villagers encircled the structure like a mob in a coliseum. Two members of the horde separated themselves, wielding shovels as they approached the burial site. The tombs were engraved with their names. Sophie and Hans Scholl: TRAITORS. I felt them inching closer, and I ducked further into the grove. I closed my eyes, and held my breath, at any moment expecting their viperous hands to latch onto my throat. But I heard the crack of the shovel splitting the ground, flinging dirt in my direction. “Bring me the traitors!” a familiar voice roared. Cloaked under black hoods - chained and fettered - the Prisoners hobbled towards the guillotine as the crowd erupted. A Villager lowered his torch and ignited the coals surrounding the wooden beam, the sharp blade suspended at the apex illuminated by a halo of flames. “Nothing will save you. Accept your consequence.” The bearded leader with long, braided hair pushed their heads into the orifice, fusing the connecting beam to keep them restrained. Unable to look at one another, they clutched each other’s hands as they awaited their execution. The crowd parted again, as the thin, dark-skinned man with sunken eyes led the boy up the dais. “The boy shall clean the blade,” the thin man announced, and with his fractured foot limped up the steps, ushering the boy to an elevated point, overseeing the Villagers. “No,” the bearded king objected. “The boy earns his crown.” The crowd erupted, but the thin man seemed apprehensive. “Is he ready?” The boy’s hand was visibly shaking as he untied the knot holding the blade in place. He waited for approval as the Villagers, uproarious with elation, emboldened the boy. Finally, his soft, cracked voice is heard over the commotion. “Burn the witches!” I couldn’t watch them set fire to the Prisoners. As I shielded my eyes from the execution, I never noticed the guillotine transform into a great bonfire. I glanced over at the tomb once more. Elisabeth and Robert Hope: WITCHES. I stood from the hedgerow, and I was spotted. Burning torches in hand, they galloped towards me. I felt the thunder in my heart as I turned and ran, hearing the rumble of the stampede behind me. Faster. Drawing nearer. As I run up that hill, I feel the separation closing. I’m suffocating. Breathless. I reach the trail of White Roses, and even if for just an instant, I feel relief. Like I can breathe again. The roses are neverending, but I run up that road until I don’t hear them chasing me anymore. The roses led me straight to the abandoned Cabin. Seeking safety and shelter, I climb the old, wooden stairwell and turn the knob, letting myself in quietly. “Hello?” I announce, but there is no answer. I feel like I can hide here, and they will not find me - if they were still looking for me at all. I enter the den, and find a wall of historical achievements. Fifteen years worth. Tracing my finger on each commendation, I read: Hardcore Champion - Longest Reign World Champion - Three Reigns “Oh my god,” as I come to the realization of whose cabin I’ve entered. And on the mantle, under the glowing spotlight, I see it. Floating and festering in a jar of amniotic fluid - I see him. |
Oh, Graham. You silly, subservient, malnourished, undercooked, preemie-baby boy-prince bitch. Who the fuck do you think you are? I’m sorry to break this to a god, but nobody makes crowns in your size. I don’t know what’s gotten into you. You spend your first year earning a reputation of a skilled fighter, building your credentials as a Cruiserweight before finally catching that big break. The invitation to the big show and you took the counterfeit king to his breaking point. Kicking out of the Burning Hammer at Rush, getting that big-time “holy shitfire” moment from the crowd - that was supposed to be your “coming out” party. We all have one. That moment where we defy the expectations, where we put on a legendary performance that skyrockets us to the fucking moon. I had mine when I threw Teo Blaze off the ladder and won my All-In briefcase. But yours? The most hyped - the most celebrated - the most revered fucking loss in the history of Action Wrestling. Graham fucking Baker had arrived. Forgive me for not giving a shit. You hilariously auditioned for his approval once more at XIII: Chicago, still building up that reputation of the ‘little fucking engine that could’. When they realized that Kaiju Collins was an incurable mass, an inoperable tumor, a carcass of dead fucking weight dragging them down, they fed him to a literal monster and let Walter end his career. For what? For you. A pathetic, impotent weasel to carry their bags, to polish their titles, to drive them around and be a goddamn good little errand boy they affectionately call Geeb. I can’t fucking stand you, Graham. You personify everything that is wrong with the wrestling industry. I usually open up my promos with something theoretical; something symbolic. I’m a deep thinker, Graham. I look at the big picture, wondering what the purpose of every match is, beyond the surface level achievement. There’s usually an underlying principle, an overarching objective - something bigger than the match itself. That is not needed today. Not for you. I’ve been wanting to kick the living shit out of you for as long as I can fucking remember. Not because I “want your spot” - bitch, please. I’m bigger than you’ll ever be. Uprising is my fucking Evolution. And not because I harbor any resentment for losing the Tag Team Championships because - well... Addy and I had run our course - we didn’t lose on account of me - and you didn’t win on account of you. It goes much further than that. I just find you deeply fucking annoying. You’ve created this idea of yourself - this self-important, self-indulgent, self-aggrandizing, self-flagellating manifestation of something Heaven Sent while sullying the names of anyone who came before you, and who’ll be here after you. I might talk my shit about Corey Black, but I fucking respect him. I respect what he’s done, who he’s beat, the mark he’s left on this industry. You piss in the face of everything that doesn’t have fucking Geebles attached to it. And that’s what makes you such a miserable little dweeb that will never know and never appreciate what it takes to be a World Champion. The pressure it entails. The competition you face. When you hit this level, you aren’t wasting time with the Horton’s or Daemon’s anymore. You’ll never learn to respect the honor and integrity of carrying this company on your shoulders, 'cause you don’t fucking care - you only pretend to care about it now because your little cabin in the woods was burned to the fucking ground. Your backyard playpen with the rest of those degenerates no longer exists - not for you, not for them, and not for you to parade around this company’s United States Championship like it’s a fucking accessory. You were so proud, so fucking eager to take this belt to some barefoot lego cheese-grater death match in that idiotic house of horrors that you forgot what it meant to win it in the first place. The Glory you found yourself in, again - and you thought it more important to break your body for a raged-out, doped-up headcase and go 0-4 at Murderhaus and lose that shit to some fucking imp named Casanova English. Get the fuck out of here with your new-found Action Wrestling pride. Graham Baker is NOT Action Wrestling Graham Baker has never been Action Wrestling. Graham Baker will never be Action Wrestling. It would be cute, a little precious if your reasons weren’t so fucking transparent why you’re using that on Twitter now. For months, Lissie Hope is Action Wrestling was the only thing you and those neanderthals would see every time you’d sic’ ‘em on me, and now, when I removed it, you thought it was fair game. But no one believes you, Graham. Even if you won’t admit it publicly, we all know you hold me in high regard. You’ve tried so hard to make this rivalry a thing, for the better part of a year - antagonizing me, mentioning me in every promo, ironically only trying to convince yourself I wasn’t embedded in your brain when you had murder on your mind last week. I’m so important to you because a victory over me means something. I’m a star-maker, and I have been my entire career. I’ll be damned if I let you benefit. You haven’t earned the right to ever claim this company as your own. We know you’re only doing this as some personal affront to me, and it’s pretty pathetic that I’ve held this grip over you for fifteen months. Ever since I made you a statistic, one of twelve bodies I yeeted out of Havoc Rumble, you’ve had me in your sights, on your tongue, infecting your mind. The stench of that embarrassment has been UNSHAKEABLE since, and when you found your tag team run so forgettable and inconsequential, you’ve continued trying to find something that’ll stick. Something that’ll prove that you should even be considered - that you’d ever be on my level - that you’d ever be a threat to me and what I mean to this organization. And then I doubled down and tossed your ass from Havoc again. That must have really fucked you up, huh? I kind of feel bad in a way, Graham. I feel guilty when I have blood on my hands. I don’t like hurting people. Retiring people. I don’t like sending people running to shitholes doomed to fail like Revo1 or Eddie’s trailer park. But you’re different, Giblet. I’m going to thoroughly enjoy this. Every time I’ve depantsed you in front of a live audience, you're incapable of ever shaking what we all know you to be: the annoying little brother who could never escape the shadows of the Hall of Famers you latched onto. To anyone that matters, you’ll always be a clout-chasing, dick-riding worm who was complacent allowing Corey to be the target, and Frank to be the fallen star. You’re not fooling anyone though, Graham. We see what you really are. You actually had the nerve to think that they were holding you down? Look in the fucking mirror. They aren’t miracle workers; they couldn’t make a limp-dicked pussy a star because you don’t understand what it means to be one to begin with. You’re a lazy, boring, egotistical turd with delusions of grandeur while simultaneously never letting anyone get a glimpse into who you really are. The fans never cheered for Graham Baker, the person; they cheered for Graham Baker, the wrecking ball. They enjoy seeing you get your shit pushed in, and thrown off stages, and stapling your own dick to your asshole primarily because no one gives a shit if you’re here today, or if you’re gone tomorrow. If the news broke tomorrow that I was found chained to a radiator naked and left for dead, the wrestling world would be fucking devastated. And even though I’m the bad fucking guy you try to pretend you are, my legions of supporters would chase Max Daemon down and feed him his fucking dick. But you? Anyone who would ever call Graham Baker their favorite wrestler is probably browsing Parler right now and wanted for questioning about January 6th. It wouldn’t surprise me whatsoever if you’re an online volcel warrior who goes by GeeblerElf, now that you've traded in your MMG patch for a fucking Fred Perry polo. Are you still proud, little boy? You’ve made it that easy for us, Goebbels, because we all know that at any given moment, when things don’t go your way, you cry for fifteen hours on a flight to Japan not even realizing that those people don’t give a fuck about you, either. You seem to think this applause is appreciation. You don’t seem to understand that you're completely fucking replaceable. For as much punishment as you put your body through in Yamashi and the backwoods of Tennessee, you sure do seem to be fucking brittle in an Action Wrestling ring. And for someone who talks so much about bettering yourself through training and competition, you sure seem to be repulsed with my methods - my vanity shots - my ambitions of helping build up a new generation of strong, beautiful women. What is that about, Geebles? Do you pull a girl’s hair if she finds you disgusting? Or do you go straight to Elliot Rodger - I hear you pack a large duffel bag. Do you… like… like me? Is that what this is? You might have had a shot, once. You used to be different, Graham. You won Glory the first time, and you had the fans eating out of your hand. You said it yourself - “no matter what happens down the line; if I drop this belt in my first defense, or hold it till AW closes, I will always have this moment!” You were so excited, Graham. So inspiring. So vulnerable. And then you lost it on your first defense. And everything changed. You were hardened, and blackened. Your heart turned to stone; your enthusiasm turned to anger. Somehow, the entire world was against you. You’ve never used your own failures to catapult you forward. You seem to just forget they even exist. Losing streaks - championship losses - you’ve got them on your resume, too. We are so fucking alike in a way, but that’s probably what feeds into this fucking hatred I have of you. I might have two championship losses - you’ll never let me forget it - but they were fucking World Championships, clown. Let me know when you ever reach that pinnacle, or if you’re ever even in the fucking conversation. That’s how we differ, Graham - all of my title losses were to men you call gods. You’ve lost a belt to fucking Carnivore. Get the fuck out of here. Game. Set. Match. You want so desperately to separate yourself from your two daddies and prove you’re all grown up that you’ve abandoned the only two assholes who gave a fuck about you to begin with. And why? To fuck around with a bunch of irredeemable sycophants who’ve never bothered to tell you were the butt of the joke. Man Made Gods were your friends, your mentors, and you threw them to the fucking wolves - and somehow I’m the asshole for finding it absolutely delightful? I might have my own team behind me, but I’ve never needed their help to win matches. I’ve never needed their validation, or their approval. They were my SAVIORS, but I’ve never needed to make them proud - not like you did. I know my fucking worth, I’ve earned my fucking legacy - you’ll always be the pissed malcontent that blames them for your own inadequacies. For not dragging your lame-duck ass to the promised land. For someone who claims to radiate big dick energy, it sure only took me a couple little potshots to get you so flustered that you to decided to put up your belt against me. For as dirty as your mouth can get, you sure do have skin like a fucking Durex - and maybe Corey and Frank should’ve never grown you in a jar and tossed their little swimmers in the trash instead of watching the disappointing kid they never wanted almost single-handedly destroy their reputation. You’re embarrassing, Gibbles. To yourself. To your friends. To Action Wrestling. To the United States Championship. Winning this belt is secondary, and it’s not because I wouldn’t value it. I know exactly how uplifting it is to win gold, and I know how much it fucking hurts to lose it. And that’s really my only motivation - I want to be responsible for your pain. For your suffering. I want to rip your value and your validity and expose you to the world, and smack your ass red since your daddies never bothered to. I want to reveal you to be the crybaby bitch you’ve always been; that’s what this match means to me. I want to prove to the world that everything you’ve ever said about me has been a lie. That every time you tried to sic’ your dogs on me, you’ve made me stronger. You don’t want Philidor Holdings involved? Neither do I. And they won’t be. You wanted Lissie fuckin’ Hope. You fucking got her. |
I hold the jar in my hands, spinning it, absorbing all of Geeb’s imperfections. A tear falls from my eye, my heart breaking with how much wasted potential spoils and rots. With force, I slam the glass on the sink, releasing Geeb from captivity. I'll save you-- ”Yo what the fuck you break?” I hear Cassidy’s distorted voice before my blurred vision becomes clear. I see my reflection in the broken shards of the hotel mirror. “You okay?” He enters the bathroom and sees my knuckles bloody, the crimson swirling in the porcelain. “Okayyy… no more for you,” he giggles, handing me a towel. |