Post by SixGodIsWatching on Sept 28, 2016 18:03:17 GMT -6
Once Upon A Time In Mexico...
All things considered, life was playing directly into the 6ix God’s hand. The sound of skull splintering rang out through the air as Andre Aquarius’s boot came down once more upon the head of Dagvald Riddik, driving it for the third time into the steel steps. Beneath his own hands he could feel the fabric of the tights of James “The GAME” Chevallier, the hapless idiot dazed and disoriented as Jared walked him forward towards the barricade. Running a hand up the back of his prey’s head, the Celestial Shark grinned as he gripped a handful and wrenched the wrestler’s head back to hiss in his ear.
Jared Holmes: Paul Levesque called. He wants his gimmick back, fuccboi.
Tucking the head back down, Jared hurled the beaten opponent forward into the barricade, his head striking the padding at a grotesque angle to the gasp of the crowd before falling unconscious to the ground. Another #fuccboi murk’t. #GodForgives6ixGodDoesnt On the other side of the outside, Andre had propped Dag up to sitting position. Charging the Neo-Nordicist, Prince Lightskin slew his opponent with an ugly #Fuccbouyant, leaving the Family’s number once more reduced.
And then there were one.
And then there were Logan.
Jared’s attention turned to the ring where the man who stole
It would not be enough.
Flash took up a stance. The end was near.
The end was near.
The end was here.
It was time – suddenly it occurred to Jared he no longer needed to wait. No, no delicious justice. No beautiful blow. Bigger and better things were at hand.
ZA WARUDO
The world.
It's The End…
…of…
…The World.
...as we know it, and I feel fine.
...as we know it, and I feel fine.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
BeRealItDoesn'tMatterAnyway
YouKnowIt'sJustTooLittleTooLate
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It happened without him even realizing how he did it. One moment he’d been crippling a member of the Family, the next moment the world had gone bright. Then the world had gone black. Then Jared was falling…
…falling…
No Joey Flash.
No Andre Aquarius.
No Logan.
No Dag Riddick.
No Thursday Kerrigan.
No Seth Lerch.
No Wade Moor.
No Kike Father.
Just Jared, alone, and in the void.
Nothingness.
But the void was the only place that Jared wanted to be. In nothingness, there was no miseries of living. There were no bitches shrieking about new Martin Margiella purses or non-profit tax exemption forms to fill out. There was no Trios Cup with dumb bitches like Sarah Twilight claiming they threw their matches. There was no Twitter with all the blithering vaginas like Spencer Adams and Jay Omega and every other fucking loser he had to deal with and ruin the fun for.
No stresses. No pressures. Nothing.
It could not last for long, of course – there was work to be done. Even the Void, of course, is simply a manifestation of our own perspectives. So as Jared found himself tumbling through the stygian depths of infinite, it was more than easy for him to catch the handle of the door leading out the back. Standing in the frame, he took a look back over his shoulders into that inky blackness. Where would it be going? Nowhere. It would always be waiting for him, all he needed once the world had finally rotted away and the remainder reduced to charcoal. Just in the distance, the fruits of his harvest began to bead through the darkness: Eddie Felt, Joey Flash, Andre Aquarius, Jayson Price, how many more? All his. #GottaCatchEmAll
Exiting through the doorway, Jared stepped onto the streets of a place he’d seen in dreams so many times over. The door swung shut behind him; he turned to gaze at the strobing neon façade of a porn tape rental store. On the wall besides the door, the glowing sign of a woman winked at him, a bag of groceries propped in her arm. He turned back to the brave new world at large, the streets empty but throbbing in psychedelic carnival ecstasy. It was the growing and dying child of Las Vegas and Tokyo on the bottom of the ocean – his own Rapture. A thin gray man stood as the only inhabitant visible, his glittering black eyes fixed on Jared.
Jim Thuggin: Favorite Earth Child. You have made it.
The voice was more than distinct – it didn’t matter that he façade had truly been dropped, Jared offered no surprise nor sense of revelation. He merely approached the Jalaxaritkatusan before walking beyond him, his eyes fixed on the distant yellow temple towering over the empty metropolis.
Jared Holmes: Then all has gone according to Prophecy?
Jim Thuggin: Flawlessly. That we have come this far suggests my faith in you has not be misplaced. I have brought you here because at this stage in our agenda, I can no longer guide our interests – that role is now in your hands.
Jared Holmes: And where exactly are we?
Jim Thuggin: We are in New Jalaxaritkatusa, the capital city from which the Chosen One shall rule his dominion over Earth. Does it please you?
Jared stopped in his advance – how far had they gone and how quickly? His eyes traced the glowing skyline: the bars, the clubs, the porn theaters, the rental car show rooms, the museums of antiquity. It was perfect.
Jared Holmes: Of course it does. I built it.
It was an odd thing for Jared to have said, yet he felt confident in the compulsive rebuttal. Jim smiled, his eyes alight in satisfaction.
Jim Thuggin: Correct. You did.
In no time, Jared found himself before the quaking wreckage of the ocean liner which lay in the center of the city. The power had been restored: lights spilled from its cracked portholes and between rusticles hanging from cracked steel plates. Stepping onto the first step of the Grand Staircase, Jared placed his hand on the oaken bannister and lifted his eyes to the pulsing temple which sat above on the deck of the mighty vessel. He climbed slowly, his hand staying on the railing. At halfway up, he paused to admire the letter which looked back at him through the depths: RMS Titanic. At the top of the stairs, Jared admired his house of worship. From the capstone, the Yellow Sign glowed approving at him.
It was simple enough to penetrate the walls – his hand touched the phantasmagorical surface and it gave as if nonexistent to his will. In the main hall, two rows of Corinthian columns lead him past carved marble lamassus which bowed in his honor. At the end of his hall sat a Sequoia Throne – the only throne fit for one such as himself. And beside the throne sat his prized position sleeping in heavenly peace.
Jared ignored décor which had already been set for his arrival – the robes, the mask, and the crown. All that concerned him was the contents of the glowing stasis chamber, a monstrous glass tube filled with blue liquid, sitting between two heavy metallic restraints. Inside, the young man floated with closed eyes and a thin smirk on his face. His hair was slick and matted with the liquid prison which kept him – still, his face was as sleek and body as cut as ever. He was perfect.
Jared raised a hand and placed it on the prison of Joey Flash, a smile crawling across his lips to match that of his new-found trophy.
Jared Holmes: Don’t worry. You’ll wake soon. When I need you.
He turned from the stasis chamber to sit upon his throne, draping the barnacle covered cape over his shoulders as he lifted the glittering gold diamond mask above his head and draped it over his face. He could see the world behind it – Shadowlove crawling through the Mexican desert looking for help, the Guardians sitting in a diner somewhere talking amongst themselves, Thursday holding back tears as she clutched her pillow and watched the television. As he studied life before him, he hardly paid mind to the two gray figures which floated through the halls to stand before him, both indistinguishable in appearance but noticeable in vocal inflection.
Steve Bosstin: ♫For my hesitance, my apologies/Do not take my reticence for hostility/You’ve succeeded beyond my fantasies.♫
In the eyes of the other Jalaxaritkatusan shone an emotion one could only classify as pride.
Jim Thuggin: Favorite Earth Child. Harbinger. Chosen One. Your first command?
From behind the mask, a shark grinned.
Jared Holmes: Commence the Wave.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
BeRealItDoesn'tMatterAnyway
YouKnowIt'sJustTooLittleTooLate
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
The 6econd Coming
For four months, Jared had been content to rule from his throne in New Jalaxaritkatusa. For four months, Jared had been fit to let Jim be his mouth on Earth, guiding people as he needed. The Wave had proven to be a success beyond his wildest imagination – but even so, the Six God felt unfulfilled. Jim had noticed the agitation in the eyes and actions of the Chosen One for a month now; since he’d prevented Stiletto from making their move on the Tag Titles and emboldened the Guardians to increasingly check the efforts of David Sanchez – and The Red One by association.
Hurryboyshe'swaitingthereforyou
The results? Well, he’d buried a company.
An emboldened Guardians meant an emboldened Bonnie Blue which had led to an embolden Alex Richards. The result? What was a harmless check at first had created a domino effect of mediocrity which had left the roster stagnant and disinterested. That fat idiot Richards was just supposed to soften Howard up, goddamnit. He wasn’t supposed to win. This, of course, was unacceptable.
Hurryboyshe'swaitingthereforyou
In the meanwhile, he had work to do in the form of one Joseph Malignaggi who sat in perfect stasis, his features gleaming and glistening within the confines of his prison. He stroked his chin in thought, the diamonds of his mask rough beneath his gloved fingers as the gears of his mind turned and clicked in gentle rhythm. The only interruption was the sound of the rustling in the water as Jim Thuggin glided through the chamber to his side.
Jim Thuggin: Harbinger Jared. I understand your initial intention was to release the Destroyer from his captivity when Champion Black and the Red One had been weakened. Now that Alex Richards has the belt, shall I release the Destroyer to defeat him.
Jared shook his head, his eyes fixed on the tube.
Jared Holmes: Worthless. The purpose of releasing Flash was to deal with the Jackal. Richards isn’t the fucking Jackal; he’s not even a goddamn poodle. That redneck midget really shit the bed on this one.
Jim cocked his head to the side, his eyes tracing the concealed visage of his Prophet.
Jim Thuggin: Then shall we release him to pursue the Red One where he may travel?
Hurryboyshe'swaitingthereforyou
Jared Holmes: A pointless endeavor. He has no power – he’s no problem for now.
Jim Thuggin: Then may I suggest we rethink our previously expressed desire to awaken the Destroyer from stasis? I believe our plans are best left potentially unmolested – should he deign to betray you, all of our work may be for naught. After all, all of our observations of this man have deemed him impulsive and treacherous. It would be fool hearted to believe he would stay loyal to you long enough to serve our interests.
Jared rose, his hand reaching back to grip the mask and toss it from his head, leaving the garment and crown floating in the waters beside him. He stepped forth to the glass, placing his hands upon it as he pressed his face against it to look closely at the man within.
Jared Holmes: Jim, don’t you see? A creature so beautiful and perfect as this?! It’s an absolute waste to let him stay here, bobbing about in a tube.
Hurryboyshe'swaitingthereforyou
Jared Holmes: It’s been too long, Jim. I’ve grown restless. I haven’t fought or fucked in months. I haven’t seen the light of the sun or had a Big Mac or smoked a blunt. I haven’t seen someone beg for mercy or given a dap. I’ve been growing weak on this throne – I traded my place as pole-position warrior king for mastermind emperor, and I’m starting to doubt it. I need the excitement. I need to destroy something.
Jim Thuggin: A return to the ring? I suppose we could arrange a championship opportunity with Jayson Price, seeing as I am his superior.
Jared scoffed, turning again and raising his arms in the air as if framing an imaginary picture in the sky.
Jared Holmes: Why would I give a shit about UCI? There are bigger things!
Jim Thuggin: Your machinations directly led to its creation.
Jared Holmes: And what good has that done? Do you think I care that this is the proverbial house I built?! I did a shit job! I let a bunch of faggots run riot because I got bored and didn’t think carefully. Fuck it, let the inmates run the asylum – I don’t give a shit.
Jared lowered his hands, his head snapping to the side to look at the tank once more. He approached it again, now pressing his full body and face against it to look into the fluid.
Jared Holmes: I’ve dreamed big, Jim. I tore down a champion without lifting a finger. I conquered the Trilogy Cup. For the last half year, my touch was ubiquitous on a company. I want that power again. I want it direct. I don’t want to lead from behind or sit on the sidelines. I want to kill.
Hurryboyshe'swaitingthereforyou
Jared Holmes: There’s something in my head, Jim. It’s been there for a while, but it’s louder now – right? And it’s calling me, Jim. I’ve done all my work here: everything is in place. My only job now is to get the ball rolling. I’ve always worked best when I go out and do it myself; Wade and Rabid were good, but I was better – just a little less lucky. No need for luck now; I have commitments to maintain. I have a world to conquer. I have –
Hurryboyshe'swaitingthereforyou
Jared Holmes: I suppose I got a woman who has done a fine job running things in my absence – she deserves a little break and a reward, don’tcha think?
He paused, his hand coming to his chin in thought.
Jared Holmes: That Price faggot is booking some “dream show”, right?
Jim Thuggin: Correct.
Jared Holmes: Put me on it. Gimme some fukken loser to kill like a faggot on live television. I need to make a statement. All these hints and shit are going ignored – no one’s listening. I need their attention.
Jim Thuggin: It shall be done. And the Destroyer?
Jared looked back over his shoulder a final time before he snapped his mask out of the air to pull back over his face. He spoke aloud as he strode out of the hall, stepping back onto the precipice of New Jalaxaritkatusa.
Jared Holmes: He has a WAR to win.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
BeRealItDoesn'tMatterAnyway
YouKnowIt'sJustTooLittleTooLate
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
それを獲得しました
A knock on Thursday Kerrigan’s door in the middle of the night could have been odd – then again, perhaps what was most odd was that she was sleeping in her own bed rather than on the couch of Alessandra or some friend of hers. The world had been turning for little Thursday and far too quickly; the nights and days had finally began to blur together as her circling of the drain had become tighter and quicker – she’d passed from the outflow and found herself now in the eye wall as she was plummeting towards oblivion. Some cared; her parents had recently dropped a hint about “time off”, and a pamphlet for Passages Malibu had “magically appeared” on her coffee table after Alessandra’s last visit. But what was the point? He was gone.
However, on this particular night, Thursday just happened to be at home. It had been an odd evening – for the first time in a long time, she’d deigned to simply stay at home, put on a movie, and curl into bed relatively sober (A bottle of red wine is pretty much sober for me, right?). Hangovers and fatigue finally catching up? Possibly. Nonetheless, she was perfectly cogent when the rapping came upon her apartment door – cogent enough to reach for the baseball bat she kept beside her bed.
Crawling from under the sheets, clothed in nothing but her underwear and a loose-hanging shirt (“NEW YORK CITY EATS ITS YOUNG”), Thursday slid her feet into a pair of UGG Scuffette Grand Canyon sheepskin and Pendleton wool slippers. With the bat dragging behind her lazily, she pushed open her bedroom door and padded down the hardwood hallway to the front door, the bat raising in sleepy readiness as she leaned forward to peer out the eyehole.
Thursday Kerrigan: Who the fuck are you knocking on my shit at 3-goddamn-AM?!
As she peered through the peephole, the solid blue eye which greeted her caused enough of a scare to cause her to tumble back onto the ground, dropping the bat harmlessly beside her. Of course, the sight of the unblinking eye waiting for her could never have startled her as much as the voice which paired with it, calling muffled through the oak door.
The world was frozen for Thursday – her bodied followed suit. No, the final dregs and dust of sleep had vanished from her; she lay locked in the Gorgon gaze of the oaken door and the shadow of two feet beneath the crack, standing outside in the hallway of the building. The sound of metal sliding against metal drifted from the lock above the handle, followed by the clicking of mechanisms activating. The door clicked unlocked – following it was the turning of the brass handle.
When the door swung open, He stood framed within it.
He wore a navy blue Ted Baker London trim fit suit made from fine Italian wool with a single-breasted jacket and flat-fronted slacks, a cream colored David Donahue shirt with French cuffs and the top two buttons undone, and brown alligator leather Mezlan Oxfords with derby toes. In his hand, he held a half-full bottle of white wine, the label reading “WILLIAM HILL CHARDONAY”. He tilted the bottle up to his lips and took a swig directly from the neck before stepping into the door, offering the bottle to the prone form of his girlfriend.
Jared Holmes: Sip? It’s the unfiltered kind: your favorite.
Words continued to elude Thursday as her eyes stayed locked on the man above her: her
Jared Holmes: Babe, you’re totally awake. C’mon don’t be too surprise, I got booked in a match – of course I was gonna show up.
He bent down, offering her a hand. Her eyes drifted from his face down to his hand before she suddenly lurched forward to greedily snatch it, pulling herself from the ground to throw her body upon him. He caught her with one hand, her arms snaking around his neck as her legs snaked around his waist to grip him like a koala bear. She could hardly contain herself, pressing her lips to his face and neck in ravenous kisses as he lumbered forward down the dark hallway.
Jared Holmes: Yes, babe, I missed you too. Trying to walk. Trying to not run into something.
It did little good – Jared’s foot came down on the discarded bat, and as it slipped from under him, he careened backwards onto the hardwood floor, Thursday’s arms and legs trapped under him as his head slammed back and the wine bottle shattered against the ground. Pain shot through them both, Jared audibly yelling and Thursday continuing her affectionate assault.
Jared Holmes: BABE! FUCK! THIS IS REALLY INCONVENIENT!
She remained clung to him undeterred as he rolled over and pushed himself up, able to easily drag her deadweight with him. The love leech still sucking greedily at him, Jared placed his hands on the walls of the apartment and guided himself to a light switch. With the room illuminated, it was far easier for Jared to navigate around the glass coffee table to the alpaca skin throw blanket which draped over the Italian leather sofa. Dropping down on top of her, Jared sighed aloud.
Jared Holmes: Alright fine we can get the banging out of the way first.
And in no time at all, the Six God and Six Goddess found themselves nude on the couch, embroiled in the first session of lovemaking in several months. After a blissful two minutes and a screaming orgasm, Jared rolled off of Thursday to walk to the bathroom, his fiancée laying in the glow of the act with her doe-eyes locked on the ceiling. Pulling on a bathrobe, Jared drained his bladder for the first time in several months (a thick, dark yellow from the months it laid dormant and dehydrating in his bladder – New Jalaxaritkatusa worked strangely) and washed his hands in the sink, taking a moment to enjoy the feeling and smell of the Kirk’s Original Coco Castile Hand Soap. Unlimited power? It was transcendent. But the simple pleasures of being alive? The indulgences of the senses? Power could never compare. In the mind of a saner man, perhaps it could be a touching epiphany; in the gilded hedonistic philosophy of Jared Holmes, it was a natural symptom.
Stepping back into the living room, Jared approached the glass topped mahogany humidor which sat on a small table besides the wine refrigerator. As he lifted the lid, his hand and eyes scanned the selection of nine remaining cigars: he settled finally upon an Arturo Fuente Gran Reserva Churchill. As he turned back to his fiancée, she sat up on the couch and pulled the alpaca skin over herself – Jared could only smile as he imagined his cum leaking out of her and onto the leather sofa. He’d buy a new one if it stained. She cooed at him.
Thursday Kerrigan: You’re back. You’re really, really back.
The Six God raised his arms, twirling in a little circle with his best Ric Flair impression before letting out a Woo and placing the cigar in his mouth.
Jared Holmes: And I’ve already broken one bottle of wine and possibly ruined a leather coach. New record for me.
He sat down beside her and reached forward for the glass bowl of matchbooks that sat upon the coffee table. Biting the end off of the cigar, he spit it into the ashtray before him and slid open the match box. A strike and a flame later, the cigar glowed and puffed with fragrant, nutty smoke. Thursday wrapped her arms around his left arm, pulling herself close as she laid her head on his shoulder.
Thursday Kerrigan: So you’re never gonna leave me again?
Jared Holmes: Nah. Don’t think so, at least.
She purred happily, releasing his arm to drape herself completely over him. He took a long pull of the cigar, puffing out a small cloud (probably a shitty attempt at a ring) before reaching up to scratch her head affectionately.
Jared Holmes: But we’re not staying in Chicago.
Thursday shook her head in his lap.
Thursday Kerrigan: Too many Blacks.
Jared Holmes: Everywhere is gonna have Blacks. I’d just rather be somewhere that has talented Blacks rather than angry midgets with family problems.
Thursday Kerrigan: So where do ya wanna go?
Jared paused, his eyes locked out the window as a slow smile creeped over his face.
Jared Holmes: Well I’ve got a date kicking in a certain commentator’s head in Philadelphia. I suppose we start there, don’t we?
Thursday nodded eagerly into his lap, her hand snaking up to part his bathrobe and place a kiss on his exposed leg before giggling like a school girl. He nudged her with his thigh in annoyance.
Jared Holmes: Pay attention, this is important.
She nodded again, rolling onto her back to stare up at him with a stupid smile. His hand came down to cup her cheek, his thumb softly caressing her chin.
Jared Holmes: The time is almost upon us. Something big is going to happen – something I am going to make happen. Don’t worry who takes credit – this is going to be the next step.
Thursday Kerrigan: And when are we getting’ hitched?
Jared sighed in frustration.
Jared Holmes: No, goddamnit, pay attention. Look, I’m kicking that wetback’s skull in, then we start the final stages. That’s when the real fireworks fly! That’s when the End Game starts.
He took another puff of the cigar before setting it to rest in the ashtray. His hand came down to clutch hers as he tilted his head down to lock eyes with her.
Jared Holmes: That is when I’ll be on top of the world. The King in Yellow on his throne. And you…
A thin smile crossed his mouth.
Jared Holmes: …you’ll be Queen.
Her lips parted into a full grin as her arms snaked up and around her neck. She pulled herself to a sitting position and placed a kiss on his lips, feeling his teeth as he sucked her lower lip into his mouth for a bite. Copper and salt stung her tongue as she drew away, her hand coming up to wipe blood from the wound. He grinned back at her, his own teeth stained gently red – her thumb came forward to wipe the blood upon his lower lip before her hands came to his face.
Thursday Kerrigan: I love you, Jared Holmes.
Jared continued to grin as his own hands came up to clutch her head in mimicry.
Jared Holmes: And I love you… Thursday Holmes. You’ve earned it.
Did he mean it? Could he mean it? The answer could only be known to the Six God, a man who kept his emotions – should they even exist – under tight lock and key. But in that moment, with victory at the tips of his fingers and his most loyal servant at his side, he just might have believed he did.
But more certainly? She’d earned it.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
BeRealItDoesn'tMatterAnyway
YouKnowIt'sJustTooLittleTooLate
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Bro, I’ve had the most shitty week. See, here I was coming off of vacation because they told me I’d have this badass Latino fighter to square off with in the ring, and that it would be this massive draw, right? So here I am like: “bro I’m gonna fuck David Sanchez up so bad.” And then Price is like “Nah, dude, it ain’t David Sanchez. You’re fighting Gravedigger.”
Like, “Fuck me”, right?
I have no idea why this match has been booked. I have no idea what is compelling you to get out from behind the desk and step into the ring, Digger, but I want to assure you that no matter what you think the outcome is going to be, you’re about to get the absolute piss beaten out of you. This isn’t just going to be embarrassing, it’s going to be Michael Cole vs. John Cena embarrassing. Like, when I’m done with this shit, I’m probably going to shove your head in a toilet and slap your spic mother. Her name is “Maria”, right? Every fucking spic woman is named Maria.
Okay, okay racist jokes aside. Sorry, my bad, dude. I just get a little excited: I haven’t had a match in a long time, and I’m kind of chomping at the bit to kick a loser in the testicles before doing push-ups on their prone body. But I’m also kinda baffled as to why I’m facing you of all people. I mean, what the hell, Wavedigger, I thought we were boys. I don’t even know how I’m supposed to go into this match. What do I say mean about a guy I’m cool with? What do I say about a guy who just sits behind a fucking desk talking shit?
I guess I say this:
Your glory days are long since passed, Gravedigger. You shouldn’t be in this ring, least of all with me. That you agreed to this match, that you thought you had any modicum of a chance at winning it at all shows your age: you’re fucking stupid and the dementia is already setting in. I can picture you on your first day of training, pulling off your collared shirt and looking at your chest for the first time in years. The barbed wire tattoos? Now they’re picket fences. The tattoo of the Virgin Mary? Looking like Margaret Hamilton screaming “I’M MELLLLTING”. The gut from tacos and Coronas is lowriding over your trunks, and you’ve got bigger tits than a tango dancer. But in your delusion – in your own misplaced belief that you can come back any time – you still see this:
But the rest of us see this:
Or, god forbid, this:
At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if your logic for wanting to face me was that I stepped on your lawn. You old ass man – didn’t you watch Punk vs. Gall? This is what happens when a geriatric, out-of-shape bitch messes with a star in his fucking prime.
Because while we’ve both been out, I’ve been out for a few months while you’ve been out for a few years. You’ve gone soft – you’re essentially a fucking pencil pusher now. You have absolutely nothing of note to your name other than jumping in WAR and getting eliminated by David Sanchez. He then proceeded to immediately fuck off, and you just climbed back behind your little desk and put on your little headset like the curmudgeony twat we know you are. We put up with you dick riding us; it was free publicity. But were you ever actually #BeachKrew, bruh? LMFAO why do you think we never invited you to our parties? You’d be showin’ up like:
And that’s about how everyone is going to greet your return – I’d like to emphasize: for one night only – at a Nightmare on South Street. See, when I get around to thinking about it, I gotta imagine Jayson Price must fucking hate you. I can’t see why else he’d book this match if it wasn’t about feeding you to me for the easy push. SORRY PRICE, YOU AIN’T GETTING MY DICK THIS EASY KEKEK. Am I supposed to take you seriously? Should I be concerned? Because this is about as much as I know about Gravedigger since I’ve been around:
1) Did a lot of cool prestigious shit, once
2) Now just does commentary. Dealt with ideas like Freddy Woah and Jimmy Garcia, hits none of them.
3) Hosted the Rey del Reyes, a prestigious competition which features perennial champions like Billy and Betty Adams amongst its winners.
4) Got eliminated in WAR by Sanchez, did nothing but enter match and get fucked.
5) Gets punked out by Katherine Phoenix on the reg.
And that last one might be the most damning bit of it all. What the hell happened to you, Digger? I thought you were a tough, mean leader of MS-13, one of the most vicious gangs in California? You’re going to let a clown make-up homeless chick fuck with you? You’ll get up to step in the ring with the 6ix God, but you can’t even defend yourself against Katherine Phoenix? How do expect this is going to go?
Now here’s my little theory: I think you were scared what would happen if you stepped to her. Katherine Phoenix had already been slapping you around just for fun – she even called that shitty Greybeard match better than you’ve ever called anything. And she ruined that entire few minutes of the show. Is there literally anything you can do well? Apparently one thing: be the comedic prop of Katherine Phoenix as she attempts and fails to get herself over. And in your knuckle-dragging reluctance to do anything, you just came out looking like a fucking bitch. And not anyone’s bitch: Katherine Phoenix’s bitch.
Maybe you had your reasons. Maybe I’m underestimating the broad. I dunno. I have a hard time taking anyone as a threat when I’ve literally spit in their asshole. Does that make you my Granbitch? Fuck, this match is already done lmfao.
We’re talking about practice, here. Not a game; practice. You’re the warm-up for my return back to the ring, Digger: the old washed-up vet who’s gonna give me the tug job, put me over, and slink back into the shadows. It happens every time. I’m sorry this had to be you; I appreciated all the verbal fellating after all those months. In fact, when I think about it: nothing personal. When this is all over, you can go back to being Wavedigger, you can gush about me even more on the air (“As someone who has had the sublime joy and honor of stepping into the ring with an athletic prodigy like Jared Holmes, I can only express my awe and wonder at how he moves in the ring. Truly there is nobody, and I say that without a hint of hyperbole, who can match him at any time.”), and I’ll go on to either punch Alex Richards in the balls (LOL AS IF I got better shit to do) or maybe take over the world. Dunno. This is a Sunday for me.
And for you? It’s the fucking Rapture. God Forgives, but the Six God Doesn’t.
#BitchLivesMatter #6econdComing #FuccboiGenocide2ndw4v3
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
BeRealItDoesn'tMatterAnyway
YouKnowIt'sJustTooLittleTooLate
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
There Goes The Neighborhood
On occasions, Jared enjoyed short walks. Not necessarily strolls around his grounds (though he did enjoy those) but the brief sort of walk it takes one to go from the grocery store entrance to the car in the lot. On this particular occasion, Jared had driven himself to the Malignaggi Home, parked a block down, and deign to walk rather than have a limousine escort him in through the gate and up to the door. It was a crisp Autumn day in New York, and now was as good as ever to savor the colors and breeze – especially when under the influence of a few Ecstasy tablets.
Of course, this pleasant walk for Jared Holmes was not pleasant for everyone on the street. As he approached the front gate of the Malignaggi home, a group of children sprang from the bushes – seven or eight years old of varying gender and race. Sticks in hand, their little arms began to reign blows on the legs of Six God.
Red Head Girl: GET OUT OF OUR NEIGHBORHOOD! WE DON’T WANT YOU HERE!
Jared glared down at the little girl, his arms flailing out to knock the sticks away from him.
Jared Holmes: I used to live here!
Gil With Teddy Bear: AND YOU ALMOST RUINED IT, YOU TOXIC, DRUNKEN BULLY!
Jared’s voice raised incredulously as he shoved the kid away from him.
Jared Holmes: I ruined it?! This place used to be the home of some of the most prestigious people in New York!
Boy In Camo Shirt: And why do you think they all left?! You drove them off!
Jared Holmes: Me?! I was one of the people who moved out of protest of them letting that sex offender live her! I have the moral high ground if anyone!
Fat Kid: WOULD ANYONE LIKE TO HAVE AN INTELLECTUAL, CIVIL POLITICAL CONVERSATION? I HATE NIGGERS.
Shoving his way through the crowd, Jared worked his way to the keypad set into one of the brick columns flanking the protective gate. With a quick punch of the numbers - ones he’d long memorized - the gate opened. He slipped his way in, wheeling to face the crowd before drawing his Baretta out of his jacket, leveling it in annoyance.
Jared Holmes: I’m on private property! I’ll cap all you trespassers if you don’t fuck off!
Red Headed Girl: We’ll get the Homeowners Association here! They’ll stop you and make you leave!
Jared Holmes: And I’ll tell them a bunch of little brats harassed and assaulted me! You’ve done nothing for your own case; you’ve shown yourself for the children you are! Now fuck off before I call the dog catcher or go George Zimmerman on you!
Fat Kid: Trayvon Martin was a thug! George Zimmerman was absolutely in his right to shoot the suspicious little jigaboo. I heard he was smoking marijuana. If he was innocent, why did he fight back?
As the gate closed behind him, Jared turned back up to the driveway and stared up at the mansion sprawling before him. It was tasteful, lacking the garishness and bravado of his own abode back in La Jolla. It seldom rose beyond a single story, instead expanding down to a sub-level when the contour of the hill provided it. The ground were groomed and maintained; a black Bugatti Chiron sat in the driveway, immaculately washed and polished save a cracked headlight and ugly scrape along the driver’s side. Upon approaching the vehicle, Jared stopped to consider it, finally turning away with a dismissive scoff before stepping onto the front door step. With a press of the doorbell, a tone rang out through the interior of the house. After a moment, a shuffling resounded from the hallway beyond the door. When the portal open, Joseph Malignaggi stood before Jared.
He was disheveled: his face unshaved and his hair unwashed. He smelled of body odor and macrobrew beer. He wore a white mesh tank-top, grubby basketball shorts, and no socks under a beaten in pair of New Balance crosstrainers. For a moment, the two men stood staring at each other, Jared with a smug smile and Joey with no emotion at all. Joey’s hand flew up, a fist striking Jared across the jaw to send him spinning backwards. Pain flashed through the Six God’s face as his hand came to his mouth, dabbing at the thin drop of blood caused by his tooth cutting into his lip. Still, the smile never wavered as he turned back to his attacker.
Joey Flash: You deserve that. Before you say a fuckin’ word of protest, you know you did.
Jared wiped the blood on one of the support columns of the patio overhang beside him as he shrugged.
Jared Holmes: You’re gonna invite me in anyways.
Joey snorted as he turned, leaving the door open as he retreated back into the house. Jared shoved his hands into the pockets of his black acid wash True Religion slim cut jeans as he followed suit. Flash led him into the kitchen, open tins of tuna fish and packets of protein powder and soup mix strewn about the marble counter tops; Joseph had been alone this week it seemed. Flopping onto a barstool propped at the side of his breakfast bar Joey rested his head in one cupped hand.
Jared Holmes: No maid?
Joey Flash: No beer. It’s in the fridge, be a dear.
Jared Holmes: You always had a way of making your guests feel at home.
Still, Jared relented as he walked to the refrigerator and pulled open the stainless steel door. The produce bin had been decimated - little remained besides a few open packages of cold cuts and containers of condiments. The beer, naturally, was well stocked; Jared grabbed two bottles of Peroni before closing the door behind him, turning to toss one to Joey. After fishing in his coat pocket for a lighter, he propped it between the bottle cap and his index finger to pop it open and took a long sip.
Joey Flash: What do you want?
Flash had no intent for intricacy, ripping the bottle cap off with his teeth and spitting it with a clink onto the kitchen top.
Jared Holmes: I’m not allowed to make a house call to my buddy while the WAGs are off in the Monaco together?
Joey Flash: You are. I got to smack you and have a maid for ten minutes. I’m satisfied.
Jared crossed the kitchen, leaning across the counter from Flash on his elbows.
Jared Holmes: I will deliver, you know I’m a forgiver, champ. You feeling ready for this match on Sunday?
Joey shrugged.
Joey Flash: It is what it is. Winning is not the goal this Sunday.
Jared Holmes: And the double duty you’re pulling for the Short Bus Infinite?
Joey Flash: I’m facing Jeff Purse, how hard can it be? Besides...we have some business to take care of with someone else in that match - that’s my goal.
Jared cocked an eyebrow, a pleased smile crossing his face.
Jared Holmes: You’ve thought about it?
Joseph narrowed his eyes and ran his tongue across his lips.
Joey Flash: You give me the keys, you give me the army - I will sit the throne.
Jared’s eyes flashed, a shark-like grin crossing his lips to expose teeth.
Jared Holmes: And quite an army it is. Lots of guys who’d love to sit on that throne who you’re expecting to command.
Joseph paused for a moment as the air in the room seemed to thin in the space around them.
Joey Flash: They will bow.
Joseph relaxed; a trickle of blood began to creep from his left nostril.
Joey Flash: What about you, Six God? Will you bend the knee?
Jared tilted his head, the smile never wavering from his lips.
Jared Holmes: Human beings in a mob; what’s a mob to a king? What’s a king to a God?
Joseph laughed, a fake and hollow laugh; taking a long sip of his beer, he gathered his thoughts.
Joey Flash: To finish your stupid quote, “What’s a God to a nonbeliever”? This is happening, Jared. I will be there, front and center - et tu, Brute?
Jared Holmes: Funny comparison there: me to Brutus and you to Caesar.
Joey Flash: I’m under no illusions.
Joey plonked his bottle onto the counter and lightly knocked it into Jared’s.
Joey Flash: Hold up your end with the rest, and please, beat this fucking gimp on Sunday.
Jared snorted, raising the bottle to his lips and taking a sip. His grimace was slight; he was never a fan of this shitty Wop beer. Couldn’t the Malignaggis have spurgled for some Lagunitas? Either way, he shrugged nonchalantly.
Jared Holmes: I can’t decide which hate crime I’ll be accused of first: assaulting a wetback or abuse of the elderly.
Joey Flash: Hopefully the latter. I want him back as an announcer, he was the only one who ever got me.
Jared Holmes: So I beat up an old Chollo, then what?
Joey Flash: I dunno. Spit on him?
Jared shrugged, his eyes going from Flash to the window. Outside in the street, the children protesters were still gathered around the gate.
Jared Holmes: I have absolutely no idea why you still live here. Everyone worth associating with moved to Washington Heights.
Joey Flash: How’s the crime rate?
Jared Holmes: Nonexistent.
Joey Flash: How’s the boredom?
Jared Holmes: Thursday likes it. I spend more time in Los Angeles.
Joey Flash: It’s not all bad.
Joey motioned for Jared to follow as he exited the front door of the house to confront the group of children.
Joey Flash: Hey kid, you, big boy in the back - come here!
The lard assed porkster waddled toward them.
Fat Kid: Finally, someone who wishes to have an intelligent and civil discussion! I hope you have your sources ready: I’m a historian! Did you know what Niggers are genetically inferior - I read it in an old medical textbook from 1842. If you do not cite your works, I shall refudiate all of your arguements.
Joey throws a face breaking, child abusing, mother crying right hand into Augustus Gloop’s gob, knocking that fat bastard clean the fuck out. As the rest of the children scream Joey turns to Jared with a smile.
Joey Flash: I guess I just love beating the shit out of nerds and faggots.
Jared considered the scene before him, the fat kid laying unconscious in a pool of blood dripping from his nose. He bent down to a knee, his eyes running the length of the child.
Jared Holmes: It’s good. But…
Jared turned to the lower half of the kid, prying off his shoes and standings as he tied the laces together. Spinning them like a bolas, he hucked the shoes towards the street, sending them spinning over the gate and wrapping around the telephone line spanning over a neighbor’s house.
Joey Flash: You’re content with this? You’re content just...existing? We have the platform, ‘What’s a King to a God?’ - well lemme tell you, you’re just like God right now: an invisible nonexistent entity trying to lay the law down with bygone shit. You’re so out of touch it’s fuckin cringeworthy...and we are supposed to be working together with this thing? You’re fooling yourself, but you ain’t fooling me.
Jared paused, the smile leaving his face as he turned slowly to face Flash. Still, he remained silent as his eyes simply locked on the perfect face before him - could that twitch of his brow and lip have been rage?
Joey Flash: Do something Mister “King in Yellow”. Mister “Six God”. Mister “Yung Goku”. Are you gonna go Super Saiyan or get killed by fucking Raditz again? You’ve got a whole mob of nonbelievers, and you’re content to sit on your imaginary throne and lord over a negligible sect - burnout college students, wasted sorority girls, vapid wannabe fashionistas, and internet basement dwellers snorting irony like crack. You’re becoming everything you hate: you are king of the #Fuccbois.
Flash paused, a smile slowly creeping through his own lips as he savored the building fury in the young man before him.
Joey Flash: But it doesn’t have to be that way. You could actually be what you say you are; you could stand up to a challenge for once. Not pick the bones of WAR like a scavenger, not rig the entire Trilogy Cup to your benefit - actually do what you claim you can do. What some of us can even begrudgingly acknowledge is within your capability if you weren’t such a fuckin’ sloth. Now are you gonna go out there and do push-ups on Gravedigger or not?
Jared saw red. His body quaked in a sick, liquid venom of anger that slithered from his skull and down his spine into his extremities. His hands clenched into fists as a thin, snake-like smile crept along his lips. The furrow of his brow suggested anything other than a gleeful smile. His voice was low; dangerous, even. The most observant could even detect his irises darkening.
Jared Holmes: I’m going to kill him in front of the world.
Joey stepped forward, placing a hand on Jared’s shoulder.
Joey Flash: Do it. And then fucking bow.
Their eyes locked. The tension in the air was thick as Nicki Minaj’s ass. Jared turned, his jacket billowing behind him as he began walking towards the gate.
Jared Holmes: I’m in.
Joey’s own smile grew, and grew, and grew.
Joey Flash: Ready to go to War?
Jared stopped and turned.
Jared Holmes: War? I’m going to continue a genocide.
Jared turned away, continuing out of the gate without looking back. Once inside the interior of his powder blue Lamorghini Murcielago, he fished his phone out of his pocket. Opening messages, he sent a text:
To: Jerry Baller
Sell the house in Washington Heights. I’m moving back to the neighborhood.
Sell the house in Washington Heights. I’m moving back to the neighborhood.