Post by Crow McMorris on Jun 26, 2016 15:40:30 GMT -6
DUEL PT I
SATURDAY
My rage is focused into a sharp point as I grit my yellow teeth and wait for the moment to strike. If I could hold a breath now, like those silly living folk, I would. But such luxuries are no longer afforded to me as I see something moving in the cold, numbing darkness; it's a searchlight from my enemy, approaching fast as it hunts for dead bones.
The sound of snarling menace is humming close by within the raw, deafening machinery that accompanies it. Beneath my feet, cold concrete warms to the presence of my steed as my engine sings. Eager to engage the enemy one last time. No going back now for either of us I suppose. Fuck it! I want this! I am the battle standard! I am the one who fights upon the wall! The one who protects this city. Who defends it's people. This is my Cartel. My Chicago! I am this world's champion. And when you're champion? You have responsibilities. Not just to your title, but to your colours. You fight; your enemies, your competitors, with the same vigour and heart in equal measure week after week.
No excuses. No off days. It doesn't matter if it's an Andre Holmes and his vampire diaries gif obsession, or Polar Phantasm speaking backwards nonsense, while his city lies burning and in peril. No difference between a Chase Jackson, stranded on a Netflix sitcom that's pretending to be his life, or a wise ass Jay Omega; the dumb man's James Bond, a good natured buffoon with all the money and most of the gadgets, yet none of the focus and the street smarts needed to get the job done when it counts. None of this matters in truth however, because in the end, what wins you matches...what will ALWAYS win you matches, is you. It's just you.
You, and that promise you make. The silent one. The one that carries terrors. The one that delivers. And that's the scary part. That's when the world stops and realises that you're not firing blanks anymore. That your ultimatums are for real. That what you say from now on, goes. I am the UCI World Heavyweight Champion. You jump, and the only question that remains on your dry lips is how high. That's on me to contain. That's my power, and my responsibility. No offence to the others I will face this Sunday night in Ladder warfare, but none of them are up to that task. They'd fold in a week tops. They'd buckle. Break.
I recite that silent promise to myself now as I think back over the past few weeks. Its directed towards my enemies like a laser guided cruise missile; those that have invaded my land. That have threatened my people. The mercenaries that stole my belt, and forced me to fight in a pit against a chimera of man and machine. Now, tonight, as that searchlight steadily approaches, I turn the key in my mind and arm that silent promise with a vow of retribution. Those bastards out there are gonna fucking pay. In blood. As much as I can bleed from their dirty veins.
The rotor's approach. This is it. Time to keep my word.
THE RED COFFIN
FRIDAY
The UCI world heavyweight title felt strange over my shoulder as a naked, milk white siren danced seductively around me. I sat there, happy. Open legged upon a red velvet chair. The heavyweight title's odd, blue-gold radiance bedazzling the tattooed Valkyrie with it's luminous evil. The stripper's forest green eyes were hypnotised now by the belt's coiled darkness, dark pleasures igniting in her serpentine, Nordic expression. Her gyrating, synchronous hips swayed rhythmically in time with the melancholic beats of Meg Myers, “Desire”. The music shaking the mirrored walls of our box shaped tomb, serenading our intimacy under a sky of red lights, that baptised our bare bodies as they became conjoined, one heaving mass of lusting flesh beneath a world of deep crimson. Our reflections warping now, losing cohesion as the rule book for such occasions is thrown completely out the window.
Her hair (up top) is long and blonde as I penetrate below. Her locks cascading and flowing over an alluring, sculptured face and a set of painted black lips (up top) that brush passionately against mine. Her genealogy had blessed her with an athletic hourglass body. She took hold of my constant cold hands and placed them on her warm ample hips as her nails dug gingerly into my back. I moaned. A spark of humanity rising to the surface as my dead body forgot it's current condition. She sat upon my thighs, positioning herself for optimum comfort as our dance continued.
This place of desperate fantasy was named, Cobra Verde; an off-the-grid Chicago gentleman's club for the more discerning customer. I have a thing for blonde goths myself, and management here are world renowned for providing customers with the right fit for their dirty little minds. For me, its Suicide girls that tick the boxes. Growing up around metal bands and rock journalists in my youth this woman fits my rigueur de jour from a young age. The death part I keep to myself though as we close in tight. I hear her heart and imagine it's mine. Right now I feel alive, more alive than I have in quite awhile, and while it's not the same as before, it's easily as close as I get these days. Until of course, I catch sight of our reflections once more.
And hear the toiling of that bell, emanating from the belt.
I know what this is, the steel in the strap is not of this earth; it's metallurgy is alien in origin; emitting a strange fallout pulse that brings about feverish, waking dreams of parallel dimensions where ghosts of champions dwell, and freakish hallucinations of twisted body horror. Right now, me and this woman are not human as I gaze into the fracturing glass behind her; my hacked vision tells me we are now two snakes entwined; hissing as we fuck. Our reptilian bodies tearing each other to pieces as I close my eyes tightly and dream of peaceful summer skies over a sun drenched Poon Guinea; sitting on a veranda with a chilled glass of Captain Morgan's rum in my hand. Hearing the sound of children playing in the cobbled stoned courtyards below. The smell of salt air rising from the ocean. Reminding me of the first time that I died and was reborn in my mother's belly on that south seas beach.
SKINT!
You hear that? That's when I feel it, a sharp stabbing pain in my chest. It's not a recollection or a heart attack as my eyes dart open. No, what we have here is the stripper plunging a hunting knife deep down into a cavernous hole in my belly! Her mouth screaming words in a language I don't understand as her eyes are alight with focused, professional fury. Fuck! Where did she get the knife? Scotch tape around the handle reveals the answer. It was taped beneath the plush velvet red seats. This location was a trap from the moment I arrived, from the minute she took my hand, leading me off into this isolated booth. I walked blindly into a venue that had been orchestrated now to be my casket. Another day as champion. Another murder attempt by a vengeful Gideon Snow; determined to make me suffer for destroying his prized creation and raising his Chicago Fight League arena to the ground. Blackwater have infinite resources, it would seem, and no end to their quest for bitter vengeance.
Damn it, I had been reckless tonight. Alone and bored I strayed too far from the boundaries of UCI territory in search of entertainment; this was my penance as the blade was plunged back down into my ribcage. I could feel the bones crack under the weight of the assault as the Stripper leaned forward, placing all the leverage she could muster down onto the incision. Both her hands where now wrapped around the blade, exposing her taunt upper torso to a counterstrike. She had left herself open, probably thinking I was entering into a state of shock by now as the blood ran; that's how normal physiology works; the body breaks down. Reactions slow. Everything grinding down until it stops.
But not me. I keep going. Unstoppable. I've come too far over the last few weeks, fought too hard for too long to stop now. I fought through competitor after competitor. I fought these faces before and won. And Sunday? I'll do it again. Don't believe me? Watch me this Sunday night when I destroy a fake Howard Black, a wrestler just out of diapers, and a pair of whacked out space cadets. What do they fight for exactly this week I wonder? Let me tell you, one named Andre Holmes, he fights for a broken mirror image, trying desperately to measure up to a stolen reflection as his copycat world crashes down around him. Jay Omega and Cameron Bankston Jr. fights to stand still, hiding behind galaxies and constellations that contain just enough adventure to distract them from the truth, that they're not prepared to pay the high price for this title. A price that demands blood and sacrifice and hardship for small moments of sweet, well earned glory. And then there's the young white knight, chase Jackson; who's more of a zombie than I am, a puppet on string pulled this way and that. One day It'll be his day I'm sure; but there's plenty of highlight reels ahead of me before that sun rises.
I reach down for my salvation as my title slips from my shoulder. The stripper kicks the belt casually aside. I feel a swell of anger bubble up inside me as I keep my eyes focused on my dirty clothing, a bundle of rags perched precariously upon the curvature of a long stretch of velvet seating; inside my faded bomber jacket pocket is my inhaler. This toy isn't for a case of asthma though; its a handy little invention of mine. Innocuous on the outside, the inhaler is, in truth, an electronic crack pip; wired beneath the hood for when I need that extra kick during dire situations. As a McMorris, my body heals fast with coke; but faster still with crack. There's a comedown afterwards, but right now I'll take that hangover over the feeling of burst lungs and punctured kidneys dripping out of my ass.
“Fok jy jou DOS bliksem!” she screams as her South African accent booms. She'd carve up Oscar Pistorius for breakfast and a tip as she rips her serrated blade away from my gut once more, blood and worse running down my bare frame as I carefully choose my moment. The knife high above her head now, reaching it's apex.
Now, I strike.
I shove the inhaler into her face, pressing her jaw down hard on the device. A burst of vaporised crack cocaine is fired directly into her shocked, incredulous system; the dosage is a cocktail that could kill a race horse; it takes a few moments for the enviable to arrive here, a trickle of thick black blood congealing on her oval tear ducks as her brain hermitages and flickers out of use.
If I could laugh now I would, but I'm too busted up. I have just enough energy left to cough up a mouthful of blood and spit it at her limp corpse to underline the moment. I rip the inhaler away from her teeth and take a hit. The universe expanding as my flesh and bones hear the call to mend. It hurts, but pain is manageable. I wouldn't ask an Andre Holmes though what that means, the man can't manage to deal with a knee brace, this Sunday it will acts as an anchor, weighing him down to the mid-card life as a middle management stooge. Andre's eyes watering as I climb that ladder and once again show him his place. What comes after? Andre will drink, and lose matches...his family...his focus. Some fight, he flights. Yes Andre, “Welcome back Howard”, indeed.
“Oh Howie, please provide me with more material so I can rip off your life. It's all I have left”
Heh, heh...
I tear my Ichi the killer tee apart and wrap its remains around my waist to keep my guts inside. Even though I don't technically need lungs anymore, it still burns to have them loose. I drag myself to my feet, pick up my belt, and exit that red coffin as naked as I was born. Steeping over the body of my enemy as I depart.
My vision is still bury as I see representatives of Blackwater, this week they're teaming up with KKK's very Own Grand Dragon Wrestling. Not good, UCI is galvanising other Cartels against us. That could pose a problem further down the road.
Thankfully, the studio 54 meets vapour-wave inspired decor was cleared of customers as the dark corners of the club now contained the shadows of soldiers armed with all manner of barbarous weaponry. Morning stars glinting under a sparkling disco ball.
Fuck, time to think outside the box.
I have one last trick to play as the white hooded bastards begin to circle; I pour the remainder of my lighter fluid across the length of my right arm. Death. Rebirth. It gives you an odd perspective on life. I light the match.
Flaming lariat.
I run, as best as I can, at the first unfortunate bastard in my way. The lariat sets his white hood on fire, the large, out of shape man screams as he misses with a knife lunge, I'm grateful for that. So as a reward, I use the belt to shove the lard ass into one of his friends so he doesn't have to burn alone. The sound of gunfire whizzing past my skull now as I duck and roll; hoping that my intestines don't drop out on the retro LED dance floor.
There no music, the DJ has ran off, yet I can't get “Don't stop me now” by Queen out of my head as I dodge and weave through the KKK crowd, that's my best bet, use their burning bodies as cover so the Blackwater bullets don't strike, I can't afford to slow down now as I finally reach the exit.
KERRRR-SMASH!
The fourth floor window isn't an exit, to you. But to me it will do just fine under the circumstances. I think about reaching out for the fire escape on the way down; but the last time I tried that stunt, it just dislocated my shoulder and that's always a bastard to pop back in. Best just except the fact that the side walk is going to break my fall. As long as I don't kill a nun or a harikrishna on impact; then everything will be okay.
KRUNCH!
TIRES SQUELL
FPV: Crow?
It's Frank Patrick Venable. He's probably thinking “what the fuck , Crow?” and also “ Why the fuck are you naked”. Me? It's all abut the Lincoln continental he's driving. Nice automobile; nice chrome trim.
FPV: You okay?
I manage a semi sarcastic thumbs up as I peel my face off the road and pick up the belt beside me. Then I point skyward as bullets rain down; the Blackwater team scowl as we drive away; the world appears fragmented in a cracked bullet ridden windshield. I hope this isn't a rental, it's going to cost me a fortune to fix a custom job like this as Frank guns the engine and turns a corner at speed. The cold of the night air reminding me that this is a somewhat..awkward situation to be in.
FPV: Why the fuck are you naked, Crow. Were they torturing you?
Crow McMorris: Nope. Prostitute. I get bored sometimes.
FPV: Oh, well that's just fucking great! Jesus, Crow! I just had the upholstery cleaned!
Crow McMorris: Half the world is after my DNA, yet you get a sample for free; some people are never satisfied. Where are we heading? And who sent you? This isn't your usual side of town, Frank.
FPV: Buddy, he's back at the warehouse. Do we need to stop some place. You know, to get you decent?
Crow McMorris: Nah, I have a change of clothes there. Uncomfortable?
FPV: Well...why, why is your penis hard?
Sure enough; my Johnson is up and ready to impress. It's a mean one eyed bastard, this one. Earthworm Jim with a vengeance.
Crow McMorris: I mix Viagra in with my crack. Makes for a poignant heal in times of need.
Frank just rolls his eyes as a gaggle of blushing nuns cross the street at the lights.
FPV: Figures.
AN EMPTY ROOM
Buddy is sitting in Spencer's leather bound executive chair as spins slowly left and right. Frank and I enter the office. This is the Crow's nest; looming over the ring like a hunched God. Not so impressive on the inside however; just your bog standard middle management hovel. Buddy is dressed in his navy blue pinstriped suit, monogrammed cufflinks shined up. Smile as forced as ever. Teeth like a hungry shark.
Buddy Roman: What did I tell you, Crow? Cool off the whores, you're being hunted!
I shrug. The day he knows what it's like to be me is the day I listen. He knows that of course. That's why we work as a team. He gets it, it's just that he cares along with it. Like a real father.
Crow McMorris: What is it?
Buddy Roman: Howard Black. You wanted his new number? I managed to prize it from Spencer's old records. In case you wanted to send him a message for Sunday. Also, Spencer's been. Well, he's been paying us out of his own pocket. He mortgaged his home. So say the records. Unbelievably stupid of course. But admirable I suppose.
FPV: Jesus.
Buddy Roman: Please, not that charlatan's name in my presence.
I want to say something about Spencer. About what an upstanding guy he is. But nothing comes out. Except.
Crow McMorris: The number, Buddy.
Buddy threw me my spare cell, the number ready to dial. I nodded a thanks, excused myself from the office and called the number. I had managed to walk into a deserted locker room before the call connected.
“This is Howard Black, I don't want to speak to you. Fuck off after the beep”
Beep!
Hello, Howard. It's me, Crow. I'm sitting in Spencer's old office overlooking the arena right now. Feet up on his desk. Heaven is empty today, it's abandoned and the angels are in retreat. Spencer and Gable have been sacked. The world is spinning off it's axis with no answers for the next seven days. Who rules? What UCI am I fighting for? So many questions with no answers in sight. So here I sit, just me and that old devil Buddy Roman. Champion and manager. The real driving force behind this company now, and forever more. We're both been pondering something today as we write our own checks and draw up new contracts. We're remunerating over last nights events. Dissecting them carefully. And we're wondering right now, why you, you fucking midget prick, decided to be a small man, Howard. Why did you becomes a little man. An Andre Holmes, when your head used to be held so high.
Yeah, that's how low you've sunk.
You've become a copy of a copy, Howard. A pale imitation of your imitation; that desperation in your bloodshot, sullen eyes when you struck me last night. So fucking pathetic I might add. I've seen that look before though, in another. In Andre's blubbering boo boo face. So easy to manipulate that man; it's sickening really when you think about it. A one note dark knight fanboy with dreams of wearing your skin. Yeah, Andre wants to be just as misogynistic as you, Howie. Just as dysfunctional as you. He can't help himself, that “Buffalo Bill Holmes”. He sees you fall on your knees, Howie; catches you preying to the sky and he just wants to join in. He wants that lotion over his skin or he gets the hose again. That's the kind of fan you inspire, Howard. Twisted, doppelgänger psychos, who lose their shit when faced by women with opinions. Or odds they just can't surmount. Or titles they have no business challenging for. Mirror images who are just. Like. You.
And yet this Andre Holmes, this small man who hates women, who despises himself almost as much as you; he still calls considers himself a hero in spite of his loathsomeness. This little, talentless man who dreams big while stinking up match after match with hack moves and laboured attacks. This journeyman who thinks of himself as a champion of the people. A fake Teddy Blaze on top of a fake Howard Black, waiting in the wings “ready” to rise up and dominate the business in his Don Quixotic mind. This “relentless” Andre Holmes. This zealot with heady delusions running all the way through his brittle, glass shell. He'll follow you over the edge, Howard; not even noticing the drop until its too late. Or, I wonder, is it the other way around?
Maybe he's leading you, Howard. After all; he's the man who self destructed first. Who allowed an unstable Katherine Phoenix to sculpt him into her personal broken watch. Wound up so tight (and so easily) that this perfect lone star face? It cracked. And once those pieces break? You can't glue a shattered mind back together again. It continues to fail, to spiral. Even when you try to convince yourself otherwise, that you're hanging on? Its just hollow platitudes. Delusions for small ears to hear that call you daddy. Tiny faces wondering what's wrong.
Yes, Howard. Family.
You used to be a part of mine, Howard. A good man, an anchor. You were the dependable one among us; the guy who mediated; you spoke of reason and peace. Where's that man now? Did Andre Holmes steal the negative? That hack actor, reliving your greatest performances though his tired, strung out family. Desperate to be as dysfunctional as you, because for him; only success matters. Success in front of his master. You and him, the twin fuck up's, wandering the streets with your collars turned up. Narrating the same b-movie noir themed life with your Damien Sandow relation. One, a telemundo of the other, but I'm not sure which one is which as you turn the key and return home. Family. The first to suffer when faced with a drunk, or a man addicted to pain killers; or simply a minor wrestle in Andre, swamped by the gulf of talent around him that blocks his path to the championship. That, and other things...
I figured it out awhile back, why Andre hated Katherine so much. It's because Andre sees himself in her. You and I know he has that feminine side he keeps hidden (unless of course he's posting a meme) The part of his psyche he can't stand, that ties him up in knots and it's that self loathing is what drove him to assume you personality. Your life is his blueprint to keep all those dark secrets about his real life hidden. You're his cover. But now that you've fragmented into an egotistical ass hole; guess what? He has no choice but to follow you over the edge. Maybe you showed him the way, maybe he showed you. All I know is, I break the bond you two have this Sunday. The Cosplayer and the Original. Cosplayer first, of course, as a taster. Then you. Just for old times sake. Because you where once a decent man, before the arm break, before the wolf headed man showed you the way.
My father's killed fifteen careers, Howard. Fifteen. Somewhere in the world right now? He's about to make it sixteen. You, you can be my first. Dove number one to have it's wings clipped. I trusted you once, Howard. I trusted you like a fucking brother and you spat in my face like all that trust meant nothing. You took our friendship and flushed it away. So now I'm gonna dispose of you. Through Andre. This Sunday I want you to watch closely, Howard. Every bone that I break, every limb I render useless. Every hope I strangle and turn blue, they'll be all his. Andre's world will shudder and crumble under the weight of a simple exhibition; a shape of things to come for one Howard black as I destroy his mirror image, his third rate tribute act. I'm gonna make old' Coach Haliday cry when I expose every trick you have as a busted flush. Tricks your cosplayer, Andre Holmes learned as bible. I'm gonna burn that fucker's Sunday school to the ground.
THE BUDDY SYSTEM
Blog date: 25/06/16
I can see your faces right now. The smiles. The air of confidence. You all think you stand a chance against my Grandson because of the nature of this match. The conditions, you think, give you that slender element of chance. After all, you don't have to pin my Grandson. You don't have to achieve what has been impossible for five long weeks straight and counting now for this locker room. You don't have to beat a man who has never lost to win. What you have to do, is to scrap, to scratch, to bite and crawl your pathetic, unworthy bodies up a ladder and snatch a belt off a cable to gain victory. A slender chance , but better than the alternative. So there you are, weight training with your buddies, or opening up the mysteries of the universe with Nikolai Tesla, or arguing with your miserable, downtrodden family because your faith in yourself is fading and you can't help but sink beneath the surface, drowning in a sea of self loathing while losing your mind to the jealously and the hate; all these small lives you idiots lead, and yet, there's that one universal thread, that chance, you think it's there, that it exists. A sender corridor of possibility that will allow you to gain glory. To set things right.
Wrong.
Allow me the honour, the privilege, of cutting that thread. Of slamming that door of possibility shut in your misbegotten faces. Listen closely now, through the laughter I will unravel the truth.
My Grandson has faced a situation such as this before. A moment when all was on the line with a ladder and madness standing in his way. Do you remember? I suppose you don't. None of you remember history. Your lives are flaccid, useless things; Incapable of understanding your enemy much less usurping him. It was two years ago. He was alive back then, not a fast or as mean as he is now; lacking the technical know-how and ruthless ambition that I have instilled into my Grandson through a carefully crafted regime. It was an event in a federation you all know well. The golden tears when freedom still held some sway. This event was known as Explosion. Crow's opponent was a raving mad, Oblivion. Oblivion had been promised a World Heavyweight title shot if he could dispose of a rebellious and lone wolf Crow. While Crow had been promised a shot at Odin Balfore; who he had a long running feud with, if he could dispose of the monster, Oblivion that had murdered a woman live on television in his enemies name. The odds then where high. But that wasn't the full picture in truth.
Because behind closed doors, Crow had something else to fight for on the table. A World title shot had been rumoured. That rumour had made the rounds on the dirt sheets the previous morning of the event. That rumour, I can tell you, was more than hearsay. It was fact. Crow was fighting to rid the world of a monster, but also to gain a precious shot at Odin, and if he could get past that legendary adversary...a world title shot beckoned.
At the time, my client was Natural ICE Beckman, so a rampaging Crow was not an ideal situation to face. However, this wasn't the same man you'll face on Sunday. His talent for violence, I can promise you, has grown exponentially since then. Still, when the bell rang and the time came, Crow fought the monster valiantly in a stipulation known as an inferno Ladder match. A match a certain Jakob Lister had previously made famous.
I didn't matter, because this Crow was focused. Single minded. Determined. His adversary was a murderous freak; as dangerous as they come back then. Time may not have been kind to the monster, but when at the height of his powers, it was obvious why Oblivion was a former world champion. And yet, it still didn't matter. C4 exploded, an Ambulance was set on fire. Flesh was singed to the bone, and yet, Crow persevered. He was triumphant.
The road was set, just Balfore now and the belt would be in his sights. That night, I turned to Beckman after the match, we said nothing to each other. Neither of us were laughing at Corey anymore. We simply asked the tech guys for a copy of the match and knew that one day, we'd need it.
Only the day never came. Crow never got that title shot. Time marched on. The rest you know in part. But one fact remains. Crow beat Oblivion. He beat Odin Balfore. He earned that shot. Yet he never got it.
He also never gave up. Think about that. Now, ask yourself this: could you be as determined and as tenacious as Crow? Lets look at some of the suspects:
Chase Jackson, the Chris Avery production line automaton that just keeps on ticking. Rain or shine there you are, the create-a-wrestler that thinks it's a man. Can you not hear it, Chase? The tick tock sound as you walk? There's a button that's buried deep into the back of your scalp that's marked factory settings; if you press it; Torture's voice emerges, wondering if he can get away with wearing a woman's fur coat today. Because that's who you are, Chase. Every move, every tick and inflection of your fighting style is basically an off the rack Tort. A north Korean plastic knock off; not the real thing. The sheen is missing, the class is absent. What we have instead is a counterfeit version; it's battery life is half, there's a high probability of overheating. You don't have the patience or the know how for a contest such as this. This is ladder warfare. And for a man who's already proven to be incapable of winning this belt, that's an extra challenge too far. You can't overcome these odds. You can't beat Crow and take charge of a match as chaotic and as unpredictably as this. A match that demands the ability to adapt. A word your underdeveloped, kindergarten mind has absolutely no concept of.
Face it, this is child brutality. This is the mass transit incident circa 2016. This is a boy playing around with an adults gun. Once the bell sounds this Sunday? The gun goes off, and you Chase, you end up dead. Blown apart by the style, speed and fury of a champion born for a match such as this. Crow's going to undertake a live autopsy, a piece by piece dissection of a innocent young soul incapable of defending himself. I can already see the conflict waging in my grandson's eyes as the match approaches, the question he keeps asking himself, is he strong enough to commit the unthinkable to achieve the near impossible? To massacre you and retain. I say, yes. He is. Because deep down inside that heart that no longer beats, is a soul that understands now the price of fame. The weight of a championship belt. Howard Black's attack happened at exactly the wrong time for you. It was the last tether, the last link to a world where he loved and trusted his friends. Now what does he face in this brave new world? Hatred and jealously. His education is almost complete, thanks in part to last Sunday. Crow now knows the truth that all true champions are destined to learn. That once you have the belt? No one is your friend. No one, except me. The shape. Grandfather and chief architect of this reign of destruction that will reshape our business and revive our industry. With a man of the people by my side. The irony must be stifling.
Crow does not fear this imposing burden. This legacy he must attain. Instead, he eagerly embraces it. Nurtures it even. Eyes open and ready to grasp his destiny at last. Crow was born to die. To be reborn as the murder machine. It was fate that determined victory two weeks ago. You know what fate is, Chase? It's hard work, out on a date with talent and planning. You don't have such playmates, you're stuck with cardboard cut-out stand-in's that hover and buzz around you but know nothing about what is in store for you as the bell sounds and ladder warfare begins.
Think about it, your best friend is as inexperienced as you, your so called “manager” is a bargain basement grotesque that acts like a trailer park Ari Gold whose career is made from pyrite and a fake plastic doll of me. You are fucked from the ground up, never mind air-flited to the championship above.
When Crow raises the Belt on Sunday having retained a belt he has won, from you, for a second time. What do you suppose will the inquest be into your pitiful life? What shall it reveal? That you were an abused idiot? A dancing brain damaged bear on a leash that was forced too soon into an environment you had no business being in? That will be one conclusion for consider. Other hypothesises will follow I'm sure, none as flattering as the first; a domino effect as investigations and tell all interviews in smutty magazines reveal a history of nativity and shallowness. You're a child lost on a theme park ride, Chase. Dead and alone in the tunnel of hate, as a condemned sign is nailed outside and your bones rot with a chalk outline. Spencer Adams sent you to die this Sunday. He was an unfit GM; and he has paid a price for his ineptitude. A price that will trickle down to you as your world crumbles around your ears and your so called friends abandon you. After all, none of them are likely to receive get free tickets to the Bulls name by name dropping a waste of space such as yourself. That would be bad comedy.
Speaking of bad comedy; what do we have behind our next door? What's this chill that's lacing up his pale blue clown shoes for a night spent pratfalling to the sound of progress as it steam-rolls over his chronic sullen face like a train. Is that? Is that Cameron Bankston: seven of nine? That space-balls-up that play-acts each week like a bad sy-fy channel production note on ECW's early two-thousand's desk. I can imagine the post-it notes now: “Make us up a space guy, he's all Josh Whedon and smart ass; he's all Nathan Fillion and Firefly, but deep down, actually not deep down; make it all on the surface (because, you know, our demographic) he has these (really obvious) faults and fears that show him as human (i.e. fallible) kind of guy that fallible, minimum wage types can relate to because they don't know what the fuck they're doing either. Like, he's super awesome and unstoppable outside of the ring, but inside, he's a quivering fucking joke because he can't get past the psychological damage one former world champion and diabolical super fiend, Nathan Von Libert did to his sweet, sweet Nightmare a thousand years ago. A bit like how your boss chews you out in work and you can't muster a comeback because your paints just turned brown. So he uses it like a crutch to excuse bad performance after bad performance until the crutch has become inseparable from the man. A part of him. A symbiotic relationship that will forever be his go to excuse as wins elude him, like shadows on a wall, for decades and era's to come. But yeah, he's funny though.
I shouldn't bring your wife into proceedings, Polar. It's wrong, I know. And some will argue, quite rightly I'm sure, that there are lines that are meant to be respected and honoured between seasoned warriors such as ourselves. Respect, that's the watchword I always keep hearing these days. Let's be respectful. Turn a page, and embrace a new era after 1he Wav3 wrecked all our lives. Well, a new era has indeed arrived, Polar. One where Spencer Adams has been unceremoniously sacked, and his spiteful parting shot to disrupt my Grandson's rise to the top will soon be comprehensively foiled. The Adams legacy embarrassed, as the last embers of Spencer's pitiful reign are grounded down into dust.
Tell me, Cameron; now that we're about to enter this next phase of our relationship; one where I, as the sole manager of a champion recreated from the ground up to rule faces off against you, a relic of a bygone era; what are your feelings right now as the time for the match slowly approaches? Trepidation? Fear? Exposure? I looked back over your career and the one ( and only) standout that captured my eye was a television championship match you had with Lilith over three years ago. It's not exactly Heavyweight championship material, is it? You've had champions in your ranks, Cam; from the original Pantheon to the Unstable elements to Cryogenix. But you yourself have never been able to pull off the big one, have you? Instead you like to limpet yourself onto greater talents in order to validate your wild schemes and fanciful escapades. A parasitic organism that flourishes under the energy of others. Replacing their tongues with your words and ideas because they can't survive under your own power. This time you have a Jay Omega puppet filling in for a Jonny Fly mannequin in the engine room. A poor man's substitute for a late Steve Orbit. My dead son. My beautiful black dead son...
I, I, I miss him so, Polar. Steven was such a good boy, a kind and happy boy once he realised and excepted that I was his one and true father. The day he died felt like my heart had been torn out from it's study Jew chest. Nothing was ever the same after that day. Perhaps that's why I am so protective of my Grandson. I see you on the horizon, Cameron. The pied piper of ham and rye. I see you sulking around my boy Crow with Peter Pan ideas of adventures and joviality and it sickens me to think that you can just waltz into this world of mine and think you're the centre of it. You're not, Cameron. Far, far from it in fact, your inclusion in this match just exposures everything that's wrong with this company. And you. There's no accountability, no consequence.
You had your shot weeks ago, Cameron and you blew it because there was no dinosaurs or space ships on the line; just a hunk of metal and steel that symbolises athletic prowess. And that hasn't interested you for a very long time, has it? Answer me this Phantasm, your a pragmatic man when pushed; does your inclusion in this match make any logical sense? You have no desire to hold this belt; your win/loss record is sloppy at best. Why are you exorcising your first amendment right as a wrestler to be ordinary and forgettable at the top of the card? Is it a protest vote? Is it a P.R. campaign by Obamacare to show the world that even mild mannered geeks deserve love and a belt too? So far you've lost to Andre Holmes in week one (thus knocking you out of the tournament) In week two, Bonnie Blue (who Crow fought and defeated last week ) won you your tag match single handed against Kyle Kemp and Dustin Beaver. In week three they didn't even give you the airtime to appear, just a roll up and another Bonnie victory. (just like how Nightmare had to do all the work when you where a so called “tag team” back in 2012) I've seen that Bonnie match in it's entirety by the way, it's more rare than ” The Clown that Cried”, same conclusion though, a clown (Bonnie) leads a child (you) to the gas chamber (Obscurity). Or in this case, a child leads her mentor/leader to the irreverence corner.
And yet, somehow, here you are. You've managed to survive oblivion virtually untouched. With a title shot on the horizon, while your Guardians workhorse, Miss Blue; gets nothing. So much for the era of emancipation. Perhaps she needs to chain herself to Mayor Sanchez's mansion gate and demand a referendum.
You're not a winner, Polar. You're a dreamer. And the world needs dreamers kept in their place. Industry needs dreamers, go there. Television needs dreamers, go there. We need you out there, winning noble peace prizes for science and literature. Curing life threatening diseases. Advancing the fields of science and psychics. But where we absolutely don't need you, and never have, is in a wrestling ring. My Grandson might find your current antics, “ cool”, as he reads up on your crusades from his wash room hammock, but then, he finds “World's Funniest Animals” funny too. He's easily amused; until the bell sounds and the match begins. Then the smile is gone as the ghost appears; in these brutal moments he's his Grandfather's boy all day long. All business and pain. He punches the clock and wipes part time heroes such as yourself off the map forever with a murder of crows just for the fun of it. If I where you? I'd build myself a bunker in new Antarctica and hibernate there for a few years. This is Crow's season now. His time. Feast on tin peaches with Nightmare and dream of the surface until we get bored, Polar. I'd hate to see a fertile mind such as yours turned inside out for a belt you don't even give a shit about.
Final door (because Andre isn't worth it) and what do we find? Why, it's a lesson in histrionics for Mister Omega. Since you're a “supposed” time traveller Jay, you're probably all too aware by now of your place within recorded events; those heavy, downtrodden memories of two weeks ago still weighing like lead upon that battery farm-fresh mind of yours. Just a brief recap then for the fans out there; at the conclusion of the inaugural tournament to decide the UCI's first world champion, you faced my client, my Grandson, the current World Heavyweight Champion, Crow McMorris in a one on one confrontation to determine who would carry the torch first for the company. In that match you lost to the Murder Machine. You fought bravely, and with heart; it was almost as if you actually cared again for some brief, slender moments. But in the end, when the final bell rang and my client's hand was raised, that brief spark of passion you had was muzzled and muted and crated. The airfreight stamp indicates that it was sent to a Maratopian research lab for study, since such odd mutations as “courage” and “fortitude” in the Omega production gene are a rarity to behold these days.
After the shock of the win, questions began to rain down from social media; each thread had, at it's nucleus, the same burning question: “why?” Allow me to once again illuminate the readership with my insightful acumen upon events. You, Jay Omega, are enamoured with being the nearly man. The chase is your drug, not the win. When Crow sees you, there's an element of what he used to be huddled in the back of your show boating personality and it infuriates him. He wants to beat that imperfection that has infected you, out of you system. But no matter how much he rips you apart this week, or the next, or the next, it is always going to be there. Lurking, costing you championships and title reigns. Because, irony of ironies, it was Crow himself that planted the disease into your mind in the first place. He held the needle, I concocted the poison. We have you hooked on failure now, Jay. Because it's easier, to be the lovable loser, than the all conquering champion. That's why Cameron Bankston has his claws burred deep inside of you now. Why you're his pet zealot until the end of time. Crow McMorris managed to beat the spirit of competition out of you two weeks ago. Left you barren and alone. A listless ship sinking beneath the waves.
There are two pillars of reason that live inside every great athlete. That keep them buoyant and successful. The first is the Extrinsic Motivation; this drives an Athlete on as he (or she) searches for monetary gain. For power. For recognition. That's my drug. My high. In my prime I was a boxer; didn't matter who's face I had to ruin, the money was worth it. It's what I understand, but you Omega, you have no need to worry about money, you've never been hungry, you've never been destitute. All your life you've been robbed of these fears. It's a shame, because there absence means that you have a hole where that desperate, fighting spirit should be. The need to go to dark places to succeed. You can't remember what hunger tastes like upon the tongue. And that damages you, Omega. It leaves you handicapped when you need to dig deep. That's why you created the Hardcore Maniac I suppose. To fill that gap. It won't be enough however, Jay. No schizoid band aid can heal your loss. And Crow will punish you for it.
The second pillar is Intrinsic Motivation, the athlete performs because it provides internal peace, it full-fills a desire or a need. Two weeks ago I watched you face my Grandson from the sidelines upon his request. He wanted the world to know that he was capable of going out there and winning the title on his own. It was against my better wishes, but I knew that his training would suffice, because deep down; he was at peace. He was ready to be as vicious and as callous as he needed to be to succeed. His hate was conquered and forged now into a weapon. His misgivings buried along with his self doubt. Death was a release for him. A reboot. The new flesh had arrived. And with it, a man who could be champion. A man I could be proud to call, “Grandson”.
As I embraced Crow into my Family, so did Crow embrace my teachings. Finally he understood and listened. So when Wentworth Updergraff pushed you off that turnbuckle, there was no hesitation from Crow. No pause to reflect and consider. That Murder of Crows was always destined to strike you on the way down. Because this Crow understands that there is no time in this business for pity or remorse. Just the win. Just the victory and the belt and the legacy that follows. And that, Jay Omega, is liking where you are in life. Because for Crow, you failed yourself seven days previously when you allowed Wentworth to attack you. You should have finished him off then. What happened at Lazarus was on you, for being lacked in you business. For not taking care of your enemies when you had the chance. And that, is what they call in distance. You're not in touch with your own career anymore. Because you, Jay Omega, have become nothing more than a supporting character in your own life. You're powerless because Cameron Bankston holds all the cards, while you wait out in the rain, like a junkie, for him to deal them. The Guardians have robbed you of your sense of self and your self worth. With Crow, I inherited a shell of a man; I had to reconstruct him. Recondition him. Teach him as I would a child the true ways of the world. Little did I know how smart he was. He learned fast, grew and germinated into a actual killing machine. No matter how many times you and Polar double team my client this Sunday night. He is a McMorris.
He heals, he learns, he kills. Because he knows what he is. While you four, are lost upon a stage.
This is the horrible truth of it all: what your shallow lives have become now, mere roles; acted upon stage constructed on a far flung planet called, “midcard”, you may have heard of it, it's in the system known as “No more second chances after Sunday”. They like stage plays their I hear. Once you arrive you will dance and sing for the locals cruel amusement. A stage crowded with desperate men whose lives have been emasculated by their lack of self worth and purpose. You are all now pawns upon the Crowman's chessboard. Stand helplessly as the pieces fall neatly into place as the curtain rises, watch as shocked fans around the galaxy recommence there data sphere acclimatisation process as another Buddy Roman production begins. Another history lesson to examine and discuss as a younger Bonnie Blue wakes up in a far off future to learn that once again, her soon-to-be Guardian team mates have met their match in an immortal man and a cantankerous Jew.
Apologies Mister Omega. No song and dance act this time, just victory. Just Conquest. As Monday brings a world where I rule, side by side with my family of course. We're going to bring the dank back, a fighting spirit to this company and to this business that has been left like driftwood upon a wav3 damaged shoreline.
The vote has already been cast. The decision has been made. People of the UCI have voted...to exterminate four useless souls at the feet of the Crowman. Crow accepts this decision magnanimously, and will take their meagre sacrifice as payment for his precious time. He looks forward to seeing you on the west side. Humboldt Park. A new murder scene, for an old crop of fools.
CONQUER. THE. VOTE.
HAIL, CROW.
DUEL II
It's Saturday, Just another day. A few hours ago a Black water chopper chased me down to this abandoned dockland site. Chain gun fire from the Huey has rained down on me for the last half hour. This is a no man's land for the cops. Just me, my steed and the approaching sound of rotors. I face a fifth storey window, my hide out as I plan my attack. The dirty, cracked glass shielding my presence as I rev the Kawasaki and prepare. This is my life, week in and out. Spencer would often say that I was a “War time champion”. My ability to survive was what kept the UCI alive. As long as I was champion they never could destroy what we where building here. I had become a symbol of our indestructibility. Twenty four hours from now, I will be fighting in a west side park, climbing a ladder and retrieving my belt.
That's Sunday.
Tonight, I rev my engine as the Huey passes by, it hasn't seen me as my rear tire spins frantically. A moment later and I'm riding headlong into the enemy. Smashing out of that window as my bike (and me) are launched like a missile into our target. I will crash. I will burn. I will win.
This is Saturday.
Tomorrow, it begins again. The Great Game.
Such is the life of this Champion.
FIN.
SATURDAY
My rage is focused into a sharp point as I grit my yellow teeth and wait for the moment to strike. If I could hold a breath now, like those silly living folk, I would. But such luxuries are no longer afforded to me as I see something moving in the cold, numbing darkness; it's a searchlight from my enemy, approaching fast as it hunts for dead bones.
The sound of snarling menace is humming close by within the raw, deafening machinery that accompanies it. Beneath my feet, cold concrete warms to the presence of my steed as my engine sings. Eager to engage the enemy one last time. No going back now for either of us I suppose. Fuck it! I want this! I am the battle standard! I am the one who fights upon the wall! The one who protects this city. Who defends it's people. This is my Cartel. My Chicago! I am this world's champion. And when you're champion? You have responsibilities. Not just to your title, but to your colours. You fight; your enemies, your competitors, with the same vigour and heart in equal measure week after week.
No excuses. No off days. It doesn't matter if it's an Andre Holmes and his vampire diaries gif obsession, or Polar Phantasm speaking backwards nonsense, while his city lies burning and in peril. No difference between a Chase Jackson, stranded on a Netflix sitcom that's pretending to be his life, or a wise ass Jay Omega; the dumb man's James Bond, a good natured buffoon with all the money and most of the gadgets, yet none of the focus and the street smarts needed to get the job done when it counts. None of this matters in truth however, because in the end, what wins you matches...what will ALWAYS win you matches, is you. It's just you.
You, and that promise you make. The silent one. The one that carries terrors. The one that delivers. And that's the scary part. That's when the world stops and realises that you're not firing blanks anymore. That your ultimatums are for real. That what you say from now on, goes. I am the UCI World Heavyweight Champion. You jump, and the only question that remains on your dry lips is how high. That's on me to contain. That's my power, and my responsibility. No offence to the others I will face this Sunday night in Ladder warfare, but none of them are up to that task. They'd fold in a week tops. They'd buckle. Break.
I recite that silent promise to myself now as I think back over the past few weeks. Its directed towards my enemies like a laser guided cruise missile; those that have invaded my land. That have threatened my people. The mercenaries that stole my belt, and forced me to fight in a pit against a chimera of man and machine. Now, tonight, as that searchlight steadily approaches, I turn the key in my mind and arm that silent promise with a vow of retribution. Those bastards out there are gonna fucking pay. In blood. As much as I can bleed from their dirty veins.
The rotor's approach. This is it. Time to keep my word.
THE RED COFFIN
FRIDAY
The UCI world heavyweight title felt strange over my shoulder as a naked, milk white siren danced seductively around me. I sat there, happy. Open legged upon a red velvet chair. The heavyweight title's odd, blue-gold radiance bedazzling the tattooed Valkyrie with it's luminous evil. The stripper's forest green eyes were hypnotised now by the belt's coiled darkness, dark pleasures igniting in her serpentine, Nordic expression. Her gyrating, synchronous hips swayed rhythmically in time with the melancholic beats of Meg Myers, “Desire”. The music shaking the mirrored walls of our box shaped tomb, serenading our intimacy under a sky of red lights, that baptised our bare bodies as they became conjoined, one heaving mass of lusting flesh beneath a world of deep crimson. Our reflections warping now, losing cohesion as the rule book for such occasions is thrown completely out the window.
Her hair (up top) is long and blonde as I penetrate below. Her locks cascading and flowing over an alluring, sculptured face and a set of painted black lips (up top) that brush passionately against mine. Her genealogy had blessed her with an athletic hourglass body. She took hold of my constant cold hands and placed them on her warm ample hips as her nails dug gingerly into my back. I moaned. A spark of humanity rising to the surface as my dead body forgot it's current condition. She sat upon my thighs, positioning herself for optimum comfort as our dance continued.
This place of desperate fantasy was named, Cobra Verde; an off-the-grid Chicago gentleman's club for the more discerning customer. I have a thing for blonde goths myself, and management here are world renowned for providing customers with the right fit for their dirty little minds. For me, its Suicide girls that tick the boxes. Growing up around metal bands and rock journalists in my youth this woman fits my rigueur de jour from a young age. The death part I keep to myself though as we close in tight. I hear her heart and imagine it's mine. Right now I feel alive, more alive than I have in quite awhile, and while it's not the same as before, it's easily as close as I get these days. Until of course, I catch sight of our reflections once more.
And hear the toiling of that bell, emanating from the belt.
I know what this is, the steel in the strap is not of this earth; it's metallurgy is alien in origin; emitting a strange fallout pulse that brings about feverish, waking dreams of parallel dimensions where ghosts of champions dwell, and freakish hallucinations of twisted body horror. Right now, me and this woman are not human as I gaze into the fracturing glass behind her; my hacked vision tells me we are now two snakes entwined; hissing as we fuck. Our reptilian bodies tearing each other to pieces as I close my eyes tightly and dream of peaceful summer skies over a sun drenched Poon Guinea; sitting on a veranda with a chilled glass of Captain Morgan's rum in my hand. Hearing the sound of children playing in the cobbled stoned courtyards below. The smell of salt air rising from the ocean. Reminding me of the first time that I died and was reborn in my mother's belly on that south seas beach.
SKINT!
You hear that? That's when I feel it, a sharp stabbing pain in my chest. It's not a recollection or a heart attack as my eyes dart open. No, what we have here is the stripper plunging a hunting knife deep down into a cavernous hole in my belly! Her mouth screaming words in a language I don't understand as her eyes are alight with focused, professional fury. Fuck! Where did she get the knife? Scotch tape around the handle reveals the answer. It was taped beneath the plush velvet red seats. This location was a trap from the moment I arrived, from the minute she took my hand, leading me off into this isolated booth. I walked blindly into a venue that had been orchestrated now to be my casket. Another day as champion. Another murder attempt by a vengeful Gideon Snow; determined to make me suffer for destroying his prized creation and raising his Chicago Fight League arena to the ground. Blackwater have infinite resources, it would seem, and no end to their quest for bitter vengeance.
Damn it, I had been reckless tonight. Alone and bored I strayed too far from the boundaries of UCI territory in search of entertainment; this was my penance as the blade was plunged back down into my ribcage. I could feel the bones crack under the weight of the assault as the Stripper leaned forward, placing all the leverage she could muster down onto the incision. Both her hands where now wrapped around the blade, exposing her taunt upper torso to a counterstrike. She had left herself open, probably thinking I was entering into a state of shock by now as the blood ran; that's how normal physiology works; the body breaks down. Reactions slow. Everything grinding down until it stops.
But not me. I keep going. Unstoppable. I've come too far over the last few weeks, fought too hard for too long to stop now. I fought through competitor after competitor. I fought these faces before and won. And Sunday? I'll do it again. Don't believe me? Watch me this Sunday night when I destroy a fake Howard Black, a wrestler just out of diapers, and a pair of whacked out space cadets. What do they fight for exactly this week I wonder? Let me tell you, one named Andre Holmes, he fights for a broken mirror image, trying desperately to measure up to a stolen reflection as his copycat world crashes down around him. Jay Omega and Cameron Bankston Jr. fights to stand still, hiding behind galaxies and constellations that contain just enough adventure to distract them from the truth, that they're not prepared to pay the high price for this title. A price that demands blood and sacrifice and hardship for small moments of sweet, well earned glory. And then there's the young white knight, chase Jackson; who's more of a zombie than I am, a puppet on string pulled this way and that. One day It'll be his day I'm sure; but there's plenty of highlight reels ahead of me before that sun rises.
I reach down for my salvation as my title slips from my shoulder. The stripper kicks the belt casually aside. I feel a swell of anger bubble up inside me as I keep my eyes focused on my dirty clothing, a bundle of rags perched precariously upon the curvature of a long stretch of velvet seating; inside my faded bomber jacket pocket is my inhaler. This toy isn't for a case of asthma though; its a handy little invention of mine. Innocuous on the outside, the inhaler is, in truth, an electronic crack pip; wired beneath the hood for when I need that extra kick during dire situations. As a McMorris, my body heals fast with coke; but faster still with crack. There's a comedown afterwards, but right now I'll take that hangover over the feeling of burst lungs and punctured kidneys dripping out of my ass.
“Fok jy jou DOS bliksem!” she screams as her South African accent booms. She'd carve up Oscar Pistorius for breakfast and a tip as she rips her serrated blade away from my gut once more, blood and worse running down my bare frame as I carefully choose my moment. The knife high above her head now, reaching it's apex.
Now, I strike.
I shove the inhaler into her face, pressing her jaw down hard on the device. A burst of vaporised crack cocaine is fired directly into her shocked, incredulous system; the dosage is a cocktail that could kill a race horse; it takes a few moments for the enviable to arrive here, a trickle of thick black blood congealing on her oval tear ducks as her brain hermitages and flickers out of use.
If I could laugh now I would, but I'm too busted up. I have just enough energy left to cough up a mouthful of blood and spit it at her limp corpse to underline the moment. I rip the inhaler away from her teeth and take a hit. The universe expanding as my flesh and bones hear the call to mend. It hurts, but pain is manageable. I wouldn't ask an Andre Holmes though what that means, the man can't manage to deal with a knee brace, this Sunday it will acts as an anchor, weighing him down to the mid-card life as a middle management stooge. Andre's eyes watering as I climb that ladder and once again show him his place. What comes after? Andre will drink, and lose matches...his family...his focus. Some fight, he flights. Yes Andre, “Welcome back Howard”, indeed.
“Oh Howie, please provide me with more material so I can rip off your life. It's all I have left”
Heh, heh...
I tear my Ichi the killer tee apart and wrap its remains around my waist to keep my guts inside. Even though I don't technically need lungs anymore, it still burns to have them loose. I drag myself to my feet, pick up my belt, and exit that red coffin as naked as I was born. Steeping over the body of my enemy as I depart.
My vision is still bury as I see representatives of Blackwater, this week they're teaming up with KKK's very Own Grand Dragon Wrestling. Not good, UCI is galvanising other Cartels against us. That could pose a problem further down the road.
Thankfully, the studio 54 meets vapour-wave inspired decor was cleared of customers as the dark corners of the club now contained the shadows of soldiers armed with all manner of barbarous weaponry. Morning stars glinting under a sparkling disco ball.
Fuck, time to think outside the box.
I have one last trick to play as the white hooded bastards begin to circle; I pour the remainder of my lighter fluid across the length of my right arm. Death. Rebirth. It gives you an odd perspective on life. I light the match.
Flaming lariat.
I run, as best as I can, at the first unfortunate bastard in my way. The lariat sets his white hood on fire, the large, out of shape man screams as he misses with a knife lunge, I'm grateful for that. So as a reward, I use the belt to shove the lard ass into one of his friends so he doesn't have to burn alone. The sound of gunfire whizzing past my skull now as I duck and roll; hoping that my intestines don't drop out on the retro LED dance floor.
There no music, the DJ has ran off, yet I can't get “Don't stop me now” by Queen out of my head as I dodge and weave through the KKK crowd, that's my best bet, use their burning bodies as cover so the Blackwater bullets don't strike, I can't afford to slow down now as I finally reach the exit.
KERRRR-SMASH!
The fourth floor window isn't an exit, to you. But to me it will do just fine under the circumstances. I think about reaching out for the fire escape on the way down; but the last time I tried that stunt, it just dislocated my shoulder and that's always a bastard to pop back in. Best just except the fact that the side walk is going to break my fall. As long as I don't kill a nun or a harikrishna on impact; then everything will be okay.
KRUNCH!
TIRES SQUELL
FPV: Crow?
It's Frank Patrick Venable. He's probably thinking “what the fuck , Crow?” and also “ Why the fuck are you naked”. Me? It's all abut the Lincoln continental he's driving. Nice automobile; nice chrome trim.
FPV: You okay?
I manage a semi sarcastic thumbs up as I peel my face off the road and pick up the belt beside me. Then I point skyward as bullets rain down; the Blackwater team scowl as we drive away; the world appears fragmented in a cracked bullet ridden windshield. I hope this isn't a rental, it's going to cost me a fortune to fix a custom job like this as Frank guns the engine and turns a corner at speed. The cold of the night air reminding me that this is a somewhat..awkward situation to be in.
FPV: Why the fuck are you naked, Crow. Were they torturing you?
Crow McMorris: Nope. Prostitute. I get bored sometimes.
FPV: Oh, well that's just fucking great! Jesus, Crow! I just had the upholstery cleaned!
Crow McMorris: Half the world is after my DNA, yet you get a sample for free; some people are never satisfied. Where are we heading? And who sent you? This isn't your usual side of town, Frank.
FPV: Buddy, he's back at the warehouse. Do we need to stop some place. You know, to get you decent?
Crow McMorris: Nah, I have a change of clothes there. Uncomfortable?
FPV: Well...why, why is your penis hard?
Sure enough; my Johnson is up and ready to impress. It's a mean one eyed bastard, this one. Earthworm Jim with a vengeance.
Crow McMorris: I mix Viagra in with my crack. Makes for a poignant heal in times of need.
Frank just rolls his eyes as a gaggle of blushing nuns cross the street at the lights.
FPV: Figures.
AN EMPTY ROOM
Buddy is sitting in Spencer's leather bound executive chair as spins slowly left and right. Frank and I enter the office. This is the Crow's nest; looming over the ring like a hunched God. Not so impressive on the inside however; just your bog standard middle management hovel. Buddy is dressed in his navy blue pinstriped suit, monogrammed cufflinks shined up. Smile as forced as ever. Teeth like a hungry shark.
Buddy Roman: What did I tell you, Crow? Cool off the whores, you're being hunted!
I shrug. The day he knows what it's like to be me is the day I listen. He knows that of course. That's why we work as a team. He gets it, it's just that he cares along with it. Like a real father.
Crow McMorris: What is it?
Buddy Roman: Howard Black. You wanted his new number? I managed to prize it from Spencer's old records. In case you wanted to send him a message for Sunday. Also, Spencer's been. Well, he's been paying us out of his own pocket. He mortgaged his home. So say the records. Unbelievably stupid of course. But admirable I suppose.
FPV: Jesus.
Buddy Roman: Please, not that charlatan's name in my presence.
I want to say something about Spencer. About what an upstanding guy he is. But nothing comes out. Except.
Crow McMorris: The number, Buddy.
Buddy threw me my spare cell, the number ready to dial. I nodded a thanks, excused myself from the office and called the number. I had managed to walk into a deserted locker room before the call connected.
“This is Howard Black, I don't want to speak to you. Fuck off after the beep”
Beep!
Hello, Howard. It's me, Crow. I'm sitting in Spencer's old office overlooking the arena right now. Feet up on his desk. Heaven is empty today, it's abandoned and the angels are in retreat. Spencer and Gable have been sacked. The world is spinning off it's axis with no answers for the next seven days. Who rules? What UCI am I fighting for? So many questions with no answers in sight. So here I sit, just me and that old devil Buddy Roman. Champion and manager. The real driving force behind this company now, and forever more. We're both been pondering something today as we write our own checks and draw up new contracts. We're remunerating over last nights events. Dissecting them carefully. And we're wondering right now, why you, you fucking midget prick, decided to be a small man, Howard. Why did you becomes a little man. An Andre Holmes, when your head used to be held so high.
Yeah, that's how low you've sunk.
You've become a copy of a copy, Howard. A pale imitation of your imitation; that desperation in your bloodshot, sullen eyes when you struck me last night. So fucking pathetic I might add. I've seen that look before though, in another. In Andre's blubbering boo boo face. So easy to manipulate that man; it's sickening really when you think about it. A one note dark knight fanboy with dreams of wearing your skin. Yeah, Andre wants to be just as misogynistic as you, Howie. Just as dysfunctional as you. He can't help himself, that “Buffalo Bill Holmes”. He sees you fall on your knees, Howie; catches you preying to the sky and he just wants to join in. He wants that lotion over his skin or he gets the hose again. That's the kind of fan you inspire, Howard. Twisted, doppelgänger psychos, who lose their shit when faced by women with opinions. Or odds they just can't surmount. Or titles they have no business challenging for. Mirror images who are just. Like. You.
And yet this Andre Holmes, this small man who hates women, who despises himself almost as much as you; he still calls considers himself a hero in spite of his loathsomeness. This little, talentless man who dreams big while stinking up match after match with hack moves and laboured attacks. This journeyman who thinks of himself as a champion of the people. A fake Teddy Blaze on top of a fake Howard Black, waiting in the wings “ready” to rise up and dominate the business in his Don Quixotic mind. This “relentless” Andre Holmes. This zealot with heady delusions running all the way through his brittle, glass shell. He'll follow you over the edge, Howard; not even noticing the drop until its too late. Or, I wonder, is it the other way around?
Maybe he's leading you, Howard. After all; he's the man who self destructed first. Who allowed an unstable Katherine Phoenix to sculpt him into her personal broken watch. Wound up so tight (and so easily) that this perfect lone star face? It cracked. And once those pieces break? You can't glue a shattered mind back together again. It continues to fail, to spiral. Even when you try to convince yourself otherwise, that you're hanging on? Its just hollow platitudes. Delusions for small ears to hear that call you daddy. Tiny faces wondering what's wrong.
Yes, Howard. Family.
You used to be a part of mine, Howard. A good man, an anchor. You were the dependable one among us; the guy who mediated; you spoke of reason and peace. Where's that man now? Did Andre Holmes steal the negative? That hack actor, reliving your greatest performances though his tired, strung out family. Desperate to be as dysfunctional as you, because for him; only success matters. Success in front of his master. You and him, the twin fuck up's, wandering the streets with your collars turned up. Narrating the same b-movie noir themed life with your Damien Sandow relation. One, a telemundo of the other, but I'm not sure which one is which as you turn the key and return home. Family. The first to suffer when faced with a drunk, or a man addicted to pain killers; or simply a minor wrestle in Andre, swamped by the gulf of talent around him that blocks his path to the championship. That, and other things...
I figured it out awhile back, why Andre hated Katherine so much. It's because Andre sees himself in her. You and I know he has that feminine side he keeps hidden (unless of course he's posting a meme) The part of his psyche he can't stand, that ties him up in knots and it's that self loathing is what drove him to assume you personality. Your life is his blueprint to keep all those dark secrets about his real life hidden. You're his cover. But now that you've fragmented into an egotistical ass hole; guess what? He has no choice but to follow you over the edge. Maybe you showed him the way, maybe he showed you. All I know is, I break the bond you two have this Sunday. The Cosplayer and the Original. Cosplayer first, of course, as a taster. Then you. Just for old times sake. Because you where once a decent man, before the arm break, before the wolf headed man showed you the way.
My father's killed fifteen careers, Howard. Fifteen. Somewhere in the world right now? He's about to make it sixteen. You, you can be my first. Dove number one to have it's wings clipped. I trusted you once, Howard. I trusted you like a fucking brother and you spat in my face like all that trust meant nothing. You took our friendship and flushed it away. So now I'm gonna dispose of you. Through Andre. This Sunday I want you to watch closely, Howard. Every bone that I break, every limb I render useless. Every hope I strangle and turn blue, they'll be all his. Andre's world will shudder and crumble under the weight of a simple exhibition; a shape of things to come for one Howard black as I destroy his mirror image, his third rate tribute act. I'm gonna make old' Coach Haliday cry when I expose every trick you have as a busted flush. Tricks your cosplayer, Andre Holmes learned as bible. I'm gonna burn that fucker's Sunday school to the ground.
THE BUDDY SYSTEM
Blog date: 25/06/16
I can see your faces right now. The smiles. The air of confidence. You all think you stand a chance against my Grandson because of the nature of this match. The conditions, you think, give you that slender element of chance. After all, you don't have to pin my Grandson. You don't have to achieve what has been impossible for five long weeks straight and counting now for this locker room. You don't have to beat a man who has never lost to win. What you have to do, is to scrap, to scratch, to bite and crawl your pathetic, unworthy bodies up a ladder and snatch a belt off a cable to gain victory. A slender chance , but better than the alternative. So there you are, weight training with your buddies, or opening up the mysteries of the universe with Nikolai Tesla, or arguing with your miserable, downtrodden family because your faith in yourself is fading and you can't help but sink beneath the surface, drowning in a sea of self loathing while losing your mind to the jealously and the hate; all these small lives you idiots lead, and yet, there's that one universal thread, that chance, you think it's there, that it exists. A sender corridor of possibility that will allow you to gain glory. To set things right.
Wrong.
Allow me the honour, the privilege, of cutting that thread. Of slamming that door of possibility shut in your misbegotten faces. Listen closely now, through the laughter I will unravel the truth.
My Grandson has faced a situation such as this before. A moment when all was on the line with a ladder and madness standing in his way. Do you remember? I suppose you don't. None of you remember history. Your lives are flaccid, useless things; Incapable of understanding your enemy much less usurping him. It was two years ago. He was alive back then, not a fast or as mean as he is now; lacking the technical know-how and ruthless ambition that I have instilled into my Grandson through a carefully crafted regime. It was an event in a federation you all know well. The golden tears when freedom still held some sway. This event was known as Explosion. Crow's opponent was a raving mad, Oblivion. Oblivion had been promised a World Heavyweight title shot if he could dispose of a rebellious and lone wolf Crow. While Crow had been promised a shot at Odin Balfore; who he had a long running feud with, if he could dispose of the monster, Oblivion that had murdered a woman live on television in his enemies name. The odds then where high. But that wasn't the full picture in truth.
Because behind closed doors, Crow had something else to fight for on the table. A World title shot had been rumoured. That rumour had made the rounds on the dirt sheets the previous morning of the event. That rumour, I can tell you, was more than hearsay. It was fact. Crow was fighting to rid the world of a monster, but also to gain a precious shot at Odin, and if he could get past that legendary adversary...a world title shot beckoned.
At the time, my client was Natural ICE Beckman, so a rampaging Crow was not an ideal situation to face. However, this wasn't the same man you'll face on Sunday. His talent for violence, I can promise you, has grown exponentially since then. Still, when the bell rang and the time came, Crow fought the monster valiantly in a stipulation known as an inferno Ladder match. A match a certain Jakob Lister had previously made famous.
I didn't matter, because this Crow was focused. Single minded. Determined. His adversary was a murderous freak; as dangerous as they come back then. Time may not have been kind to the monster, but when at the height of his powers, it was obvious why Oblivion was a former world champion. And yet, it still didn't matter. C4 exploded, an Ambulance was set on fire. Flesh was singed to the bone, and yet, Crow persevered. He was triumphant.
The road was set, just Balfore now and the belt would be in his sights. That night, I turned to Beckman after the match, we said nothing to each other. Neither of us were laughing at Corey anymore. We simply asked the tech guys for a copy of the match and knew that one day, we'd need it.
Only the day never came. Crow never got that title shot. Time marched on. The rest you know in part. But one fact remains. Crow beat Oblivion. He beat Odin Balfore. He earned that shot. Yet he never got it.
He also never gave up. Think about that. Now, ask yourself this: could you be as determined and as tenacious as Crow? Lets look at some of the suspects:
Chase Jackson, the Chris Avery production line automaton that just keeps on ticking. Rain or shine there you are, the create-a-wrestler that thinks it's a man. Can you not hear it, Chase? The tick tock sound as you walk? There's a button that's buried deep into the back of your scalp that's marked factory settings; if you press it; Torture's voice emerges, wondering if he can get away with wearing a woman's fur coat today. Because that's who you are, Chase. Every move, every tick and inflection of your fighting style is basically an off the rack Tort. A north Korean plastic knock off; not the real thing. The sheen is missing, the class is absent. What we have instead is a counterfeit version; it's battery life is half, there's a high probability of overheating. You don't have the patience or the know how for a contest such as this. This is ladder warfare. And for a man who's already proven to be incapable of winning this belt, that's an extra challenge too far. You can't overcome these odds. You can't beat Crow and take charge of a match as chaotic and as unpredictably as this. A match that demands the ability to adapt. A word your underdeveloped, kindergarten mind has absolutely no concept of.
Face it, this is child brutality. This is the mass transit incident circa 2016. This is a boy playing around with an adults gun. Once the bell sounds this Sunday? The gun goes off, and you Chase, you end up dead. Blown apart by the style, speed and fury of a champion born for a match such as this. Crow's going to undertake a live autopsy, a piece by piece dissection of a innocent young soul incapable of defending himself. I can already see the conflict waging in my grandson's eyes as the match approaches, the question he keeps asking himself, is he strong enough to commit the unthinkable to achieve the near impossible? To massacre you and retain. I say, yes. He is. Because deep down inside that heart that no longer beats, is a soul that understands now the price of fame. The weight of a championship belt. Howard Black's attack happened at exactly the wrong time for you. It was the last tether, the last link to a world where he loved and trusted his friends. Now what does he face in this brave new world? Hatred and jealously. His education is almost complete, thanks in part to last Sunday. Crow now knows the truth that all true champions are destined to learn. That once you have the belt? No one is your friend. No one, except me. The shape. Grandfather and chief architect of this reign of destruction that will reshape our business and revive our industry. With a man of the people by my side. The irony must be stifling.
Crow does not fear this imposing burden. This legacy he must attain. Instead, he eagerly embraces it. Nurtures it even. Eyes open and ready to grasp his destiny at last. Crow was born to die. To be reborn as the murder machine. It was fate that determined victory two weeks ago. You know what fate is, Chase? It's hard work, out on a date with talent and planning. You don't have such playmates, you're stuck with cardboard cut-out stand-in's that hover and buzz around you but know nothing about what is in store for you as the bell sounds and ladder warfare begins.
Think about it, your best friend is as inexperienced as you, your so called “manager” is a bargain basement grotesque that acts like a trailer park Ari Gold whose career is made from pyrite and a fake plastic doll of me. You are fucked from the ground up, never mind air-flited to the championship above.
When Crow raises the Belt on Sunday having retained a belt he has won, from you, for a second time. What do you suppose will the inquest be into your pitiful life? What shall it reveal? That you were an abused idiot? A dancing brain damaged bear on a leash that was forced too soon into an environment you had no business being in? That will be one conclusion for consider. Other hypothesises will follow I'm sure, none as flattering as the first; a domino effect as investigations and tell all interviews in smutty magazines reveal a history of nativity and shallowness. You're a child lost on a theme park ride, Chase. Dead and alone in the tunnel of hate, as a condemned sign is nailed outside and your bones rot with a chalk outline. Spencer Adams sent you to die this Sunday. He was an unfit GM; and he has paid a price for his ineptitude. A price that will trickle down to you as your world crumbles around your ears and your so called friends abandon you. After all, none of them are likely to receive get free tickets to the Bulls name by name dropping a waste of space such as yourself. That would be bad comedy.
Speaking of bad comedy; what do we have behind our next door? What's this chill that's lacing up his pale blue clown shoes for a night spent pratfalling to the sound of progress as it steam-rolls over his chronic sullen face like a train. Is that? Is that Cameron Bankston: seven of nine? That space-balls-up that play-acts each week like a bad sy-fy channel production note on ECW's early two-thousand's desk. I can imagine the post-it notes now: “Make us up a space guy, he's all Josh Whedon and smart ass; he's all Nathan Fillion and Firefly, but deep down, actually not deep down; make it all on the surface (because, you know, our demographic) he has these (really obvious) faults and fears that show him as human (i.e. fallible) kind of guy that fallible, minimum wage types can relate to because they don't know what the fuck they're doing either. Like, he's super awesome and unstoppable outside of the ring, but inside, he's a quivering fucking joke because he can't get past the psychological damage one former world champion and diabolical super fiend, Nathan Von Libert did to his sweet, sweet Nightmare a thousand years ago. A bit like how your boss chews you out in work and you can't muster a comeback because your paints just turned brown. So he uses it like a crutch to excuse bad performance after bad performance until the crutch has become inseparable from the man. A part of him. A symbiotic relationship that will forever be his go to excuse as wins elude him, like shadows on a wall, for decades and era's to come. But yeah, he's funny though.
I shouldn't bring your wife into proceedings, Polar. It's wrong, I know. And some will argue, quite rightly I'm sure, that there are lines that are meant to be respected and honoured between seasoned warriors such as ourselves. Respect, that's the watchword I always keep hearing these days. Let's be respectful. Turn a page, and embrace a new era after 1he Wav3 wrecked all our lives. Well, a new era has indeed arrived, Polar. One where Spencer Adams has been unceremoniously sacked, and his spiteful parting shot to disrupt my Grandson's rise to the top will soon be comprehensively foiled. The Adams legacy embarrassed, as the last embers of Spencer's pitiful reign are grounded down into dust.
Tell me, Cameron; now that we're about to enter this next phase of our relationship; one where I, as the sole manager of a champion recreated from the ground up to rule faces off against you, a relic of a bygone era; what are your feelings right now as the time for the match slowly approaches? Trepidation? Fear? Exposure? I looked back over your career and the one ( and only) standout that captured my eye was a television championship match you had with Lilith over three years ago. It's not exactly Heavyweight championship material, is it? You've had champions in your ranks, Cam; from the original Pantheon to the Unstable elements to Cryogenix. But you yourself have never been able to pull off the big one, have you? Instead you like to limpet yourself onto greater talents in order to validate your wild schemes and fanciful escapades. A parasitic organism that flourishes under the energy of others. Replacing their tongues with your words and ideas because they can't survive under your own power. This time you have a Jay Omega puppet filling in for a Jonny Fly mannequin in the engine room. A poor man's substitute for a late Steve Orbit. My dead son. My beautiful black dead son...
I, I, I miss him so, Polar. Steven was such a good boy, a kind and happy boy once he realised and excepted that I was his one and true father. The day he died felt like my heart had been torn out from it's study Jew chest. Nothing was ever the same after that day. Perhaps that's why I am so protective of my Grandson. I see you on the horizon, Cameron. The pied piper of ham and rye. I see you sulking around my boy Crow with Peter Pan ideas of adventures and joviality and it sickens me to think that you can just waltz into this world of mine and think you're the centre of it. You're not, Cameron. Far, far from it in fact, your inclusion in this match just exposures everything that's wrong with this company. And you. There's no accountability, no consequence.
You had your shot weeks ago, Cameron and you blew it because there was no dinosaurs or space ships on the line; just a hunk of metal and steel that symbolises athletic prowess. And that hasn't interested you for a very long time, has it? Answer me this Phantasm, your a pragmatic man when pushed; does your inclusion in this match make any logical sense? You have no desire to hold this belt; your win/loss record is sloppy at best. Why are you exorcising your first amendment right as a wrestler to be ordinary and forgettable at the top of the card? Is it a protest vote? Is it a P.R. campaign by Obamacare to show the world that even mild mannered geeks deserve love and a belt too? So far you've lost to Andre Holmes in week one (thus knocking you out of the tournament) In week two, Bonnie Blue (who Crow fought and defeated last week ) won you your tag match single handed against Kyle Kemp and Dustin Beaver. In week three they didn't even give you the airtime to appear, just a roll up and another Bonnie victory. (just like how Nightmare had to do all the work when you where a so called “tag team” back in 2012) I've seen that Bonnie match in it's entirety by the way, it's more rare than ” The Clown that Cried”, same conclusion though, a clown (Bonnie) leads a child (you) to the gas chamber (Obscurity). Or in this case, a child leads her mentor/leader to the irreverence corner.
And yet, somehow, here you are. You've managed to survive oblivion virtually untouched. With a title shot on the horizon, while your Guardians workhorse, Miss Blue; gets nothing. So much for the era of emancipation. Perhaps she needs to chain herself to Mayor Sanchez's mansion gate and demand a referendum.
You're not a winner, Polar. You're a dreamer. And the world needs dreamers kept in their place. Industry needs dreamers, go there. Television needs dreamers, go there. We need you out there, winning noble peace prizes for science and literature. Curing life threatening diseases. Advancing the fields of science and psychics. But where we absolutely don't need you, and never have, is in a wrestling ring. My Grandson might find your current antics, “ cool”, as he reads up on your crusades from his wash room hammock, but then, he finds “World's Funniest Animals” funny too. He's easily amused; until the bell sounds and the match begins. Then the smile is gone as the ghost appears; in these brutal moments he's his Grandfather's boy all day long. All business and pain. He punches the clock and wipes part time heroes such as yourself off the map forever with a murder of crows just for the fun of it. If I where you? I'd build myself a bunker in new Antarctica and hibernate there for a few years. This is Crow's season now. His time. Feast on tin peaches with Nightmare and dream of the surface until we get bored, Polar. I'd hate to see a fertile mind such as yours turned inside out for a belt you don't even give a shit about.
Final door (because Andre isn't worth it) and what do we find? Why, it's a lesson in histrionics for Mister Omega. Since you're a “supposed” time traveller Jay, you're probably all too aware by now of your place within recorded events; those heavy, downtrodden memories of two weeks ago still weighing like lead upon that battery farm-fresh mind of yours. Just a brief recap then for the fans out there; at the conclusion of the inaugural tournament to decide the UCI's first world champion, you faced my client, my Grandson, the current World Heavyweight Champion, Crow McMorris in a one on one confrontation to determine who would carry the torch first for the company. In that match you lost to the Murder Machine. You fought bravely, and with heart; it was almost as if you actually cared again for some brief, slender moments. But in the end, when the final bell rang and my client's hand was raised, that brief spark of passion you had was muzzled and muted and crated. The airfreight stamp indicates that it was sent to a Maratopian research lab for study, since such odd mutations as “courage” and “fortitude” in the Omega production gene are a rarity to behold these days.
After the shock of the win, questions began to rain down from social media; each thread had, at it's nucleus, the same burning question: “why?” Allow me to once again illuminate the readership with my insightful acumen upon events. You, Jay Omega, are enamoured with being the nearly man. The chase is your drug, not the win. When Crow sees you, there's an element of what he used to be huddled in the back of your show boating personality and it infuriates him. He wants to beat that imperfection that has infected you, out of you system. But no matter how much he rips you apart this week, or the next, or the next, it is always going to be there. Lurking, costing you championships and title reigns. Because, irony of ironies, it was Crow himself that planted the disease into your mind in the first place. He held the needle, I concocted the poison. We have you hooked on failure now, Jay. Because it's easier, to be the lovable loser, than the all conquering champion. That's why Cameron Bankston has his claws burred deep inside of you now. Why you're his pet zealot until the end of time. Crow McMorris managed to beat the spirit of competition out of you two weeks ago. Left you barren and alone. A listless ship sinking beneath the waves.
There are two pillars of reason that live inside every great athlete. That keep them buoyant and successful. The first is the Extrinsic Motivation; this drives an Athlete on as he (or she) searches for monetary gain. For power. For recognition. That's my drug. My high. In my prime I was a boxer; didn't matter who's face I had to ruin, the money was worth it. It's what I understand, but you Omega, you have no need to worry about money, you've never been hungry, you've never been destitute. All your life you've been robbed of these fears. It's a shame, because there absence means that you have a hole where that desperate, fighting spirit should be. The need to go to dark places to succeed. You can't remember what hunger tastes like upon the tongue. And that damages you, Omega. It leaves you handicapped when you need to dig deep. That's why you created the Hardcore Maniac I suppose. To fill that gap. It won't be enough however, Jay. No schizoid band aid can heal your loss. And Crow will punish you for it.
The second pillar is Intrinsic Motivation, the athlete performs because it provides internal peace, it full-fills a desire or a need. Two weeks ago I watched you face my Grandson from the sidelines upon his request. He wanted the world to know that he was capable of going out there and winning the title on his own. It was against my better wishes, but I knew that his training would suffice, because deep down; he was at peace. He was ready to be as vicious and as callous as he needed to be to succeed. His hate was conquered and forged now into a weapon. His misgivings buried along with his self doubt. Death was a release for him. A reboot. The new flesh had arrived. And with it, a man who could be champion. A man I could be proud to call, “Grandson”.
As I embraced Crow into my Family, so did Crow embrace my teachings. Finally he understood and listened. So when Wentworth Updergraff pushed you off that turnbuckle, there was no hesitation from Crow. No pause to reflect and consider. That Murder of Crows was always destined to strike you on the way down. Because this Crow understands that there is no time in this business for pity or remorse. Just the win. Just the victory and the belt and the legacy that follows. And that, Jay Omega, is liking where you are in life. Because for Crow, you failed yourself seven days previously when you allowed Wentworth to attack you. You should have finished him off then. What happened at Lazarus was on you, for being lacked in you business. For not taking care of your enemies when you had the chance. And that, is what they call in distance. You're not in touch with your own career anymore. Because you, Jay Omega, have become nothing more than a supporting character in your own life. You're powerless because Cameron Bankston holds all the cards, while you wait out in the rain, like a junkie, for him to deal them. The Guardians have robbed you of your sense of self and your self worth. With Crow, I inherited a shell of a man; I had to reconstruct him. Recondition him. Teach him as I would a child the true ways of the world. Little did I know how smart he was. He learned fast, grew and germinated into a actual killing machine. No matter how many times you and Polar double team my client this Sunday night. He is a McMorris.
He heals, he learns, he kills. Because he knows what he is. While you four, are lost upon a stage.
This is the horrible truth of it all: what your shallow lives have become now, mere roles; acted upon stage constructed on a far flung planet called, “midcard”, you may have heard of it, it's in the system known as “No more second chances after Sunday”. They like stage plays their I hear. Once you arrive you will dance and sing for the locals cruel amusement. A stage crowded with desperate men whose lives have been emasculated by their lack of self worth and purpose. You are all now pawns upon the Crowman's chessboard. Stand helplessly as the pieces fall neatly into place as the curtain rises, watch as shocked fans around the galaxy recommence there data sphere acclimatisation process as another Buddy Roman production begins. Another history lesson to examine and discuss as a younger Bonnie Blue wakes up in a far off future to learn that once again, her soon-to-be Guardian team mates have met their match in an immortal man and a cantankerous Jew.
Apologies Mister Omega. No song and dance act this time, just victory. Just Conquest. As Monday brings a world where I rule, side by side with my family of course. We're going to bring the dank back, a fighting spirit to this company and to this business that has been left like driftwood upon a wav3 damaged shoreline.
The vote has already been cast. The decision has been made. People of the UCI have voted...to exterminate four useless souls at the feet of the Crowman. Crow accepts this decision magnanimously, and will take their meagre sacrifice as payment for his precious time. He looks forward to seeing you on the west side. Humboldt Park. A new murder scene, for an old crop of fools.
CONQUER. THE. VOTE.
HAIL, CROW.
DUEL II
It's Saturday, Just another day. A few hours ago a Black water chopper chased me down to this abandoned dockland site. Chain gun fire from the Huey has rained down on me for the last half hour. This is a no man's land for the cops. Just me, my steed and the approaching sound of rotors. I face a fifth storey window, my hide out as I plan my attack. The dirty, cracked glass shielding my presence as I rev the Kawasaki and prepare. This is my life, week in and out. Spencer would often say that I was a “War time champion”. My ability to survive was what kept the UCI alive. As long as I was champion they never could destroy what we where building here. I had become a symbol of our indestructibility. Twenty four hours from now, I will be fighting in a west side park, climbing a ladder and retrieving my belt.
That's Sunday.
Tonight, I rev my engine as the Huey passes by, it hasn't seen me as my rear tire spins frantically. A moment later and I'm riding headlong into the enemy. Smashing out of that window as my bike (and me) are launched like a missile into our target. I will crash. I will burn. I will win.
This is Saturday.
Tomorrow, it begins again. The Great Game.
Such is the life of this Champion.
FIN.
