Post by zaigon on Jun 14, 2020 21:50:16 GMT -5
Scene: A couple of days after Metal, we’re back at the sprawling Carter compound in Montana. Inside the same office where Mr. Carter signed his deal, we see him and Prosperity joined by new ally Riley Denton.
The trio is sitting spread out around the room. Mr. Carter on a leather couch slightly stroking the wing of Prosperity with Riley on the other hand is across from them, a recorder with a blinking red light and a notepad full of scribbles.
“...and that’s why people like Jaice Wilds don't belong in America. It’s why I did my best to send him back to where he belongs, in a body cast or body bag.”
“That’s good to know Mr. Carter, but I pretty much have all I need on that. It was quite a display of force. What I’m looking for now is information on your parents, specifically your father. I’ve obviously done a good amount of research based on how public his persona was, and I’ve got some que…”
As Riley is finishing his statement, the phone on Mr. Carter’s desk buzzes twice. He rises from the sofa, ignoring Riley to pick up the receiver:
“Yes?
...This week’s card?
...OK well I did want a tag team…
...I see. Verez and Beazley…
OK.”
Click
A pause, as Mr. Carter has both hands on the desk looking down. Silence rings throughout the office.
SMASH!
It happened so fast, as Mr. Carter grabbed a porcelain cup off his desk hurling it at the wall in one smooth motion. The object shatters into a thousand pieces, falling to the floor about twenty feet from where the two men and one bird are. Mr. Carter comes back to the sofa, crosses his legs, and looks back at Riley.
“So you want to know about my father?”
========
That’s two.
Another week, another win, another attempt at disrespect repelled with dominance. Jaice Wilds, that was embarrassing even for you. I didn’t expect much from you, little insect, but you didn’t even have the decency to give me an actual fight.
Which means the only recourse was to give you suffering. You’re probably laid up in a hospital, receiving the best medical treatment in the world while I pay for it. In general that doesn’t make me one bit happy, but this is the rare exception. Cracking open your spine was well worth cracking open my wallet.
Speaking of medical care, the management in Alpha Pro Wrestling need to find one of those wonderful doctors produced by our country.
I’m concerned they aren’t hearing me when I speak.
Last week, after America and I took care of our opponents, we had quite specific demands.
Man Made Gods, Steven Osbourne, and the world champion in that order.
Man Made Gods, Steven Osbourne, and the world champion in that order.
Yet instead this week, we’re indeed facing champions.
Just not the ones who deserve to be facing us.
Eli Beazley. L Verez.
It’s clear that either they don’t like two of their champions, or they still doubt our intentions here. Either way, this week when we leave two more of their golden children laying in a lifeless heap, maybe they’ll understand.
I know your type Beazley, I’ve seen it all my life. Your flash, your flair, your whole aesthetic is crafted and deliberate. Sure it gets the fans going, lighting up their mind with the bread and circuses they crave.
They cheer you because you’re the vision they have of this business, even in life.
America and I though? We’re reality.
Your colors and charisma only act in service of hiding away the knowledge that you’re an insignificant pissant. A tiny man in a world of giants, skittering like a cockroach under foot every week hoping to not be stepped on.
It’s all a disguise, camouflage meant to keep predators off your scent. Lesser competitors bite down every time, looking in one place while you exploit their stupidity for success. I’d almost applaud you for it, if it didn’t disgust me.
This isn’t that piddly junior division, where any limp dicked midget can get a title shot. You’re facing violence you’re not prepared for, that your mind games and ensembles can’t shield you from.
So tell me Mr. Beazley, how do you intend to live for the moment when that moment is full of nothing but endless agony?
The only comfort you can take is that no matter what shape you’re in post Metal, and trust me it won’t be good, you’ll have that rinky dink Junior Heavyweight title as they stretcher you out of South Dakota.
You may be comfortable carrying around a toy title, but America and I have bigger ambitions. Those involve real titles, real money, and real power.
Nothing you or your partner have any idea about.
Speaking of toy titles, there’s the Hardcore champion L Verez. Another example of someone who walked into APW receiving things without deserving them. I guess the title shot welfare line closed just before America and I arrived, because it seemed like ANYONE could get one prior to Kingdom Come.
Whether they should have or not.
Though don’t color my feelings as some longing desire to hold that piece of shit title. It’s perfect for people like you L Verez. Not only does it normally keep you busy and away from someone like me, it’s great because you can have no actual talent and still masquerade as being a champion!
It doesn’t take talent to swing a chair, break someone’s face through a car window, or any of the other nonsense your garbage wrestling division does every time they decide to have a hootenanny. The violence does for you the same as Beazley’s impression of Little Richard.
It hides how worthless you are.
There’s no hiding this week.
Our path of destruction doesn’t have time for shrouds, tricks, or any of the carnival bullshit you’re both immersed in. It only recognizes honest to God ability, delivering brutal annihilation to anyone who can’t stand the heat.
Just ask Jaice Wilds, if he can even sit up after his spine got mutilated.
Ask that moron Cray Mitchell, who should quit the business entirely after America sonned him last week.
These are the warnings we have left in our path. Their despair should be your signal to save your own self and stay out of South Dakota.
You won’t though. You’ll think smoke and mirrors will be enough, that you’ve beaten people before and there’s nothing that says you can’t do it again!
That as long as you try hard, you can do anything you set your mind to!
Lies, lies, lies.
You can not, will not stop us. We will run over you, leave you broken, and scrape you off our boots like the piles of dog shit you both are. There is no hope for you, no after school special ending. This is the real world, where underdogs aren’t something to be celebrated but instead castigated for their weakness.
You don’t deserve anything but extermination, and the Storm will deliver.
Once we finish with you two, once all the fans who once cheered for you now fear for you, it’ll be time once again to continue looking forward.
Man Made Gods.
Steven Osbourne.
The new World Champion Jason Ryan.
This week is a message aimed directly at you. Everything we do to these two clowns, these two scabs, consider it and so much more earmarked for your own fates the days when you can no longer run scared.
After America and I deliver that message, written in savagery, all of those champions will go to APW management with the same message.
Thank you.
Thank you for not ending our careers, our title reigns, our lives as we know it by putting us in the ring with those two forces of nature.
Thank you for protecting us, because we know when the time comes we will not be able to protect ourselves.
Even though every victory brings us that much closer to that inevitability.
Every act of ruination draws us much closer to the golden clad control we are destined for, this week your precious status quo is preserved by cowardice.
Management knows that too. They know that one day we will either earn it or take it by force, and there’s no way they can safeguard their precious champions forever.
That everything they know and are comfortable with will come tumbling down at our hands sooner rather than later. Like the parents who know their child will one day lose their innocence to the cruel world around them, management knows that darkness is encroaching day by day.
But for this week though, when those cowards holding titles thank them for their continued survival, management can for now look them in the eye and give them the honest response.
You’re welcome.
========
Scene: It’s New Year’s Day 2014, a grey day in Chicago. At the top of one of the nicest buildings in town we see Zaigon Carter, still in his clothes from the night before, nursing a glass of vodka.
It’s 11AM.
On a table in front of him, his cell phone is lit up and on speakerphone. Without ceasing, it just keeps rolling through voicemail
“This is for Zaigon Carter, we’re calling about your rent for this month, if you could give us a…”
After voicemail
“Big brother, please pick up the phone. We’re worried about you. Please, it’ll be ok I pro…”
After voicemail
“I told you so Zaigon. All those people told you. You couldn’t beat me, you overrated rich fuck. Enjoy unemployment you piece of shit.”
SMASH!
Across the room goes the vodka glass, vaporizing against the wall into millions of tiny shards. Zaigon sits slumped in his char, seemingly numb to the commotion. After a moment staring at the now pile of broken glass, he stands up with an uneasy wobble. He walks out of his apartment, leaving his phone running on the table as another voicemail runs off.
“This is your official notice of termination from…”
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