Post by provocateur on Oct 9, 2019 0:30:41 GMT -5
Thump-thump, thump.. thump… thump-thump, thump… thump.
A steady beat bounced to the rhythm of multiple two-person carts going round and round on a fun looking track. Each cart dipped and climbed recurrently inside of a half enclosed dome-shaped carnival ride that is universally recognized as the “Music Express”. Machinery whirred intermittently as the carts seemed to pick up speed before slowing down again in timed intervals. Various people threw their hands up in the air, assimilated in their own proverbial excitement.
“ZOMBIIIIIEEEE!!”, called out a familiar voice seemingly out of nowhere.
The shot widened out a bit, unveiling Alpha Pro’s own (undefeated) Provocateur, Arthur Pleasant. He stood tall, wearing a three-piece suit. The suit jacket and pants were extraordinarily orange. Think Jeff Daniels in Dumb and Dumber. The vest and tie, though, were a very different story. Tertiary colors of a lime-green and flamingo pink. He looked like some kind of tropical bird that ate a whole box of crayons, flew into a goddamn wood chipper, and scattered its contents in front of him. Just… nothing matched. Whatsoever. To any fashionista, he was the walking embodiment of a seizure warning.
He held a giant Panda -- with one of its eyes gouged out by some sort of blade -- in his left arm and a lit, smoldering cigarette in his right one. Ashes fell haphazardly to the fairgrounds as he watched the carts come to an eventual stop. Moving on, he spoke to the camera crew that followed him closely. And by "camera crew", I mean some underrage amigo named Javier who was willing to do this type of shit gratis AND not report Arthur to the department of labor for breaking any laws.
“I like you, sir.”, he said loudly, trying to overcome the noise of the crowd. “I like you A LOT."
A grin emerged from his crooked teeth and lips.
"We share a very common characteristic in that… we seem to say the things that are on our minds. Without hesitation. Without remorse. And not just that but, we say the things that are necessary.”
Ambling on, he stopped at a window where fried Twinkies© and deep-fried Oreos© were being served. Some bitch who wasn’t paying to his presence and instead was fixated on making sure some child molester didn’t make off with her little snot-nosed boy cut him off. Pissed, Arthur held his lit cigarette to a balloon that was tied safely to the boy’s wrist.
POP!
The boy, scared out of his mind that this parrot-looking stranger had the audacity to destroy his cherished balloon, began crying. His Mother, enraged, was about to say something when Arthur growled like a dog. He literally began barking at her like some golden retriever pissed off at the mail man.
“Here little boy, want some candy?”, he said as he began to raise the cigarette up to his tear and booger sodden mouth. His Mommy said nothing and quickly grabbed the little shit by his arm and ran as far away from Arthur as she possibly could. Shrugging, Arthur moved towards the window and with his pinky and ring finger motioned “two” towards the sign that read “Fried Twinkies© $4.99 for 2, $7.99 for 3!!”. The vendor, who was paid too little to care about the events that he witnessed, grabbed a pair of them from the deep fryer and placed them into a hot dog holder. Handing them to Arthur, he extended his hand for the money. Arthur tucked the cigarette between his lips and, with his free hand, dug inside his pocket. He withdrew an entire jar full of pennies labeled “eXCActLy enuff chaynge 4 too FRiEd twink33z” and slammed it on the counter, much to the dismay of the vendor.
Moving on, he moved in close to the camera and whispered, “Little does he know that the pennies are actually Canadian. Hahahaha…”.
Backing away from the camera, he moseyed along, scuffling with the one-eyed, large-ass panda every so often in order to hike it back up his arm a few inches.
“I know I said that Jaice was my best friend when that sweet piece of ass Dani Applegate accosted me after my match, but truth be told? He hasn’t been too receptive to this idea at all through that deafening silence of his.
I mean, he hasn’t responded to ONE of my forty-seven emails or ONE of the seventy-four text messages I sent. Not one!! Or was it forty-seven text messages and seventy-four emails? I don’t even know at this point. But what I do know is that it’s rude to ignore someone like that. FUCKING RUDE I TELL YA!!”
He paused to trip a pregnant lady that was walking by. Disappointingly enough, she managed to stay on her feet. Gazing back at Arthur with a look that could drop anyone, she gave a total "What the fuck!?" look, You know, the usual 'day in the life of'.
“So I have a proposition for you, Z-Muffins.
Will you be my friend?
No. Scratch that.
Will you be my BEST FRIEND!?”
He cupped his hand to his ear, waiting for a response from someone behind the camera. You can’t see it but Javier mouthed, “Sure?”.
“Doc says I need someone like that in my life. I disagree but, well, Doc hasn’t steered me wrong yet!
After all, I did -- somehow -- manage to sign a contract to become a full-time professional wrestler. I did -- SOMEHOW -- gain entry into this tournament for a shot at the prestigious Alpha Pro Wrestling World Heavyweight Title. And I most certainly did - SOMEFUCKINGHOW - win my day-butt match against someone that people seem to recognize as a…”, he scoffed before continuing. “...legend? I guess? And I did it in style, too, maaan!
Did you SEE that flying kick thing-a-muh-fucker I nailed? Might have to keep that one. 'Provocation' I think they called it? Whatever. I was gonna name it something cliché like Pleasant Dreamz but... that works too.
And now? Here… we… GO.
Round 2.
FIGHT!”
The last part was spoken in Arthur’s best, old school Shao Khan voice. That’s from Mortal Kombat II for all the youngins who may not recognize the classics.
“Zamboni McLovin’ Vs Arthur Pleasant.
The Coked-UpWerewolf Mad-Man Versus The Provocateur.
Let’s be real, though. You… you’re a main event level talent around here. So everyone says, anyway. I mean... I guess you did JUST compete for THE very championship this tournament was designed around. So, I'll give credit where credit is due. Even though I don't wanna.
But… sure. So everyone realizes how miserably you failed at Supremacy. Pshhh. Haters gonna hate. It’s okay, though. I’m not judging you. They are, but not me. I would never judge a friend, let alone a BEST one!!
And yeah, you may have been pinned TWICE by the same person in the same match.
And…”, he sighed, “...okay. You DID look like a little fucking bitch-ass bootlicker for someone who makes a living -- or unliving in your case? -- off a conjured up reputation as the guy who feels no pain from the copious amounts of coke that he 1.) snorts, 2.) eats, 3.) shits, 4.) eats again, 5.) drinks in his Kool-Aid, and last but not least, 6.) rectally administrates via butter-dipped suppository. But… hey, you’re still a main event guy ‘round these parts.
Good for you, Ziosk McDollaHolla! GOOD. FOR. YOU.
I mean, really now. This cannot be ignored. A full… nelson… suplex!? Are you fucking kidding me!? That’s not even two-degrees of separation from a drop toe hold. Yikes.
But I digress. Often, Doc says. Heh.”
He took a moment to take a drag of the cigarette he had been holding. Smacking his lips together, he realized the cigarette was stale. Arthur looked all around for somewhere to throw it. As a little girl approached - who was no older than five and had a balloon just like that little shit from earlier, he noticed she had been llicking an ice cream cone. Seizing his opportunity, Arthur put out the lit cigarette directly on top of the delicious looking, vanilla-chocolate swirl soft serve. Oh you magnificent fucking prick, Arthur. Jesus.
As the little girl’s cries and screams echoed throughout the busy festival, nobody seemed to bat an eye as Arthur continued. They were too involved with their own meaningless lives, as it were.
“So let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? You and I? We’re like… fucking mirrors of each other, aren’t we? In a way, of course. Mm.”, he said as something caught his eye.
“Ooh look!”, he holds his hands on top of each other, directly over his mouth, impersonating Tom Hardy’s Bane from The Dark Knight Rises, “Speak of the devil… and he shall appear.”
Pointing up at an angle towards a sign that read “Hall of Mirrors”, Arthur laughed. More like a deep, hearty guffaw actually. Of course they would just happen across the inevitable mirror maze that every carnival in the world had within its confines. It really drove home that metaphor Arthur had just made, didn’t it?
“Five years ago, I was self-medicating. Every night. Five years ago, I was out of my fucking mind. Hard to believe that considering my current lucid and considerably normal state, right!? Well, believe it or not, once upon a time I preferred the numbness all day and night. It was better to feel nothing than to feel… anything.
So, trust me. I’m not just making parallels to your Coked-Up personality, Z-Shizzle McMizzle. It wasn’t just cocaine for me. It was everything. It was…. ohhhhh yeah. The down and dirty for me, no doubt. If I had gotten the fuck outta the 9-0-7 and chose to live in the 2-1-3, Skid Row could’ve been my skanktuary. Hell, anything would’ve been better than that endless fucking blight of eternal sunshine up there. Ugh. You literally have NO idea.”
He flicked his lighter on and off, the spark igniting a flame’s warm glow each and every time.
“Probably for far less superficial reasons than selling a goddamn glowstick or whatever the fuck it is that APW slaps your name on in order to move merch to some extra-chromosome having, Make-A-Wish fucktard in the crowd. But I get it. Good on you for refusing royalties on such frivolous shit, though. The sweatshops in China wanna thank you for your ultimate sacrifice.
Point is? I’ve been there. And I’m here to tell ya… the alternative is better.”
He stopped, letting those words sink in. Then, with a sinister glare, it was as if his demeanor changed entirely. Like another person had inhabited his soul altogether.
“Because… pain is a blessing, mon frère. Pain is a necessary element to humanity’s very cruel and unforgiving nature. It tells you where that threshold is within yourself so that you can blithely apply it to others. It is the haunting manifestation of hatred and melancholia. But most importantly, pain is a… weapon of choice.
And it is MY weapon of choice. To feel it… to absorb it… and then reflect it back to its sender. Hundred fold.”
All of a damn sudden, he shouted, “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!!!”, to the giant ass panda he had been holding onto since the beginning of the stream.
Dropping it into the grassy, slightly muddy ground, he knelt down next to it. Cocking his head in a terrifying manner, he stared deep into the gouged out area of the panda’s eye. Withdrawing a switchblade from his left pocket that he purchased from some dumb hick’s stand here at the Albemarle County Fair in Charlottesville, Virginia, he brandished it as if to strike fear into the inanimate object. He waved it back and forth before saying...
“FUCK YOU, PANDA!!”
Okay, so yeah. That happened. He began to stab it repeatedly in an upwards/downwards thrusting motion, shredding its cotton “entrails” all over God’s country. Every passersby and onlooker gasped at the sadistic sight. Realizing he had lost complete control of himself, Arthur giggled before folding the knife back to its original state and placing it back into his pocket. Arthur stood up and looked around at everyone’s besotted nature after witnessing him go all “80’s slasher” on that poor fucking panda. It was almost like he made them all drunk with their own disbelief.
“Sorry, where was I? Ah, right. This isn’t an intervention or anything fatuous like that, Zimbabwe McMuffins. Nah. I’m just saying… this is why we could be best friends. We SHARE something intimate together, and I don’t mean a night of experimentation with neon dildos and cinnamon scented butt-plugs en route to a violent game of tummy sticks.”
Brushing off some of the cotton that had clung to his ridiculous suit, he reached into his pocket again. Looking at a nearby vendor that had a sign for “Pancakes!”, he smiled. The vendor became nervous as Arthur approached his stand. Pulling out a green marker from the same pocket he previously sprung the switchblade on that unsuspecting panda, he twisted off the cap and began scrawling something onto the sign. Aggravated that Arthur was vandalizing his sign in plain sight, the vendor threw his hands up incredulously.
“This is also why… I… am going to beat you on Monday Night Metal.
That’s right. Once again, I’m going to shut the naysayers the fuck up and do the unthinkable. In just my second match for “Teh Alphaz” (Yes. He actually pronounced it in such an obnoxious way..), I’m going to defeat one of the biggest names on the roster. Because, see… main eventer… potential new best friend… you’re halfway there. Halfway to the point I was at when I fulfilled my transcendence into complete self-awareness and ownership of my own... destiny.
And half-way? Half-way is not going to cut it against the likes of ME.”
He moved out of the way of the sign and sighed contently with his newfound artwork. It now read “PancakeCUM”. Masterpiece if I've ever saw one. Looking back into the camera, he continued.
“Because despite this seemingly unconquerable feat I HAVE to accomplish? Despite this goddamn déjà vu I’m having in this perpetual uphill battle? DESPITE facing the same endless questions and criticisms that idiotic wrestling philistines like Michael Clearwater had for me during the stream on Monday’s show?
I’m going to do it again. No offense, friendo. Because this tournament is mine to win... and yours to lose.
Because, since I mentioned destiny… you should know, new best friend... that my destiny is not with you at Metal.
It’s beyond you, Zombie.
It's beyond Night.
It's beyond McCarty.
It's beyond Zion.
It's beyond Wesley.
It’s beyond the realm of this whole motherfuckin' tournament.”
A fairgrounds security detail of rent-a-pigfucks began to encircle a calm, cool, and collected Arthur Pleasant. He threw his hands up as if to say, “Don’t shoot!”, even though none of them had firearms on their person. Not visibly, anyway. He began laughing psychotically. Each rent-a-pigfuck looked at the other nervously, not sure what to make of the situation.
Looking between two of the men with his neck contorted in an unnatural way, he continued, paying no mind to the men that were about to escort or throw him out.
“My destiny… is with Smith Jones at HellKore.
My destiny is with the great becoming.
And that's becoming the undefeated…
…undisputed…
…UNDENIABLE...
… World... Heavyweight... Fucking... Champion.
But don’t worry. That doesn’t mean we can’t still be the ❤#BFFs4Life❤!”
Blowing a kiss into the camera, Arthur continued to stare ahead. His arms rose to he heavens as he closed his eyes.
“Do not go gentle into that good night. Old age should burn and rave at close of day…”, he said, quoting a portion of the great poem by the legendary poet Dylan Thomas.
The security detail closed in on him further. His eyes remained steadfast into the camera.
“Rage… RAGE… against the dying of the light.”
Before he could finish the rest of the poem, the camera fell sideways and Javier began jaw-jacking in Spanish with one of the rent-a-pigfucks. Before long? The feed was cut unceremoniously.
Thank fucking GOD.
Instant black.
A steady beat bounced to the rhythm of multiple two-person carts going round and round on a fun looking track. Each cart dipped and climbed recurrently inside of a half enclosed dome-shaped carnival ride that is universally recognized as the “Music Express”. Machinery whirred intermittently as the carts seemed to pick up speed before slowing down again in timed intervals. Various people threw their hands up in the air, assimilated in their own proverbial excitement.
“ZOMBIIIIIEEEE!!”, called out a familiar voice seemingly out of nowhere.
The shot widened out a bit, unveiling Alpha Pro’s own (undefeated) Provocateur, Arthur Pleasant. He stood tall, wearing a three-piece suit. The suit jacket and pants were extraordinarily orange. Think Jeff Daniels in Dumb and Dumber. The vest and tie, though, were a very different story. Tertiary colors of a lime-green and flamingo pink. He looked like some kind of tropical bird that ate a whole box of crayons, flew into a goddamn wood chipper, and scattered its contents in front of him. Just… nothing matched. Whatsoever. To any fashionista, he was the walking embodiment of a seizure warning.
He held a giant Panda -- with one of its eyes gouged out by some sort of blade -- in his left arm and a lit, smoldering cigarette in his right one. Ashes fell haphazardly to the fairgrounds as he watched the carts come to an eventual stop. Moving on, he spoke to the camera crew that followed him closely. And by "camera crew", I mean some underrage amigo named Javier who was willing to do this type of shit gratis AND not report Arthur to the department of labor for breaking any laws.
“I like you, sir.”, he said loudly, trying to overcome the noise of the crowd. “I like you A LOT."
A grin emerged from his crooked teeth and lips.
"We share a very common characteristic in that… we seem to say the things that are on our minds. Without hesitation. Without remorse. And not just that but, we say the things that are necessary.”
Ambling on, he stopped at a window where fried Twinkies© and deep-fried Oreos© were being served. Some bitch who wasn’t paying to his presence and instead was fixated on making sure some child molester didn’t make off with her little snot-nosed boy cut him off. Pissed, Arthur held his lit cigarette to a balloon that was tied safely to the boy’s wrist.
POP!
The boy, scared out of his mind that this parrot-looking stranger had the audacity to destroy his cherished balloon, began crying. His Mother, enraged, was about to say something when Arthur growled like a dog. He literally began barking at her like some golden retriever pissed off at the mail man.
“Here little boy, want some candy?”, he said as he began to raise the cigarette up to his tear and booger sodden mouth. His Mommy said nothing and quickly grabbed the little shit by his arm and ran as far away from Arthur as she possibly could. Shrugging, Arthur moved towards the window and with his pinky and ring finger motioned “two” towards the sign that read “Fried Twinkies© $4.99 for 2, $7.99 for 3!!”. The vendor, who was paid too little to care about the events that he witnessed, grabbed a pair of them from the deep fryer and placed them into a hot dog holder. Handing them to Arthur, he extended his hand for the money. Arthur tucked the cigarette between his lips and, with his free hand, dug inside his pocket. He withdrew an entire jar full of pennies labeled “eXCActLy enuff chaynge 4 too FRiEd twink33z” and slammed it on the counter, much to the dismay of the vendor.
Moving on, he moved in close to the camera and whispered, “Little does he know that the pennies are actually Canadian. Hahahaha…”.
Backing away from the camera, he moseyed along, scuffling with the one-eyed, large-ass panda every so often in order to hike it back up his arm a few inches.
“I know I said that Jaice was my best friend when that sweet piece of ass Dani Applegate accosted me after my match, but truth be told? He hasn’t been too receptive to this idea at all through that deafening silence of his.
I mean, he hasn’t responded to ONE of my forty-seven emails or ONE of the seventy-four text messages I sent. Not one!! Or was it forty-seven text messages and seventy-four emails? I don’t even know at this point. But what I do know is that it’s rude to ignore someone like that. FUCKING RUDE I TELL YA!!”
He paused to trip a pregnant lady that was walking by. Disappointingly enough, she managed to stay on her feet. Gazing back at Arthur with a look that could drop anyone, she gave a total "What the fuck!?" look, You know, the usual 'day in the life of'.
“So I have a proposition for you, Z-Muffins.
Will you be my friend?
No. Scratch that.
Will you be my BEST FRIEND!?”
He cupped his hand to his ear, waiting for a response from someone behind the camera. You can’t see it but Javier mouthed, “Sure?”.
“Doc says I need someone like that in my life. I disagree but, well, Doc hasn’t steered me wrong yet!
After all, I did -- somehow -- manage to sign a contract to become a full-time professional wrestler. I did -- SOMEHOW -- gain entry into this tournament for a shot at the prestigious Alpha Pro Wrestling World Heavyweight Title. And I most certainly did - SOMEFUCKINGHOW - win my day-butt match against someone that people seem to recognize as a…”, he scoffed before continuing. “...legend? I guess? And I did it in style, too, maaan!
Did you SEE that flying kick thing-a-muh-fucker I nailed? Might have to keep that one. 'Provocation' I think they called it? Whatever. I was gonna name it something cliché like Pleasant Dreamz but... that works too.
And now? Here… we… GO.
Round 2.
FIGHT!”
The last part was spoken in Arthur’s best, old school Shao Khan voice. That’s from Mortal Kombat II for all the youngins who may not recognize the classics.
“Zamboni McLovin’ Vs Arthur Pleasant.
The Coked-Up
(Actual footage of everyone's reactions after seeing NETFLIX’s “Next Week” 1 minute streamable preview.)
Let’s be real, though. You… you’re a main event level talent around here. So everyone says, anyway. I mean... I guess you did JUST compete for THE very championship this tournament was designed around. So, I'll give credit where credit is due. Even though I don't wanna.
But… sure. So everyone realizes how miserably you failed at Supremacy. Pshhh. Haters gonna hate. It’s okay, though. I’m not judging you. They are, but not me. I would never judge a friend, let alone a BEST one!!
And yeah, you may have been pinned TWICE by the same person in the same match.
And…”, he sighed, “...okay. You DID look like a little fucking bitch-ass bootlicker for someone who makes a living -- or unliving in your case? -- off a conjured up reputation as the guy who feels no pain from the copious amounts of coke that he 1.) snorts, 2.) eats, 3.) shits, 4.) eats again, 5.) drinks in his Kool-Aid, and last but not least, 6.) rectally administrates via butter-dipped suppository. But… hey, you’re still a main event guy ‘round these parts.
Good for you, Ziosk McDollaHolla! GOOD. FOR. YOU.
I mean, really now. This cannot be ignored. A full… nelson… suplex!? Are you fucking kidding me!? That’s not even two-degrees of separation from a drop toe hold. Yikes.
But I digress. Often, Doc says. Heh.”
He took a moment to take a drag of the cigarette he had been holding. Smacking his lips together, he realized the cigarette was stale. Arthur looked all around for somewhere to throw it. As a little girl approached - who was no older than five and had a balloon just like that little shit from earlier, he noticed she had been llicking an ice cream cone. Seizing his opportunity, Arthur put out the lit cigarette directly on top of the delicious looking, vanilla-chocolate swirl soft serve. Oh you magnificent fucking prick, Arthur. Jesus.
As the little girl’s cries and screams echoed throughout the busy festival, nobody seemed to bat an eye as Arthur continued. They were too involved with their own meaningless lives, as it were.
“So let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? You and I? We’re like… fucking mirrors of each other, aren’t we? In a way, of course. Mm.”, he said as something caught his eye.
“Ooh look!”, he holds his hands on top of each other, directly over his mouth, impersonating Tom Hardy’s Bane from The Dark Knight Rises, “Speak of the devil… and he shall appear.”
Pointing up at an angle towards a sign that read “Hall of Mirrors”, Arthur laughed. More like a deep, hearty guffaw actually. Of course they would just happen across the inevitable mirror maze that every carnival in the world had within its confines. It really drove home that metaphor Arthur had just made, didn’t it?
“Five years ago, I was self-medicating. Every night. Five years ago, I was out of my fucking mind. Hard to believe that considering my current lucid and considerably normal state, right!? Well, believe it or not, once upon a time I preferred the numbness all day and night. It was better to feel nothing than to feel… anything.
So, trust me. I’m not just making parallels to your Coked-Up personality, Z-Shizzle McMizzle. It wasn’t just cocaine for me. It was everything. It was…. ohhhhh yeah. The down and dirty for me, no doubt. If I had gotten the fuck outta the 9-0-7 and chose to live in the 2-1-3, Skid Row could’ve been my skanktuary. Hell, anything would’ve been better than that endless fucking blight of eternal sunshine up there. Ugh. You literally have NO idea.”
He flicked his lighter on and off, the spark igniting a flame’s warm glow each and every time.
“Probably for far less superficial reasons than selling a goddamn glowstick or whatever the fuck it is that APW slaps your name on in order to move merch to some extra-chromosome having, Make-A-Wish fucktard in the crowd. But I get it. Good on you for refusing royalties on such frivolous shit, though. The sweatshops in China wanna thank you for your ultimate sacrifice.
Point is? I’ve been there. And I’m here to tell ya… the alternative is better.”
He stopped, letting those words sink in. Then, with a sinister glare, it was as if his demeanor changed entirely. Like another person had inhabited his soul altogether.
“Because… pain is a blessing, mon frère. Pain is a necessary element to humanity’s very cruel and unforgiving nature. It tells you where that threshold is within yourself so that you can blithely apply it to others. It is the haunting manifestation of hatred and melancholia. But most importantly, pain is a… weapon of choice.
And it is MY weapon of choice. To feel it… to absorb it… and then reflect it back to its sender. Hundred fold.”
All of a damn sudden, he shouted, “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!!!”, to the giant ass panda he had been holding onto since the beginning of the stream.
Dropping it into the grassy, slightly muddy ground, he knelt down next to it. Cocking his head in a terrifying manner, he stared deep into the gouged out area of the panda’s eye. Withdrawing a switchblade from his left pocket that he purchased from some dumb hick’s stand here at the Albemarle County Fair in Charlottesville, Virginia, he brandished it as if to strike fear into the inanimate object. He waved it back and forth before saying...
“FUCK YOU, PANDA!!”
Okay, so yeah. That happened. He began to stab it repeatedly in an upwards/downwards thrusting motion, shredding its cotton “entrails” all over God’s country. Every passersby and onlooker gasped at the sadistic sight. Realizing he had lost complete control of himself, Arthur giggled before folding the knife back to its original state and placing it back into his pocket. Arthur stood up and looked around at everyone’s besotted nature after witnessing him go all “80’s slasher” on that poor fucking panda. It was almost like he made them all drunk with their own disbelief.
“Sorry, where was I? Ah, right. This isn’t an intervention or anything fatuous like that, Zimbabwe McMuffins. Nah. I’m just saying… this is why we could be best friends. We SHARE something intimate together, and I don’t mean a night of experimentation with neon dildos and cinnamon scented butt-plugs en route to a violent game of tummy sticks.”
Brushing off some of the cotton that had clung to his ridiculous suit, he reached into his pocket again. Looking at a nearby vendor that had a sign for “Pancakes!”, he smiled. The vendor became nervous as Arthur approached his stand. Pulling out a green marker from the same pocket he previously sprung the switchblade on that unsuspecting panda, he twisted off the cap and began scrawling something onto the sign. Aggravated that Arthur was vandalizing his sign in plain sight, the vendor threw his hands up incredulously.
“This is also why… I… am going to beat you on Monday Night Metal.
That’s right. Once again, I’m going to shut the naysayers the fuck up and do the unthinkable. In just my second match for “Teh Alphaz” (Yes. He actually pronounced it in such an obnoxious way..), I’m going to defeat one of the biggest names on the roster. Because, see… main eventer… potential new best friend… you’re halfway there. Halfway to the point I was at when I fulfilled my transcendence into complete self-awareness and ownership of my own... destiny.
And half-way? Half-way is not going to cut it against the likes of ME.”
He moved out of the way of the sign and sighed contently with his newfound artwork. It now read “PancakeCUM”. Masterpiece if I've ever saw one. Looking back into the camera, he continued.
“Because despite this seemingly unconquerable feat I HAVE to accomplish? Despite this goddamn déjà vu I’m having in this perpetual uphill battle? DESPITE facing the same endless questions and criticisms that idiotic wrestling philistines like Michael Clearwater had for me during the stream on Monday’s show?
I’m going to do it again. No offense, friendo. Because this tournament is mine to win... and yours to lose.
Because, since I mentioned destiny… you should know, new best friend... that my destiny is not with you at Metal.
It’s beyond you, Zombie.
It's beyond Night.
It's beyond McCarty.
It's beyond Zion.
It's beyond Wesley.
It’s beyond the realm of this whole motherfuckin' tournament.”
A fairgrounds security detail of rent-a-pigfucks began to encircle a calm, cool, and collected Arthur Pleasant. He threw his hands up as if to say, “Don’t shoot!”, even though none of them had firearms on their person. Not visibly, anyway. He began laughing psychotically. Each rent-a-pigfuck looked at the other nervously, not sure what to make of the situation.
Looking between two of the men with his neck contorted in an unnatural way, he continued, paying no mind to the men that were about to escort or throw him out.
“My destiny… is with Smith Jones at HellKore.
My destiny is with the great becoming.
And that's becoming the undefeated…
…undisputed…
…UNDENIABLE...
… World... Heavyweight... Fucking... Champion.
But don’t worry. That doesn’t mean we can’t still be the ❤#BFFs4Life❤!”
Blowing a kiss into the camera, Arthur continued to stare ahead. His arms rose to he heavens as he closed his eyes.
“Do not go gentle into that good night. Old age should burn and rave at close of day…”, he said, quoting a portion of the great poem by the legendary poet Dylan Thomas.
The security detail closed in on him further. His eyes remained steadfast into the camera.
“Rage… RAGE… against the dying of the light.”
Before he could finish the rest of the poem, the camera fell sideways and Javier began jaw-jacking in Spanish with one of the rent-a-pigfucks. Before long? The feed was cut unceremoniously.
Thank fucking GOD.
Instant black.
