The dumbest man and woman in professional wrestling today.
That is what I called Clarence Whitman and Taylor Chase four days ago. But I didn't say it here. I said it in ULW. I said a lot of things in ULW. I said a lot of things about the IWC over in ULW.
And do you know why?
Do you know why I went out of my way to vent my spleen on somebody's else's wrestling program and not here?
Because I wanted to test something. I wanted to see what would happen. I wanted to experience the fallout, the reprimand, the ass-chewing, the bitch fest from people in power. How dare I, as an active IWC employee wander off onto somebody else's show and basically pull down my employer's pants and give the IWC a verbal sodomizing right there on the airwaves and internets for all to see.
It never came.
I buried the federation less than a week removed from a big PPV, I did it in a company with an IDENTICAL market and parallel media presence. We share the same gods damned building. I can't think of ANYBODY who would be the IWC's biggest competitor and rival than ULW.
I threw down the gauntlet and announced my pending departure from the IWC four days ago. Half because I meant it, and half because I wanted to see what would happen.
The answer to that is nothing.
Nothing happened.
I wasn't fined, I wasn't given a slap on the wrist, I wasn't yelled at, cussed at, chewed out. I wasn't wished well in my future endeavors, I wasn't immediately pulled from Upping the Ante, kicked to the curb, and told "You can't quit, because YOU'RE fired."
And that's when my decision to leave crystallized. Because I realized something in that moments. I didn't pull down IWC's pants in order to bum fuck them on the air, because the IWC is an emperor with no clothes.
Not even that, the IWC isn't royalty, the IWC doesn't have power, the IWC doesn't rule anything. I took a step back and I realized something.
I realized that the IWC is SCW's bitch.
Oh sure we supposedly have free reign, we supposedly have our own staff of rulers, pretty tyrants, and presidents, CEO's, and other assorted empty suits. But that is exactly what they are. They're empty.
No one has any power here. No one has any control here. No one is capable of command. No one is able to reprimand the disobedient, no one is able to enforce the rules, no one really does much of anything.
Names are put into a hat, matches are made, and people are funneled towards the ring. It doesn't matter what happens. It doesn't matter what people do. It doesn't matter who plays by the rules and who breaks them.
I've wrestled three matches for this company, and that was enough to cement my decision. It makes me sick to the analog in my gut I have to a stomach at what's been allowed to take place in two of them.
I walked out, I expected a Gauntlet. I expected that the company that is paying me and pulling in bucks from paying fans would have the courtesy to be honest about what the hell it was they were planning to do with me. I expected that I would go out there and be made to compete in a grueling meat grinder, where we would be made to fight each other, one on one, singles match after singles match, until there was a winner.
But that didn't happen.
We had a timer tick down, we went out to the ring, we got thrown over the top rope, we lost. Unless you decided that the rules didn't apply to you. Unless you decided that you could done a pair of gag boobs or a cheap mask, pretend to be someone else, and then strut happily right down to the ring as if you hadn't been eliminated in the first place.
Or if you were too injured to continue competing, then you get to send in the little bitch that you've sucked the heart and soul out of. That halfway into the match you can just walk out and send in a perfectly fresh replacement. And then you can take away the title shot that she won that she was never supposed to have, and use it for yourself.
Kordelia Price was not a participant in that match. You CANNOT give up your place in a match IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GODS DAMNED MATCH AFTER DECIDING THAT YOU'VE BEEN BEATEN TOO FUCKING BADLY TO CONTINUE!
But FINE! Half the goddamned federation gets to do shit like that, and have since the fucking beginning! I can understand that. You're a bunch of limped dicked little fucks with no real power. Your company is a playground for the noble houses of SCW to fuck around without consequence, to abuse whatever power they can convince someone else they wield.
But the gal who ought to be fighting the Evolution Champion? The last legal participant in that not-a-gauntlet match to decide contendership? Surely a complete and utter neophyte to the world of professional wrestling who shows enough raw talent and physical prowess to outlast each and every one of the multi-year veterans in the match with her ought to be lauded for her amazing performance and rewarded with something decent on the upcoming PPV, right?
By all rights I ought to be facing Andre Jordan for the Evolution Championship, but I'm not. I wasn't even given the most minor of considerations. I sat there and waited, and waited, and waited for days for the announcement of my first proper PPV match.
And again I felt like I wanted to purge my stomach, to spill the elemental stew of raw cold that lurks in my belly in place of stomach acid. And do you know why?
Because after all I'd managed to accomplish, after being a hair away from Evolution title contendership, after beating the complete and utter piss out of a guy who "could take any title in the federation any damned time he wanted," just as long as he didn't have to do it while cooking spaghetti, after having the stupid redneck that married a polygamist supervillain and shows her shitty taste in men by having Captain Misogyny have their first date by holding her hand all the way to victory over me with a blind, deaf, retarded official, do you know what happened?
ERIC FUCKING HERRERA WAS GIVEN A MATCH BEFORE I WAS.
And who the fuck is Eric Herrera, you may ask? Because I sure as hell did.
He's a guy in a mask who did precisely fuck all during a run about this time last year up to the PPV Formally Known as Rumble Bash. He racked up a losing streak, paid some hobo to shave, put on a mask, and pretend to be him, so that his name would not have to be tarnished with the sheer amount of SUCK he brought to the ring, then promptly fucked off from the fed.
That walking shit-stain on the boxer briefs of humanity got a match on PPV when he'd been newly signed with the company for five fucking minutes. After the LAST thing he'd done on IWC TV was to be a goddamned embarrassment. And that guy got given a PPV match before me.
After RIOT I sat down and I thought long and hard about what I wanted to do, what I wanted to accomplish. I drew myself a bath, walked through it and paid a visit to a gentleman who hasn't been seen on IWC TV since just out of the blue one day his connection to the company was unceremoniously severed.
I talked to the man who has taken responsibility for me being here in the first place. I talked to Leeland Gaunt. And we talked for a long, long time.
He doesn't think he's a particular good person, but compared to the folks the IWC still pays to fuck around on a weekly basis, he is a gods damned saint. When this all began he had two goals in mind. The first? Collateral damage. If Legion broke something, or somebody, chances are they were such a despicable waste of flesh in the first place that nothing of value would be lost. And the second? To makes heroes. To ignite the fire in people, to make them rise above and become something greater than they ever thought they could be.
But as time went along, there were scant few souls with the potential spark needed to become heroes. But there were so many villains. So very, very many villains. And slowly the Black Crusade turned from trying to make heroes, to trying to bring down villains. To bring light into the darkness.
When was the last time someone gave the Sinistry a black eye? A REALLY black eye? Gods above and below, when Legion got a hold of Ba'al, the pale little freak had to be physically dragged out of the cage. He was beaten so badly that he couldn't even MOVE.
Remember when Leeland Gaunt came out on the air and stated that the Cruzes and the Blacklist were in cahoots? Amazing how just a few short weeks later they were all buddy buddy and fighting against the Sinistry together, wasn't it?
And for his insights, for his unparalleled ability to plot, plan and carry out his promises, he and his client, the Infernal Incarnate Legion, were unceremoniously given the boot from the IWC. They never came back. They were never seen on IWC television again. And do you know why?
It wasn't because he didn't want to come back, it wasn't that he'd turned his back on trying to save the IWC. He left Hush and Silence here, left them to compete, left them to help train me. He was just waiting, waiting for someone in a position of power to have a little spark in their braincells, and realize that there were steps that could be taken to fight the Sinistry, even from outside the ring.
IWC Commissioner Leeland Gaunt. Head of IWC Security Forces Legion. Taking advantage of the lax pay per appearance policy that lets members of the Sinistry that aren't even signed with the federation to interfere in matches, to carry out gang war beat downs on their foes.
We got the production staff riled up, we had I don't know how many Loons ready and willing to fight for the IWC. Disrupting Sinistry affairs, distracting their propaganda machine, managing to break Susie Moore from their brainwashing.
We waited. We waited for so long for someone to step up and embrace our efforts to help, to take hold of what we were doing and use it to ignite a united war against the powers of darkness. To have a point of light to rally around and lash out at the cancer that's sucking the life out of the IWC.
But no one did. No one acknowledge us. No one helped us. No one allied with us. Kloe Masters and Orlando Cruze lacked the killer instinct, tactical insight, capacity for waging a war on multiple fronts, and the smarts to pick up the weapons that we were gleefully throwing at their feet.
The IWC is sick. The IWC has been sick for a long, long time, almost since the beginning. We've just had so many different cancers, viruses, and infections counterbalancing one another for so long it's just taken this long to notice how deeply diseased this federation is.
But what pushed it over the brink? What was the straw that broke the camel's back?
You were, Percival Clarence Whitman, you were.
When you decided to take the word of a gods damned megalomaniacal supervillain as gospel, when you chose to be Ba'al puppet in order to scour the remaining pieces of the Black Crusade from amongst the ranks of the IWC faithful. A choice you came to regret, but a choice you made, embraced, and acted on.
And after one more night, it's mission accomplished, Clarence. Come Monday morning the Black Crusade is no longer going to have an active presence on the IWC, no longer taking a hand in attempting to guide this federation back towards the light.
Because it's too far gone.
This is a place where the cancer has killed the patient. Something's still alive, slithering slimily through the darkness in search of more healthy flesh to infest, to suck into its fetid mass. Everyone has gathered into their little stables, embroiled in feeble territorial gang warfare over the little scraps that fall from the table of the Sinistry.
No one can put aside their egos and work together over the crushing force that's destroyed this federation.
I tried to help. I really did. I helped orchestrate a several month long campaign to tweak the Sinistry's nose, to disrupt operations, and to try and bring back some joy and spirit into the hearts of fans and fighters alike. I showed you that you could beat them, you stupid ninnies! AND YOU DID NOTHING! YOU DIDN'T EVEN ASK ME TO HELP TO END YOUR ASSORTED LITTLE SQUABBLES SO WE COULD JOIN TOGETHER AND TRIUMPH OVER THE HUGE EVIL POWER THREATENING TO CRUSH US ALL!
Empty hearts.
Empty minds.
Empty souls.
Each and every day I find myself walking through the halls where empty shells of human beings dwell. Heartless automatons interested only in their goals and their glories rather than band together and become something greater, to make something greater than the sum of its component parts.
And I can see why.
I can see why no one cares.
Because no one is ever punished here.
Everyone is allowed to run free, to obey only the rules they see fit, to pervert each and every segment to bolster their own personal glory.
No one else plays by the rules here. Not the staff, not the bookers, not the wrestlers.
So why should I?
After all the effort I put in to be a point of light in the darkness for all of you, to be a shining beacon only to be drawn and sucked down into the fetid blackness with the rest of you.
Do you know what the hard part was for me for learning to fight like you do, to compete in the ring?
Suppressing all the combat training, the years of survival with things bigger, stronger, faster, smarter, and more deadly than me. Of not sinking my teeth into your necks and ripping out a jugular the first chance I got. Of not breaking bones, snapping necks, cracking spines the moment I saw an opening.
I have tried very, very hard to keep from murdering each and every one of you.
So if no one else will play by the rules laid down to ensure mutual well-being and fairness, then why should I?
Come on. Tell me. Tell me why I shouldn't grab Leviticus in one hand, just lift him up into the air off of his feet with my hand wrapped around his neck. Why shouldn't I just hold him up there, why shouldn't I just choke the life out of him until he turns blue, until he stops breathing, until brain damage sets in, until he's been clinically dead so long you can't bring him back?
Why shouldn't I just take my time and break every bone in Fitzgerald's body? Snapping them also slowly, savoring the different noises they all make. Cracking and crushing them one by one, again and again and again until he's nothing more than a quivering, mewling, agonized lump of meat that will be crippled for the rest of his life?
What's stopping me from just picking up Stumpy Rodriguez, sinking my claws into his gut, and ripping out his intestines for all the world to see live on pay per view for all the world to see?
If you all won't fight the way you've told me that we're supposed to fight, why should I take anything else you say seriously?
What's preventing me from cutting off Kordelia Price's head, stuffing it up Ethan Aaron's ass, and then claiming the Evolution title from Andre Jordan's frozen, shattered corpse? Hmm? Why can’t I just go out there and violate each and every rule that professional wrestling is supposed to adhere to? Because we're above the law, after all.
All the rapes, the kidnappings, the drugs, the arson, I've watched the program. I've seen you all get away with it.
So why not murder?
What's wrong with me literally killing my way to the top? Hmm? What's going to stop me?
I am a seven foot tall, four hundred pound monstrosity.
You can't break my skin. You can't make me bleed. You can't even bruise me.
I'm stronger than you are.
I'm faster than you are.
I'm tougher than you are.
I can teleport.
I can heal myself with sub-zero temperatures.
It doesn't matter how many of you there are.
I can pick off this entire federation one by fetid one over the course of an evening. It doesn't matter how many of you there are. It doesn't matter how much you hit and kick and bludgeon me. All you can do is, for a few brief moments, make me feel pain, make my muscles ache with exertion. A bathtub and a bag of ice, a pile of cardboard, paper, and my own fire breath, and I'm back at one hundred percent.
I have a dark artifact crafted by a wicked god grafted to my arm. Within its malevolent consciousness lay dark incantations and powers to rip the souls from your bodies, bind your immortal spirits into subservient, life-devouring shades, bring your corpses back to life to rip and tear and claw your friends, family, and followers apart.
I have the remnant of a draconic divinity in residence inside my very soul. A vile goddess who devoured her own pantheon, her own followers, her own species. A goddess who thinks very lowly of simple mammals with your lack of horns, you lack of claws, your lack of wings and scales and tails. I don't even have to do anything, I can just sit back, let her take root in my mind, and empower me to something greater than I have ever been before.
If I just whisper her name, if I give voice to the word that I have sworn to never, EVER speak, if I take just one broken, mangled dying plaything and dedicate my violence to her name I will grow in power.
If I take a life for her, with each and every offering of a dead husk that used to be a human being she will grow stronger and as her single devotee, as her avatar upon the physical plain, so will I. A dozen, a hundred, a thousand human lives.
Somewhere along the line in all the carnage she'll be able to give me the one thing I want most: she'll be able to take me home. Away from your stupid ball with its stupid sky and its stupid, STUPID people.
It would be so easy, so simple. In one night of untold brutality I rip out of the world each and every thing that has caused me the slightest anger, upset, or annoyance. There will no need to claim what I ought to have been mine through one night's struggle and effort, because it will be mine by default.
They're just sitting there in my mind, just waiting for me to give the okay. Waiting to give me untold power. Waiting to grant me the tools that I need to open a way home.
I won't need the IWC. I won't need professional wrestling. I won't need Leeland Gaunt or the Black Crusade or ANYTHING.
Whatever this world has that I desire to be mine, I could just reach out and take it, and with a trail of blood and bodies and unspeakable horror, dark magic, and the blackest, bleakest divinity I can seize every prize I want.
With just one little word I can become anything and everything. With just a word I can end the IWC, I can end the world, I can end life on earth.
And the only reason I don't is because I've chosen not to.
I've looked into the mirror, stared deep into my soul and seen the potential darkness in my heart.
I've done what each and every one of you out there ought to have done a long, long time ago. I've looked at the power I can acquire, the fame, the wealth and decided that I don't want that. I've chosen to be a person, I've decided to be a human being instead of a monster.
And that's why I'm leaving the IWC. Not because you've broken my spirit, not because you've beaten me down, not because you've frightened me, but because I frighten me.
I look at you, I look at the things you do, and I wonder what it would be like. I wonder what it would be like if I just decided to be like you. If I decided to give no fucks at all about rules and laws and regulations and morals and decency.
I could reach out and I could fix all my problems, I could fix all your problems, I could fix the whole issue of a cancer eating the IWC from within, of twin cults of personality sucking the life, the heart, and the soul out of this company. I could fix it and in fixing it, I'd be able to go home.
It would be so easy.
It would be so gods damned easy.
And that's why I have to leave.
Because if I stay with each slight against me, each time somebody decides that they don't have to play by the same rules, each time the darkness swallows the light, each time something wicked happens without justice, it will become just a little bit easier to join in. To have just one moment of darkness for my very own. There will be no punishment for it. There is never any punishment for it.
So I'm doing what no one else in this cesspool of humanity will. I'm going to put the well being of others ahead of my own. I'm going to forever set aside the title shot and the fame and glory that ought to have been mine. I'm going to be a paragon of virtue in a world of pure evil.
I'm going to leave the IWC because if I stay here I'm going to let myself be consumed by the same cancerous filth that infests each and every one of you here. I'm going to be your shining point of light in the darkness and I'm going to take my radiance somewhere where I won't be tempted into something incredibly, unspeakably, irrevocably vile.
Darkness has fallen here. It corrupts, it consumes, and it coverts whatever tiny motes of light attempt to rise here into more of its sickness.
I'm leaving you, IWC. I'm leaving you to let you grow and consume and pervert like the disgusting infection you are.
But like all infections, in time you're going to cause so much damage that there is nothing left for you to eat, nothing left for you to devour. Because that's what the worst infections do, they kill their host, they blight the soil, they poison the well, they end up destroying the very thing they feed upon.
And then they starve.
And then they rot.
I hope I'm wrong. I hope that one day some of you decide to cut out the sickness in your hearts and souls and band together to fight the festering hate and loathing that is the IWC, and that in time it can be made a healthy, happy, hopeful place filled with light and life.
But I don't think that's going to happen.
So I'm going to sit back, and I'm going to let you fucking rot.
Because I've made a decision, I've made a choice. And it's the same choice that each and every one of you have been given. You've just all decided to take the other option.
The only difference between you and me is the magnitude of evil that we do. You're lesser evils, but you are no less wicked simply because your wickedness can't be measured in kilonazis.
You're all wicked.
You're all evil.
You're all tainted.
You're all diseased.
And come 10 PM on October the 19th, I get to wash your filth off of me and have a new start somewhere that hopefully doesn't make me legitimately consider murdering and offering up each and every one of my coworkers to a cannibalistic hydra-goddess.
I'm going to sit back.
I'm going to relax.
And I'm going to watch each and every last one of you fuckers rot.
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