Post by The Mad King on Aug 25, 2023 11:25:32 GMT -6
Mar 26, 2021 18:16:07 GMT -6 The Mad King said:
"I was taught that the human brain was the crowning glory of evolution so far,
but I think it's a very poor scheme for survival." - Kurt Vonnegut
Exordium; Priceless. - chk.flip/rants
It's been a whiiiile since I could... put together the words for my peons. Seems much folly is in my wake upon returning to Extreme Wrestling. But we learned a lot on this toilsome and troubled road. Didn't we? Let's see what we've got to work wi-- THREE AND FOUR!? What the fuck is this, the average of any seven straight games the Las Vegas Raiders have played over the last ten years!? The NFL Football team, not the winningest losers in 3C. I just want to make sure I'm not confusing you here, okay? The R-A-I-D Raiders, NOT the G-A-G M-E W-I-T-H A F-O-R-K Rayders. Got it? HAHAS ASIDE, that 3-4 is in fact your boy's stunning record. Contender for the FX Broadcast Championship, ladies and gentlemen.
TANGENT TIME: We're talking about the man who storylined a relationship with a woman in Extreme Wrestling way back when (It's Stranglemania, Eric, and you opened your fucking mouth), while married (OH?), and "faked" emotions (OHHH??) after being prompted to do so in the first place (NANI!?!) by the accuser of... said... fake... emotions (Oof. You are so dumb. You are really dumb. For real. Hide your tired ass roast beef wife strung out in the closet you fucking found her in. Jackass.). We're talkin' about King Flip (WHOOOOO). Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaanyways...
I haven't had a year like this since those same Raiders went to the Super Bowl. Ol' Flipperdoodles was in his damn twenties back then! It didn't matter when the wine and women flowed regardless. But now? I like to act like I'm old as shit, y'know, seeing as how 'Taker looked like a bag of dicks 18 years in. But I'm only 34, boyos (Do the math, Candy!). That's no spring chicken but I mean... I could be if you squint. Muy guapo, eh? No, but really, all this to say that for the first time in seven mostly unbearable years? I'm happy. Is this optimal card placement? Absolutely not, but the ol'C-H-K doesn't give a damn about that. Is this the redemption song we wanted played at the grand stage? Fuck outta here with that. Got a looooot of squirrely little shitters that want to look at the short term. Always bah bah unfunny, wah wah uncool, rah rah unapproachable. Didn't win last week. And? Am I or am I *not* a contender for a title I sought after day one? That's long term, bitch, and it happens right after the big event. Opá!
It's almost like a plan is coming together. *lights cigar*
Just think... when it does click into place for me, and you know it will because I am fucking inevitable, and the goal isn't so low on Extreme Wrestling's totem pole? What magic it'll be. More on pipe dreams later. For now...
Scene; To Strangle a KINGDOM
We open those doors in t-minus twelve hours. The air is buzzing with fans of all denominations from across the planet. Stranglemania has that effect regardless of time or location. These peons of all shapes and sizes found themselves currently packed in a half circle before three Stranglemania-themed tour busses. Enter the King, Chris Calvin's old megaphone in hand, atop the middle bus to a very mild response. Clapping suddenly starts becoming a thing and I can't help but egg it on a little with a Hogan ear pose. Small pop. One shitholster yells something along the lines of 'do your own shit, hack' but I'm too high to give him more than a glance and that half smile.
"Greetings and salutations, Extreme Wrestling fanatics. Do you think you're ready for Stranglemania?"
The reaction is audible but leaves even John Blade wanting more. Where's that bastard with the tacos when you need him? My eyes survey the folks nearest. They seemed amped enough when the busses pulled up and stage hands set up those old school barricades. Extreme Wrestling hasn't bought new steel guardrails since the turn of the century, but hey. It's Stranglemania. Stop yer bitchin and get these fans hitched in.
"I'm sorry, it doesn't really sound like you're ready to see who walks away with all those titles on the line tonight. Will Wes Walker walk away with the title he didn't really deserve a shot at? Who HASN'T beaten Saman-- anyway. Will it be Killjoy? Or does Eric FINALLY defy everything and walk out a double daddy tonight? Now, I'll ask again. Do you THINK you're ready... for STRANGLEMANIA!?"
This isn't my forté and it shows. The reaction is louder, though, so we'll scratch that as a W and move right along. The doors to each of the busses open. One after another come EWC stage hands with objects obscured by blankets. Nine objects are spaced apart as the buzzing in the crowd picks up again.
"Y'see, I was hoping you'd react that way. But as I look upon all those faces... I don't see enough Extreme Wrestling merch. And as you all know well and good... though I am Extreme Wrestling's Original King, I am kind."
The big reveal. Each blanket is pulled to show nine familiar-looking mannequins with some... obvious alterations. Notably, the Candy mannequin doesn't have feet on account of that being the first thing to go when the diabetes finally goes full tilt. The Dolla Dolla mannequin looks as if it's about to sache away and the Scorpio mannequin, if you can even call it that, is just a terrible render of his face on a massive, erect male member. Get it? He's a prick. But each wears its own merch with one obvious thing in common. Big, red, spraypaint X's across each of their tees. Seems someone gave Tsutsumi a curly mustache as well. Cheeky.
"Unfortunately, Extreme Wrestling was unable to account for the following wrestlers. Otherwise? The staffers here have boxes and boxes and... well, three tour buses FULL of Extreme Wrestling gear that you can find and buy with ease on EWC Shop dot com, I think? It's been a while, apologies, but no worries! It's all here, for you, for free, for being the best Goddamn peons on the planet. Just follow the gates, folks, and I'll see you tonight on the freeview when these nine chucklefucks get it broken down Barney style what it really means to compete. LET'S GIVE IT ONE MORE TIME FOR THE ONE MORE TIME FOR STRANGLE-FUCKIN-MANIA!"
Oh hey, big pop. Cena who? Now to get as far away from this chaos as possible. Chanel had the car ready, texting away in the passenger seat of my '02 El Camino. Steel blue and slightly lowered, so about as inconspicuous as we've always been, y'know?
"Any reason you didn't try to build that up a little more? Just a couple weeks ago you went full-nasty on Samantha. And now you're some sorta hero because my head went through a mirror?"
The small scar across the top of her forehead goes back into her hairline. Hardly noticable, maybe? But it will forever burn in my memory as the moment the next little pissant with a point to prove decided they needed a King to punch 'em the fuck down. There was going to be ten mannequins but the Callie Clark one met Delilah Elizabeth first. They... didn't get along. To simplify everything down to Chanel's head going through that mirror, though, is a disservice.
"It's not that simple. The people spoke. What she did to you was unacceptable. You're not a competitor, a bodyguard, you're not even a MANAGER, really. You're the damn valet. Just a pretty girl who does some of the King's light work from time to time. NOT someone who deserves to have their money maker potentially alterered... and WHY? Because you bumped into her? Wrong place, wrong time? Double fuck all of that noise. So when that little message bled out into my match that night, well, it was at that moment she should've better known better. That's when they began to rally. It wasn't until that moment we could've left. That moment we looked to them and they yelled for an immediate receipt."
It's been way too long since I've heard a solid 'C-H-K' chant at all. Even longer since they looked upon their King and smiled. Can't let a gesture like that fall wayside. This was not a time for words... but Chanel still looks like her initial question wasn't answered.
"More directly, yes and no. Your face going through a mirror kind of, uh, snowballed. And hey, the whole plot of homecoming week across the four brands was to see if they remembered. Last week's Brawl proved they definitely do."
Thank you, Extreme Wrestling. For everything.
"So this money flaunty bullshit. This some sort of hail mary at saving more face?"
"Oh, that old chestnut? That's psychological warfare. Just a little how-do-you-do from me to them. It's also, if you think about it, a very subliminal if very small middle finger to whoever's bullshit idea it was to only give the freeview crew like three fucking minutes of air time. I'm King Flip and as much as I want to personally just walk into Mac's office and shit on his desk... it's Stranglemania. That was my three minutes. The rest is cheese."
"You know you're crazy, right?"
That's subject to professional opinion only, thank you very much. Eyeroll.
"Yeah yeah yeah. Rabbits eat radishes so they can have babies."
I hit her with the punchline before she can even process the solid Perry Saturn quote.
"YOU'RE WELCOME."
Wait, what's happening? A scene cut? NOW!? But we were just--
Scene II; BREAKNECK NEWS! (more at 11)
Goodbye classic car and ring gear, hello dusty pale suit and... newsroom? Let's go!
"We interrupt this lackadaisical attempt at hashtag just face things with BREAKNECK NEWS. I am Flip Stopperson and we here at Cold Hearted News do apologize for interrupting that truly touching piece."
Deadpan stare. Shuffle papers.
"In local news, King Flip fucking sucks the air out of every arena and sources tell CHN... it's not a breathtaking effect. Karen."
It takes a certain cut of prick to own a joke nobody has made about you yet. Cameras switch to... that's no Karen, that's Chanel in a blond wig. I can't even
"Staaaaaaahpperson, let me tell. you. It ain't pretty, boo boo. Can Stranglemania turn this faux pas into an eyyy ma? Let's dive in with this week's 'What are you on about?'"
What is an 'eyyy ma' and why did she make it sound positive? Canned applause as a shoddy graphic reading 'What Are YOU On About?' flashes across the screen. Breaking news... with a segment? Even the King is lost, ladies and gentlemen, and he produced this shitshow!
"Flip is the veteran in most situations these days, which is wild until you remember that guys like Al Snow, Billy Kidman, and in some circles David Arquette are considered veterans, too. His wits seem to dwindle by the promo. Even his last win saw Flip get his ass beat from pillar to post. Pile on that his teammates at Stranglemania have literally no love loss and Flip is the only competitor in this match that is truly alone. Even Scorpio has people behind him and that's sayin' more than you realize."
A cold fact.
"In regional news, team Rampage shows their cards in the coming brand showdown by compiling a group that looks like they'll sooner win a dance battle than any race for dominance. Jackson looks and sounds like JLo's latest attempt at making a choreographer, Tommy Burton is literally just a convict, an extra in the back to give a menacing finger snap, and Samantha Hamilton's ever-failing ass doesn't exactly round out the group. The trio, though a glaring example at how lackluster that roster is, will have a lot of legging to do to keep up. Literally. What are you ON about, Rampage?"
Objection.
"Wait, is that the whole--"
Quick cut back to Cha-- Karen. It's a nice wig, though. Gotta be at least horse hair or something. She bougie. But as pretty as she is, this whole interrupting me thing is not the business.
"Paramount is the talk of every town. The Little Engine That Went And Graduated, or How we Learned to Stop Worrying and Just Love the Bomb? Whatever you wanna call it, who do you even call the leader of this Spirit Squad? Skittles and cake, honey daaaaarlings. We sure those aren't dentures in their mouths? Robbies best kept secret, huh. What ARE you on about, Paramount? Technicolor dolla dolla bills y'all? Hell. Nah. This little camp might brandish an effective look. The sleak new coat always turns heads until the pleather shows. Not a single notable note amongst three of your performers any greater than any other person in the match. This is what you wish to showcase? Do I even say the slogan again?"
Nervous chuckle from me off-screen, face buried in my palms. 'Just one more brand' whispers itself in my head on repeat.
"Please, no."
No wonder I lose a lot. Even I hate this shit.
"Now PRIME. That is a team that really coulda been a contender. Narumi Tsutsumi? More like Narumi Tsunami! That girl is a hurri-craze ta watch! It's a tootin' shame she has Jamie Love and 'Not Too Cold' Scorpio dragging her by the ankles. All that pizazz goes kaput once you add Extreme Wrestling's big-haired Bill Alfonso head ass to any group. Just look at Lorenzo."
I am the confusion as my face crops up again with another camera shift.
"Who?"
This motherfucker ain't even in the match. What is SHE on about!?
"Exactly. The string bean JOB Squadder made Phoenix Winterborn look over. Now that I sit and tap my noggin on it, Ivory Scorpio jumped ship to maintain some semblance of relevance and this is his bone. O to the O F. Your only hope is gonna be so swamped with these Obi-Wan Ke-Nobodies that her little sail isn't gonna catch that needed wind. That's all I'm on about, darling. Back to you, Stop Floppingbum."
Is this the "Comedy! Bang Bang" bit where they -- oh, yep. Even the graphic says 'Stop Floppingbum,' that's classy. Shuffle papers.
"Like a cunning politician we avoided 'Flip equals dog water' and went full sling campaign. And now Chanel with the weather! How's it feel out ther--"
"I AIN'T BUILT FOR THIS, MAYNE. IT'S FUCKIN' COLD!"
It gets cold in sunny, moist, coastal Florida? No way.
"Thank you for that quality meteorology, Chanel. Ironically, that's as much time as they wanted me to spend on nine people. Can you imagine, Chanel?"
Zing!
"Flip."
Why does she sound so calm?
"ON. GAWD."
She's clapping? I'm fucking panicking.
"If you got me out here shakin' like Metal Black's strippin' ass because it's so DAMN COLD... for you to make ANOTHER one-liner about promo length, bruh."
Uhhhhh... see, what had happened was...
"ARE YOU FUCKIN DEAD ASS!? YOU O'FAY PATTY ASS MOTHERFU--"
The cameras catch me motioning to someone to cut the feed. Awkward.
"Ope, looks like we lost Chanel. Stay warm out there."
She'll be aight. Shuffle papers.
"That's all the time we have, ladies and gentlemen. We thank you for allowing us to interrupt your regularly scheduled morsel for this extended cut. We love you. Goodnight."
Counting to 800 with you has been so nice we did it twice!
Can it still slice a tomato? Can Gohan collect the dragon balls in time? WILL CHANEL SURVIVE THE SWELTERING... COLD!?
FIND OUT ALL THAT AND MORE IN OUR NEXT EPISODE: 'SCENE III; BY THE MANIA OF A KING' TO FIND OUT!
Scene III; By The Mania of a KING
Off in the caverns of some undisclosed location lies a darkness. One that a man donning that same horse-dented armor must endeavor by torchlight. We keep our eyes forward as light barely reaches the walls. Then it catches my peripheral. A hallucination? No... the walls. They bare the markings of their own tale. Tag team action? Large internet personality? Ah... there can only be one.
"Jamie Love. How many times must my eyes be sodden with your ilk? Misguided fanfare, minimalistic in effort and charisma regardless of the sack from which he came. The grease stain that was a paternal figure to him has only pushed him further into the dark. All that he lacks... will bring strength. It makes him almost invisible to the competition, doesn't it? They'll be so underwhelmed by the underdog that he could easily, breezily, beautifully cover girl himself to the flag unnoticed. Afraid your rouse is found, young Jamie. Senpai notices you this day."
My finger presses against what is assumed to be his depiction on the wall. Is that what this is? Some sort of warning? My eyes look up as a chuckle escapes me. The determination to push forward just went through the roof. We continue on for some time, a few twists and turns, before coming upon the next group of wall paintings. These a little more familiar than the last since these are things people actually watched. Ope.
"Jackson Knight Jr. A contender is seen in these eyes. A warrior. A grand addition to his team for certain. But one needn't look further than the name to know their downfall in this, Junior. There are a lot of contenders in this match and you've done nothing to differentiate yourself from the next one. Just juxtaposed in like a good member of your roster. What a shame. Hopefully tonight you show the world what JK Junior is all about. I just hope you're ready to do more than match the competition."
So many more things to say, but the mud was slung. I had my laugh. Forward and onward with it if we ever hope to reach the end of this cavern. Besides, there's a really musty smell that's starting to pick up in here and, honestly, I'm not sure if it's me or the presentation of the next catalogue of moments. I knocked this kid's name in my first promo back. So many dollar bill signs that it's impossible not to know which shlemp this is supposed to be.
"This one's currency. Why does its scent remind me of mold and decay? Young Mogul. What a fraudulent name. Too much pomp and not enough circumstance. But a proper distraction you'll be, won't you? You can't help it you absolute peacock. You may even find inner turmoil, recent history considered, so what we have here is yet another misnomer. An adult of Charlie Brown canon. Wah wah, wahwah wahhh. You have a long road ahead before you ever find what it is you're looking for when there are so many glaring descrepencies in your presentation alone. Another blank contender, nothing more."
My hand smears the art along the wall in one swipe right. That's what we do now, right? Swipe right for no thank you. Too many jokes, Flip. Keep going. Keep pushing. We must finish this side quest for the loot before getting back to the singles gold main quest line on Brawl. Love? Knight? Dolla dolla? They don't know nothin' bout that singles gold main quest yet. Pretenders. Wishers, the lot. Moving on, my eyes widen. You'd mistake this as an homage to British Bulldog if you didn't pay close attention to the hairline. Or the ring attire. Or...
"Now we're getting somewhere. Scorpio. A name of some reverence. Or is it? What is a name if it isn't an astrological sign, another wrestler's name, almost a little poisonous creature, and so on... and so on. But that's Scorpio in a nutshell, hey? And so on. Prime Minister? How boisterous for an and so on like you. That's what it's all about. Title belts. Owning your own corner of your own universe. I'd go on but the taste of swallowing my own puke to do so will become unbearable soon. Your reputation will follow you no matter how many monikers you flush through. Perception is reality, and your reality looks a bit bleak init."
His wall bleeds almost immediately into another. A big Walking Dead esque penitentiary in the background with The Incredible Hulk bursting through wall and fence in a single push forward.
"Now here's something to get behind. Violence. Tommy Burton, you're looking at Nathan Jones' biggest, longest-standing, and at this point probably only fan. A magnificent mind is needed to hone in on that primal instinct so... unnaturally. Your suit in spades and an avenue with which to exact it if only for the bullshit that even is a flag match. Will you seethe, monster? Will your roar be fierce? Or will you be so blind in the red that you don't remember a flag exists? So many rhetorical questions for a nut... only an asshole in medieval armor would have the audacity. Yammering on as nonsensically as your Ultimate Warrior style promos. What is your fucking message, dude?"
That last one was for both of us. The air is getting thinner as we continue on. His violence isn't message enough, though, shown as we find what appears to be some sort of break in his wall. Wait, no. There's something drawn here as well. Another angry little neckbeard, this one catching their last win off my back.
"That last one wasn't rhetorical, but I'm not exactly looking for a reply. Our little break here has all the Jack Severn answers I need for a goon like Ol' Tommy B. Two pigs in a bucket, er, whatever. By the way, Jackie Boy. I... nah. Like Xavier Reid, you're just NOT worth the fucking breath."
Also not an opponent. He'll play his part in keeping the little pawns in check. That's the only thing relevant. Speaking of jumping right along, the next one feels like it went headfirst for both of my retinas. Who paints a wall in technicolor? Where do you even buy technicolor paint!?
"El Pablo, no mames guey. Chinge no tú madre. Uh... el gato tengo los pantalones negros? No habla, lo siento, pero, uh... como se dise 'I gave it the old college try'?"
He's one I'm sure to see again on the next bounce. Brevity is key, and honestly there isn't anything a little brother is going to listen to that big brother didn't already fucking hear. Save it. Hedge forward still and the graphics along these walls have me ever sour. They begin to arc in a bit of, ugh, friendly competition.
"In the days since my return to Extreme Wrestling, every humbling loss a reminder, there's been this number. One thousand and eighty. An ostentatious claim to even fathom to have given any more than arithmetic and flair to that match. You do that a lot, y'know? That pedantic commonfolk jargon. They might say... they may think... and that's your most egregious folly. Too concerned with maybe futures to carve your own. You reached the top of the mountain before, Candy, and now what? You've peaked. Addled by your own next hot topic while waiting for your next creampie. Either form."
Giggity.
"Capture the Flag. Absurdity for absurdity's sake, sure, but a perfect platform for my retort to that insignificant. fucking. number. And for the cherry, sweet cheeks, we'll serve a proper treat in the form of hard fact for every loudmouthed Eric in and out of this match."
Here comes the pain.
"None of us are significant."
Et tu, Brutè?
"Look at the card. Look at your name. Look at literally EVERY other name, ANY other name on the card outside the curtain jerker. We are the punchline, Candy. One of many that I must drown at Strangle. And if I cannot? I look no further than my siren."
Chanel emerges from the shadows with Chris Calvin's megaphone hanging from the strap around her neck. Some are going to need a solid elbow to the throat; however, a lot of these toads just need to be shouted over. Outshined. Distracted for just long enough in the chaos while the man with the four-letter name grabs a flag. Uh oh... the walls are getting pretty again. Glamorous, even. That can only be one person to me. Because with this one the walls feel like they're closing in. I will not be repelled.
"Against better judgment, we finally reach the level of the cavern most... uncomfortable. Sam."
Big fucking sigh.
"Tonight should mean the most to you. YOUR clap back for clapped cheeks. Everything you've been yearning for is a single, perhaps red, flag away. All it takes is a moment. YOUR moment. And there isn't a peon in the realm pining for it, for that moment, more than your King. Do it. PLEASE. Get it, girl, but be warned. Your last words on my name may have been more kind than intended. Being quoted is a step under immitation, the most sincere form of flattery. Keep those eyes fixed on me? Or my siren? Eight other hungry hippos will gobble you up in that moment you seek. Eyes forward, Samantha Hamilton. I believe in you."
Finally, a smile. A kind hand to the art. Even false motivation from a brand rival is better than no motivation from anybody at all. Not that any lack of support is the poor girl's issue. But like so many before her, my feet move right along without another word. That is, of course, because the next collage is absolutely breathtaking.
"Narumi... this will be my highest honor. The brand new brand champion in the opener of the freeview while each of the brand-adjacent title holders have much more grandiose bookings. Title on the line and champion versus champion... it should pain those doey eyes to see it, buy hey now. Chin up, sunshine, nobody likes a pouter. Even in powder white. You'll prove them to be the ones with egg on their raggedy faces. Of course you will. One Blockbuster Video sized venue at a time if that's what it takes. Right? You damn right I'm right. I can't remember a time I was Goddamn wrong."
There's another I want to fight again some time. Another that'll get just enough boot to ass to be kept out of flag's reach. And if you're counting at home you know there's only one left. The sound of broken porcelain under boot snaps the air. Porcelain? We follow the bread crumb trail to a flaming glory that seems to have affixed itself to the mannequin head of Callie Clark.
"And alas, the pretender. Moreso everyone else's problem than mine on this night; however, one does not simply ignore any problem regardless of size. And regardless to whether you're aware of it or not, Callie, the solve will come at your own personal expense. The floodgates of your blood will flow for everything YOU FUCKING THINK you've accomplished off my back. Jumping off yours to grab a flag? Too easy. All that means is that embarrassing you and ten other sloth-faced shitlords isn't enough. Even Bosa wouldn't plant himself behind a little ol' message like that. Not alone. But that's another story. Another night. And then another, most likely, because getting laid on your back just once? Too icky. Too one-night-standy... too familiar as trudged territories go. I applaud you for bringing the battle, Callie Clark. It better fucking continue or your ill preparations won't last through the coming war. This ain't no place for no hero, but I'll be damned if it isn't the moment King Flip answered the call, Brawl stamp on the left biscuit and FX has the movies stamp on the right buscuit, where there were no falls required. Even Mama Frields will be proud of Stranglemania."
We approach the head.
"My siren is ready. I am prepared. Oh, and don't forget about Delilah Elizabeth."
We remove the flaming, barbed-wire baseball bat from the head. It crumbles outward as the weapon stands strong.
"She was born on a night like this. But even that story can wait. Now that I have outlined, in greater detail than time allotted, the many ways and reasons I walk out, flag in hand, over these eleven Troglodytes... we close. After all that tough-love talk, ladies and gentlemen, for the third and final tune... I would drop The Heavy. Ain't No Place For No Hero. But the reference it makes to Mark Storm, to Stranglemania, to every step forward bringing me that much closer to my pipe dream: a Wrestlefest main event in December. Who cares to hear it? There are TEN of you chapping my ass. But at Stranglemania there will only be one of us with that proverbial brass ring. Your Cold-Hearted King."
All hail, indeed.
