Shin-ternational Ambitions
Apr 19, 2024 20:24:03 GMT -6
Narumi Tsutsumi, The Lad, and 1 more like this
Post by EPFTW! on Apr 19, 2024 20:24:03 GMT -6
A technicolour man
Rests his technicolour head
In a technicolour bed
On a technicolour plane
Well, a normal plane
Mostly white, save for pops of British Airways blue and red
Also, it's less a ‘bed’ and more a ‘very comfortable, fully-reclining business class suite seat’
We’ve gotten distracted
As we cruise above the Atlantic
30,000ft amongst the twinkling black tapestry of a clear Spring night
Dreaming dreams in which golden ghosts of House Parties past have finally, too, been laid to rest
Another psychological scourge smashed to smithereens
Our synesthetic sultan’s slumber sees him blissfully unaware of the seeds of a new hostile harvest taking root
A humble flower pot
Filled with flowers not
But a curious concoction of soil, soot and ash
Standing on the little fold out tray table in our multicoloured Mage's midst
Scorched earth
Alas
There is no time
For you and I
To pry
To try
And find
A reason why
For as we cast our wondering eye
Upon this most perplexing planter…
He whispers
A wisp of smoke
Breaks through the soil
The undead hand of a horror movie malcontent
Begging for release
As a fading campfire begs for breath
And with ours baited
His fire grows
The soil glows
Pulsating orange, yellow and red
Hazard lights warning that, even beneath scorched earth
This horticultural heart still beats
Suddenly
With smoke now billowing
He appears
A tree bursts upwards
Its gnarled and knotted bark a dusty purple
Its warped and withered branches tipped with haphazard clumps of greasy green leaves as they stretch temporarily towards the sky
Limbs re-limbered
Rest assured, dear reader
A foot tall this wee bonsai may be
But he is no Guardian
In this Cinematic Universe
He is a ghoul
The manifestation of a man who -
for a thousand days
- had his boot pressed firmly against our hero's Rainbowlutionary neck
Metaphorically
Often literally
A StrangleHold that no Taste could satiate
No ‘Painter could prise loose
And, while that sorry circus-centric saga may have finally been ended at the Rumble
It started at StrangleMania
The tree turns towards our Technicolour protagonist
Hollow eyes staring from an unsettlingly humanoid face at the top of its trunk
Its battle-broken bark creaking and splintering as a malevolent grin spreads
Oozing berry red
Droplets dripping upon the soil from whence this arboreal beast had so long been buried
The Tecnico stirs
Not enough to wake
His subconscious merely making mental note of a sudden psychological disturbance in the force
And as the withered tree leans subtly towards him
He whispers
“Monster’s Ball”
It's a warm spring afternoon upon which we find El Pablo walking amongst the historic Georgian townhouses and terraces of St. James Street, nestled in the shadows of the grounds of Buckingham Palace in Central London. Despite the ostensibly serene nature of these surroundings, the Technicolour Tecnico’s own tranquillity appears to be rather tempered - largely by the growling, gurgling and occasionally-jagged-wooden-teeth-gnashing tree protruding from the flower pot that Pablo holds uneasily out in front of him.
“Did you have to bring that with you?” asks Pablo’s cousin Verana, walking a few cautious steps behind the Tecnico alongside his brother and fellow Silent Discotecnico, Vertigo.
“He’s evidently rather difficult to leave behind,” Pablo grumbles in response. As if to punctuate his point, the Tecnico turns and drops the tree into a public trash can as they pass.
“See? That wasn't Shini-so diffic-AHH!” Verana yelps as she finds that plant pot suddenly - inexplicably - in her own hands.
“See what I mean?” Pablo shrugs, as Verana hurriedly hands the tiny tree over to Vertigo before running to occupy Pablo's opposing shoulder. After a few more minutes of walking, the trio arrived at a scene familiar to eagle-eyed viewers of Rainbowlutionary promos past: 69 St. James Street, better known as the headquarters of the prestigious Carlton Club. Here, members of Britain's corporate, social and political elites gather to indulge in all manner of business dealings, scandal and debauchery, far from the prying eyes of the unwashed masses…although not, it would seem, today, judging by the extensive layer of scaffolding running up the front of the building over its blacked out windows and bolted shut doors. Indeed, the only discussions of any note appear to be those among the workmen populating the scaffolding’s various tiers - chiefly those pertaining to either late-night conquests or the recent fortunes of local sports teams.
“Well, that's a tree-mendous inconvenience,” says Pablo, showing admirable dedication to punmanship despite his obvious frustration.
“You trying to get Wrigley's into the political donorship game?” asks Verana, a sceptical expression on her face as her gaze lingers on the fabulous Discotecnicoloured dinner jacket that her cousin has chosen to adopt for the occasion, “coz I don't think this is your audience.”
“What could a society of stuffy, rich, upper-class old people possibly have against a Rainb-ohhh, I see what you're saying,” Pablo nods as realisation belatedly hits. Satire. “But, no, it's not about that.”
The Tecnico dips into his chest pocket and pulls out a packet of trusty thinking Skittles, tearing it open before tossing a fistful into his mouth.
“A year and a half ago, I stood in front of the steps of this very building and declared that I was gonna make the Mad King recognise my worthiness as X-Division Champion,” he continues, “and, as cathartic as that victory was, what was even more pertinent from a personal point of view was the fact that that Rumble with the Great Khan of Grumbles marked my one-hundredth match as a member of the EWC roster! That’s pretty remarkable, honestly, when you consider the calibre of some of the cats and competitors that’ve graced this company’s assorted canvases and not gotten to even half that number…but, what’s even more remarkable is the fact that this triple-threat at StrangleMania XIX - the first time that the Rainbowlution will’ve marched on England’s capital since that night - is gonna be my one-hundredth EWC singles match. I mean, I know we talk a lot about patterns and numbers but…that has to mean something, right? Call it chaos…fate…magic…but, two centenary celebrations in the exact same city? That can’t just be a coincidence…and that’s why I wanted to come back here; to draw the parallels; harness some of that Resentful Regent-routing razzmatazz and make perfect our polychromatic preparations for what we intend to make a most illustrious ‘International incident!’”
He sighs.
“...but I guess that wasn’t in the cards after all.”
“So we find somewhere else,” says Verana, pulling out her phone and scrolling over Google Maps as Pablo takes another - more despondent - mouthful of Skittles, his gaze drifting distractedly back over towards the scaffolding, “I mean, there’s plenty of places here that we can use as a psychological starting point, y’know? Piccadilly Circus…Oxford Circus…Oh, there’s a restaurant just off Oxford Street that’s literally called ‘Beast’ - we could talk about the steaks of this confrontation over dinner!”
Chuckling at her own joke, Verana nudges her cousin in the ribs - though, sadly, neither succeeds in dragging the Discotecnico from his daydream.
“…No? I’ll keep hunting…”
Curiously, it’s this remark that sparks a flicker behind the mask of the multicoloured Moctezuma-
“...so help me chaos, I’m not having this International endeavour run aground on a frickin’ building site…”
-and that one that fully sparks him back into life, as he suddenly snatches the plant pot from Vertigo’s verti-grasp before turning to Verana with a wide, Skittles-eating grin.
“You’re a frickin’ tree-nius.”
Before Verana can wrap her head around either the pun or the seemingly completely random compliment, the Tecnico’s taken off, marching towards a ladder leading up to the first tier of the scaffolding and - much to the shock and chagrin of the workmen working upon it - beginning to climb, leaving his thoroughly confused kin standing on the sidewalk as the screen fades to black.
“Chaos is a ladder.”
Pablo's words hang in the air above the rooftops, uttered with fresh tenacity from his new position atop the Carlton Club roof. Despite the initial protestations of the workmen, there appears to be no great rush to remove the Tecnico from his perch, his legs swinging freely over the scaffolding railing as he gazes out over the London City skyline.
“The opening salvo in the saga that would become the Carnival Clown versus the Leader of the Rainbowlution,” he continues. “Y’know, it's kinda fitting that our latest chapter should come under a set of circumstances like this: the two of us in a triple-threat match at a major Pay-Per-View for an EWC Championship, just as it was the first time we met. The last time, too - well, besides the Pay-Per-View and the championship - although, frankly, the less said about that, the better for the both of us.”
He chuckles.
“Funny, too; I came into that first match facing accusations of only being afforded my opportunity by the whims of upper management - and now, here I am again, seven years later, facing those exact same accusations.
Back then, it was Ben Moss plot-twisting me into WrestleFest after sending Honey Hunt to strong-arm Stitches into signing his Indy Championship defence contract; this time, it was Jim Connors insisting that our gauntlet match in Chicago run to its conclusion despite JoJo and Tori doing their darndest to duck out early - and I’m sure the sight of my name on the card here’s sticking in your carnival craw, Stitches, just as it was back then…although, I’d be remiss if I didn't point out that, of the two of us, I’m the one who actually pinned the champion to get here."
He smirks, tossing a fistful of Skittles into his mouth as he casts a brief look down at the tree that stands, growling and grumbling, on the ledge beside him.
“You, on the other hand? You were the safe option. The preferred choice. The guy the champ’d rather face than take his chances tussling with the synesthetic spectre from his past, and that…that may just be the most damning indictment of the way in which our fortunes have flipped over the past couple of years.”
Emboldened, the Tecnico gives the tiny tree a momentary pat upon the top of its greasy green head - a gesture that’s received about as well as one might expect.
“See, there was a time when seeing your name beside mine on a card meant I’d as good as lost whatever match we were due to have before they’d even hit our music,” he continues, “I may have won that opening battle but, I can admit now, I was not prepared for what was to come my way the second time around!”
“Monster’s Ball…” the tree sneers, that jagged smile creaking across its ‘face’ once again.
“Exactly right,” Pablo chuckles, “for a thousand days, I carried the scars of what you did to me that night…wondering if I’d ever make it back to the mountaintop - to the frickin’ foothills, even! - but then, at Rumble 2021…I beat you. After all those years…all those trying times and times of trying…I beat you - and, you know what? You have never been the same since. This aura you crafted of Stitches the indomitable, the unbeatable, the undisputed? I took that from you - and everything you’ve done over the past two-plus years since has been part of an increasingly desperate attempt to recapture it!
But you can’t.
I know what this match at StrangleMania means to you…what the significance of this Pay-Per-View is within the context of the history between you and I…and I know you’ll be banking on that little monster to help pull you through to victory…but, like I said, the tables have turned. Now, I’m the one in the driving seat. I’m the one who’s bested you most every time we’ve met these past couple of years - and I’m the one who’s gonna put another Carnival curse to bed, and snatch another precious piece of championship gold from under your busted nose.
Besides - who better to take out a troublesome tree than a set of Lumberjacks?”
Once more, Pablo pauses, smirking as he tosses another fistful of Skittles into his mouth.
“Of course, if I’m gonna do that…I’m gonna have to slay a new demon, as well as an old one,” he continues. “I told you this was coming, JoJo…ever since you left me buried on that mountainside, I told you this was coming - and I know you know it, too…hence why you and Tori tried to cowbell your way into a simple singles confrontation with the Carnival Clown and cut my mission of Rainbowlutionary retribution off at the pass.
You won’t admit it, of course; you’ll come in with the same bull-headed bravado that you always do, boasting that you’ve once again got me in another situation where I’m not gonna be able to use any tricks and trinkets to overcome your raw strength and power…but how much power are you gonna have left by the time that opening bell rings?
Let’s not forget, you’re also set to defend the Championship formerly known as the X-Division on that same night against Jason Anderson, a man who’s also got his fair share of bones to pick with you and - believe you me, after everything you’ve done to him and to his mother - is gonna have zero qualms about forcibly extracting them!
Even if you win that match, there’s no way you’re coming into this one at a hundred percent…and, besides, technically speaking, I don’t need to overpower you…I just need Stitches to. Or you him, whichever - let the big boys wear each other down and blow each other up before I swoop in and pick up the pieces in the end!”
A wink to the camera, another hit of the Skittles packet.
“‘I am karma,’” he sneers, “that’s what I told you back in Chicago, JoJo. You’ve been trying to avoid it…trying to run from it like you did that night…like you did in Atlanta when you left Cosmo and your wife to Taste the Rainbow on your behalf…but on April 22nd, at StrangleMania XIX…there’s nowhere to run.
On April 22nd, At StrangleMania XIX…the cowboy’s karma finally catches up with him.
On April 22nd, at StrangleMania XIX…the Light of Monday Nights gets snuffed out in the name of Ruthless Aggression…of Xavier Reid…of Sally Talfourd and the Shinijoshi…and on April 22nd, at StrangleMania XIX…the Rainbowlution goes truly International.
Nijiiro no kakumei banzai.
Viva la Rainbowlution.”
The screen fades to black.
Rests his technicolour head
In a technicolour bed
On a technicolour plane
Well, a normal plane
Mostly white, save for pops of British Airways blue and red
Also, it's less a ‘bed’ and more a ‘very comfortable, fully-reclining business class suite seat’
We’ve gotten distracted
As we cruise above the Atlantic
30,000ft amongst the twinkling black tapestry of a clear Spring night
Dreaming dreams in which golden ghosts of House Parties past have finally, too, been laid to rest
Another psychological scourge smashed to smithereens
Our synesthetic sultan’s slumber sees him blissfully unaware of the seeds of a new hostile harvest taking root
A humble flower pot
Filled with flowers not
But a curious concoction of soil, soot and ash
Standing on the little fold out tray table in our multicoloured Mage's midst
Scorched earth
Alas
There is no time
For you and I
To pry
To try
And find
A reason why
For as we cast our wondering eye
Upon this most perplexing planter…
He whispers
A wisp of smoke
Breaks through the soil
The undead hand of a horror movie malcontent
Begging for release
As a fading campfire begs for breath
And with ours baited
His fire grows
The soil glows
Pulsating orange, yellow and red
Hazard lights warning that, even beneath scorched earth
This horticultural heart still beats
Suddenly
With smoke now billowing
He appears
A tree bursts upwards
Its gnarled and knotted bark a dusty purple
Its warped and withered branches tipped with haphazard clumps of greasy green leaves as they stretch temporarily towards the sky
Limbs re-limbered
Rest assured, dear reader
A foot tall this wee bonsai may be
But he is no Guardian
In this Cinematic Universe
He is a ghoul
The manifestation of a man who -
for a thousand days
- had his boot pressed firmly against our hero's Rainbowlutionary neck
Metaphorically
Often literally
A StrangleHold that no Taste could satiate
No ‘Painter could prise loose
And, while that sorry circus-centric saga may have finally been ended at the Rumble
It started at StrangleMania
The tree turns towards our Technicolour protagonist
Hollow eyes staring from an unsettlingly humanoid face at the top of its trunk
Its battle-broken bark creaking and splintering as a malevolent grin spreads
Oozing berry red
Droplets dripping upon the soil from whence this arboreal beast had so long been buried
The Tecnico stirs
Not enough to wake
His subconscious merely making mental note of a sudden psychological disturbance in the force
And as the withered tree leans subtly towards him
He whispers
“Monster’s Ball”
----------*****----------
“Did you have to bring that with you?” asks Pablo’s cousin Verana, walking a few cautious steps behind the Tecnico alongside his brother and fellow Silent Discotecnico, Vertigo.
“He’s evidently rather difficult to leave behind,” Pablo grumbles in response. As if to punctuate his point, the Tecnico turns and drops the tree into a public trash can as they pass.
“See? That wasn't Shini-so diffic-AHH!” Verana yelps as she finds that plant pot suddenly - inexplicably - in her own hands.
“See what I mean?” Pablo shrugs, as Verana hurriedly hands the tiny tree over to Vertigo before running to occupy Pablo's opposing shoulder. After a few more minutes of walking, the trio arrived at a scene familiar to eagle-eyed viewers of Rainbowlutionary promos past: 69 St. James Street, better known as the headquarters of the prestigious Carlton Club. Here, members of Britain's corporate, social and political elites gather to indulge in all manner of business dealings, scandal and debauchery, far from the prying eyes of the unwashed masses…although not, it would seem, today, judging by the extensive layer of scaffolding running up the front of the building over its blacked out windows and bolted shut doors. Indeed, the only discussions of any note appear to be those among the workmen populating the scaffolding’s various tiers - chiefly those pertaining to either late-night conquests or the recent fortunes of local sports teams.
“Well, that's a tree-mendous inconvenience,” says Pablo, showing admirable dedication to punmanship despite his obvious frustration.
“You trying to get Wrigley's into the political donorship game?” asks Verana, a sceptical expression on her face as her gaze lingers on the fabulous Discotecnicoloured dinner jacket that her cousin has chosen to adopt for the occasion, “coz I don't think this is your audience.”
“What could a society of stuffy, rich, upper-class old people possibly have against a Rainb-ohhh, I see what you're saying,” Pablo nods as realisation belatedly hits. Satire. “But, no, it's not about that.”
The Tecnico dips into his chest pocket and pulls out a packet of trusty thinking Skittles, tearing it open before tossing a fistful into his mouth.
“A year and a half ago, I stood in front of the steps of this very building and declared that I was gonna make the Mad King recognise my worthiness as X-Division Champion,” he continues, “and, as cathartic as that victory was, what was even more pertinent from a personal point of view was the fact that that Rumble with the Great Khan of Grumbles marked my one-hundredth match as a member of the EWC roster! That’s pretty remarkable, honestly, when you consider the calibre of some of the cats and competitors that’ve graced this company’s assorted canvases and not gotten to even half that number…but, what’s even more remarkable is the fact that this triple-threat at StrangleMania XIX - the first time that the Rainbowlution will’ve marched on England’s capital since that night - is gonna be my one-hundredth EWC singles match. I mean, I know we talk a lot about patterns and numbers but…that has to mean something, right? Call it chaos…fate…magic…but, two centenary celebrations in the exact same city? That can’t just be a coincidence…and that’s why I wanted to come back here; to draw the parallels; harness some of that Resentful Regent-routing razzmatazz and make perfect our polychromatic preparations for what we intend to make a most illustrious ‘International incident!’”
He sighs.
“...but I guess that wasn’t in the cards after all.”
“So we find somewhere else,” says Verana, pulling out her phone and scrolling over Google Maps as Pablo takes another - more despondent - mouthful of Skittles, his gaze drifting distractedly back over towards the scaffolding, “I mean, there’s plenty of places here that we can use as a psychological starting point, y’know? Piccadilly Circus…Oxford Circus…Oh, there’s a restaurant just off Oxford Street that’s literally called ‘Beast’ - we could talk about the steaks of this confrontation over dinner!”
Chuckling at her own joke, Verana nudges her cousin in the ribs - though, sadly, neither succeeds in dragging the Discotecnico from his daydream.
“…No? I’ll keep hunting…”
Curiously, it’s this remark that sparks a flicker behind the mask of the multicoloured Moctezuma-
“...so help me chaos, I’m not having this International endeavour run aground on a frickin’ building site…”
-and that one that fully sparks him back into life, as he suddenly snatches the plant pot from Vertigo’s verti-grasp before turning to Verana with a wide, Skittles-eating grin.
“You’re a frickin’ tree-nius.”
Before Verana can wrap her head around either the pun or the seemingly completely random compliment, the Tecnico’s taken off, marching towards a ladder leading up to the first tier of the scaffolding and - much to the shock and chagrin of the workmen working upon it - beginning to climb, leaving his thoroughly confused kin standing on the sidewalk as the screen fades to black.
----------*****----------
“Chaos is a ladder.”
Pablo's words hang in the air above the rooftops, uttered with fresh tenacity from his new position atop the Carlton Club roof. Despite the initial protestations of the workmen, there appears to be no great rush to remove the Tecnico from his perch, his legs swinging freely over the scaffolding railing as he gazes out over the London City skyline.
“The opening salvo in the saga that would become the Carnival Clown versus the Leader of the Rainbowlution,” he continues. “Y’know, it's kinda fitting that our latest chapter should come under a set of circumstances like this: the two of us in a triple-threat match at a major Pay-Per-View for an EWC Championship, just as it was the first time we met. The last time, too - well, besides the Pay-Per-View and the championship - although, frankly, the less said about that, the better for the both of us.”
He chuckles.
“Funny, too; I came into that first match facing accusations of only being afforded my opportunity by the whims of upper management - and now, here I am again, seven years later, facing those exact same accusations.
Back then, it was Ben Moss plot-twisting me into WrestleFest after sending Honey Hunt to strong-arm Stitches into signing his Indy Championship defence contract; this time, it was Jim Connors insisting that our gauntlet match in Chicago run to its conclusion despite JoJo and Tori doing their darndest to duck out early - and I’m sure the sight of my name on the card here’s sticking in your carnival craw, Stitches, just as it was back then…although, I’d be remiss if I didn't point out that, of the two of us, I’m the one who actually pinned the champion to get here."
He smirks, tossing a fistful of Skittles into his mouth as he casts a brief look down at the tree that stands, growling and grumbling, on the ledge beside him.
“You, on the other hand? You were the safe option. The preferred choice. The guy the champ’d rather face than take his chances tussling with the synesthetic spectre from his past, and that…that may just be the most damning indictment of the way in which our fortunes have flipped over the past couple of years.”
Emboldened, the Tecnico gives the tiny tree a momentary pat upon the top of its greasy green head - a gesture that’s received about as well as one might expect.
“See, there was a time when seeing your name beside mine on a card meant I’d as good as lost whatever match we were due to have before they’d even hit our music,” he continues, “I may have won that opening battle but, I can admit now, I was not prepared for what was to come my way the second time around!”
“Monster’s Ball…” the tree sneers, that jagged smile creaking across its ‘face’ once again.
“Exactly right,” Pablo chuckles, “for a thousand days, I carried the scars of what you did to me that night…wondering if I’d ever make it back to the mountaintop - to the frickin’ foothills, even! - but then, at Rumble 2021…I beat you. After all those years…all those trying times and times of trying…I beat you - and, you know what? You have never been the same since. This aura you crafted of Stitches the indomitable, the unbeatable, the undisputed? I took that from you - and everything you’ve done over the past two-plus years since has been part of an increasingly desperate attempt to recapture it!
But you can’t.
I know what this match at StrangleMania means to you…what the significance of this Pay-Per-View is within the context of the history between you and I…and I know you’ll be banking on that little monster to help pull you through to victory…but, like I said, the tables have turned. Now, I’m the one in the driving seat. I’m the one who’s bested you most every time we’ve met these past couple of years - and I’m the one who’s gonna put another Carnival curse to bed, and snatch another precious piece of championship gold from under your busted nose.
Besides - who better to take out a troublesome tree than a set of Lumberjacks?”
Once more, Pablo pauses, smirking as he tosses another fistful of Skittles into his mouth.
“Of course, if I’m gonna do that…I’m gonna have to slay a new demon, as well as an old one,” he continues. “I told you this was coming, JoJo…ever since you left me buried on that mountainside, I told you this was coming - and I know you know it, too…hence why you and Tori tried to cowbell your way into a simple singles confrontation with the Carnival Clown and cut my mission of Rainbowlutionary retribution off at the pass.
You won’t admit it, of course; you’ll come in with the same bull-headed bravado that you always do, boasting that you’ve once again got me in another situation where I’m not gonna be able to use any tricks and trinkets to overcome your raw strength and power…but how much power are you gonna have left by the time that opening bell rings?
Let’s not forget, you’re also set to defend the Championship formerly known as the X-Division on that same night against Jason Anderson, a man who’s also got his fair share of bones to pick with you and - believe you me, after everything you’ve done to him and to his mother - is gonna have zero qualms about forcibly extracting them!
Even if you win that match, there’s no way you’re coming into this one at a hundred percent…and, besides, technically speaking, I don’t need to overpower you…I just need Stitches to. Or you him, whichever - let the big boys wear each other down and blow each other up before I swoop in and pick up the pieces in the end!”
A wink to the camera, another hit of the Skittles packet.
“‘I am karma,’” he sneers, “that’s what I told you back in Chicago, JoJo. You’ve been trying to avoid it…trying to run from it like you did that night…like you did in Atlanta when you left Cosmo and your wife to Taste the Rainbow on your behalf…but on April 22nd, at StrangleMania XIX…there’s nowhere to run.
On April 22nd, At StrangleMania XIX…the cowboy’s karma finally catches up with him.
On April 22nd, at StrangleMania XIX…the Light of Monday Nights gets snuffed out in the name of Ruthless Aggression…of Xavier Reid…of Sally Talfourd and the Shinijoshi…and on April 22nd, at StrangleMania XIX…the Rainbowlution goes truly International.
Nijiiro no kakumei banzai.
Viva la Rainbowlution.”
The screen fades to black.
