“I’m here, at the end of the world. And the beginning of a new one.”
– Sara Wolf
Certain motherfuckers think they can fuck with my shit, but you can’t kill me. You might can fuck him up sometimes, but bitch, nobody kills the motherfucking big dog. You know what I’m saying?
Most of you can’t even tie your own shoes without falling over and busting your own ass. I’m glad to see Jace Parker Davidson is working out his next exposition sidepiece. If he and Jatt Starr don’t bore us all to fucking death with their dumb ass conversations about nothing anyone gives a shit about, they might create a fucking wormhole and swallow up everything. People talk about the good old days around here like it was some golden age of heroes and villains, where giants in the business battled for supremacy and anything could happen. But was it so great, really? Every one of you fucks who come back to pop the idiots in the crowd with your nostalgia act has been a fucking embarrassment.
And what you did to poor Ray McAvay. The cost of the skin grafts alone are through the roof, let alone the emotional scarring of, you know…. having to continue talking to you.
Jatt Starr, you slimy melting pudding pop. You were voted in high school most likely to be required to stay at least 500 feet away from schools. You look like Popeye if he only ate at Popeye’s. That was alliteration used to describe your embarrassing physical condition, with the bitch tits and gout, since I know you’re not smart enough to understand on your own. Ask your boy John. He can hook you up with the same plastic surgeon that self-respecting Samoans use. You haven’t gotten any better lately. You’ve gotten consistently worse, you watery shit bubble. Make improvements, not excuses. Seek respect, not attention.
Since all of you lazy fucks can’t come up with anything without circle jerking into a camera lens, can you at least turn on the closed captioning and color code the shit so I can tell which one of you hacks is coming up with these? At least give us a heads up on which lines were given to you by the boss’s son, so I can give credit where credit belongs.
And Scottywood, with your scabby infected scalp, looking like you smell like pee. Are those waves coming off your head from the heat, or is it the stench coming from the rotting hair follicles finally dying their last death? You walking rejected Sons of Anarchy script. Don’t you think we’ve hit our quota on dudes from the olden days taking up space on the roster and existing only to get their brains bashed in on the regular? Your talk of being tough after Mike kneed your brains right out of your head is pretty meaningless if you can’t do anything with it, isn’t it? And what are you gonna do? You gonna win War Games? The fuck outta here. You’re more likely to get named Lee’s very special ballsack washer full time on the post-show radio. You’re more likely to be asked to join Mensa. You don’t get to say talk about fucking owls in a promo and then get taken seriously. That’s not how it works. It’s appropriate you wear that stupid dragon t-shirt, because you sure are dragon your team down.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, for an entire year. Men kill easily with their eyes but let them do it with their hands and most lose their stomach for it. Until we become an animal with a bloody mouth and bloody hands, we might never understand our fights, nor salvage the men inside of us. Anything worth fighting for requires us to be willing to suffer to protect it.
Is there anyone over there that understands this at all?
What about you, Harrison, you walking embodiment of the color beige. Why don’t you stumble through your words a little more. Sometimes I don’t know if you’re speaking or falling down the stairs. In fact you might hit your head on a step on the way down and accidentally knock the fucking stutter out of your voice, you sentient human fart.
How about you Jiles? Our fucking World Champion. Good job, buddy. Real good job, because there’s nothing more impressive than a man winning the World goddamn championship on a night where your opponent openly declared that he cared more about winning a different championship than he did about the one he already had. Absolutely nothing is more impressive than that. You, a guy I’ve beaten twice in the last six months? Do you understand what it takes to win this match, really?
Here, I found some quotes online about your prospects of winning this match and keeping your belt:
“A stitch in time saves nine.” – Howard Cosell
“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” – Cher
“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” – Ben Stein
And of course…
“OH NO… I SHIT THE BED.” – Cancer Jiles
I know Johnny knows what it takes to win, don’t you Johnny? You know how to win, how to survive. Good for you. Mostly you waddle out to rings, get your ass kicked, then punch your opponent in the dick, and in Sektor logic, that means you CLEARLY won that match, you CLEARLY are the superior athlete, if by athlete you mean most likely to claim he invented mashed potatoes, and you CLEARLY have mastered the least work to most result ratio. I’m proud of you, John. I really am. I mean, in a time where people who look like you look could be doing so many other things, you’re out there still pluggin’ away. I mean, you could be running the tilt-a-whirl at Alton Towers, or bombing an abortion clinic, or working at Dunkin’ Donuts. You could have taken all of your hard-earned money that you’ve saved up over the years and invested in a dairy farm, so Harrison has some shit to do.
You say you didn’t save anything? You say that you instead were a coke-riddled dumpster of a human being who was a bad father, a bad friend, bad at business, and good only at punching people in the dick? I know you like to casually sexually assault people, so I guess it’s only to be expected that you’d start in on the men, too. And since things are personal between us now? Do it again and I’ll rip that moustache and that toupee off your leathery head and choke you to fucking death with it.
Is there an expiration date on your long meandering nonsense, or can you just shut the fuck up and fight like a motherfucking man, you dick touching cunt. Personal? Fuck you. How’s that for personal? I’ll slap twenty more wrinkles into your face, you blowhard Cuban bitch.
But maybe you’ve given up on your fucking embarrassment of a partner anyway. Maybe you figure those tag team titles are as good as gone, and it’s time for Ol’ Johnny to position himself for the big gold.
I think you’re a little too fucking confident, thinking that because you won once before, it’s gonna happen again. I think it would be best to remain pessimistic. At least then there’s less of a blow when fate fucks you over.
And Clay Byrd, yes, I’m finally gonna talk about you, sweetie. Don’t let your panties get too wet. Do they sell conditioner in Plainview? Your hair makes you look like someone took a bobcat with mange and stuffed it in a hat. You are the epitome of stereotypical nonsense. From that stupid duster, to the hat, to the lariat. You’re like a Texan character made for a Western video game programmed by someone from Ohio.
How is it that you’re nearly forty damn years old and I’ve never fucking heard of you? You look like the product of some rolled up out of West Texas dust, thrown together with a couple tumbleweeds and fucked by Kris Kristofferson. Is it your intention to speak like John Wayne, but look like Whistler in Blade?
Do you still go on trail rides, gettin’ along them little dogies, sitting around a campfire late at night singin’ about Ghost Riders in the Sky? Or would that be Ghost Dads in the Sky? Cookin’ baked beans on an open fire and shit.
Since there’s a really fucking good chance we don’t even face each other in this match, let’s save the rest of the pleasantries for another time. I look forward to the chance in the future to put my boot down your goddamn throat, but I’ve got shit to do.
Now, a lot of people say that Steve Solex isn’t even worth talking about…
Anyways on to Sutler Kael.
Sutler, I haven’t gotten a chance to congratulate you yet. Someone beats me, I congratulate them. You have proven that you are the class of your team, you took a loss to me like a fucking man, then studied, learned and came back to get me a few months later. Your star is on the rise, no doubt. Yeah, you’re the class of your team, but you’re stuck pandering to a group of nitwits with the collective IQ of a dirty sponge.
I told you from day one that I’d be watching you, and I definitely have been. You’ve steadily improved to the point that you may be the odds-on favorite to end up with the World Championship at the end of the night.
That is, you would be if your team was worth a fuck.
But I’m gonna seek you out in this match, Sutler. You got your win, but let’s see how war treats you. I’ve done this match what, three times now? Countless other times elsewhere? You’re trying to walk down to that ring and do the impossible, win on your first try, and if you do, I’m sure Clay Byrd will tip that hat he bought at the Roy Rogers museum gift shop to you.
No offense, but I just wanna see how much punishment you can take. Nothing wrong with that, right? Trial by fire. I wouldn’t worry. I’m sure you’re gonna do just fine. Granddaddy will be so proud….
If you win.
If not, you’ll be back to sitting at the kids table at Thanksgiving with Chloe and Baby Stevens.
But no pressure.
And finally, you yourself, Lee, since you are the one who pulls the strings. You put all of this in motion. You determined my role in this the first time you fucked me out of the World Title. I’ll be taking every single ounce of payback out of the people on your team, and on my own if it becomes necessary.
I see you up there on your pedestal, your little marble bust, surrounded by your soldiers and the truncheons of your little security squad. Yet, in your heart there is unspoken fear. You’re afraid. You’re afraid that one day they’ll all wake up and stop wanting to be your plaything. You’re afraid of words and thoughts, words spoken among the Best Alliance, words spoken among the 214, words spoken in the stands, and they terrify you. A little mouse of thought appears in the room, and even the mightiest are thrown into panic.
You want to sell the lie that what you do is for the good of the company. Some people buy this lie. Otherwise intelligent people depend on your dementia-ridden fantasies. But the concept of the benevolent dictator, just like the concepts of the noble thief or the honest whore, is no more than a meaningless fantasy.
The game is being rigged, and you will put every obstacle imaginable to stop your Best Alliance from losing this weekend, but it is not impossible – not yet – to overcome your bullshit.
Bullshit is as common as your trite attempt to force it down everyone’s throats, but bullshit like this is straight from the lab. Bullshit that’s as common as murder and jailhouse tattoos selling bunk drugs in paint chip hotels where a cigarette burn on the mattress tells you more about death than the human splatter movie festival you’re holding in your own honor.
Three years I’ve been fighting your shit show.
The difference between successful people and really successful people is that really successful people say no to almost everything.
So I’m saying, again, no. No to you, no to your demands, no to everything you stand for. I will not be cowed, will not back down in the face of your fuckery, will not stop until I have smeared your fucking head into a meaty, bloody stain on an interior wall of the Good Ship Lee-Has-A-Tiny-Dick.
I’ll be walking away from this business before long. All things, ultimately, must come to an end.
But not before I show you the price for your bluster. Not before I shove it all right back down your throat.
I’ve been trying to fit everything in, trying to get to the end before it’s too late, but I see now how badly I’ve deceived myself. Life does not allow such things. The closer you come to the end, the more there is to say. The end is only imaginary, a destination you invent to keep yourself going, but a point comes when you realize you will never get there. You might have to stop, but that’s only because you have run out of time. You stop, but that does not mean you have come to an end.
And, anyway, my story has no true beginning or end. Arbitrarily I choose that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead. I’ll make the choice, not you.
You don’t get to win, not here, not in my home. You’re used to the home field advantage, but not this time. Not this time.
You and your entire team are invited to go fuck yourself. Now go cook up some graphics or some shit.
“And so, when you return to the environment from which you came – which you left behind – you are somehow turning back upon yourself, returning to yourself, rediscovering an earlier self that has been both preserved and denied. Suddenly, in circumstances like these, there rises to the surface of your consciousness everything from which you imagined you had freed yourself and yet which you can’t help recognizing as part of the structure of your personality – specifically the discomfort that results from belonging to two different worlds, worlds so far separated from each other that they seem irreconcilable, and yet which coexist in everything that you are.”
– Didier Eribon
A long gray path stretched out ahead.
Dan Ryan sits on a wooden bench with metal trim, and looks out at the valley in front of him. Danielle Ryan sits next to him, looking in the same direction. The cherry blossom petals are falling around them and in front of them, and paper lanterns light the darkening path.
He looks at his daughter, visions of a little girl running around and playing in the garden here playing in his mind. That little girl is dead, and in her place stands a cold-blooded killer.
Dan looks down, looking at the circular pattern on the concrete, and looks over at her briefly.
“It won’t be easy for me to reconcile this. I remember too much.”
She looked up at him.
“So do I. I doubt you remember what I remember. I remember endless nights of ‘training.’ I would call it torture. Every night I dreamed of finding you again someday, and I had given up thinking it would ever happen. You’re everything to me. But at best, I’m just a memory to you.”
He shook his head.
“I’m sorry for what they did to you.”
She sighed, and tears welled up on each side of her eyes, though she efforted to hold them back.
“All parents damage their children. It can’t be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.”
He blinked, taken aback. “The way you talk….”
She looked back out toward the valley, squinting her eyes slightly in the face of the setting sun.
“I’ve had a long time to think about it, a long time to process it. I don’t need you to fix me, dad. So…” She wipes the tears away with the back of her hand. “Let’s not waste today trying to fix yesterday. There’s nothing we can do about that.”
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s talk about the present then.”
She turned her head, looking at him with a smile.
“This is what family is about, you know, not just love. It’s knowing that your family will be there watching out for you. Nothing else will give you that. Not money. Not fame. Not work.”
Dan smirked, pleased. “Come with me back to Tokyo.”
She looked at him, tilting her head to the side quizzically.
“Are you inviting me to watch you fight?”
“No,” he corrected. “I want to introduce you to some of my friends.”
She held his gaze, and her face lit up, but in a sinister, disarming way.
“I’d love to.”
She used her head to perform an abbreviated bow. He returns the gesture, breathing deep and smiling as he leaned back on the bench, his arm now around the back of his oldest child.
And the petals fell.