- Event: Refueled LXX
It’s been a few weeks since we last came to Harmen-ville, a small little suburb near Amish country in Pennsylvania. The sun beats bright, both nourishing and damaging each blade of grass it lays it’s shine upon. Past the fields of wheat and corn, past the pastures of farm animals for substance, deeper still, looks to be a hastily built shanty town. Cardboard doors and rooms without roofs, mis-spelled “Open” signs and scribbles written down in an incomprehensible language. For all it’s faults, the city is rather bustling. At least as many people who followed Jack a few weeks ago are pursuing the wears. Not to mention all the people working and tilling the fields.
A large banner hangs in the far corner of this makeshift cul-de-sac.
HARMEN-VILLE.
Standing under said banner, arms extended over his kingdom, is the completely unshaven almost just unfroze from a prehistoric slumber looking Jack Harmen. His finger nails are starting to curl, his muscles waning as he’s probably held his hands aloft for so very long. His hair has grown unkempt and morphing into a silver, almost chalky white. He’s unshaven, a spitting image of a lumberjack or even Santa Claus at this point. Flyer’s wrestling tights have tattered and torn into Hulk-esq half shorts, the rest of the fabric lost to time and space, much like the remaining morsels of the mind of the frayed lunatic. Wide eyed and bloodshot, days without sleep, Flyer slams his hand onto a wooden podium, drawing the attention of those around him. He reaches under the podium and reveals a bullhorn. At first he shouts without aid of the bullhorn, but then uses it to amplify his voice.
High Flyer: Rejoice! (into bullhorn) REJOICE! FELLOW HARMENITES, our civilization has lived since the beginning of our time without conflict. Finally, war, greed, the sins of humanity have been purged from our chaotic and vengeful flesh sacks, and we can finally become, truly the best version of ourselves. With your help and solidarity, you have allowed me to absorb your essence, and to transcend this… old pathetic version of myself, to become the man I need to be. To transcend Professional Wrestling, turn our world soverign and gain ground as a true GOD! Soon, SOON, I shall ABSORB the life essence of RAH, and RUAHH~! ALL OVER THE WORLD! With your help, with your backing, with your LOVE and FAITH, I… NAY, WE SHALL PREVAIL! FOR LONG LONG AGO, AT THE VERY DAWN OF OUR TIME…
About five hundred feet away, two followers smoke from a hemp rolled peace offering.
Man #1: Yo, you have any idea what he’s saying?
Man #2: Nah, I never do.
Man #2 grabs the joint and inhales. Man #1 laughs.
Man #1: Yeah. He’s got good shit though.
Back to Harmen standing behind his podium. He slams his fist into the wood once more, and then raises his hand in his trademark devil horn taun.t
High Flyer: … after the bell is rang and my hand is raised, I’ll look down at the fallen Rah, thank my followers, and realize that you have finally, swiftly, provided US, with a sense of HARMENY! Thank you.
Flyer nods to the makeshift congregation. Suddenly, a prepubescent twerp in suspenders rushes up to the podium, taps the microphone once, and nods. He’s got medium length sandy hair, large horn rimmed glasses and wears a tie that looks like it’s never been properly tied.
Twerp: Folks, that was our 2:30 sermon. We’ll be back at 3. Your time, is now yours.
Flyer loudly coughs off screen.
Twerp: Except for those commissioned to continue to build. Your time, is OUR time. Thank you again.
The man stacks a few papers on the podium, nods, and rushes off to Harmen’s side. There?
Jack hands him a shovel.
Twerp: What’s this?
High Flyer: Dig.
Twerp: I-I’m sorry? What?
High Flyer: I need a fresh grave for Rah. Maybe others later.
Twerp: I’m much better in an administrative role. My arms-
High Flyer: I didn’t ask for your opinion Twerp. I said dig. You?
Harmen shoves the shovel into twerp’s arms and looks at the camera man.
High Flyer: With me.
The camera follows Flyer, as he casually walks away. He starts to walk through his town, admiring the grocery store, the old timey almost western like bar, and even a pharmacy.
High Flyer: I know why you’re here. You want to join my cause. You want to further inflate me as the greatest wrestler of all time. I know. See, but I don’t need you to do that.
Cameraman: Actually, I’m freelance? So some AP just said fly out here for 400 a day. But listen, you got WiFi here? I just finished a stint for Dr. Phil and I gotta get him this footage of a man who likes to play dress up as a baby.
The cameraman holds up a CF card. After a delay, Flyer stops, pauses. He blinks, and shakes his head, before continuing on. The cameraman hurries to catch up.
High Flyer: Well, then you aren’t fully aware of your future, are you Dan.
Cameraman: My name is Sam.
High Flyer: Why yes Dan, your future is magical. As magical as Harmenville, where you will spend the rest of your days.
Flyer nods just off to the side, where two men with assault rifles stand. One of them cocks the gun, causing a bullet to eject.
High Flyer: HEY! No wasting bullets!
The gunman groans, sighs and nods in reluctant agreeance. Flyer nods back to the cameraman as he continues down past the town and into the fields.
High Flyer: From here, I will recount to you all the glorious battles of old and new, where I will raise a toast and glass to my recent defeat of Bobby Dean, and to my eventual defeat of RAH! See, some people may call this a Cult, but those fools are misguided. I’m a legend in this sport, and I’m a cultural movement Danny boy. I’ve gone ahead and changed EVERYTHING, in a way no one ever anticipated. Especially for you.
Flyer points over to a small rickety shack. One of the windows shutters squeaks open, and then falls with a crash.
High Flyer: You live there now. In our sovereign nation.
Flyer pats him twice on the chest.
High Flyer: We’ll talk after you’ve settled in. Oh! GREG! Hi!
Flyer quickly rushes off frame. We just hear a voice as the Cameraman Sam wonders what his life has come to.
Man’s Voice: My name is Gary sir.
High Flyer: There. There. Shut up Greg.
**
RAH.
The roar cry of a generation. I spent years wrestling on a show with your namesake, making my name, carving my legend into stone. And here, in the glorious halls of HOW, none of that means a thing.
Only thing that matters, is I beat Bobby Dean. I came ever so close to dethroning the American Patriot Act Steve Solex, Modern day Fight Club for the HOTv championship, and this week, I rise ever closer to my rightful, deserved, and ABSOLUTELY JUSTIFIED position of being WAY better than ANY of you sideshow carnival freaks. Bobby Dean and Rah have a similar outlook on life. One that I shared for quite a while until a fire was lit under my ass.
“It’s all my fault. Woe is me. Wah Wah! I’m sorry I did this, or did that, or whatever the nonsense. Maybe I’ll do better this time.”
I don’t need to get better. I forgot how good I was. I just need to show the world how AMAZING I am. My name is High Flyer. This sport named a STYLE after me. I am a glorious knight, sent from the Heavens itself, the righteous destructive arm of light to cut a swath through the evils of society… all to create a new glorious world, rebirthed in my shadow… to rid the world of the pathetic hanger ons, the ones who DOUBT themselves. The ones who FORGET. The weak willed, unwilling to realize their destiny. Because I realize, no I know. I always knew, without a shadow of a doubt…
… High Flyer is the greatest wrestler in the world.
And HOW, being the greatest wrestling promotion in the world, deserves to have me conquer it.
I don’t do this for myself, I don’t run Rah over with a Locomotive for me. I don’t harmenize in HOW’s history books as a future champion for me.
I do it for HOW.
Be graced. Be blessed.
Oh, and I hear you just got married Rah. Congratulations. Truly. Love is harmeny.
Sorry for what happens next. S’all downhill from here… heh heh.