Halloween is over.
Thank the Lee.
The candy has been handed via the time honored tradition of “Tricks or Treats”, not a single roll of toilet found its way on the Mayor of ManJattan’s lawn or humble abode. My house was not ravaged by rotten eggs. My mailbox was free of shaving cream. And the creepies and the crawlies, the ghosties and the werewolfies were warded off for another year.
But, most importantly, the urban legends have lost all their power. It is a well known fact that skeptical moronic teenagers have met their untimely ends by spitting in the face of the universe. Just think of Gregory Mumblefordbottom who, hoping to debunk the theory that he would receive seven years bad luck, broke a mirror and a shard of glass hit him in the left eye causing him to go blind in that eye. Seven years to the day, his left eye regained sight.
I think not!
They all tempt fate! Whether it’s Bloody Mary or Candyman, the Blue Baby, Scary Carey.
What? You have never heard about “The Legend of Scary Carey”?
What? Have you been living under a rock?!
It is only the biggest bit of lore since Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, El Chupacabra, and “The Call is Coming From Inside the House”!!!
Consider yourself lucky. No one quite knows when the first occurrence, um, occurred. The earliest documented case per the historical documents located on the Internet was two years ago in Cleveland, Ohio. There have been been no less than one reported case and no more than twelve and rising faster than a geriatric’s penis after a couple of doses of Viagra.
According to legend, they say at Eleven Fifty-Nine P.M. Central Time on All Hallow’s Eve within the walls of a public restroom, the dirtier the better, armed with nothing but a candle…and it has to be a really nasty public restroom, if the bathroom stalls are covered in graffiti and the tiles are so sticky you nearly lose a shoe, then you are in the right place…..in the darkness, you light the candle and you look through the layer of film on the most likely cracked mirror, and you utter “Scary Carey” nine times, you will witness a sight so frightful, so traumatic, it will either kill you….or drive you mad.
There have even been cases of those who gouged their eyes out.
Upon uttering “Scary Carey” for the ninth time, you will feel a cold gust of wind, a breeze so chilling, it feels like shards of glass hitting any exposed skin and the flickering flame of the candle will grow larger and larger until you are able to gaze upon the mirror…..
Only you will not see your reflection…..
You will instead be gazing upon Bobbinette Carey’s taint.
The Baron of Boca Jatton just threw up a little in the mouth.
Be joyful that All Hallow’s Eve has come and gone….for if you had said those a-cursed words, you would most certainly never come again.
But Conor, the Thane of Starrkarth is not here to discuss grotesquely warped and twisted urban legends…..
Not at all.
This is about how you turned your back on me.
The HOW Classic has repeatedly called and texted you over the past few weeks and never received a response. Instead of helping someone who considered you a true friend, you have been hanging around that filthy trollop, Bobbinette Carey?
You chose HER over the RULER OF JATTLANTIS????
After Sektor soiled himself and disappeared from the HOW upon realizing that he would need to take on the Jattinum Standard at “Rumble at the Rock”, the Jattlantic City Idol was approached by Lee Best…..
And he made the Sultan of SeaJattle an offer. A very lucrative offer. He wiped away that poppycock fine the Board instituted and even offered to reimburse some of what was garnished from the Champion of Jattanooga’s paycheck.
The Hero of Jattlanta’s initial thought was “Screw you, Mister Magoo! You can’t buy the Rembrandt of Wrestling off!”
Instead, the Starrson City Icon told the G-O-D of the H-O-W that there was much to consider. I humbly requested to sleep on it. He told me to essentially go fornicate with myself and gave the Starrabian Knight an hour to decide.
Do you know what the Earl of GlouStarr did? The Earl of GlouStarr tried calling you, Conor.
I was conflicted.
The money was running out.
The Lemmon’s Soup people officially cut ties with me.
The medical bills, they have been piling up.
I needed to speak to someone.
I needed someone to talk me out of it…..
I needed advice from someone I trusted…..
…..Someone I respected….
….Someone I considered a friend….
Instead, I got radio silence.
Where the heck were you, Conor?
I did not necessarily want to do this…..
But what choice did the Jattsylvanian Count have?
This is on you, Conor.
And what El Jattador de Starrcelona did to Joe Bergman, that’s on you too. Why not?
That is not to say that I do not take a certain level of pride in bludgeoning that fribble with the tire iron. After all, I did what the “Alfalfa Dad” Steve Solex could not! I sent that old fart into retirement! Now Old Joe can join the Elder Scrolls and whittle away the rest of his sad, pathetic years in a retirement community, eating mushy peas, watching reruns of “Judge Judy”, and hoping that maybe, just maybe, if he can try real hard without the use of erectile dysfunction medication, he can get manage to get a hard on long enough for that Old Spinster Ethel can give him a handy in the broom closet!
I did that to Joe Bergman! The Jatti Master does not, and has never, given a rat’s rectum about the existence of Joe Bergman, “Hepatitis”, and whatever other name he has ever used.
Just think about what I will do to a little ass worm like yourself…..
Someone I do have a legitimate beef with.
I will not even need the assistance of Great Scott and his stupid face and that ridiculous flipping bear of his! Great Scott might as well not even show up. He can take the night off and ride unicycles with his bear or whatever it is they do together. I will not need him to destroy you and Bobbinette Carey.
On second thought, maybe Great Scott should be at ringside, I am curious to know the know the answer of this age old question: “Which is hairier, a bear or Bobbinette Carey?”
What do you think, Conor, old sport?
Are you offended that I insulted your “best friend” or are you still moaning and whining about what happened at “Rumble at the Rock” when you murdered the human steroid?
You know what? That pisses the Starrpathian Lord off! You “mastermind” an attempted crippling of the Jattlantic City Idol’s career and basically brag about it. But you brain that festering pimple at Alcatraz and you feel BAD about that? FUCK YOU, CONOR!
So, go on, continue feeling sorry for yourself and wish that you can crawl back into your mommy’s womb.
But you know what, Conor?
I am feeling rather generous.
While I am incapable of putting you back into your mommy’s belly….
There is something that I can do.
The Ruler of Jattlantis will beat you within an inch of your life. I will tear you apart at the joints, Conor. After I finish you off, I will thrash Bobbinette Carey into unconsciousness. And then? I will shove your broken body right up Bobbinette Carey’s gaping vagina so you can safely curl up in the fetal position and live out the rest of your days in safety.
::::SCENE: Downtown Chicago is a hole. It is one football team away from being New York City. Of course, it is widely known that Chicago is New York City’s uglier cousin that smells only slightly better after a torrential downpour. But at least New York City has Broadway.
After chowing down on a mediocre pizza casserole (also referred to as a Chicago Deep Dish “pizza”), Jatt Starr wanders down the street. Cars pass him by, sirens are heard in the distance. He happens upon a body lying on the ground. His initial assessment was that it was a drunken vagrant, upon closer inspection, it is a dead body.
Upon discovering the true nature of what is before him, Jatt Starr shocks himself that he did not shriek like a little girl or recoil in fear. Instead, his nose distracts him from any form of self-reflection.
There is a foul odor in the air around him. The Hero of Jattlanta is unsure if that is the invasive stench of a maggot infested, fly attracting, rotting corpse or just Downtown Chicago.
Would you expect any less from this cesspool of a city?
The age and gender of the victim is unclear. The face has been beaten beyond any recognition, eyes swollen shut, a lip so fat it looks like it had been injected with a liter of collagen. The face looks like the love child of Frankenstein’s Monster and the Elephant Man. Jatt Starr can almost make out in the dimly lit part of the street red and purple hues on the visage. All he can tell is whomever this is, he/she is (or was) a Chicago Bulls fan as evidenced by the bloodied Michael Jordan jersey, an affinity for denim shorts, and a sun allergy based on the pale pigment on the bare legs of the body. The HOW Hall of Famer has decided to call the corpse “Joe Bergman II”.
As the King of Grapple from the Big Apple looks down at the corpse, he is surprised at how he feels about it. He feels nothing. Apathy. Whoever this is (was), he/she/they were a nobody. Sure, they might be somebody to someone….a sibling, a son/daughter, a friend….but to Jatt Starr, he does not care.
This person was not a family member or friend of his. Jatt Starr is no Sherlock Holmes but if he were forced to theorize, he would assume that this is just another no name schlub that may or may not have had a crack addiction….
….or a violent streak after downing a few tequilas….
….or a sex addiction….
….or a gambling addiction….
…..or they were just a dumbass that found themself at the wrong place and the wrong time…..
…..or maybe they were an insufferable choad-waffle that got what they deserved like a certain Highwayman.
If it actually were Joe Bergman, would he smile? Had Lee Best hired some goons to transport the lifeless corpse of Joe Bergman and dumped it in the street after putting a Bulls jersey on him? There is a part of him that is sorry that it is most likely not.
Obliterating Joe Bergman. Almost sounds like a bad indie film starring Tilda Swinton and Paul Giamatti. And directed by Tommy Wisseau.
Less than a year ago, the Ruler of Jattlantis would have felt something for this poor dead bastard. Sympathy. Repulsion. Hell, he might have even grieved a little.
It is like someone flipped a switch in his brain.
Was that person Lee Best?
Or has the Baron of Boca Jatton always been this way and had just convinced himself that he was a decent person? Maybe he was wrong when he blamed the booze?
No. He knows he is a good person. The former Professor of Sparrowdynamics just does not have the time for it.
Jatt Starr turns away from the carcass and looks around. The street is desolate save for a couple of prostitutes wearing trashy miniskirts smoking cigarettes on the corner. Under the blanket of illumination provided by the streetlight, one of them even looks almost attractive.
Probably has a meth addiction and is missing some teeth.
Neither one of them are paying the Jattinum Standard any mind. And certainly not the dead body at his feet. He wonders if they witnessed something. If they did and are staying silent, does that mean the Sovereign of Starrgentia is no better than a couple of cheap whores?
Jatt Starr looks down one last time at the disfigured corpse lying motionless on the ground in front of the alley. He feels that maybe someone should contact the police. The Champion of Jattanooga feels someone will.
Sure, he would…..
…..but he does not have the time.