The least toxic part is the hen...
Jul 13, 2024 23:16:41 GMT -5
lajohnnystylez, Jonathan Barrows, and 1 more like this
Post by TheNewBreed on Jul 13, 2024 23:16:41 GMT -5
The flicker of flames glints off of the brass plates adorning the marble wall within the Winthrope Mausoleum as John makes his way through the wrought iron gate and past the resting place of his ex wife, Jessica. The flowers in the small crenellation near her name plate had died long ago, dried and browned, little more than the desiccated husks of what beautiful things they had been before, left ignored, a hurtful reminder of his past he would prefer to forget. John's masked visage flashes in the candle light as his shoes clack loudly on the flagstone flooring shattering the silence of the night in the familiar graveyard.
John approaches the small table set next to the wall beneath Hank's plaque, a large bouquet of fresh lilies shining in the timid light of the candle in his hand. As he touches the flame to the wick of the sconce on the wall, the fire roars across the gap from the tiny candle to the wick of the oil lamp as the room is bathed in pale flickering orange glows. John puffs out the candle and sets the brass holder gently in the table, and sighs a weary puff of breath as he rests his masked face against the cold marble wall.
“I don't know how you did it for so long, Dad.” John says softly as he runs his thick fingers across the plaque for his adopted fathers final resting place.
“I mean, seriously... the World's gone completely mad. Political agendas have the people divided farther than I've ever seen them before. The Supreme Court is undermining the very foundations of our checks and balance system. Inflation is forcing people out of the hosing market in droves and it's become a struggle for most households to even put food on the table, let alone pay the utilities.” John grumbles as he slumps to the floor and leans his head back.
“The American Dream is crumbling all around us...and men like JMont just want to bask in the fires of the ruination of it all... and then there's me. I can see a way out of the dark end of this timeline... if they would just have some common sense, a smidgen of decency, and one atom of honor among the bunch of them... but no matter how much of an example I try to be... the self centered greed of society drowns out the slivers of good that manage to shine through the muck at the bottom of the barrel anymore. It's like I'm trying to uphold some standard that the rest of the world forgot a long time ago and for the life of me, Dad... I really can't figure out why the fuck I even care to keep trying, you know?” John grumbles gruffly and looks up at the plaque before another deep sigh escapes his chest.
“Yeah, Dad... I know. When doing battle with monsters, take care not to become one yourself. Trust me, Dad... I try... but I've always been a monster. I know you tried to each it out of me... you tried your best to raise me to be the proper gentleman in and out of the ring... but deep down... you knew what I was from the beginning.” John says softly into the darkness of the empty room, the shadow of the bright white flowers dancing in the firelight across the swirled gray and white marble floor and walls.
“I've been lying to us both for a long time... and it's time I face the facts. They're never going to revere my career the way they did yours. The Winthrope name had a legacy long before I ever got the honor of taking it for myself. You saw to that. As for the gym... it's never been better or more profitable than it is right now. Every single one of your gym rules in effect in every single gym with your name on it, and the men and women who run their gyms under the Foundation banner were all trained and brought up under your rules, so they know them almost as well as I do. The culture inside the Foundation is based on your tenants, and that will never change. It's good business to be good to others, and you proved that with your reputation. However...” John looks back up towards the plaque once more as he speaks.
“The world isn't the same place it was 80 years ago, Dad. Wars aren't fought face to face anymore like they were in your day. Now the battlefield is on social media platforms where even the talent thinks having more likes and follows means you're a better fighter, and how many verification you have on apps is more important than how many years you've plied your trade. Everything is a perception of the image posted online, and not based in reality at all. Real warriors are a dying breed, and having honor anymore seems like a liability more than a virtue. I've always been the guy to let his skills in the circle do all of his talking... and inside the ring I've kept my honor in tact through wars with so many superstars over the years that I have lost count how many rings I've actually crawled into... but for what? Everyone who's ever been close to me has either been killed by a deranged maniac who was under contract and escapes justice because of it just to disappear into the void of obscurity... or lost their mind because of one of those freaks and ended up in a jar over there in the wall. This business... this lifestyle... this desire to find the true path of a warrior... it's just a dream I've been trying to live out for you... and if I keep chasing it, I'll never find my own legacy, Dad. You're rules have brought me this far... but the world is changing, and with every day that passes by... my hope in finding anyone out there who shares our desire to fulfill the honor bound battle of true warriors dwindles. The industry is flooded with upstart punks and weirdos lost in the sauce of their own delusions. They barely see past the paycheck or the lust of fame and fortune let alone truly challenge themselves to dare reach for honor among the thieves and dregs of the locker rooms that we find ourselves constantly surrounded by. Sometimes, I feel like I'm stranded in the wasteland and I'm the last man on Earth with any morality left.” John's gravely voice trails on in the flicker firelight.
“It was easier to have honor before. People had respect about them, and learned how to treat others. Now... the screeching harpies of the social media age have descended upon the feast like their namesakes of ages past and are ravenously picking at the engagement rates like they were mere tidbits of eyeballs hanging from the sockets of a Thracian King. Hungry... starving for the quick fix of a like and subscribe from anyone who will give it to them... whoring themselves for the algorithmic Gods of the internet, chasing the next big trend that could help them ascend from their pits of mediocrity. Instead of working hard and honing their talents, building their skills and actually earning their places... their scavenging any advantage they can find in their editors bag of tricks to get more looks and more likes. To them... those digital dopamine drips are everything.” John sighs again as he gets back to his feet and rearranges the lilies in the vase.
“Anymore... surviving to find success is the only thing that matters.” John says softly.
“Surviving now means finding the monster inside of you and unleashing your most savage nature. We are little better than animals and gladiators anymore, and in the sands of the pit... the only honor is living to fight the last battle. Hell... maybe it always did... but before, back a couple of decades ago, there were actually warriors who held honor in high esteem and sought to attain it for themselves. But, recently... I've realized that honorable battle is for honorable warriors... not animals. Not gladiators. Not influencers and content creators. Survival is not about honor... it's about savagery... and sometimes... to protect the world around you... to uphold the common decency that comes with an honor bound society... you have to show the animals you understand their savagery better then they do.” John's tone grew grim as his words got more determined as he spoke them.
“It's time I showed them what the Beast is REALLY like, Dad... and maybe... I can right this ship before it sinks.” John says softly.
He takes the mask off of his gnarled and twisted face, and sets it on the table next to the lilies as he picks up the little candle holder and sparks the tiny wick on top from the oil lamp. He slides the choke on the lamp as it dims slowly and dies with a puff of smoke that curls up out of the top of the lamp in the flickering candle light, as John turns to leave the mausoleum.
Hi there Johnny.
Why don't you pull up a rough hewn oak bar stool and talk for a minute, huh? See... you at least get a seat... but I'm not going to bother bringing out the table, cause this one isn't gonna last long enough to warrant the time or effort, if you get my drift?
See... on the outside... I don't have a problem with you, clown. Really I don't... but your mouth writes checks your ass can't cash, and we find ourselves in our current predicament. Dig a little deeper though, and the distaste grows though... sort of like a old school Warhead. I know you might not be old enough to remember those, but they were kinda sour at the start, but the longer you let it sit in there, the more the damned thing festers, you know? Before you know it, there's a hole in the side of your mouth you don' remember carving out and you can't eat anything for three days for the sore it leaves.
I mean... at first... I thought you were just another mediocre talent that hid his underwhelming abilities with shock value potty humor and midget porn... and then I watched a few of your promos.
For fuck sake, Johnny.
Hire a cinematographer and a professional editor if for no there reason than for the sanity of the fans who have to watch that garbage. I can't get the image of that damned Spongebob Chicken every time I try to watch it. I see you, bobbing your head around and flapping your spindly little arms around clucking it up... and every minute I watch it... it just reinforces my belief you are nothing more than a mediocre talent who's found a slight vein of relevance in the eyes of the easily impressed masses of sheeple out there that bleat for everything and nothing at all. You've found happiness in being the King of the Damned so to speak... but in your case, I think you paint your personal delusions as more of the “Cock of the Walk” type I bet. You grab the fans pecking and scratching in the dirt because that's all you can reach. Try for any higher up the food chain... and you risk egg-sposing yourself to the fans who know more then you'd like them too and they'd pick apart every single one of your flaws like you were wearing an underdeveloped shell.
Synn made a mistake letting you get yourself into this frying pan, clown. Come Monday in Kansas City, when I take you to the chopping block and stretch your little neck... I won't want to hear a peep out of her about it, either. I intend on send you back to the hen house to think about your choices that have led you to being such a short lived Tag Team Champion duo, and reconsider where you might have clucked up to find yourself this deep in the batter.
Honestly, you can post all the cluckbait you want on the internet about how you feel about my abilities and my career... and I couldn't give a cluck, Johnny. You can tell the world all the yolks you want to about how I'm fried and too overcooked for my own good... but at the end of the day... if you intend to build a legacy... you're gonna have to crack a few eggs... and I think I'll start with you muther clucker. I had intended to just focus on JMont and his cronies... but if I have to clean up the barnyard of a few feather headed bitches before I get there... so be it, but if you look a little closer... and I mean if you really get under the feathers of the thing... you realize this match is gonna be an egg-secution...merely a party fowl if you will... so don't make too many plans for Tuesday Johnny.
I'm coming to scramble this up and then cluck you up for those Titles.
“John... you doing OK?” SSP asks as he steps into the office in the NBF HQ Office in Jacksonville.
“Yeah... fine. Why?” John asks, without even looking up from the schematics on his desk.
“Well... you um... you been kinda being a dick to people, and at War Games you dropped two of your own teammates and left. I mean... I know the extinguisher was a little much for you... but... “ SSP says before getting cut off by John.
“A little much? Yeah... it was the last straw. I'm done playing with these fucking animals. If they want to roll around in the filth of the gutters forever, then they can go find some other company to shit all over, but this one... the WGWF.. has a legacy to uphold and I'll be damned if I'm gonna sit back anymore and watch these fucking morons tear it apart with their bullshit attempts at comedic antics and million dollar pranks. Not a single fucking one of them has any idea what accountability looks like and couldn't find a single chunk of it if it fell out of their ass.” John yells at him as he finally looks up at him.
“Well... this sounds promising. So... what are you saying exactly?” SSP asks curiously.
“I'm saying it's time to take the gloves off and show these stupid fucks what being a savage looks like. They want to run around cos playing illiterate chickens and cro-magnons? I'll show them what animals they really are.” John growls.
“I love the sound of this... I gotta make a phone call. I think there is someone you should probably talk to right about now. Hang on one second...” SSP says as he pulls his phone and dials a number as the scene fades to black.
John approaches the small table set next to the wall beneath Hank's plaque, a large bouquet of fresh lilies shining in the timid light of the candle in his hand. As he touches the flame to the wick of the sconce on the wall, the fire roars across the gap from the tiny candle to the wick of the oil lamp as the room is bathed in pale flickering orange glows. John puffs out the candle and sets the brass holder gently in the table, and sighs a weary puff of breath as he rests his masked face against the cold marble wall.
“I don't know how you did it for so long, Dad.” John says softly as he runs his thick fingers across the plaque for his adopted fathers final resting place.
“I mean, seriously... the World's gone completely mad. Political agendas have the people divided farther than I've ever seen them before. The Supreme Court is undermining the very foundations of our checks and balance system. Inflation is forcing people out of the hosing market in droves and it's become a struggle for most households to even put food on the table, let alone pay the utilities.” John grumbles as he slumps to the floor and leans his head back.
“The American Dream is crumbling all around us...and men like JMont just want to bask in the fires of the ruination of it all... and then there's me. I can see a way out of the dark end of this timeline... if they would just have some common sense, a smidgen of decency, and one atom of honor among the bunch of them... but no matter how much of an example I try to be... the self centered greed of society drowns out the slivers of good that manage to shine through the muck at the bottom of the barrel anymore. It's like I'm trying to uphold some standard that the rest of the world forgot a long time ago and for the life of me, Dad... I really can't figure out why the fuck I even care to keep trying, you know?” John grumbles gruffly and looks up at the plaque before another deep sigh escapes his chest.
“Yeah, Dad... I know. When doing battle with monsters, take care not to become one yourself. Trust me, Dad... I try... but I've always been a monster. I know you tried to each it out of me... you tried your best to raise me to be the proper gentleman in and out of the ring... but deep down... you knew what I was from the beginning.” John says softly into the darkness of the empty room, the shadow of the bright white flowers dancing in the firelight across the swirled gray and white marble floor and walls.
“I've been lying to us both for a long time... and it's time I face the facts. They're never going to revere my career the way they did yours. The Winthrope name had a legacy long before I ever got the honor of taking it for myself. You saw to that. As for the gym... it's never been better or more profitable than it is right now. Every single one of your gym rules in effect in every single gym with your name on it, and the men and women who run their gyms under the Foundation banner were all trained and brought up under your rules, so they know them almost as well as I do. The culture inside the Foundation is based on your tenants, and that will never change. It's good business to be good to others, and you proved that with your reputation. However...” John looks back up towards the plaque once more as he speaks.
“The world isn't the same place it was 80 years ago, Dad. Wars aren't fought face to face anymore like they were in your day. Now the battlefield is on social media platforms where even the talent thinks having more likes and follows means you're a better fighter, and how many verification you have on apps is more important than how many years you've plied your trade. Everything is a perception of the image posted online, and not based in reality at all. Real warriors are a dying breed, and having honor anymore seems like a liability more than a virtue. I've always been the guy to let his skills in the circle do all of his talking... and inside the ring I've kept my honor in tact through wars with so many superstars over the years that I have lost count how many rings I've actually crawled into... but for what? Everyone who's ever been close to me has either been killed by a deranged maniac who was under contract and escapes justice because of it just to disappear into the void of obscurity... or lost their mind because of one of those freaks and ended up in a jar over there in the wall. This business... this lifestyle... this desire to find the true path of a warrior... it's just a dream I've been trying to live out for you... and if I keep chasing it, I'll never find my own legacy, Dad. You're rules have brought me this far... but the world is changing, and with every day that passes by... my hope in finding anyone out there who shares our desire to fulfill the honor bound battle of true warriors dwindles. The industry is flooded with upstart punks and weirdos lost in the sauce of their own delusions. They barely see past the paycheck or the lust of fame and fortune let alone truly challenge themselves to dare reach for honor among the thieves and dregs of the locker rooms that we find ourselves constantly surrounded by. Sometimes, I feel like I'm stranded in the wasteland and I'm the last man on Earth with any morality left.” John's gravely voice trails on in the flicker firelight.
“It was easier to have honor before. People had respect about them, and learned how to treat others. Now... the screeching harpies of the social media age have descended upon the feast like their namesakes of ages past and are ravenously picking at the engagement rates like they were mere tidbits of eyeballs hanging from the sockets of a Thracian King. Hungry... starving for the quick fix of a like and subscribe from anyone who will give it to them... whoring themselves for the algorithmic Gods of the internet, chasing the next big trend that could help them ascend from their pits of mediocrity. Instead of working hard and honing their talents, building their skills and actually earning their places... their scavenging any advantage they can find in their editors bag of tricks to get more looks and more likes. To them... those digital dopamine drips are everything.” John sighs again as he gets back to his feet and rearranges the lilies in the vase.
“Anymore... surviving to find success is the only thing that matters.” John says softly.
“Surviving now means finding the monster inside of you and unleashing your most savage nature. We are little better than animals and gladiators anymore, and in the sands of the pit... the only honor is living to fight the last battle. Hell... maybe it always did... but before, back a couple of decades ago, there were actually warriors who held honor in high esteem and sought to attain it for themselves. But, recently... I've realized that honorable battle is for honorable warriors... not animals. Not gladiators. Not influencers and content creators. Survival is not about honor... it's about savagery... and sometimes... to protect the world around you... to uphold the common decency that comes with an honor bound society... you have to show the animals you understand their savagery better then they do.” John's tone grew grim as his words got more determined as he spoke them.
“It's time I showed them what the Beast is REALLY like, Dad... and maybe... I can right this ship before it sinks.” John says softly.
He takes the mask off of his gnarled and twisted face, and sets it on the table next to the lilies as he picks up the little candle holder and sparks the tiny wick on top from the oil lamp. He slides the choke on the lamp as it dims slowly and dies with a puff of smoke that curls up out of the top of the lamp in the flickering candle light, as John turns to leave the mausoleum.
* * * * *
Hi there Johnny.
Why don't you pull up a rough hewn oak bar stool and talk for a minute, huh? See... you at least get a seat... but I'm not going to bother bringing out the table, cause this one isn't gonna last long enough to warrant the time or effort, if you get my drift?
See... on the outside... I don't have a problem with you, clown. Really I don't... but your mouth writes checks your ass can't cash, and we find ourselves in our current predicament. Dig a little deeper though, and the distaste grows though... sort of like a old school Warhead. I know you might not be old enough to remember those, but they were kinda sour at the start, but the longer you let it sit in there, the more the damned thing festers, you know? Before you know it, there's a hole in the side of your mouth you don' remember carving out and you can't eat anything for three days for the sore it leaves.
I mean... at first... I thought you were just another mediocre talent that hid his underwhelming abilities with shock value potty humor and midget porn... and then I watched a few of your promos.
For fuck sake, Johnny.
Hire a cinematographer and a professional editor if for no there reason than for the sanity of the fans who have to watch that garbage. I can't get the image of that damned Spongebob Chicken every time I try to watch it. I see you, bobbing your head around and flapping your spindly little arms around clucking it up... and every minute I watch it... it just reinforces my belief you are nothing more than a mediocre talent who's found a slight vein of relevance in the eyes of the easily impressed masses of sheeple out there that bleat for everything and nothing at all. You've found happiness in being the King of the Damned so to speak... but in your case, I think you paint your personal delusions as more of the “Cock of the Walk” type I bet. You grab the fans pecking and scratching in the dirt because that's all you can reach. Try for any higher up the food chain... and you risk egg-sposing yourself to the fans who know more then you'd like them too and they'd pick apart every single one of your flaws like you were wearing an underdeveloped shell.
Synn made a mistake letting you get yourself into this frying pan, clown. Come Monday in Kansas City, when I take you to the chopping block and stretch your little neck... I won't want to hear a peep out of her about it, either. I intend on send you back to the hen house to think about your choices that have led you to being such a short lived Tag Team Champion duo, and reconsider where you might have clucked up to find yourself this deep in the batter.
Honestly, you can post all the cluckbait you want on the internet about how you feel about my abilities and my career... and I couldn't give a cluck, Johnny. You can tell the world all the yolks you want to about how I'm fried and too overcooked for my own good... but at the end of the day... if you intend to build a legacy... you're gonna have to crack a few eggs... and I think I'll start with you muther clucker. I had intended to just focus on JMont and his cronies... but if I have to clean up the barnyard of a few feather headed bitches before I get there... so be it, but if you look a little closer... and I mean if you really get under the feathers of the thing... you realize this match is gonna be an egg-secution...merely a party fowl if you will... so don't make too many plans for Tuesday Johnny.
I'm coming to scramble this up and then cluck you up for those Titles.
* * * * *
“John... you doing OK?” SSP asks as he steps into the office in the NBF HQ Office in Jacksonville.
“Yeah... fine. Why?” John asks, without even looking up from the schematics on his desk.
“Well... you um... you been kinda being a dick to people, and at War Games you dropped two of your own teammates and left. I mean... I know the extinguisher was a little much for you... but... “ SSP says before getting cut off by John.
“A little much? Yeah... it was the last straw. I'm done playing with these fucking animals. If they want to roll around in the filth of the gutters forever, then they can go find some other company to shit all over, but this one... the WGWF.. has a legacy to uphold and I'll be damned if I'm gonna sit back anymore and watch these fucking morons tear it apart with their bullshit attempts at comedic antics and million dollar pranks. Not a single fucking one of them has any idea what accountability looks like and couldn't find a single chunk of it if it fell out of their ass.” John yells at him as he finally looks up at him.
“Well... this sounds promising. So... what are you saying exactly?” SSP asks curiously.
“I'm saying it's time to take the gloves off and show these stupid fucks what being a savage looks like. They want to run around cos playing illiterate chickens and cro-magnons? I'll show them what animals they really are.” John growls.
“I love the sound of this... I gotta make a phone call. I think there is someone you should probably talk to right about now. Hang on one second...” SSP says as he pulls his phone and dials a number as the scene fades to black.