In the Den of Animals
(CUE UP: “High On The Reek of Your Burning Remains” by Coffinworm.)
(Yeah, chew on that for a minute. Feel free to contemplate the darker and uglier sides of life while you do.)
(We’re in such a place right now, as the camera fades in from black to reveal an absolute sewer of a scene. The view winds its way through a decrepit forest of all manner of human filth: crack addicts, meth heads, heroin junkies, and diseased sex offenders. The absolute refuse of society resides within the decaying and dimly lit hallows of an abandoned single-story house. A proverbial den of sin, if you will.)
(We near the back of the room, where one faded and broken sofa carries the burden of the worst of the lot. His type has gone by many names in the past; some would call him black-thumb, or tar-smoker, or even sludge-sipper... but the only name he answers to is REZIN, and calling him anything else is guaranteed roundhouse kick to your face.)
(He sits with his head tilted back, clad only his black pants, aged duster, and shades. His repugnant resin-bong currently resting in his lap, noxious smoke still seeping from the opening at the top. He’s noticeably separate from the other bottom feeders in attendance. At first, it doesn’t appear that he’s even conscious, but an evil smile spread across his face as the camera draws near.)
Rezin
Look around you... what do you see?
(The camera swings around and looks at the pit of despair one more time. There’s a girl not older than 32 scratching her arms as if they were covered in bugs. An old vagrant who could have been a loving grandfather in another life lies on a mattress with a needle in his arm, eyes gazing distantly to the ceiling.)
Rezin
Are these people just a bunch of lost souls living in society’s gutter? Maybe... but are they really “lost” when there’s nobody out there looking for them?
(Perhaps unable to look anymore, the camera returns to the fiend on the couch.)
Rezin
We’re just the tiny morsels that slip through the cracks. The rest of the world pretends to ignore us... but we’re here, just the same... thriving off the run-off from a higher society. They can call us weak, but we could care less. Whether we walk, crawl, or writhe, we always somehow manage to get by, while that enigma called “real life” keeps biting the rich and poor alike in their collective asses.
Nearly all of you would watching from the warmth and comfort of your homes would take one look at this place and call it an absolute sh*t-hole without hesitation. And, I wouldn’t even begin to deny you... but you know what? When you don’t HAVE a home... you just settle with whatever life gives you.
And what has life given the ol’ smokin’ and chokin’ Escape Artist lately? Two opponents and one match at Aggression sixty...
(His eyebrow pops and his jaw drops suddenly as he strains his mind to remember something that shouldn’t be that easy to forget.)
Rezin
Wait, what number are we on again?
Oh hell, nevermind, none of it f*cking matters at this point anyway...
What DOES matter is moving forward with the ever-destructive flow of the universe... or more specifically, burning this f*cking joke of a federation to the ground.
I must kill it... I must incinerate it... pig after pig... cow after cow... title after title.
(He lifts his head... not to speak more directly to the camera, but just to clear what’s left in the bong. Cthulhu knows how long that smog’s just been sitting in there, getting more and more rank with every passing minute.)
Rezin
It pained me to have to start the process with my old buddies Ivan and Olvir. But sometimes, you gotta know when to cut friends loose and follow the path set before you. Friends only end up being obstacles when you’re set down a morall. Seems like whenever you just want to get something done, they have to step up and try to f*ck it all up with some bullsh*t intervention.
Ivan and Olvir wouldn’t have stood for the awful, awful things I’m going to do in coming weeks. Were it not for my element of surprise, they would have put a stop to me before I could do any real damage... because in their soft, stupid hearts, they’d think I was doing something “wrong”.
But I already know there’s no “right” or “wrong” in this world; we’re ALL filth. Most of us simply tend to mask it a bit better than others.
So... I gave them an early retirement. A NECESSARY retirement, if you will. Can’t really say if more will follow at this point, but honestly, I don’t feel I need to go through match after match crippling one opponent after the other to get my point across. Like I said at Aggression, when those chintzy golden straps are no more, the Empire of Professional Wrestling will deflate on itself.
(He takes a moment to light the bong and take another hit. It causes him to cough quite painfully, but it somehow gives away to a maddened chuckle. He sticks a thumb into the elastic waistband of his pants and gives it a stretch.)
Rezin
Ah, belts, belts, belts... everybody seems to want one of their own. But do you want to know what I think?
...no? Well F*CK YOU, I’m telling you anyway.
Belts are overrated... always have been, always will be. The true contender transcends the very concept of “championship.” A “champion” implies an image of pride and excellence standing out amongst a slave caste of moronic, brawling apes who kill each other for the cheap entertainment of lower-class rednecks. A “noble savage” of society if you will.
A lie... a hoax... and an abomination.
We are nothing but animals... and our so-called “champions” are not really the alpha males as they think, but animals wearing a Man’s collar.
Without those titles... those SHACKLES... the Animals will once again
FREE...
(He takes his shades off, eyes finding the camera. They aren’t just red; they’re the fires of hell itself.)
Rezin
Let me speak candidly for a moment to my opponents... Cameron Cruise and Copycat.
Clearly, you might be sensitive to this reality given your recent short-comings involving acquring titles of your own. But you know something, fellas? I think you’re better off without them.
I mean, no offense, Cam... but your career hasn’t exactly been remarkable over the years. Yeah, you’ve taken some easy pickings belts here and there... but when it comes to stepping up to the main event, you’ve always shied away from the challenge. Maybe you’re just waiting for the “right time”... or maybe, deep down, you realize that for all your bullsh*t and bravado, you really DON’T have what it takes to stand with the big boys. Either way, you can’t convince anyone your sh*t doesn’t stink when, after years -- and I mean YEARS -- of being in the Empire Pro ring, you’ve never ONCE shown an interest in competing for the EPW World Heavyweight Title.
Losing the TV Title was the best thing that could have ever happened to you. I say that now, because... I’m expecting you to be too stupid to understand it yourself.
You should be relishing the freedom. You should be thriving off the hunger. You should be proving to the masses just what years of experience and reserves of technical wrestling talent can do. You should be bringing back the g*ddamn “CRIPPLER” that gave you your nearly-forgotten namesake.
But the problem, Cam, is that I KNOW you won’t do any of those things. You’ve given up “The Crippler” to be “The Centerpiece”... a terribly transparent attempt to pass yourself off as “greater-than” over a handful of petty accomplishments and blatant mistruths.
Sooner or later, you’ll CRUISE IN on some poor kid or wounded runt and put another mid-tier belt around your waist, just because in your tiny, inbred Carolina head, you don’t see yourself worth a f*ck without one. Or maybe worse... you’ll make a bid on the World Title, and really ruin your career... but call it a hunch, I don’t see you growing a spine any time soon.
And speaking of the World Title... sup, Cat?
Let me ask you, real quick... do you really think anything would be DIFFERENT if you were World Champion right now? Do you think the world would respect you any more than they do now? More importantly, do you think it would really “save” this Empire?
Well I don’t think so.
If you ask me, Cat, you were damn lucky to have Larry Tact bail save YOU from a fate worse than death.
Or a broken foot.
(HA-HA, BRUNK!! THE TEXANS WILL NEVER SEE A SUPERBOWL!! NEVERRRR!!!)
Rezin
Ahem...
Anyway, I’m sure if Anarky had the chance, he’d throw that belt in the trash and get back on his with his old ways in a heartbeat. Life was probably a lot easier when he was just taking ass and kicking names without everybody in the locker room calling him pathetic, cowardly, and soft. All that title brings anyone is the stigma of being the very center of attention.
Champions come and go... but legends never die. Take it from me... a man who’s been around from the beginning, and still around to keep on sinning. It ain’t an illustrious life, hey, but f*ck it, dude...
I’ve outlasted WORLD CHAMPIONS!
(One of the vermin enters the frame, frantically scratching his forearms. He’s wearing one of those old “Anthology” t-shirts. Who the f*ck were those guys again?)
Anthology Junkie
HEY MAN... aren’t you Dopesmoker!?
(Rezin growls and puts the shades back on.)
Rezin
I believe you have me mistaken for someone else.
Anthology Junkie
Yeah, totally, you’re Erik Black! Dude, you carryin’ right now?!
(Rezin sighs with disdain.)
Rezin
Excuse me for just a second...
(With much effort, he peels himself from the sofa and gets to his feet. He takes a moment to measure the junkie’s height and his approximate distance... and BAM!! The motherf*cker goes flying with a spinning heel kick to the jaw! A body can be heard crashing off camera. Readjusting his duster, Rezin finds his spot back on the couch.)
Rezin
G*ddamn... I have a feeling I’ll be having to do that a LOT for a while.
Anyway, guys... I’m going to do the both of you a favor. I’m going to just get RID of the TV and World Titles... so neither of you have to worry about them anymore. I’m going to bring you face to face with the possibility of never having anything to reach for. I’m going to give you a life of no ambition... no motivation... no dreams of greatness... just raw, animal instinct.
But I know what you’re already thinkin’. You’re thinkin’, “Oh, there’s that nasty pot calling us pristine kettles a nasty shade of black.”
I know what I am... I know I’m a failure. But you’re in f*cking denial if you think I’m the ONLY one.
And anyway, pots and kettles provide two wholly different functions in the kitchen. Not to mention, pots also sometimes come in clay or stainless steel. The pot’s just calling the kettle black because the kettle is too f*cking stupid to know what color it is.
Only reason I can see this and nobody else can is because I dwell here at the bottom. You’ll all see it for yourselves, eventually... as I drag each and every one of you down into this quagmire of worthlessness.
(The snarling grin reappears on his face as he picks up his resin-bong.)
Rezin
See you soon, my little lambs...
(Kicking the stiff legs of an unconscious junkie’s legs out of his way, he sternly makes his way to the door, moving on to his next destination to spread a gospel of filth and despair. On this glum note, we fade to black.)