Post by "The Asshole" Whitey Ford on Jul 17, 2017 12:30:41 GMT -5
He knew it was time to get up. Not only because of the fact he'd already hit the snooze button a good few dozen times, but he could feel the summer heat seep in with the bright sunlight under a blanket he had draped over the window to keep his room dark. Whitey lay on his less than luxurious bed, a ratty blanket cocooned all around him except for the arm that Gabriel and Kyle Shane had so rudely targeted in his last outing. No real coherent thoughts ran through his head, just a low rumble of anger and brooding. He wasn't quite asleep, but just barely not awake either, inside a perfect limbo to escape the world, hiding in a dingy apartment he rented low key for a place to escape.
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP "SON OF A BITCH!" Every time minutes for the last few hours, it was the same as now. Whitey instinctively reached with his free arm to slap the snooze button, but it was still too sore to move without sending him into a pouting fit of anger. Every time he tried, though, and every time he'd wrench his arm free from his safety blanket and slap the alarm clock into an interval of silence. This time, however, he missed his target all together and his momentum carrying his strike down to the floor...and his forehead right into the corner of the endtable.
"MOTHER FUCKER!" His rage swelled, and the alarm clock was sent flying, swiped off the table with authority. By some stroke of ill luck, the Salvation Army impulse buy still managed to stay plugged into the wall, leaving it still screeching away but far out of arms reach. "Oh, fuck me. Jesus fucking CHRIST!" Ford attempted to leap up from bed to chase his new nemesis and beat it into submission, but his legs were still wrapped tightly in the blanket. The face of Pure Class Wrestling dumped himself unceremoniously onto the hard and unforgiving floor, right on to his bad arm.
"COCKSUCKING MOTHER FUCKER, GOD FUCKING DAMNIT FUCK! FUCK!" His good arm rained down a few punches on the floor, with the expected outcome of absolutely nothing happening but his knuckles being bruised. Whitey kicked and struggled, and eventually got free of the blanket. When he reached the alarm clock, it found itself ripped from the wall and hurled violently through the nearest window. Glass shattered, and the appliance hit the pavement from the second story with a smash.
"Hey, what the fuck?!" A man's voice cried out from outside in anger. "Who threw that? You almost hit my car!"
Whitey was quick to his feet this time, his rage carrying him to the window. Taking no heed of the broken glass, he shoved his head throw the window, somehow not cutting himself in the process. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" He cried back as a retort. "Or I'll come down there and fuckstart your head!"
He was awake now, there was no stopping that. Ford retreated his head back into the apartment, his eyes still burning from the sudden exposure to sunlight. Taking a seat on the bed again, his eyes scanned the room for a moment. First, they fell on a bottle of vodka with only a few shots of liquor left inside. With a discouraged whimper, Whitey snatched up the bottle, followed by his phone. Flicking the screen and punching in a few numbers led to the phone dialing, and Jamie's face popping up on the video chat.
"Hi babe!" Her cheery voice and warm smile greeted Ford, but it only pissed him off more. He held the near empty bottle up beside his face. "Look. I need more." He growled at the screen.
Her face scrunched up and her eyes narrowed. "See what? I can only see a shadow. You don't have your lights turned on."
"FUCKING SHIT!" Today was just not Whitey's day. He stomped over to the light switch like a child and flipped them on agressively, repeating the pose with the bottle. "I'm almost out of vodka. Bring me more. Today sucks, I want to go back to bed."
"
"Uhm...no. Not even a maybe." Jamie shook her head and calmly took a sip from her iced coffee. "You've been like this all week. Big deal, you lost. Again. You wanted to be at the top, now you are, and you're not getting your way so you're pouting. You need to get over this."
"I am failing to see how this affects your decision to not get me my happy juice."
"I'm not going to enable you to stay in bed all day--"
"If you don't bring me some fucking vodka, I'm going to go out in public myself and cause a scene--"
"Reason number two. I don't want to around you in public when you're in this kind of mood. Despite your...'efforts'...to show people you've changed, you're still a pretty hated figure most everywhere we go."
"Why...why did you say 'efforts' like that?" Whitey buried his face into his free hand, dropping the bottle of vodka away from him. "I don't need this shit right now, ok? I have a lot on my mind."
"You HAVEN'T done anything to change the way people look at you, that's why I said it with sarcasm!" Irritation was quickly building in her voice. "You've been great to me, and I see how good of a man you can be...but the world doesn't see that. You need to get out there, help the community, do charity events...you came back to Pure Class Wrestling acting like you were going to be the next John Cena and you haven't done shit since you've won the title!"
"You know what? Fine. Fuck this. I'll call Bob. Bob won't let me down and give me shit at this ungodly hour of the morning!" Ford reached back down for the bottle of happy juice, and quickly chugged its contents down. "Bob's a real friend, he'll bring me some fuckin' happiness in a bottle."
Jamie raised one eyebrow, the corner of her mouth curling into a knowing smile...then she burst out into a mocking bark of a laugh. She turned the phone to her right to reveal the source of her mirth. Bob King sat beside her, showing they were together on a park bench. "Sorry dude, I'm busy."
"BOB?!? What the actual fuck?! I need you to bring me some fuckin' VODKA! What are you doing with Jamie anyways, that's MY girl? Are you...no. No fuckin' way."
"RELAX, babe." Jamie said quickly, realizing where Whitey's already irate mind was taking the scenario. "We're just down at the park. We're having coffee and bird watching, waiting for you to come out of your self pity cave."
"Bird watching? What the fuck, Bob?" Whitey exclaimed.
"...I like birds, dude. They're cool." King responded in his deep, monotone voice.
For a moment Whitey was so furious that words couldn't even find their way from his brain to his mouth. He tried to speak, but his tongue betrayed him. He raised a finger as a point to try and start again, but once again found failure. Ford had to take a deep breath, exhaling slowly, before he could speak. His voice wasn't nearly as loud but the stress still shone right through. "Fine. You know what? You're right. I'm going to get up, get out of this apartment, and go do some community service. Yeah, and you know where I'll start? I'm going go down TO THE FUCKING CHURCH, and save those poor bastards!"
"Whitey, no--" Jamie tried to intervent, but it was too late.
"AND I'M GONNA BUY MY OWN GOD DAMNED FUCKING VODKA!" Whitey flicked down to end the call, and felt a gigantic wave of dissapointment wash over him. Not over what he said or what he had planned, but you can't hang up on someone with a smartphone angrily and get your point across. He slammed the phone down hard, three times, on the end table, just to get that feeling of accomplishment.
______
"That concludes todays sermon. I would like to thank you all for coming here before the Lord today, and please remember to keep Jesus Christ in your thoughts, always, for he is our savior and he is good." A preacher stood at his pedastal at the front of the pews, inside a small church with only a couple dozen people seated before him. The church itself was fairly unimpressive, with drab colored walls and only a few regular windows on the walls to let light cascade in, revealing the large amount of dust floating through the air. The gatherers began to stand, murmuring to their families as they made their way to the center aisle.
The front door was kicked in violently just then, and in strolled Whitey Ford, wearing only a pair of pants and flip flops, with his World Title slung over his shoulder. And of course, a half filled bottle of vodka. "Nope! This isn't over yet! I have something to say!"
The preacher groaned, knowing that nothing good could come with this drunk asshole staggering into his church. "Sir, I'm sorry, but the service his concluded. Also, we don't allow consumption of alcoholic beverages in the church."
"Unless it's the blood of Christ, right? It has to be Jesus blood or you guys don't want nothing to do with it here?" Whitey swirled the bottle around in front of him as he casually walked down the aisle. "This here is only vodka. No blood or special powers, but it gets you drunk and it doesn't sound so morbid as what you guys do. Drinking blood? Fuck...don't ever worship me, then. I don't want you weirdo's getting a buzz off my life essence so you don't go to hell or wherever."
"Sir--"
"Sir WHAT?" Whitey raised his voice just a little, but his body language didn't signal any sort of danger for those around him. He actually seemed quite merry. "Listen, I'm here to talk. Why can't I talk to these people? I'm a couple minutes late and I'm not allowed to share my views on a subject that everyone here cares about? That doesn't seem very nice to me...this Jesus guy you all follow devoutly seems like he'd just want everyone to be nice to each other, not make silly little rules around time allotment."
Ford hopped up onto the stage and quickly got behind the pedastal, before the preacher could contest him any further. The latter stayed quiet, choosing to let the storm run it's course, rather than fight it and be swallowed whole by the sea. "So, I was told by someone I love that I need to start helping the community. I talked a big game, but I havne't done much after winning this here title from Pure Class Wrestling." Ford slapped the gold face of his belt, which still draped over his shoulder. "So here we go. I can relate to you guys, I really can. There's someone who is in MY church...which happens to be in South Carolina, and is called Pure Class Wrestling."
"He talks a lot about the same stuff this guy probably talked about before I got here. Except he doesn't just say some dead guy that nobody has ever met or heard about besides generations of writings, which were penned generations AFTER he lived in a big telephone-style game of vocal retellings, being the Lord and Savior. He believes he IS the Lord and Savior. Now, I can't get behind that.
I know it's easy and convenient, thinking that if you follow someone's footsteps who say that they're right that you'll end up living a happy and fulfilling life. Well, I'm here to tell you that's complete bullshit. The problem I'm facing...his name is Seromine. He believes that his word is God, and that anyone not following his word is a heretic and should be punished to repent for their sins. Think about that...if you don't do what he say, you'll be punished. It's a man made idea, like government but more powerful. If you disobey Seromine, he will cause you unimaginable pain until you cave in and live his lifestyle. It happened to a good man, Rick Majors. A haunted man, yeah, but a fuckin' good man and a badass all together. Now he's a sheep, fighting battles for Seromine.
Replace Seromine with Jesus, and that's the situation you're all in, except you're prophet makes you wait until you die then lets you burn for eternity. Well, I'm going to help. I can't fight Jesus, because nobody can prove that he even existed. I can't even fight his ideals, because I just flat out don't believe in them. What I can do is fight Seromine...he's MY battle. Jesus is yours. Any man or idea that offers punishment for questioning or not believing in their doctrines is an evil man, and needs to be stopped. It's mind control.
I'm not saying do what I do. I'm no role model, and I don't think I'll ever be as classy as I promised before I started this crusade and won this gold title...a title that brands me as the best that Pure Class Wrestling has to offer. I'm saying, don't follow blindly. Question what your agreeing to, find the logic behind your decision, and make your OWN path. The one set before you isn't always the right one." Ford paused, his tirade over, and looked out at the stunned and confused facers of the church goers. He turned to adress the preacher, giving a shrug of his broad shoulders. "See? I just wanted to say my piece, and now I'll be going."
Whitey took a step away from the pedestal, but had a last thought and quickly moonwalked back to the speaking position. "Also, one last thing; if Jesus turned water into wine, wouldn't that mean that he'd always be wine drunk and nobody would ever be hydrated? No one ever talks about that. People need water to survive, Jesus is a bad influence. Ok, that's it."
With that, Whitey left the church with his head held high. Like everything else he ever does in life, he couldn't help but wonder what exactly his point was. Even he had trouble remembering why he does the things he does sometimes. But one thought resonated clearer than the rest, something he hadn't even realized before the wourds poured out of his mouth.
Seromine was Whitey's lie to expose, his false prophet to dethrone, and his monster to slay. The rest of the world had to combat Jesus Christ himself. The real question is though...which monster would prove to have the sharpest teeth?
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP "SON OF A BITCH!" Every time minutes for the last few hours, it was the same as now. Whitey instinctively reached with his free arm to slap the snooze button, but it was still too sore to move without sending him into a pouting fit of anger. Every time he tried, though, and every time he'd wrench his arm free from his safety blanket and slap the alarm clock into an interval of silence. This time, however, he missed his target all together and his momentum carrying his strike down to the floor...and his forehead right into the corner of the endtable.
"MOTHER FUCKER!" His rage swelled, and the alarm clock was sent flying, swiped off the table with authority. By some stroke of ill luck, the Salvation Army impulse buy still managed to stay plugged into the wall, leaving it still screeching away but far out of arms reach. "Oh, fuck me. Jesus fucking CHRIST!" Ford attempted to leap up from bed to chase his new nemesis and beat it into submission, but his legs were still wrapped tightly in the blanket. The face of Pure Class Wrestling dumped himself unceremoniously onto the hard and unforgiving floor, right on to his bad arm.
"COCKSUCKING MOTHER FUCKER, GOD FUCKING DAMNIT FUCK! FUCK!" His good arm rained down a few punches on the floor, with the expected outcome of absolutely nothing happening but his knuckles being bruised. Whitey kicked and struggled, and eventually got free of the blanket. When he reached the alarm clock, it found itself ripped from the wall and hurled violently through the nearest window. Glass shattered, and the appliance hit the pavement from the second story with a smash.
"Hey, what the fuck?!" A man's voice cried out from outside in anger. "Who threw that? You almost hit my car!"
Whitey was quick to his feet this time, his rage carrying him to the window. Taking no heed of the broken glass, he shoved his head throw the window, somehow not cutting himself in the process. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" He cried back as a retort. "Or I'll come down there and fuckstart your head!"
He was awake now, there was no stopping that. Ford retreated his head back into the apartment, his eyes still burning from the sudden exposure to sunlight. Taking a seat on the bed again, his eyes scanned the room for a moment. First, they fell on a bottle of vodka with only a few shots of liquor left inside. With a discouraged whimper, Whitey snatched up the bottle, followed by his phone. Flicking the screen and punching in a few numbers led to the phone dialing, and Jamie's face popping up on the video chat.
"Hi babe!" Her cheery voice and warm smile greeted Ford, but it only pissed him off more. He held the near empty bottle up beside his face. "Look. I need more." He growled at the screen.
Her face scrunched up and her eyes narrowed. "See what? I can only see a shadow. You don't have your lights turned on."
"FUCKING SHIT!" Today was just not Whitey's day. He stomped over to the light switch like a child and flipped them on agressively, repeating the pose with the bottle. "I'm almost out of vodka. Bring me more. Today sucks, I want to go back to bed."
"
"Uhm...no. Not even a maybe." Jamie shook her head and calmly took a sip from her iced coffee. "You've been like this all week. Big deal, you lost. Again. You wanted to be at the top, now you are, and you're not getting your way so you're pouting. You need to get over this."
"I am failing to see how this affects your decision to not get me my happy juice."
"I'm not going to enable you to stay in bed all day--"
"If you don't bring me some fucking vodka, I'm going to go out in public myself and cause a scene--"
"Reason number two. I don't want to around you in public when you're in this kind of mood. Despite your...'efforts'...to show people you've changed, you're still a pretty hated figure most everywhere we go."
"Why...why did you say 'efforts' like that?" Whitey buried his face into his free hand, dropping the bottle of vodka away from him. "I don't need this shit right now, ok? I have a lot on my mind."
"You HAVEN'T done anything to change the way people look at you, that's why I said it with sarcasm!" Irritation was quickly building in her voice. "You've been great to me, and I see how good of a man you can be...but the world doesn't see that. You need to get out there, help the community, do charity events...you came back to Pure Class Wrestling acting like you were going to be the next John Cena and you haven't done shit since you've won the title!"
"You know what? Fine. Fuck this. I'll call Bob. Bob won't let me down and give me shit at this ungodly hour of the morning!" Ford reached back down for the bottle of happy juice, and quickly chugged its contents down. "Bob's a real friend, he'll bring me some fuckin' happiness in a bottle."
Jamie raised one eyebrow, the corner of her mouth curling into a knowing smile...then she burst out into a mocking bark of a laugh. She turned the phone to her right to reveal the source of her mirth. Bob King sat beside her, showing they were together on a park bench. "Sorry dude, I'm busy."
"BOB?!? What the actual fuck?! I need you to bring me some fuckin' VODKA! What are you doing with Jamie anyways, that's MY girl? Are you...no. No fuckin' way."
"RELAX, babe." Jamie said quickly, realizing where Whitey's already irate mind was taking the scenario. "We're just down at the park. We're having coffee and bird watching, waiting for you to come out of your self pity cave."
"Bird watching? What the fuck, Bob?" Whitey exclaimed.
"...I like birds, dude. They're cool." King responded in his deep, monotone voice.
For a moment Whitey was so furious that words couldn't even find their way from his brain to his mouth. He tried to speak, but his tongue betrayed him. He raised a finger as a point to try and start again, but once again found failure. Ford had to take a deep breath, exhaling slowly, before he could speak. His voice wasn't nearly as loud but the stress still shone right through. "Fine. You know what? You're right. I'm going to get up, get out of this apartment, and go do some community service. Yeah, and you know where I'll start? I'm going go down TO THE FUCKING CHURCH, and save those poor bastards!"
"Whitey, no--" Jamie tried to intervent, but it was too late.
"AND I'M GONNA BUY MY OWN GOD DAMNED FUCKING VODKA!" Whitey flicked down to end the call, and felt a gigantic wave of dissapointment wash over him. Not over what he said or what he had planned, but you can't hang up on someone with a smartphone angrily and get your point across. He slammed the phone down hard, three times, on the end table, just to get that feeling of accomplishment.
______
"That concludes todays sermon. I would like to thank you all for coming here before the Lord today, and please remember to keep Jesus Christ in your thoughts, always, for he is our savior and he is good." A preacher stood at his pedastal at the front of the pews, inside a small church with only a couple dozen people seated before him. The church itself was fairly unimpressive, with drab colored walls and only a few regular windows on the walls to let light cascade in, revealing the large amount of dust floating through the air. The gatherers began to stand, murmuring to their families as they made their way to the center aisle.
The front door was kicked in violently just then, and in strolled Whitey Ford, wearing only a pair of pants and flip flops, with his World Title slung over his shoulder. And of course, a half filled bottle of vodka. "Nope! This isn't over yet! I have something to say!"
The preacher groaned, knowing that nothing good could come with this drunk asshole staggering into his church. "Sir, I'm sorry, but the service his concluded. Also, we don't allow consumption of alcoholic beverages in the church."
"Unless it's the blood of Christ, right? It has to be Jesus blood or you guys don't want nothing to do with it here?" Whitey swirled the bottle around in front of him as he casually walked down the aisle. "This here is only vodka. No blood or special powers, but it gets you drunk and it doesn't sound so morbid as what you guys do. Drinking blood? Fuck...don't ever worship me, then. I don't want you weirdo's getting a buzz off my life essence so you don't go to hell or wherever."
"Sir--"
"Sir WHAT?" Whitey raised his voice just a little, but his body language didn't signal any sort of danger for those around him. He actually seemed quite merry. "Listen, I'm here to talk. Why can't I talk to these people? I'm a couple minutes late and I'm not allowed to share my views on a subject that everyone here cares about? That doesn't seem very nice to me...this Jesus guy you all follow devoutly seems like he'd just want everyone to be nice to each other, not make silly little rules around time allotment."
Ford hopped up onto the stage and quickly got behind the pedastal, before the preacher could contest him any further. The latter stayed quiet, choosing to let the storm run it's course, rather than fight it and be swallowed whole by the sea. "So, I was told by someone I love that I need to start helping the community. I talked a big game, but I havne't done much after winning this here title from Pure Class Wrestling." Ford slapped the gold face of his belt, which still draped over his shoulder. "So here we go. I can relate to you guys, I really can. There's someone who is in MY church...which happens to be in South Carolina, and is called Pure Class Wrestling."
"He talks a lot about the same stuff this guy probably talked about before I got here. Except he doesn't just say some dead guy that nobody has ever met or heard about besides generations of writings, which were penned generations AFTER he lived in a big telephone-style game of vocal retellings, being the Lord and Savior. He believes he IS the Lord and Savior. Now, I can't get behind that.
I know it's easy and convenient, thinking that if you follow someone's footsteps who say that they're right that you'll end up living a happy and fulfilling life. Well, I'm here to tell you that's complete bullshit. The problem I'm facing...his name is Seromine. He believes that his word is God, and that anyone not following his word is a heretic and should be punished to repent for their sins. Think about that...if you don't do what he say, you'll be punished. It's a man made idea, like government but more powerful. If you disobey Seromine, he will cause you unimaginable pain until you cave in and live his lifestyle. It happened to a good man, Rick Majors. A haunted man, yeah, but a fuckin' good man and a badass all together. Now he's a sheep, fighting battles for Seromine.
Replace Seromine with Jesus, and that's the situation you're all in, except you're prophet makes you wait until you die then lets you burn for eternity. Well, I'm going to help. I can't fight Jesus, because nobody can prove that he even existed. I can't even fight his ideals, because I just flat out don't believe in them. What I can do is fight Seromine...he's MY battle. Jesus is yours. Any man or idea that offers punishment for questioning or not believing in their doctrines is an evil man, and needs to be stopped. It's mind control.
I'm not saying do what I do. I'm no role model, and I don't think I'll ever be as classy as I promised before I started this crusade and won this gold title...a title that brands me as the best that Pure Class Wrestling has to offer. I'm saying, don't follow blindly. Question what your agreeing to, find the logic behind your decision, and make your OWN path. The one set before you isn't always the right one." Ford paused, his tirade over, and looked out at the stunned and confused facers of the church goers. He turned to adress the preacher, giving a shrug of his broad shoulders. "See? I just wanted to say my piece, and now I'll be going."
Whitey took a step away from the pedestal, but had a last thought and quickly moonwalked back to the speaking position. "Also, one last thing; if Jesus turned water into wine, wouldn't that mean that he'd always be wine drunk and nobody would ever be hydrated? No one ever talks about that. People need water to survive, Jesus is a bad influence. Ok, that's it."
With that, Whitey left the church with his head held high. Like everything else he ever does in life, he couldn't help but wonder what exactly his point was. Even he had trouble remembering why he does the things he does sometimes. But one thought resonated clearer than the rest, something he hadn't even realized before the wourds poured out of his mouth.
Seromine was Whitey's lie to expose, his false prophet to dethrone, and his monster to slay. The rest of the world had to combat Jesus Christ himself. The real question is though...which monster would prove to have the sharpest teeth?
