Post by Ace Anderson on May 13, 2007 22:48:44 GMT -5
For the fourth time that day, he found himself holding it. The contents of the envelope felt heavy in his hands, when really it was light as powder. He turned it over multiple times, his eyes wandering across the surface of the paper, which was devoid of markings. He placed it down on the table, and stood to his feet.
His knees wobbled slightly, things were coming down on him. Falling rock zone. He was stuck on the side of the cliff with poor supports, expecting his ropes to snap. There was nothing he could do but anticipate the fall, all the way to the bottom.
“What am I doing?” he asked himself. Convincing himself it was in rhetoric, when really he pleaded for the answer to come screaming back at him off of the walls. He was lost, which was not common ground for Ace Anderson. He was even too lost to speak in the third person. Something was intermittently stabbing at him from all angles. Pangs of despair, and on occasion, a hint of despise he held for himself.
Failure. That was how he was beginning to describe himself, which was not what he needed. A man fueled by his own arrogance has no room for self-doubt. He shouldn’t know the meaning of the phrase, let alone feel it. Yet there he was, ashamed that he had failed to defeat Lantlas on innumerable occasions when the prize that should be his was on the line. He was a victim at the hands of Lantlas, Grimm, and Heavy Metal. Any real man would have been able to defeat them all on his own, he didn’t even put up a fight.
He walked back to the table and picked up the envelope. He had a feeling that the contents would make everything better, if only he could bring himself to open it. He didn’t want to, he refused to do that to himself. He was Ace Anderson, Beyond Greatness. He was above and, well, Beyond. Beyond everything. He didn’t need him, her, or it. Whatever those may have been. All he needed was himself.
Those reassuring thoughts fell short, and it was as though he drifted away from his own body. He saw his finger slide under one corner of the flap, he could feel the paper on his skin, just as he could see himself doing it. With a moments hesitation, he pulled it across, tearing open the top. He saw himself look up to the shelf, on top of the stack of newspapers, where another letter sat. One he had received a week earlier.
While watching the dust-collecting letter which sat on the shelf, he didn’t notice his seemingly absent-spirited body pour the white powder out onto the table. He had put it in the envelope earlier that week, and told himself he wouldn’t open it. It would sit with the rest of his unopened mail. Nobody would be the wiser. Not even himself.
But it’s hard to trick a fool, for they’re always tricked. In that instant, a fool he was. He closed his eyes, not wanting to witness what would happen next. He heard labored breathing, the sound of the paper of the envelope brushing across the table. A snort or two (he wasn’t sure which) and a cough and everything went white.
He found himself back in his body, not sure where he was. He felt his hands twitch. He felt ... power. He was used to feeling powerful, but this was good, something else entirely. Grimm’s in for it, he thought to himself. In that moment, he was a God and then some. He was a God on crack... literally.
Ace walks down the halls of Pure Class Arena with the reels rolling, disgusting cameraman in tow.
“This whole mess with Lantlas is fucked. Dropping his title because he’s afraid of Beyond Greatness. Well, Ace Anderson will just have to remind Grimm what it’s like to go one on one with the true cha–“ Ace is cut off as he walks around the corner, a man clad in a black hooded sweatshirt colliding with his chest. Surprisingly, the man doesn’t fall, but instead stays at his vertical base quite convincingly.
“Since when can a black midget stay on his feet when he walks right into Ace Anderson?” Ace pulls the hood from the head of the mysterious man, to reveal Joshua Megtorlas, who looks unimpressed. “Wait a second,” Ace falsely strokes his chin, “aren’t you on the roster?”
“Aren’t you the guy who got gang raped like a Puerto Rican ho last week in PCW?” Megtorlas replies smugly.
“Ace Anderson thinks you may be slightly confused, because he recalls seeing you offering fifty cent suck-offs outside of the HIV clinic when PCW shut down and you were left without a job. Mr. Anderson doesn’t blame you, the bills have to get paid, regardless of how the money comes about,” Ace chuckles, “at your rate, that’s a LOT of pole.” Ace pauses, as if he’s waiting. He’s almost twitching in anticipation, waiting to respond.
“I guess you would know about pole. If I had to overcompensate that much, I’m sure I’d own stock in magnifying glasses and microscopes. You know, in order to make sure you can still get a date,” a smile crosses Megtorlas’s face now, “how is that chick of yours anyway?”
“As far as Ace Anderson is concerned, six feet deep and smothered in lime. Beyond Greatness has returned, and he’s a one man show. Which brings about the question, why are you even here?”
“No one’s told you that story yet? See Ace, a long time ago, your mom had a bad case of the clap. Seeing as she was such a cheap slut, that didn’t stop her, and she met your dad, who after an eight ball and too many sips of vodka, found the skank attractive. After hi-tailing it out of Scamps, they hit Curly’s motel and as a result of 42 seconds of your mother pretending he was someone like me, you were conceived, and nine months later, you dropped out of that chute like a slip and slide, and ended up in a garbage can somewhere, cause I’d sure as hell leave you in a dumpster if I saw you too.”
Ace opens his mouth to respond, but Megtorlas interrupts him, “I’m surprised you never learned about where babies come from, Ace. You’ve got some catching up to do.”
Refusing to allow himself to be ousted by this amateur, Ace acts as though he didn’t miss a beat, “It’s unfortunate you say that, because Ace Anderson heard a different story. It starts quite some time ago, shortly after your mother’s umpteenth abortion. You see, over time, she developed a fetish for the rusty clothes hanger her back-alley doctor used, the same one every time. Some say he didn’t wash it, some say he used it to milk the prostates of cattle. However, when she met your apparent father, there was something about his hunchback that made her want to keep the next one. So, after much complication, grunting, disagreement over positions, et cetera, they walked down to the sperm bank and got it done that way. So really, you’re confused as to where babies come from, because in your case, it was the fourth refrigerator to the right.”
“No no, see... You’ve confused me with the newest religion from the south. They’re using Disney movies to impregnate young women now, and that freak from Notre Dame just keeps plugging away. Reminds me of half the roster around here... Ugly as hell, absolute freaks who shouldn’t be reproducing, but somehow can get illegally hired to work for a wrestling company, go figure.”
“Wait, you’re trying to tell Ace Anderson that even the religious can use affirmative action now? Holy pissed off Arabs, what is this world coming to? Next thing you know, this whole industry will be filled with a bunch of people trying desperately to rehabilitate their thetans, crucify their saviors, achieve an over-rated grunge band, and even that new one, the ones whose only goal in life is to fistfuck as many cats as they can during their short time on Earth.”
“You shouldn’t speak of McDonald’s employees that way. They’ll spit in your burger, and who knows what’s in that?” Megtorlas chuckles a little, “They might ally with Wal-Mart to start a cult uprising, you never know.”
“That’s the last thing anyone needs. Spit to go along with the mealworm and the sweat of Mexicans. But hey, what would be the difference? They have cult uprisings for everything else. Why do you think all of the kids shoot up the schools? They’re trying to keep the cults to a minimum. They see the development, and then what do they do? They go in, guns blazing. After that, there’s nothing left to do but blow their own head off, because they’ve achieved some sort of religious status that another two-bit science fiction writer put in a book, which means it MUST be true.”
“Just like everything on the internet. These emo, wrist-slitting Greenpeace motherfuckers think that if it’s typed and it’s on their computer screen, it must be the truth.”
“Kinda like how Anthony Douglas thought he actually meant something to the world?”
“Who?”
“Another fantabulous member of this illustrious roster’s history. Next thing you know, they’ll have Nun Compost Methane back.”
“I’m guessing he’s a basket case piece of wasted sperm like that guy I last faced here... Willard, I think his name was.”
“His wasted sperm count was nothing compared to the copious amounts of it left on his wife’s face after her fourth straight bukkake session.”
“How dare you assume some emo piece of trash could actually get a wife?”
“Ace Anderson heard that instead of a first kiss, they had a first joint cut. Instead of a first dance, they shared a “pretend you’re at a show, and stand there all unimpressed like.”“
”Do you think they own stock in BIC?”
“Majority ownership, if Greatness had to venture a guess,” Ace chuckles a bit, the camera still rolling, the man behind it not quite sure what to make of the exchange he is witnessing.
“What about this Grimm Reaper guy? How many times did he have to take a pole bent over in order to start acting like a fucking pirate?”
“Well, once you go ‘YARRRR’, you never go ... far? Yeah, that sounds about right. Since, ya know, at Trauma he won’t get any farther than an Exemplifier.”
“That’s right, you are facing him this week! What’s your plan? Take a bottle of his alcohol and pour gasoline in it, and then feel the need for a cigarette once he reaches it? Oh wait, I know! You’ll cut off his black eyeliner supplier! Make sure Hot Topic isn’t open the day of the show!”
“Well, Ace Anderson is sure it will amount to something involving kicking his peg-leg out from under him and force feeding him his parrot. Are you on the next card?”
“No, I just re-signed yesterday. I guess they don’t have someone they’re willing to use for a donation to the local cemetery this week.”
“Consider yourself lucky you don’t have to place your hands – or feet, whichever you prefer – on one of the disgusting rapscallions or demons or garbagemen or hair metal wannabes that they have seemingly endless quantities of in the back. Did you hear that they actually might be bringing back the Indian? Keep your head up for flying arrows, serious. That shit can impale.”
“I already set a mass of landmines near the last place I saw a tomahawk, and since I’m in no need of making a donation to the We Smoke’Um Daweed fund at the casino, I’ll just have to wait til he sets his Native American carcass in this arena so I can exorcise his body of so-called honor and free his spirit to run with the buffalo and Kevin Costner.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t have to pay taxes, so who the fuck are you and Ace Anderson to say what’s what? Oh, right. Ace Anderson is Great, and you’re not too bad yourself. You’re not Beyond Greatness or anything, but it seems you hate people almost as much as he does. Mr. Anderson’s gotta break out though, as there are niggas who need lynching.”
“Affirmative action this, bitch!” Megtorlas says, laughing. Ace nods to Megtorlas, who returns it. Megtorlas puts up his hood, and the two walk past each other. Ace snaps his fingers at the cameraman, who stops rolling, and is still slightly confused.
His knees wobbled slightly, things were coming down on him. Falling rock zone. He was stuck on the side of the cliff with poor supports, expecting his ropes to snap. There was nothing he could do but anticipate the fall, all the way to the bottom.
“What am I doing?” he asked himself. Convincing himself it was in rhetoric, when really he pleaded for the answer to come screaming back at him off of the walls. He was lost, which was not common ground for Ace Anderson. He was even too lost to speak in the third person. Something was intermittently stabbing at him from all angles. Pangs of despair, and on occasion, a hint of despise he held for himself.
Failure. That was how he was beginning to describe himself, which was not what he needed. A man fueled by his own arrogance has no room for self-doubt. He shouldn’t know the meaning of the phrase, let alone feel it. Yet there he was, ashamed that he had failed to defeat Lantlas on innumerable occasions when the prize that should be his was on the line. He was a victim at the hands of Lantlas, Grimm, and Heavy Metal. Any real man would have been able to defeat them all on his own, he didn’t even put up a fight.
He walked back to the table and picked up the envelope. He had a feeling that the contents would make everything better, if only he could bring himself to open it. He didn’t want to, he refused to do that to himself. He was Ace Anderson, Beyond Greatness. He was above and, well, Beyond. Beyond everything. He didn’t need him, her, or it. Whatever those may have been. All he needed was himself.
Those reassuring thoughts fell short, and it was as though he drifted away from his own body. He saw his finger slide under one corner of the flap, he could feel the paper on his skin, just as he could see himself doing it. With a moments hesitation, he pulled it across, tearing open the top. He saw himself look up to the shelf, on top of the stack of newspapers, where another letter sat. One he had received a week earlier.
While watching the dust-collecting letter which sat on the shelf, he didn’t notice his seemingly absent-spirited body pour the white powder out onto the table. He had put it in the envelope earlier that week, and told himself he wouldn’t open it. It would sit with the rest of his unopened mail. Nobody would be the wiser. Not even himself.
But it’s hard to trick a fool, for they’re always tricked. In that instant, a fool he was. He closed his eyes, not wanting to witness what would happen next. He heard labored breathing, the sound of the paper of the envelope brushing across the table. A snort or two (he wasn’t sure which) and a cough and everything went white.
He found himself back in his body, not sure where he was. He felt his hands twitch. He felt ... power. He was used to feeling powerful, but this was good, something else entirely. Grimm’s in for it, he thought to himself. In that moment, he was a God and then some. He was a God on crack... literally.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Ace walks down the halls of Pure Class Arena with the reels rolling, disgusting cameraman in tow.
“This whole mess with Lantlas is fucked. Dropping his title because he’s afraid of Beyond Greatness. Well, Ace Anderson will just have to remind Grimm what it’s like to go one on one with the true cha–“ Ace is cut off as he walks around the corner, a man clad in a black hooded sweatshirt colliding with his chest. Surprisingly, the man doesn’t fall, but instead stays at his vertical base quite convincingly.
“Since when can a black midget stay on his feet when he walks right into Ace Anderson?” Ace pulls the hood from the head of the mysterious man, to reveal Joshua Megtorlas, who looks unimpressed. “Wait a second,” Ace falsely strokes his chin, “aren’t you on the roster?”
“Aren’t you the guy who got gang raped like a Puerto Rican ho last week in PCW?” Megtorlas replies smugly.
“Ace Anderson thinks you may be slightly confused, because he recalls seeing you offering fifty cent suck-offs outside of the HIV clinic when PCW shut down and you were left without a job. Mr. Anderson doesn’t blame you, the bills have to get paid, regardless of how the money comes about,” Ace chuckles, “at your rate, that’s a LOT of pole.” Ace pauses, as if he’s waiting. He’s almost twitching in anticipation, waiting to respond.
“I guess you would know about pole. If I had to overcompensate that much, I’m sure I’d own stock in magnifying glasses and microscopes. You know, in order to make sure you can still get a date,” a smile crosses Megtorlas’s face now, “how is that chick of yours anyway?”
“As far as Ace Anderson is concerned, six feet deep and smothered in lime. Beyond Greatness has returned, and he’s a one man show. Which brings about the question, why are you even here?”
“No one’s told you that story yet? See Ace, a long time ago, your mom had a bad case of the clap. Seeing as she was such a cheap slut, that didn’t stop her, and she met your dad, who after an eight ball and too many sips of vodka, found the skank attractive. After hi-tailing it out of Scamps, they hit Curly’s motel and as a result of 42 seconds of your mother pretending he was someone like me, you were conceived, and nine months later, you dropped out of that chute like a slip and slide, and ended up in a garbage can somewhere, cause I’d sure as hell leave you in a dumpster if I saw you too.”
Ace opens his mouth to respond, but Megtorlas interrupts him, “I’m surprised you never learned about where babies come from, Ace. You’ve got some catching up to do.”
Refusing to allow himself to be ousted by this amateur, Ace acts as though he didn’t miss a beat, “It’s unfortunate you say that, because Ace Anderson heard a different story. It starts quite some time ago, shortly after your mother’s umpteenth abortion. You see, over time, she developed a fetish for the rusty clothes hanger her back-alley doctor used, the same one every time. Some say he didn’t wash it, some say he used it to milk the prostates of cattle. However, when she met your apparent father, there was something about his hunchback that made her want to keep the next one. So, after much complication, grunting, disagreement over positions, et cetera, they walked down to the sperm bank and got it done that way. So really, you’re confused as to where babies come from, because in your case, it was the fourth refrigerator to the right.”
“No no, see... You’ve confused me with the newest religion from the south. They’re using Disney movies to impregnate young women now, and that freak from Notre Dame just keeps plugging away. Reminds me of half the roster around here... Ugly as hell, absolute freaks who shouldn’t be reproducing, but somehow can get illegally hired to work for a wrestling company, go figure.”
“Wait, you’re trying to tell Ace Anderson that even the religious can use affirmative action now? Holy pissed off Arabs, what is this world coming to? Next thing you know, this whole industry will be filled with a bunch of people trying desperately to rehabilitate their thetans, crucify their saviors, achieve an over-rated grunge band, and even that new one, the ones whose only goal in life is to fistfuck as many cats as they can during their short time on Earth.”
“You shouldn’t speak of McDonald’s employees that way. They’ll spit in your burger, and who knows what’s in that?” Megtorlas chuckles a little, “They might ally with Wal-Mart to start a cult uprising, you never know.”
“That’s the last thing anyone needs. Spit to go along with the mealworm and the sweat of Mexicans. But hey, what would be the difference? They have cult uprisings for everything else. Why do you think all of the kids shoot up the schools? They’re trying to keep the cults to a minimum. They see the development, and then what do they do? They go in, guns blazing. After that, there’s nothing left to do but blow their own head off, because they’ve achieved some sort of religious status that another two-bit science fiction writer put in a book, which means it MUST be true.”
“Just like everything on the internet. These emo, wrist-slitting Greenpeace motherfuckers think that if it’s typed and it’s on their computer screen, it must be the truth.”
“Kinda like how Anthony Douglas thought he actually meant something to the world?”
“Who?”
“Another fantabulous member of this illustrious roster’s history. Next thing you know, they’ll have Nun Compost Methane back.”
“I’m guessing he’s a basket case piece of wasted sperm like that guy I last faced here... Willard, I think his name was.”
“His wasted sperm count was nothing compared to the copious amounts of it left on his wife’s face after her fourth straight bukkake session.”
“How dare you assume some emo piece of trash could actually get a wife?”
“Ace Anderson heard that instead of a first kiss, they had a first joint cut. Instead of a first dance, they shared a “pretend you’re at a show, and stand there all unimpressed like.”“
”Do you think they own stock in BIC?”
“Majority ownership, if Greatness had to venture a guess,” Ace chuckles a bit, the camera still rolling, the man behind it not quite sure what to make of the exchange he is witnessing.
“What about this Grimm Reaper guy? How many times did he have to take a pole bent over in order to start acting like a fucking pirate?”
“Well, once you go ‘YARRRR’, you never go ... far? Yeah, that sounds about right. Since, ya know, at Trauma he won’t get any farther than an Exemplifier.”
“That’s right, you are facing him this week! What’s your plan? Take a bottle of his alcohol and pour gasoline in it, and then feel the need for a cigarette once he reaches it? Oh wait, I know! You’ll cut off his black eyeliner supplier! Make sure Hot Topic isn’t open the day of the show!”
“Well, Ace Anderson is sure it will amount to something involving kicking his peg-leg out from under him and force feeding him his parrot. Are you on the next card?”
“No, I just re-signed yesterday. I guess they don’t have someone they’re willing to use for a donation to the local cemetery this week.”
“Consider yourself lucky you don’t have to place your hands – or feet, whichever you prefer – on one of the disgusting rapscallions or demons or garbagemen or hair metal wannabes that they have seemingly endless quantities of in the back. Did you hear that they actually might be bringing back the Indian? Keep your head up for flying arrows, serious. That shit can impale.”
“I already set a mass of landmines near the last place I saw a tomahawk, and since I’m in no need of making a donation to the We Smoke’Um Daweed fund at the casino, I’ll just have to wait til he sets his Native American carcass in this arena so I can exorcise his body of so-called honor and free his spirit to run with the buffalo and Kevin Costner.”
“Yeah, but he doesn’t have to pay taxes, so who the fuck are you and Ace Anderson to say what’s what? Oh, right. Ace Anderson is Great, and you’re not too bad yourself. You’re not Beyond Greatness or anything, but it seems you hate people almost as much as he does. Mr. Anderson’s gotta break out though, as there are niggas who need lynching.”
“Affirmative action this, bitch!” Megtorlas says, laughing. Ace nods to Megtorlas, who returns it. Megtorlas puts up his hood, and the two walk past each other. Ace snaps his fingers at the cameraman, who stops rolling, and is still slightly confused.
