A Little Bit Morbid
Scene One | Off-Camera | 25th April 2023
“So you have Jack the Ripper, Jack the Stripper and the Thames Torso Murderer. Torso might have been the Ripper too, but not enough evidence to support it. Murder of prostitutes is pretty common amongst Serial Killers, so that’s not enough evidence to connect the dots.”
Alex smiled, and nodded. It was almost like Luna had been waiting for them to arrive in London. She’d automatically assumed that Jack the Ripper was going to be final unsolved mystery of the tour. And, whilst she denied being a Ripperologist, here they were. Was it somewhat disconcerting that Serial Killers were a hobby of hers? Yes. Did the glow of happiness that came with rattling off the morbid details and the differences seem to be coming from a rather dark place? Yes.
But seeing her happy, was worth listening to all of it.
“So, how unsolved of a mystery are we talking here? For all three.”
”Oh baby, I’m glad you asked.”
And so, he spent his afternoon, hearing all about the suspects involved in the many different cases. The legitimacy of each one, the likelihood of another. The reality, it seemed, was everyone was an expert and absolutely nobody would have been any closer to solving the crimes at the time they occurred, than they are in the modern day. Yet, the rhetoric did make him realise one thing.
That maybe the lack of solution is sometimes more refreshing than finding some semblance of the truth. Because when they moved onto the more modern day killers. The Fred and Rose West’s of the world, or the one that made him shudder more than any of the others, the Dennis Nilsen’s of the world. There was almost a safety in the idea that the rippers and strippers and the torso murderers of the yesteryear never had their lifeless and emotionless visages exposed to the greater light.
And that is what he needed. She may not have meant to show him the way forward, but Luna had definitely helped him understand what he would need, walking into Into the Void. The killer mindset, the viciousness of Nilsen, with the unassuming and unapproachable reality that was Jack the Ripper. The irony of the name was not lost on him either. Jack Washington across from him once more, and the former Ripper Queen across from his own. Fate, had a funny way of presenting itself for them. Jack the Ripper was the opposition of The Conspiracy, two hundred years later, and he didn’t even know it.
“Lexi, what’s going on in that head of yours?”
A cigarette hung loosely from his lips, sitting on a small balcony, overseeing the greater city. He inhaled deeply, holding a bottle loosely in his left hand, the right moving to take the cigarette from his lips and tapping the ash off.
“I’m amused, is all. I go to dark places, and wish nothing more than to escape them. Find the warmth in the day, the warmth in the reality. Warmth in you. The frozen heart thaws, but I find solace in the darkness. Imagery is so much more visceral when we live in the dark. You, however.”
He places the bottle down on a small table that sat between them, moving his hand then under the table to take hers in his. Lacing their fingers through each other, and pressing their palms together.
“Your purity is in the light, in the happy. Yet, you seek the dark. You find the frozen to thaw, and you melt it with your warmth. The dark leads you not, and in your softness, release. Don’t let them take that from you, Luna. Don’t let anyone take your light.”
A smile, all it takes. Just a smile, the slight blushing of her cheeks, the tightening of her fingers around his. For a moment, they were the moment. She was fixated on his problems, because he allowed himself to be lost. But it wasn’t her fault. It didn’t belong to her, to fix what was wrong. The opportunity now stands before him to fix what is wrong. To win the Internet Championship back, it would take a little extra. Jack, had his number. Jack, was the better wrestler. Jack, made his fucking blood boil. But the opportunity to rectify past mistakes lay in front of him, and there was one thing he was certain of.
He was far more of a killer, than Jack Washington.
She took the cigarette that was embering in his fingers, and placed it to her lips. Bad habits resurrected, but he had no legs to stand on to deny her. Sometimes, bad came with the good. They were victims of their own addictions at times, though, they had fought others off.
“You say the sweetest things to me, sugar. All buttered up, and make my heart beat, you do. But, Lexi. Don’t you forget. We’re all a little dark, honey. From the top, all the way down. We’re coated in the paint of evil. So don’t worry lover, I’ll be your sun, if you stay my rock. I love you, Alex.”
“I love you too, Lu.”
Was it the first time he had said it? No. But was it the first time that the meaning was truly conveyed in the words? Undoubtedly. She had lifted herself out of the chair and rapidly spun around the table to land in his lap. Arms wrapped tightly around his neck, as she buried her face into the nape of neck. His hands snuck around her sides, as he held and pulled her into him.
“Just don’t go Mary Ann Britland on me, please.”
She laughed, heartily and shook her head against his neck.
“Too late. Your drink was already poisoned. Nice knowing you, lover boy.”
He knew sure was joking, and yet…
Rippers, Strippers and Murderers
Scene Two | On-Camera | 26th April 2023
Tap, tap, tap. The light tapping of shoes against old cobble streets. The light of the moon filtering through the streets, old school lanterns lining walls, lit with a off-putting buzzing low yellow light. Whistling, a man in heavy thick trench coat slowly walking his way down the street. A briefcase in one hand, his face obscured under a large top hat.
“Jacky boy, Jacky boy. You took something from me, with claims of grandeur. You took something from me, to spite me. You took something from me, and you failed to succeed on it. You took away my opportunity for a guaranted shot at whoever holds the crown of crowns, and in turn, you took away my own. You embarrassed me, Jacky boy, and then you spat in my face. You continued to mock, because your way of success involves the utter belittlement of all others. Ignorance and denial of anything before you, and overconfidence as a result. You are the epitome of arrogant bullies, Jacky boy. And now, it all comes full circle, doesn’t it? Once again, you fail. Right on the cusp of success, and you come up short again. You took my opportunity, you took my crown, and you fucking squandered it, Jacky boy. And now, here in the land of the Rippers and Strippers, you have to stand against me, once again. And I am looking forward to it, Jack. I’m looking forward to meeting once more, because this time. This time the stakes are a little bit different.”
“Do you know why the stakes are different, Jacky boy? Let me tell you. Because the truth remains the truth. No matter what you say about me, no matter how much you deny my existence in your mind. You had something to prove. You had to prove that Alexander Raven was not as good as you. That the things you claim, the things you say. The things you spout as gospel truth, are just that. Gospel truth. Are they gospel, Jacky boy? Are you going to make me the next victim of Jack the Ripper? Are you going to put me down for a third time. Are you ready to fight me once again, Jack? I wonder about that, I do. I wonder, because failure doesn’t sit well with you, does it Jack? You mock me. You belittle me. You spout accusations of tears, and grovelling. Of begging and pleading. You belittle me, because you are projecting your own failures onto any that will fucking listen to you, Jacky boy. But, if I remember. You were the one crying about the lack of fairness. About how you were being held down. About how you had to jump through hoops and loops to get what you feel you deserve. You see yourself, as the King upon all other kings. That the world title belongs to you. That you should have had the chance against Mac Bane, and not Michael Harris. That you should have had the chance against Ken Davison, and not Finn Whelan. That you should be in the main event of Into the Void against Michael Harris, and not the undeserved King James and the pack puppy. Yet here you are, against Alexander Raven once again.”
A small alcove lays to the side, swathed in darkness. From just beyond the edge of the dark, a pair of feet, the lower part of a leg. The man turns to look into the darkness, and places his briefcase on the ground.
’NAPALM’
The snapping of the locks, echoes off the darkness. Murmurs and muted voices bounce through the air from the distance. Speaking of a world beyond the isolated once they were in. From the case, he pulls a large surgical saw, and a pair of gloves. He closes the lid of the case, and places the saw on top of it, as he pulls on the gloves.
‘FAILURE
“Truth is as truth is, Jack. You are not as good as you want to be. You are not seen the way you want to be seen. You are not anything beyond what you feel yourself to be. Yes, you took the Internet Championship from me. I can admit my failings. Something that seems to elude the narcissistic, arrogant elite that fester and muck about in the filth the permeates every aspect of this fucking cesspool. You are one of the worst, Jacky boy. Like the filth that mucks this here city of sin. It is, convenient, that we end the tour here. That the fates have authored a redemption for us. A redemption of failures. A redemption of our own misgivings. You see, Jacky boy. You see I do not like you. I do not care for you. You are, what I stand to eradicate. A goddamn bully. An arrogant fucking prick, and a senseless dribbling sycophant. Words, yes. You seem to have an issue with words. Nothing I say is beyond the intelligence of the groveling maggots that you seem so akin to. Yet your insignificant, juvenile mind thinks that I use words to hide behind. There seems to be this ideology that Alexander Raven uses language to befuddle and confuse. But that’s not in the slightest bit true. Every word I say, means exactly as it is stated. Every word that I say, is within the conscience of any who would just listen. Yet you won’t listen, Jacky boy. Nobody ever fucking listens. And if they just listened…”
‘KINGSLAYER’
“You would fully understand. I speak only what is true before me. The reality that I stand in, is one that exists outside of the Stained Glass Lies of the world above. Distorted and disconnected though I once was, no longer will I allow myself to be continually deluded by failures of existence. No longer will I allow the filth to run rampant over the cesspool that I intend to clean. The streets will be washed, and in the napalm death that follows, salvation. Salvation from the incestuous unending murk that you perpetuate each and every fucking time you step into the ring, Jack. Every time you open your forsaken mouth and spout and spill lies upon lies. Cry? You think I would fucking cry because of a stumble against a pathetic little worm like you? No, Jack. No, loss doesn’t scare me. Loss doesn’t make me run away, loss does not affect me in the way it seems to affect you in your mind. Failure does not end anything, for the story, the story will continue. And in this story, Jacky boy. In this story, I am the FUCKING Ripper.”
He picks up the saw slowly, holding the handle in one hand, the blade resting lightly against his other palm. He holds it up to the light, reflecting the surgical steel off the ambient low-light of the buzzing lanterns. He stands up slowly, pushing the briefcase into the darkness beyond. The legs on the ground slowly beginning to move, and then the figure plunged into the dark. Screams, croaks and cries. A cacophony of sound, a mixture of women wailing, men crying and birds croaking. The feet curl and tense and then suddenly disappear into the dark alcove. And then.
‘SILENCE.’
Silence. From beyond the veil of the dark, liquid pooling. Liquid flowing into the deserted alleyway. The clop of hooves, the rumble of wheels. The world suddenly filling with noise once more.
“Symbolism, Jacky boy. I am a man who believes in the symbolism of things. Metaphor, example, symbols. I am a believer in the mind, because the mind dictates the actions of the physical. I work in undoing the problems of ones own false narcissism, breaking the distortions of their own falsified reality. I am the False Prophet because I deem what is truth in the real world. Only false because of the lies that everyone lives in. But it’s okay, Jacky boy. It’s okay. I understand your hesitance. I understand your reluctance. I understand your problems within oneself, because I know the mongrels of this world. I know the bullies. I know, the arrogant swine that you associate with. You are forever attempting to show the world that you are more than the pathetic, snotty little brat that they see you as. And no matter how much you claim it is not skin of your back, you continue to live in the lies you create for yourself. You create a reality that you cannot hope to continue. For the world does not react to the way you put yourself out there. Nobody sees Jack Washington the way that Jack Washington wishes they did. No, what they see Jack, is what I see. A petulant child who screams and cries when he doesn’t get things on his own terms. And now, they see you, in the same you try and paint others. A failure. Coming short of your journey, once more. The consolation, Jack. Why would you listen to me? What words do I have that maintain any level of sincerity? What words do I have that mean anything to you? You’ve painted the picture of me in your head, and there is no changing that. An edgy, over-yearning adult emo. Someone who wanes poetic, someone who uses black and white filters. Who sees themselves as more than a pretentious hack. Someone who thinks that they are greater than they are. Yet the truth, Jacky boy. The truth, that you refuse to see. The truth that you refuse to acknowledge, is that Alexander Raven. Alexander Raven is more than just the lies you paint.”
“I am nothing more than another person walking this earth. A person born of trauma, agony and pain. A person born of their failures. I am broken. We are all, broken, Jacky boy. From the women who work the corners, to the psychopaths that run businesses. From the nobodies that you pretend do not exist in your world, to those you dethrone for your own sanity. Beating me was a god sent for you Jack, you know this. It was a god sent, because without the Internet championship. Without another victory over me, you’ll be known as nothing but the muck beneath the boot of those who are able. Beating me, proved nothing. Nobody wants to see Alexander Raven succeed. If you hadn’t lost, there wouldn’t have even been space for me on this card. I know that very well. Or they would have thrown me back into the Roulette title picture. The main event is populated by men who couldn’t stand to me. Yet, they get the opportunity, that should rightfully be mine. You want to talk about what is owed to someone, Jack? I am owed far more than you. Who the fuck have you beaten? Who the fuck do you think you are standing in my ring, making claims about my insignificance? I am the one who beat Austin James Mercer in a fucking cage. I’m the one who out-wrestled Fenris. I am the one who silenced the runty fucking lap puppy, Miles Kasey. O’Malley, redeemed. Ken Davison couldn’t beat me again. I am the fucking Kingslayer, Jacky boy. I am the one who dictates where things fall, and yet they hold me down. You, you are to blame for the silence that they place upon me. For the rattling of the foundations, they seek to punish me. I will not allow it, Jacky boy. I will not allow for the words to twisted and manipulated. I will not allow for your lies to continue pump into the world. So like the women who lay slaughtered in the streets over a hundred years ago, you too, will fall. You will be the fucking whore that I rip the body of. Mutilated, beaten and broken. Forget about you, Jack? Not a fucking chance.”
A horse drawn carriage slowly trundles into the laneway. It stops just in front of the darkness, and the side door swings open. What looks like a body bag is thrown into the carriage through the open door, and the figure steps out of the darkness, holding the saw up to the light. Stained with red, in his other hand something that appears to be leaking. He grips the weird carrion tightly in his hand, and slams the door closed.
‘INSOLENCE.’
The carriage pulls off into the distance once more, the clopping of horse hooves on the pavement. The person pulls their briefcase from the darkness once more, and kneels down whilst opening it. He places the saw into the briefcase, gazing down at it, removing his gloves. The trophy is placed beside the suitcase, as he closes the lid. He lifts his hands to his head, removing the top hat. Alexander Raven, of course, beneath the veil of the darkness. A smile wide across his face, his eyes wide open. Spatters of muck and viscera across his face, a grisly visage. A mask of death.
‘ENDING.’
“I need you to understand something Jack. This is personal. This is personal, because you’ve made it so. You thought it okay to undermine my own personage for the furthering of your own. You embarrassed me again, Jack, and I am not a forgiving man. And any of those who have wronged me before, will tell you the same thing Jacky boy. That no matter what you may think of me before. That no matter what you may believe to be the truth of Alexander Raven. That when I step into the ring with a goal in mind, there is not a single person who is more violent, more focused and more skilled. They’ve all learnt over the last year that Alexander Raven will rise to any occasion, and that when opportunity presents, I will take it. Yet I must pose a hypothetical, to you Jack. Something to make you weigh your arrogance against your ambition. You beat me again, congratulations. Thoroughly humiliated, I must slink away. Hide and lick my wounds for all the words become lies, and in that a truth is painted. That Jack Washington is just better than Alexander Raven, on every day of the week. That here at the climax, with the peak of the mysteries, you are the iconic name alongside the unsolved mystery. Jack Washington to become Jack the Ripper, and to leave Alexander Raven insulted and defeated. Handed his first one-on-one loss of the year. My first one-on-one loss since O’Malley got one over me at the beginning of my reign of power as Internet Champion. But then, you are stuck with what you wanted to mock with. Do you think, they’ll give you a second look whilst you stand as Internet champion? No, the truth, Jack. You beat me again, you’re just as fucked as you were before you entered the tournament. No Michael Harris, no Austin James Mercer and no Miles Kasey for you. Placated and silenced, they’ll throw the same people at you, over and over. Bill Barnhart, Ken Davison, hell, probably Miles Kasey, even Carter. The same, over and over, because the repetition is what makes it mind numbing.”
“You become what you seek to destroy. The second best. Something Fenris deemed me to be. Second best. Because everyone is focused on being the King of Kings. Everyone wants to be the one who stands on top. I am no different. What is different, and it is what Fenris was made to learn. That when I stand as Internet Champion, I am not second best to fucking anybody. When I wear the crown, I am the king of kings, the One True King. But more than that, far more than that. I learnt something in my reign. That kings fall by my sword at my whim and decision. That kings fall when I take them to be hunted. For I am the god damned Kingslayer. The Napalm Kingslayer, who will cleanse everyone in glorious fucking death. So I ask you Jack. Do you win, and become all that you resent? Do you lose, and have to admit that Alexander Raven is better than you when it comes down to the big match? Do you win, and forsake your opportunities to demand your supposedly rightful claim to the throne? Do you lose, and get laughed out of the conversation? I ask you these hypotheticals Jacky boy, because the truth is hard to digest. The truth is hard to acknowledge. The truth is, that with you taking the championship from me, you put yourself in an unenviable position. I lose, I look no worse than previously. Jack Washington gets a win over Alexander Raven for the third time. He has Raven’s number. You have the ability to beat me on my best days. Okay, that’s fine. There’s always a worse one. I set my eyes on the future winner of our main event, and whoever is lucky enough to take the whole damn tournament. I let them know, that the blade of freedom is hanging above their heads and in that. Coming redemption and retribution. Coming is the end of their reigns, for I am the Kingslayer. And they are the final Kings that need be slayed. So I ask you, Jacky boy. What do you do, when the bell tolls?”
‘DEATH.'
From his coat pocket, he removes a small box of matches. He slowly slid the box open and slid one out. The rapid strike, the flicker of a quick flame. He moved and touched it to the amorphous blob of carrion, it quickly taking in flames. An explosive burst of rapid flame.
“Hypotheticals, symbolism, analogy. God-complex and arrogance. You, Jacky boy, are everything I’ve spent my time here trying to fix. Trying to eradicate. Trying to change. And I am the villain for it. I am the bad guy for stating the facts as they stand. Calling out the arrogance, calling out the bullies. The cock-headed arrogance of it all, and then you have the bravado to go and make claims on who I am as a person. Someone so lost in themselves, that they think they can comment on the reality of another. No, Jack. Whilst we all may be insignificant slugs crawling on the face of this plane of existence, we are starkly different. I comment, because I know myself fully. I know my disconnects, my distortions and the truth of the world. I do not belittle for the sake of amplification. I bring you down, to remind you that just like I, you are nothing but the muck beneath the boots of those who would seek to oppress. Beneath those who break the fragility of a child. Broken and beaten, traumatised and left to rot in the street. You, embody what Jack the Ripper was. A faceless man who thought himself better and stronger. Able to elicit his strength, power and fear over those who were not strong enough to stand against him. The problem for you, Jacky boy. I will not simply roll over like an obedient fucking dog. I will not stand by and let you continue to mock, belittle and arrogant effuse yourself all over the fucking insidious muck hole that is this city of sin. Unlike the Ripper, you, Jacky boy. You will be caught in my grasp, you will be brought down, and The Conspiracy will choke the life from your ebbing body. Carrion and corpse you will be, for I am the Napalm Kingslayer, Jack, and you are nothing. Just a petulant child with far too much ability for the minuscule grasp and understanding he has on the world. So continue to prattle and beat on. Continue to mock, continue to run your mouth, like the slimy little cunt you are. And I promise you this, Jack. I will bleed you dry, and you will be forced to finally see. That no matter how much I talk. No matter how much you pretend to not be listening. Complain about my words, yet match me at every beat. No matter how much you run, on and on. Nothing will save you form the retribution that is coming. Win or lose, it doesn’t matter to me anymore Jack. I have one goal.”
“I want to hurt you.”
Slipping the box away, he lifts the top hat back onto his head, and grabs the briefcase. Turning on his heel, he kicked the burning carrion backwards into the darkened alcove. Inside, the walls are splattered with the same viscera and liquid as his face. And in the middle, in front of a small door. A wax head, with another hat sits in front of the door. The head clearly moulded in the visage of Jack Washington. Eyes rolled back, and a bloodied neck. The burning ball touching to head, and sending the wax up in flames as well. The door behind it swinging open slowly, as Alexander Raven steps through it. In the distance, what looks a small room with a wardrobe. A smile across his face.
“I don’t forget, Jack. And I want to know. That I am coming for you. I am coming to redeem my faults. Win or lose, I do not care. All that matters, is that you are brought to your knees. That you are made to bleed, and feel your life leaving you. I want you to know that this is personal for me, because you, you felt the need to make an example of me. And nobody gets to make an example of Alexander Raven. So, Jack. Are you ready to make true on your claims of my obsolesce? Are you going to make me cry, Jack? I waiting for you to do something fucking meaningful with your time here. Right now, nothing you can do will change my opinion. Nothing you can do, will change what I intend to do. Championship or not, it is fucking irrelevant. You are another king of the filth, that must be eradicated. So prepare, Jack. Here in this city of killers and filth, I will show you the danger. I will show you my truth. And when I beat you, Jack. Because I will fucking beat you. Be it here, or be it the next time, or the next time, or the next. When I beat you, I need you to understand. There is nothing you could do, to prevent what I have planned for you. I am going to choke you the fuck out, bitch.”
He laughs, stepping into the doorway. His head snapping up, seemingly hearing something.
‘AGONY.’
He turns his head towards the wardrobe at the other end of the small room beyond the door. Nodding a little as he slowly closes the door behind him.
“Can you hear the voices, Jack?”
“The Conspiracy is here.”
The closing of the door, the click of a lock. The sounds within, men crying in pain. The lap of flames, muted beyond the closed door. A world crying out in pain beyond the door.
And then…
Darkness.
Silence.
Nothing.
Barbwire memories
Scene One | Off-Camera | 4th May 2023
Been a while since I wrote a diary entry. Been a while since I did any kind of writing really. Psych suggested it might be a good idea to start getting some things written down again. Sure, I guess. I might be a solid talker, but writing has never truly been my strong point. Where do we start?
I told Luna I love her. That’s a pretty step for me. The nightmares are less, I’m seeing and hearing my father less. Not completely gone, still there to mock and abuse. But not as often. Lauren… I can feel her face slipping from my mind. I don’t like that. I don’t like losing people. The connections, the ideas. I don’t like losing what is before me, yet I know I have to lose some of it. I’ve taken one too many bangs and bumps not to have some things fade. But her. Her voice. Her smell. I don’t want that to fade just yet. I know that’s not fair on Lu. She loves with her whole heart, and she is incredibly patient. Yet I cannot help how the heart feels on these things. Lauren was the rock that kept the anger at bay. That stopped Alexander Raven from going too far again. From doing things that might endanger himself or others. The current Alexander Raven, is the one she would have stopped. Maybe not the best thing for me, but it would’ve been the best thing for us.
Controlled, focused. A better wrestler, and not a brawler. Not a boxer, not a blood seeker. No, I would have been more controlled. I don’t even know if that is a good thing anymore. People are far more talented than I ever was these day. There are people who faster, stronger and more skilled. Yet I seem to get one up on them, over and over. Jack Washington. He is the next stop on this path, and I refuse to let his arrogant little fucking ass be anything more than the bully he is.
Sorry, emotional. Angry. Been angry a lot lately, actually. Feels like I was when I was starting out all over again. God, it’s been over ten years now. Twelve, maybe thirteen? It’s been so long since I’ve been thing angry. So long since I’ve been ‘The Raging Raven’. It was all so much simpler back then. Comic books, video games. Drinking and partying. Drugs. It was all so much simpler. But times change. I changed. I thought I changed. Lauren helped me change, but maybe. Maybe it wasn’t change anymore. Adapting rather than change. Fitting the role I need to. But I don’t think that anger every goes away. Being here. Being in the ring. Surrounded by people who refuse to acknowledge their own arrogance and bullying.
It doesn’t matter. I can control it. I have to control it. I have to control it for Lu. For James. For Lauren. For every single person who has acknowledged everything I’ve said to be true. For all the members of The Conspiracy. People think I’m insane. I know they do. People think I’m fucking nuts, and that is fine. Because maybe I am just a little. Just, slightly. Angry, and nuts. But I’ll show everyone. I’ll show them why you cannot discount Alexander Raven. And it starts with Jack Washington. For Luna it starts with Calaway. It starts at Into the Void. And I refuse to be embarrassed again. I won’t let it.
More of… More of a statement than a diary, huh? Oh well. We’ll try again next time.
The Hypocrite Beneath
Scene Two | On-Camera | 5th May 2023
Alexander Raven is sitting in a quaint little armchair. Horrifically patterned, and an obnoxious greenish blue colour. In his hand a pint glass with the yellowish liquid within. The room is sparse, the only other object being a tall wardrobe on the opposite wall. His eyes transfixed upon the wardrobe. One of the doors is slightly ajar, but the inside is bathed in darkness.
“Oh how it must be, to live in the delusions that you find yourself in Jacky boy. So fixated on the details, yet ignoring the larger truths. You weren’t pinned in your last world title match? But you did not win, Jack. You complain about Ken Davison, yet he has been World Champion in the last twelve months. You complain about Austin James Mercer, but he is the only person that has had the balls to step to the plate every time somebody begs of it. But you see, the biggest irony Jack. The biggest load of hypocrisy is that you cannot see beyond your own failings. You cannot see beyond your own bluster. You cannot see what you say is identical to that which you deny is the truth. Big and long winded, I believe these are the ways you describe me. That I talk, and talk. That I say so much but without reason. Yet, you continue to talk. You continue to dig yourself into holes of hypocrisy. Saying one thing but then feeling too exposed. Too vulnerable. Too real. You’re not listening, but then you tell me you not going to listen. You continue to prattle on about who I am as a person. An edgy goth dude. That I wrote poetry. You ever thought I might cry, make analogies I’ve never made. No, Jack. I am none of these things, and I have done none of them. You misunderstand me. You have no idea the man I am, Jack. You have absolutely no idea, because you pretend not to. You live in this self-indulgent world that holds you on a pedestal. That makes you feel valid in your achievements. A narricissitic approach to being an arrogant little bully if there ever was. Yet I do not abhor you for it Jack. Why, you have every reason to be confident in yourself. You have every reason to feel good about yourself. You have every fucking reason to be the man who sees themselves as the face of the franchise. Except! You’re not facing Michael Harris, are you? You’re not facing, Mac Bane, Austin James or even Ken Davison. You’re not facing current or former world champions. No, you’re stuck with me, again. So that leads us to two avenues of thought, doesn’t it, Jack?”
Alex tilts his head, raising the glass to his mouth. His eyes continue to stare at the wardrobe, as the door swings open slowly. Only slightly further but enough for a couple of rubbish bags to tumble to the floor. Black with yellow ties, the insides obscured. They’re bizarrely shaped, lumpy and swollen. Alex nods a little as he lifts himself out the chair and steps forward towards the bag, still holding the glass for the moment.
“What’s that Kenneth? Jack doesn’t understand his own hypocrisy? Yes, well. You see Ken, I believe that to be the case. The juvenile jostling is a little bit unbecoming of the man who sees himself as the Face of the Franchise, isn’t it Ken? But yes, yes, yes. I understand. Jacky boy, let me remind you of who the fuck Alexander Raven is, because you seem so deluded in this idea that you are something better than me. That you are somehow stronger. That you are somehow more talented. That because you say the words it makes it true. Yet in reality, you’re once again at my feet. Lets talk the long game, Jacky boy. The long game would suggest I took a dip. I fell so you could win the championship. Boost your bravado, but confident that you wouldn’t make it all the way. The two outcomes are this. I let you keep the Internet Championship, and for the foreseeable future, you’re not in the picture. Forced to go at it again and again with the likes of Bulldog Bill, the dear Goth when he makes his inevitable return in good health. Ken Davison, Carter, Miles. The list goes on and on, and you would stand against them, because your own arrogance dictates that failure is not an option. The long game suggests, that that outcome is beneficial to me. That whilst you are stuck with the prize that I have shed, I take aim at the top. I become the next Worlds Champion, whilst lowly, arrogant little Jacky boy is stuck with the thing he took to mock me. ‘On a whim’. The second option, a slightly shorter game, is that I intend to embarrass you, Jack. I lose the belt, whether or not it was of choice or otherwise, is irrelevant. I lose the belt knowing that come Into the Void, I’ll be given the opportunity to take it back. The opportunity in this case, is this time. There is no one at your back. There is no reprieve, there is no recovery. This time you’re stuck in the ring, with the person you’ve spent all this time insulting. A man who you’ve deluded yourself into think is not a dangerous person to be stood across from.”
“No, you see Jacky boy. I have quite the temper. Though it may see that I am somewhat mad, that I am somewhat unhinged. The extent is not realised by your tiny little scope. I told you something, and I want to reiterate. Win or lose, it doesn’t matter. We go our separate ways, and I am happy for that. Win, I take away the championship in your first defence. It is far more insulting for you to drop the belt at the first threat, especially when it is the man who you ‘took it from on a whim’. Lose, you’re stuck in my long game. Lose, you are stuck in the place that you mock others for being. Yet interestingly, I don’t think your arrogance allows you to see that. In the same way, my arrogance didn’t allow me to see it. Yet the difference between us, Jacky boy. I wasn’t happy to sit back on my laurels. I wasn’t content with just letting the world pass me by, and letting others decided for me. No, I made an active choice. I went out and took what I wanted. I wanted the Internet Championship to mock the wolves. I got it. I wanted to beat Austin James Mercer in the cage, to prove that I was ready for the next stage. I did it. I called Fenris out and demanded his attention. I made him understand that Alexander Raven isn’t second best to fucking anyone, Jacky boy. I called him out, forced his hand, and won. Miles? Took him down. O’Malley? Took him out. Ken? Well, he had to pull out didn’t he? I’m sorry Kenneth.”
Alex steps forward slowly, kneeling down and placing the glass by the edge of the wardrobe. He picks up the rubbish bag that was laying on the floor and rubbed it gently, a caring stroke of the plastic. He turns the bag, in large yellow marking the word ‘Godly’. He slowly pulls the door open somewhat more. Inside is an array of rubbish bags, all similarly misshapen and bloated. A kill closet.
“You see, Jack. Whilst you’ve been fucking around the during the last six months. Scrambling for opportunity, desperately trying to prove to everyone that you are something more than the empty spiteful words you pretend to be. I’ve been doing exactly what I need to. I’ve been slaying Kings. There is no one who could even pretend that in the last year, they’ve been anything to me. Yet your arrogance deludes you into thinking that anything you say, holds more gravitas than anything I say. Yet here we are, face to face. What does that tell you, Jack? What the fuck does it mean to you, that the man you think yourself so far above, is the man that you can’t help but attempt to belittle, is the one that strikes the fear into you right now. Do you know why this is your fear? Do you understand why I know that you are afraid, Jack? It’s the way you talk. See, I do this thing that might blow your damn mind, Jack. I listen. I hear the things people say. I hear the words, I understand the words. I look at the person saying them, and consider it some unwanted psychology. But I get what they are saying, Jack. You, are full of hypocrisy. You deny that you care, you deny that you listen. Yet you say things that are clearly tickling the back of your mind. You took note of the hunter remarks, yet you refuse to acknowledge that you actually care. You talk about me be long-winded and full of air. Yet, you talk just as much as I do. The sound of your own voice is music to your own damn ears, and I understand. I understand because I was a young, angry and over-confident little fuck like you Jack. I was a hypocritical bully. I ignored the world, I ignored everyone who would give me any level of notice. For I was the best, that was undeniable. Six months is all it took for me to win my first World Champion. Six months. Six months is all it took for me to become the most desired Internet Champion in the history of Sin City. I win that back, I have a line of people baying for a shot at Alexander Raven. Can you say the same? Arrogance would tell you that it’s because they fear you, but the truth. The truth is this Jack. Beating you, means nothing for them. Beating you, is just another match. Beating you does nothing to help elevate them.”
“Yet, someone gets a win over Alexander Raven. Suddenly there is notice. Suddenly people are talking. Could this be the man to silence him? Could this be the man to put Raven in his own kill closet? Could this be the man who finally wrests the power from the Mad King? Then they fall. One, after the other, they fall. I am undefeated in singles competition this year. I have lost, once, in singles competition since I won the championship over half a year ago. Once, Jack. I am not a tag team guy, I put too much pressure on myself. I allow my vision to be clouded. I allow myself to get distracted. You took it on a whim? Good for you, Jack. I won it on a fucking whim. That is where your undoing occurs, I’m sure. You don’t care enough to acknowledge who I am, yet you listen to the things that you feel upset you. Interesting that Jacky boy. Interesting that you can be so delusional that you think that anything you say doesn’t directly reflect your own internal fears. A confident man, stays confident. He doesn’t feel the need to attack the character, to create lies and illusions. A confident man doesn’t feel the need to reiterate, over and over. That he is better, and your are worse. I am confident man, Jack. I acknowledge that some days are better than others, and at times. Even the greatest will fall. I know the weakness of vanity, for vanity is one of the key pillars in The Conspiracy. I’ve been stung, I’ll be stung again. But I continue to move forward each time. I do not sulk, I do not hide. I do not hang my head in shame. I look forward, take another step, and reach for the brass ring again. Six months, World Champion. You can bet your fucking ass Jack. That I will be World Champion here in Sin City before the so called Face of the Franchise. The arrogance you spew is only rivaled by the bullshit dribbling of our current Worlds Champion. You, the unknowing protege of the bullshit spewing Greatest Ever.”
Alex goes to push the wardrobe door closed, but another bag tumbles from the unsteady pile. The loud sound of it cracking against the floor bounces around the the empty room. His nose twitches, and he puts his foot on the back. The sound of a wolf, squealing in pain. ‘Kasey’ written across it.
“Miles, Miles. I hear you, I hear you. The puppy of the pack, and you still need to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. But that is the story of this all isn’t it? Whilst Jack and I, the truly rightful contenders for that Worlds Championship, bicker back and forth over the semantics of the title I brought back to acclaim. You squeal like the little puppy you are, unaware of the clashing teeth and the unforgiving bullet that are coming for you. Fret not, Miles. You are already a part of my kill closet. You are safe from the peck and pull of the ravens. Though carrion for them you are. Let us not forget, Miles. Let us not forget, sweet Jacky Boy. This comparison, will surely upset you Jack. It would upset me. Miles was the thorn in my side at one point. The man who was seen as the one who would be my foil at every turn. That was upsetting. The puppy of the wolves was nothing but a arrogant little prick. But arrogance gave him strength beyond my understanding. Over and over, he was the thorn. He embarrassed me, like you did, Jack. He took the Roulette Championship away. Though I care not for the whims of the wheel of fate, it is interesting that it was Miles who was this to me. For it seems, that at each stage, there is a new puppy. No longer is it Miles. I have the blood of the puppy on my hands, and now. Now a new runt steps to the plate. You step to the plate and spout off the same bullshit you spout every single week. You think I’m repetitive? No, I have something new to say each time I open my damn mouth, Jacky boy. That’s the real difference. I take scope of the situation. I take eye of what is before me, and then I speak. Nobody listens, because they think I will speak the same, over and over. Yet the truth is, Jacky boy. The truth is that I speak the truth. Miles learnt that truth, when he finally fell beneath my boot, and he came to realise. The man he beat, was no longer. The man he knew, would now be the foil to him. A threat, a danger. Because win or lose, it is irrelevant to me Jack. What is relevant to me, is ensuring people understand the fallacy of their actions. The fault in their words. The arrogance that undoes them.”
“What matters to me, Jack, is that when I beat your face over and over. That when my knuckles strike your forehead, over and over. That when you feel the fists of a son of a boxer, bash your puny, tiny little face in. That you realise the blood that flows is not a reprieve. That the blood that is flowing is a payment you owe. A payment of arrogance. A payment of the bully. The when you bleed, and you will bleed. I promise you, I will make certain of the fact that your face is as red as the fists that bust you open. I will ensure that you wear a mask so dark, they fear it many never be washed. It is irrelevant, win or lose, Jack. All that matters is that you are made to realise the fallacy of your ways. That you are made to listen for the first time. Because your arrogance leads you to believe that any success is a note of future and eternal success. That the man once beaten, shall remain beaten. That improvement is not possible for others, and only yourself. But maybe. Just amybe. Your arrogance breaches so far into the future, that you think you are at your apex. That be claiming to be the face, you are already are. That improvement is unnecessary, because nobody is better than Jack fuckin’ Washington. Except. Jack couldn’t win the big one. Jack couldn’t even fuckin’ lose it. But he couldn’t win it. Then the excuses start. So he had to try again, except. He couldn’t win that opportunity either. Then finally, it seemed on the cusp. He had taken the Internet Championship on a whim. He and Bobbie Dahl were soaring towards the finals, and WAIT! He failed again. Interesting isn’t it Jack? That the more we tried to succeed. The more we dance around and bark. The more we attempt to be something that we perceive ourselves to be, the further away it gets. For now, you will go back to the bottom of the pile, won’t you Jack? The words of the greaters telling you that you have to try again, and again, and again. Just so you can fall down and fail once more. Just like poor sweet Miles came to learn. That the more you battle against the truth, the harder it becomes. The harder it becomes to deny what is evident before you. The harder it becomes to even be the lies you spout. For I pretend to be nothing more than I am. A broken child, filled with trauma and anger. Someone who spits upon the bullies would would parade themselves with bravado and strength over the rest of us. I spit upon you, Jack. For you need to be spat upon. A mouthy little runt who thinks everything is because of their success, and not the stumblings of others. Refusing to acknowledge their own shortcomings, because acknowledgement doesn’t fall in the wheelhouse of the delusional.”
He pushes down harder with his foot and then a loud crunch. The sound of the whimpering wolf silenced. The bag goes flat, lifeless. Alex shakes his head and lifts it up, placing it back into the wardrobe. Then he turns his head rapidly. Something seemingly catching his attention. Shaking his head over and over, he slams the door closed, knocking the beer glass over. He moves over to the chair and pushes it aside. The floorboards underneath seem to be slightly different. He stomps his foot on the edge of them, and they pop up. Grabbing the popped edge he lifts and pulls them out of the ground.
There, in a hole in the floorboards, a white sheet over what appears to be something in the shape of a body. Scrawled in black letters, the name ‘Fenris’. He climbs down into the hole, leaning over the body, feet either side of it. He shakes his head over and over, frustration stitching its way across his face.
“Fenris reminds me of you, Jacky boy. A man full of bravado, arrogance and thinking himself far better than me. Second best, is what he referred to me as. Second best to fucking nobody, is what I showed him. If I was second best, than he was lesser than. If I’m second best, than currently you must be the best Jacky boy. But we both know that isn’t true. We both know that there is nothing in this world that could be further from the truth. You see, Jack. I at least respected Fenris. That was a man who despite the fact that he was a keyboard bully. That he attempted to weasel his way away from me. When the final nail was rung, he was made to see. He was made to know that Alexander Raven is more than just fucking talk. You know what is interesting to me, Jack. You talk about never letting people live it down. You talk about wanting them to go away, hang their heads in shame. You even wanted me to cry, Jack. Yet, when I beat people. They stop their crusade. They stop their path. They stop their mockery. Reality becomes the only thing they can understand in that. In that, Jack. A truth is bestowed upon them. That Alexander Raven does not speak for the sake of speaking. That the threats of Alexander Raven are not mere threats. That the hunter sometimes fails a hunt, yet the hunter who does not die, can always kill the next bear, wolf, deer or runty little squirrel. Do you know, what you are, Jack? If Fenris and King James are wolves. If Ken is a hunter. If Miles is a puppy. I must be wrong about you, for you can’t be any of those things. You have to be the runty little squirrel Jack. It suits you perfectly I think. Mouthy, over-confident and a mouth full of your own nuts. Self-fellatio is generally impressive Jack, but not when it comes to your ego. Yet you will continue to bang on and on, like anyone actually cares. The truth, Jack? The truth is that yes. The Internet Championship is designed to shut you up. Because nobody cares anymore. Nobody wants to listen to little ol’ squirrel boy suck himself off over and over. The arrogance of it is more upsetting than the visual I assure you. Yet what do you claim when you lose the Internet Championship to Alexander Raven? Do you pretend that it was all part of your plan. That it was actually your long game to ensure that you could go for the top prize, except. Except you can’t go for the top prize, can you Jack? Because losing to me just proves everything I’ve said.”
“But oh, if I lose. It must prove everything that Jack says. That he is better than me. That I am nothing but words and bluster. That everything I say is nothing more bravado. That he is better than me. That he deserves to be in the spotlight and I will forever be scrounging for scraps. Except… Except he is stuck and I am free. Free to hunt. Free to seek out whoever holds the top prize. So who wins? Jack? It seems that this match in particular, puts us in a stalemate that we aren’t particularly wanting. No, the only thing to come out this match is a proof. A proof of who is going to be the one to scrounge and who is the one that will hold their head high. Arrogance fights aggression. Anger fights delusion. Proof, and proof again, is what you want Jack. The idea of success is far more important to you than the reality of it. Piss and moan, and then claim its okay because you are right and everyone else is wrong. Nobody can be right except for Jack god damn Washington. Nobody could be true unless it comes from the mouth of Jack Washington. Yet maybe there is cracks forming in the armour of the abuser. For I heard the niceties you played to Bobbie Dahl. Interesting that you would be so content with coming short, when your arrogance leads you to believe you are better than everyone else. Why didn’t you win, Jack? Is the fear that you will come short when you finally have your dream in your grasp again so terrifying? What excuse do you use when you get beaten by the best of the best. What excuse do you use when you flounder and fall for those you think yourself so far above? Cracks in the armour, Jack. Cracks in the armour indeed. For whilst you’ve been floundering, I’ve been flourishing. The only reason that the Internet Championship means a god damn thing is because of me. The only reason you can be on your damn high horse, is because deep down you know that facing up against Alexander Raven .That unlike Fenris, my favourite of the victims. You don’t even stand a chance, when I try, Jack. This arrogance, this bravado. This mockery of delusion. You talk about how you didn’t even try. I wonder, Jack. Does it ever occur to you, that others just don’t care?”
Alex leans down and heaps some dirt that lays in piles under the floorboards onto the sheet. Covering the the name, and eventually covering the entirety of it beneath heaped handfuls of dirt. Breathing deeply he slowly climbs his way back out of the hole. Pushing the floorboards back into place and moving the chair. He looks at the spilled beer near the wardrobe and sighs, lowering himself back into the seat.
“Into the Void is not your day Jack. I want to make that clear to you. I want you to understand, win or lose, I do not care. What I do care for is, beating your fucking face in. What I do care about, is ensuring that you learn your damn lesson, and that the Face of the Franchise is sufficiently bloody. That you learn the reality of what happens to bullies in my Kingdom. For I’ll make this very clear, Jack. The Napalm Kingslayer isn’t just another moniker. Isn’t just another name. No, the Napalm Kingslayer comes from truth. A man born in flames and crucifixion, will lead you to your own grave. For you are just another king hellbent on abusing their power. And I will not stand for the abuse any longer, Jack. I will not stand at the edges of existence and allow bullies to pollute and muck about in this filthy degenerate swamp that we call Sin City Wrestling. No, come Into the Void Jack boy, I make a point with you. That anyone who steps out of line. That any arrogance. That any bravado will be met with the steel will of the Napalm Kingslayer, and everyone. Every single person will be baptised in the blood of those who fall. For in flames, rebirth. And they will all be redeemed by the One True King. The Broken Messiah and the False Prophet. The Napalm Kingslayer of The Conspiracy.”
“Do you hear Jack?”
“The Conspiracy is here.”
And then…
Darkness.
Silence.
Nothing.