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Post by Admin on Sept 1, 2019 22:28:33 GMT -6
  Mile High Wrestling
Championship
Mile High Wrestling
Phoenix Championship
Skrabz© vs Tyke Index©Roleplay Limit: TWORoleplay Deadline: Sunday, September 15, 2019 @ 1AM Central *First roleplay MUST be posted by Tuesday, September 10, 2019 @ 1AM Central to be eligible to post a second roleplay |
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Sept 5, 2019 12:23:20 GMT -6
Chapter One
Backstage at the Magness Arena
2/9/2019
I’m not quite sure what happened but in the space of a week I took half of Denver to Coke Mountain, awoke in a jail cell, befriended Lance Mikes for the 27363621146th time in my life, ended up in debt to someone with the moniker ‘Miss Myrrder’ and somewhere in among it all defeated the super annoying Erin Blue. The best part, though? Watching Skrabz have his head caved in, watching him crawl for mercy, laughing at the top of my lungs as I hovered over his decrepit mess with the Phoenix Championship in one hand and the Mile High Championship in the other. I guess it was there and then that the phrase ‘Ultimate Champion’ was born, just like the inception of Tyke Index as its first immortal and inaugural holder.
I remained in the Magness Arena for a good few hours after everyone else had left, I wanted to make peace with this arena, see from now on we would be a touring circus but at this very moment I didn’t want to be anywhere else, I didn’t need anywhere else, just the shade of the building and its plentiful character which was honed from the mouldy paint and rusty steel work which formed the entrance and fire exits. For some this place could be perceived as hell but for me it was a work of art, a place of love and worship, a home. Closest home I had ever been in, one which seemed to understand me and the frame of my existence. For the first time I was part of something which provided the warmth and leverage to achieve the impossible, achieve some dreams and cause some carnage along the way.
I never was a dreamer, not until recently when I kept awakening in the middle of the night with this crazy image of Mile High announcer Jen Vallejos , she was screaming in pain, her face melting off and blood dripping from her mouth, the blood was dripping everywhere and I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t want to stop it, though, see in my dream that blood represented opportunity. Every single drop of that dark sea of crimson was a miracle, without that miracle there was no ignition, no beginning, no journey to proceed upon and by god I needed that journey more than anything else in the universe, if need be I would create that journey with my very own hands.
I kept telling those men in blue shirts that Jen made me do it, she made me hurt her, but it wasn’t really me that hurt her. No, it was Skrabz who hurt her with his negligent and clumsy actions. All Skrabz had to do was answer my call, the call, his call, but he was too damn stupid. Always trying to air an aura of contempt and arrogance, it was that contempt and arrogance which ultimately cost him and would continue to cost him time and time again.
As Jen looked up at me, I could see fear in her eyes, I could sense the depravity leak within my soul but by then it was already too late, everything was always too late around here and suddenly there I am sitting down facing two guys in blue suits and wearing ridiculous badges, I even have handcuffs on. These men wouldn’t stop asking me questions, they wanted to know more about me than anyone I had ever met, totally forgot how much I loved people asking me things about me. At one point I even started to fire questions back but the pair of them were so fascinated in finding out more about me that they would interrupt at a seconds notice going back to the previous question they had asked me, they were pressing every single bit of curiosity into moulding the perfect story, my perfect story.
As they walked me down the hall way I remember one whispering in my ear almost seductively that I could make a phone call, I needed Skrabz to know where I was, that everything I had done was for him, for us, to help everything make sense. Yet, as I would soon realize, nothing made sense, not anymore. In fact, things stopped making sense so long ago I can’t recall the last time they resembled anything other than chaos. One of the police offers would inform me that I was so important that money was put on my head, so much money, that if it came forward I would be able to leave this building. I wanted to leave this building; I wasn’t keen on the beige walls or the dirty floors, or those creatures who kept themselves occupied behind the steel bars in here, of everywhere they could be right now why would they choose to be in here? I thought coming here would have incited some memories from my first time in here, but in all honesty, all it made me realize was how much I had changed. I needed more these days, always needing more; I craved the crème de la crème of cut throat drama and that no longer involved being in this place I guess. Suddenly I wish I hadn’t stamped on the head of Jen Vallejos, I wish I stood on Skrabz head instead.
Then it dawned on me, this wasn’t just Skrabz fault, it was that silly little jerk Robert Macks fault to. If it wasn’t for his silly little rules and his silly little face it could and would have been Skrabz face that was stood all over and instead of conducting questions from these clueless blue shirted masochists sitting in front of me I could have been sitting in a room with Skrabz discussing what needed to be discussed.
See there was too much shirting about here, too much skirting of the issues at hand, too much neglecting our responsibilities and then just as I was about to spill the beans and let the world know how much of a brute Skrabz truly was, there I am standing outside the front door of this hell hole with a receipt for someone else’s money, the bond as they would call it which was posted in my honour. I was free, a free man, whatever that is these days.
I would spend the next two, three, four, five or perhaps even six hours looking through my phone book to see who loved me so much that they would hand over a golden ballet of credit to set me on my way. Numerous people sprang to mind:
Katrina Mack, the clued on one in the Mack household. It would make sense; she was always covering the careless tracks of her husband. Unlike Robert, Katrina knew how much money would be made off this crazy little dance that Skrabz and I had planned for the 15th. I laughed the entire bus ride back to Colorado thinking about her betraying the grubby little fingers of her grim faced war mongering estranged husband, I just had to send her a message but the reply wasn’t what I was expecting, not considering everything that had happened.
“Damn, you’re out then?”
No empathy in a single syllable pouring out of her mouth, I wouldn’t have to look much further though, it was her tag team partner and my old best friend Lance Mikes. I was so sure that Lance had bailed me out to make up for the first time he walked away from us ten years ago leaving me to rot in a sentence of solitude and shame. Lance had finally paid his debt back, he finally squared up, except he hadn’t, turns out Lance didn’t even know I was back in the doghouse until I had messaged Katrina.
It couldn’t be? No surely it wouldn’t be? It can’t be? No, it wasn’t Skrabz. If there was one thing Skrabz had made clear this entire time it was that he wanted no part of Tyke Index, he didn’t want to breathe the same air as me, in fact it was probably messr Stanzas who called the cops in the first place, nobody likes a grass, snakes don’t hiss. Skrabz probably got a perverse kick out of watching my arms being placed behind my back, my hair getting dishevelled around my face and my head being forced into the back of a van with air sirens. I had created the perfect storm but I still didn’t have the answers I wanted.
Then, suddenly, my phone would vibrate and in one quick sentence I would get what I wanted. A message elaborated from someone who cared, someone who put their money where their mouth is, someone who had suffered from the same bad advice as me and had aligned with the same sort of shady characters as I had. For her Paul Banters were my Harvey Goodfellows, this person had been betrayed and let down time and time again just like I had, so much so that I would extend my hand to this person unlike Erin Blue. I would extend my hand to Jansen Myrr, this phone call let me know that my hand shake had been reciprocated. Sure, I would need to put some ingredients into the blender, but that was fine, I didn’t mind doing a friend a favour. After all that’s what friends do, right? I would confide in Jansen again soon, but as I told Miss Myrr-der down the blower, all bets were off until September 15th, we mutually agreed that no further conversations would occur until the morning of September 16th, only then would everything be in place to curate the perfect apple pie. I informed Jansen on that fateful Sunday night two dices would be rolled and the double six would be orchestrated, she could bank on that happening, just not until then and only then. Jansen was patient, I admired that about her.
Chapter Two
Aviano Coffee, Cherry Creek North
5/9/2019
Around 1pmish
There had been a handful of messages this week from a seemingly concerned Doug and Saadia Naiman, the owners of Aviano Coffee; I was invited to attend a meeting with them on the Thursday night. Presuming they wanted my ideas for future marketing concepts I had prepared some absolutely beautiful drawings of potential coffee mocktails, upon presenting them I quickly realized that this was not a brand meeting but instead something a little more terrifying.
Doug and Saadia had been alerted to my arrest last week, they were worried that they could lose sponsors and commercial partnerships through a connection to me. Doug looked sad, at times distraught as he informed me that they wanted to end our relationship together, I couldn’t believe it and to make matters worse Saadia seemed convinced that I was back on the naughty substances again. Saadia was wrong, Doug was wrong, their gut feeling would come back to haunt them. As I watched their mouth bellow out a bunch of words which was an attempt to utterly butcher my self-confidence, I had heard enough, I shuffled out my seat somewhat clumsily and headed straight for the door. I needed fresh air and I needed to find out who had alerted Doug and Saadia about last week and the unfortunate incidents which had occurred.
As I exited, I turned left and by god I kept running and running. One mile would turn to three and eventually before I knew it I had been putting one foot in front of the other for fifteen miles. I was dripping of sweat, my t-shirt soaked right through. All I could think of, all that was going through my mind was who could possibly do this to me. I wasn’t even making any money off of Aviano, I was raising funds for drug survivor charities, I couldn’t understand this. I felt so betrayed, so hurt, so devastated that anyone would be willing to persecute me so hard. For the first time in my life I had done something for the greater good, something bigger than me, I was willing to submit myself for this cause just for the rug to be pulled from right beneath me. Back on the drugs THEY said? Back on the drugs, back on the drugs, back on the…
Then I realized, it was Skrabz who had alerted Doug and Saadia, it had to be. Who else had it in for me? Who else would be so entirely desperate to see me fail, who would want to see my entire deck of cards fall flat at the one time with an almighty whimper. It just HAD to be Skrabz, surely. Today would provide Skrabz with enough material to write another top 5000 bill boarding chart hit, maybe he was planning ahead, knowing that when he failed to beat me at the Spectacular 2 that he could at least release another terrible rap record and retire off the proceeds from the absolute two bit morons daft enough to buy those bitterly spat syllables aimed at the greatest pro wrestler of all time.
I called Lance Mikes to tell him what Skrabz had done to me, Lance told me he always knew that Skrabz was a jerk but couldn’t believe he would go so low. I couldn’t believe it either, it’s not like I had done anything to Skrabz, was it? It was just a bit of banter kicking his girlfriend’s head in and having Mikes play some human pyramids with his very own head on Episode XXII. Skrabz just had no sense of humour, what a silly little man.
As I finally stepped in the shower and washed off the post Aviano run sweats, I watched as that part of my life rinsed right off my body and straight down the drain. I couldn’t stop scrubbing my skin; I was rubbing every single pore with as much panache as I could possibly muster. I never ever wanted to exit the shower, it was the only place I felt safe; I could trust the hot water to stay consistent in its form. Thinking about it more, the hot water was literally the only thing I could trust these days, everything else had a habit of letting me down. Paranoid I called Lance Mikes to make sure he was still my friend; Lance told me to chill and asked if I had taken anything today.
Why did everyone think I had taken something? I wasn’t, I hadn’t been, not in a long time. Not today. I am not paranoid; I just need to know some things, why did I even think I was paranoid in the first place? Wait, maybe Jansen was my friend, she did bail me out. I would call Jansen and asked if she wanted to hang out later, in no uncertain terms she told me that we had agreed to that whole deal about no further contact until September 16th. Fuck, the only people that were left in my phone book was a certain Harvey Goodfellows and my old drug dealer. Everything was getting too much; I just wanted to…disappear.
Don’t judge me but I just need this, you don’t understand, nobody understands. As I exited the shower and emptied the tiny packet of devils dandruff, I took one sniff, one huge sniff and as the rotten white powder disintegrated into my flailing body. Suddenly nothing mattered anymore, I sank to my knees and began to cry, I would cry for another three or four hours until eventually I could hear squinting noise in the back ground. It was Doug Saaiman, as I lifted the smart phone to my ears, my lips were so numb all I could do was something I was never very good at and that is listen.
Doug: “Tyke, it wasn’t Skrabz who told us you had been arrested.”
There was a silence for what seemed like an eternity, I waited with baited breath to hear what Doug was going to say next, I needed to know, if it wasn’t Skrabz then who?
Doug: “Tyke, pal, you need to turn on the television and watch the news.”
I hadn’t watched the television in like five years, especially the news, all the news had ever been was a filter from the government to make the rest of us sad. I didn’t want to be sad, I had been sad my entire life and didn’t want to be around sadness or its dulling beige cobwebs anymore. Doug would speak one more time, it would be the last time we would have dialogue. I’ll spare what he said but it brought tears to my eyes as I reached down for the remote control and turned on the television. I couldn’t believe my eyes, my beardy little face was everywhere; I could see it for miles and miles and miles.
Every channel had their own spin on what I had allegedly partaken in; CNN would call me a scumbag while Fox News had already received word of Aviano Coffee withdrawing their partnership with me. There were so many hurtful mutterings scattering themselves upon my screen, designed to break me and cause an implosion of doubt.
I had no idea that I had become so famous, that my name had been on the tips of peoples tongues all week.
What hurt most, though, wasn’t what these people were saying but what Skrabz wasn’t saying. I had convinced myself that this was Skrabz doing, that Skrabz had finally taken stock of me, that Skrabz had finally noticed me. Literally the only person I wanted to see tell me how bad a person I was this whole time was Skrabz, at least then I could have taken some solace in knowing he knew who I was and that I had been ULTIMATELY acknowledged.
Then I realized, Skrabz didn’t care about me, he never did, the last thing in this world Skrabz would ever do was acknowledge me, especially in a public forum, Skrabz wasn't like everyone else, Skrabz knew that acknowledging Tyke Index would bring Tyke Index joy. By acknowledging Tyke Index, Skrabz might as well just hand me that lovely championship over now, cause as far he was concerned, that was a sign that he had already lost. I was an inconvenience to his existence and my very being irritated him, irritated everything he stood for, he hated my cries for attention, he hated how my eyebrow perspired with excitement every time I could sense danger but most of all he hated, well, yeah, he hated me. Yet, as I sloped against the wall and felt the hit kicking in, I knew that in just over a weeks time I would be taking that motherfucker to Coke Mountain whether he liked it or not and it would be a trip he wasn’t ever going to survive.
Turns out that holding those championships above his head simply wasn’t enough to make him realize what he was getting himself in for, that’s fine, though. I’m here all night and by god, I will not be denied, I will not be stopped and as I managed to scrape a smile through my dry sand paper lips I knew that the next time I watched the television it would be to watch the national celebrations, a national celebration of Tyke Index becoming the first Mile High Ultimate Champion.
Night night.
Wink wink.
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Post by Skrabz on Sept 9, 2019 18:17:51 GMT -6
Location: Skrabal's Motel Room, Denver, Colorado
Date: September 3rd 2019
Time: 10:10AM
Skrabal wakes with a jolt and sits upright on the motel room's scuffed leather sofa. He rubs his eyes and looks around the empty beer and spirit bottle filled room. Dust particles dance in a beam of sunlight that cuts through the dank, stale smoke filled air and suddenly a movement catches Skrabal's attention. He snaps his head towards his bed and squints, straining his eyes to see, and once his eyes finally adjusts to the light he counts six legs sticking out from beneath the bed sheets.
Skrabals phone vibrates on the coffee table in front of him and immediately grabs his attention. He leans forward and picks it up then swipes at the screen.
He takes a slow, deep breathe and looks around the room, his vision finally settling on the bed. With his eyes now fully adjusted to the lighting he is able to clearly see the three young women laying fast asleep. His phone vibrates in his hand and his head snaps towards it.
He leans forward and picks up a half smoked joint from the ash tray on the coffee table, he lights it and takes several quick, foul tasting puffs before stubbing the joint out in disgust.. He taps on the notification and it opens a webpage showing a photo of Tyke Index posing with both his own Phoenix title and Skrab'z Mile High Wrestling title. Skrabz throws the phone on to the table and picks up a bottle vodka from the table, he takes a big gulp then slams the bottle back down, waking up one of the females, a red head, who was sleeping in his bed. She rolls over towards and looks towards Skrabal, rubbing her eyes.
“Is everything al....”
“Get the fuck out fam.”
“Excu...”
“Wake 'em up and get the fuck out.”
As Skrabal barks his demands he leans back towards to table and takes a pre-rolled joint from a glass doob tube. He puts it in his mouth and lights it, as he takes his first deep toke he leans forward and picks up the bottle of vodka.
♫♫♫ ♫♫♫ ♫♫♫
Still that riled up idol with dialed up eyeballs
Still treating life like a rifle to dry wall
Reviled on arrival, smiles for my rivals
BIG SKRABZ headed up the scenes whole revival
Deep fried recitals, grease for ya ears
No rest for the wicked no peace for my peers
From the depths a the thicket came the beast from ya fears
Still the best in the bidness lets keep that shit clear
It's the brow beatin' Val Venis
mouth breathin' couch sleeper
Sound geezer, plough divas
Catch me in yard baggin' grass like grounds keeper
YEAH
I stay about it till I'm pushing up daffodils
It's mass appeals take on the Hound of the Baskerville
Skrabal real crass and ill, quill like a hammer drill
All up in ya haggard grill personal as a dagger kill
Lava gob, heart of God, Martyr for the art, bomb blaster with the target locked
Master of the artful dodge, bastard with the bars to drop
Yeah you know who...
BIG SKRABAL STANZAS, the grow room Goku
Prose how the pros do, I pro-duce clone proof home truths for bozos so-so's and don't dos
♫♫♫ ♫♫♫ ♫♫♫
Location: Skrabal's Motel Room, Denver, Colorado
Date: September 9th 2019
Time: 3:10AM
The video opens with a view of Skrabal Stanzas sitting on the sofa in his Denver motel room. He sits motionless, a smouldering joint hanging from his mouth. Smoke drifts up and past his expressionless face as keeps his cold stare fixed on the camera.
Suddenly his arms move and he begins clapping slowly, his hands collide loudly three times and he stops then leans forward, finally breaking eye contact with the camera. He draws air through his joint and it's ember glows brighter as it's potent smoke travels down deep in to his lungs. He reaches out with his right hand and picks up a bottle of beer from the table in front of him and as he leans back in his seat he takes the joint from his mouth in his left hand.
He exhales a cloud of smoke and places his joint in an ashtray that is sat on the sofa next to him then twists the cap off the bottle beer. He tilts the bottle towards the camera and nods.
“To Azzy innit...”
He drinks from the bottle until nothing remains.
“I nah it's what they all expect but on the real I can't even be mad. I'm a have to hold my hands up and say ya caught me slippin', for real. Man got a bit too wrapped up in those positive feelin's or suttin', but that shit ain't gonna happen again. Nah!”
He leans down the side of the sofa for another bottle of beer, placing the empty one on the floor at the same time. He sits back up on the sofa and twists the lid off the new bottle and throws it on to the coffee table then tilts the bottle towards the camera.
“To Lance Mikes innit...”
He greedily gulps down another full bottle of beer then slams the empty glass bottle on the table in front of him. He reaches for the still burning joint and places it in his mouth, inhaling deeply.
“Fassyole! Wasteman! Pussyole!”
He sneers, smoke shooting from his mouth with every word.
He leans back down the side of the sofa and takes out another bottle of beer, returning to a upright sitting position he looks in to the camera again as he twists the cap off the bottle. He throws the metal cap like a Frisbee across the small rented room, he tilts his third bottle of beer towards the camera.
“To Tyke Index innit...”
He sneers then quickly drinks his third bottle of beer and throws the empty bottle across the room with force, the sound of breaking glass pierces the scene as the bottle smashes out of shot. He takes several deep, relaxing tokes on his joint.
“I nah whatchu think Tyke... same ting they all think. Ya think you in my head innit, ya think ya psyched me out with ya phone calls and ya tweets and ya nonsense and foolishness. Ya prolly think ya the reason Azzy done caught me slippin' too..”
He shakes his head dismissively.
“Ya got e'ry one out here thinkin' that ya got man on the ropes, that he soft now... so they dreamin', wishin' and thinkin' that this is the beginin' a the end for man like Skrabz... Well I'm a tell ya one time, on the level... they fuckin' wrong fam, er'y single one a them.”
He pauses and takes another long slow toke on his joint.
“But you they new hope, plus they thinkin' man like Skrabz see through now, transparent like an apparition but this ain't no phantom menace, nah, man is solid matter still and you 'bout to find that out first hand, standard!”
He pauses again and lets his eyes drif to the arm of the sofa, where his Mile High Wrestling Championship title would usually be sitting.
“Yeah but I gotta be shook right, coz I ain't say a word till now, when I has too innit. Ever since ya done fluttered ya eye lids at the bossman man like Skrabz did suttin' outta character. Kept it shushed, man ain't do that, man like Skrabz talk and talk, so he has to be scurred right? Shakin' in his boots?”
He smirks and shakes his head arrogantly.
“Nah, fam it ain't that. I'm a tell ya what it is though. You watch movies blad? Films innit, that's we call 'em back in the UK,. Shit the point is you seem like a cultured dude, kinda, so man a take it for granted you seen Rush Hour. They done made a few of 'em but we only needsta be thinkin' bout the first one. See Jackie Chan drop the wisdom in that shit, he say suttin like, and man is paraphrasin' ya nah so allow it if the shit ain't verbatim but Jackie Chan say suttin' like... let people talk who like to talk. It makes it easier to find out how full of shit they are.”
He pauses and stares coldly in to camera as he slowly finishes his joint. He stubs the joint out in the ash tray then immediately reaches down the side of the sofa for another bottle of beer.
“So man has jus' been sat back, watchin' and listenin' while you been runnin' around doin' a whole bunch a extra shit makin' yaself look like a eejiat in the process. I ain't talkin' about the phone calls bredrin' nah, trust me man like Skrabz be used to bitches hittin' his line up at all hours a the day, swipe to silent be on a reflex tip by now ya get me? Pure instinct bredda... and that's jus' one difference between you and me, man like Skrabz got it in abundance, he out here spinnin' plates like a circus act but you ain't get pussy and that's what gotchu all kinds a fucked up."
He twists the lid off the bottle and throws it on the floor then takes a quick, short drink of beer.
“Ya nah what rhymes with Tykes sex life?”
He takes a quick drink of beer from the bottle.
“Tried sex twice... buys flesh lights...”
He laughs smugly and takes another drink of beer.
“Ya nah I shouldn't be playing witchu, not after that Lance Mikes shit, but on the real you make it too easy, with ya out dated hipster lookin', incel level awareness havin' self. I mean are you dizzy blad? Are you? What ya think because the gyal say a few tings about me, coz a few jokes get made about the shit, what you think that's a ting? You think it mean suttin? I mean what the fuck ya think I'm a do about it? You expect me to fight for her honour is that it? You think the shits a fairytale or suttin'?”
He shakes his head and takes another drink of beer.
“Bredrin' you got the shit all kinds a fucked up, trust. I'm a tell ya right now, plain and simple, if you wanna take out ya frustrations on er'y single female who ever looked at man like Skrabz and felt some way about him then you gonna have to take out half the female population a e'ry single city I ever stepped a toe inside. But if even if ya did, even if ya took the trip and gave out Coke Mountains till ya lil skinny jean clad chicken legs were sore man like Skrabz still ain't gonna feel no way about it. You know why that is blad?”
He pauses as if waiting for an answer.
“Coz I ain't catch feelin's fam... I catch dubs, usually... and I ain't about to go start changin' the habit nah... It's a Sister Act two ting, ya see me? We gettin' straight back in to it startin' withchu, standard!”
He takes another drink of beer and leans forward towards the coffee table, when he leans back into the shot he has a fresh joint in his hand. He places in his mouth and lights it.
“But lets talk about some shit you said, man heard suttin' about some million dollar, five star lifestyle I be livin', I said nah he ain't say that but they said you did. Fam there ain't no lux here it's straight crud, only way man a see five stars on a gta vibe ya get me? And I ain't play video games. But that's what ya do innit, yeah. See ya so wrapped up in a ya ownself and whatchu doin' that you ain't really too informed on anyone else. But ya nah man raps and ya knowledge a the culture 'bout as deep as Black Eyed Peas since the Fergie days so ya assume it's a swag ting, rented rides and fake jewels.”
He shakes his head dismissively and puffs on his joint.
“Nah, it ain't that fam... But you only pay half attention innit, that's why ya hear Jen talk about me and think there suttin' there, blow ya cool and get arrested over nuttin'. Coz you a fuckin' eejiat, straight up.”
He pauses then speaks again, his voice taking on a nasally tone.
“Oh but nah Skrabz, Tyke delusional.”
He laughs arrogantly and shakes his head again.
“Bun that fam. Tyke clueless... Tyke a bitch... Tyke only doin' all a this extra shit to distract from the fact he been duckin' me since just after he walked through the door. Oh yeah it was big man tings back then innit, you couldn't keep my name outta ya mouth at first, when ya came in with ya boy there Lance Mikes. You had that big rep and the mouth to match then innit. What happened though? Lance Mikes ain't stick around, nah, he left and it seem to me he took ya balls and er'y ounce a courage you ever had right along with him coz once he left you got real meek. And then a year later, a year of man like Skrabz droppin' your name and you not lettin' out so much as a whisper, Lance Mikes comes crawlin' back, revealin' himself as the masked man and suddenly Tyke Index feel brave enough to speak up again. But he still a bitch, so he do all a this extra shit, phone calls, tweets, steal dubs in tag matches, attack some chick and have his boy jump me from the back coz he know that when push come to shove, when one of the best HC Dub had goes up against the best Mi' High has, one on one in the middle a that ring he knows he ain't got what it takes to get the job done... And if ya think ya got a chance I'm a tell ya one time blad, all that shit ya been doin, ain't none of it been worth it coz come September fifteenth I'm a chew you up, spit you up and slap you like I'm Mister Perfect.”
He finishes his beer and drops the bottle on the floor.
"Coz what a lot of ya been fogettin' lately is the only ting that a matter is what happen once the bell ring. So ya can keep ya great escapes, ya hair matches and ya comic book capers to yaselves, roll 'em up in a first edition and shove 'em up ya backsides coz this is wrestlin' innit... Oh but you ain't' wrestle is it Tyke? Nah, yo dance don't ya... what we doin' fam? You wanna bus' out a tango? How about we do the Macarena or suttin? Whip Nae Nae or Vossy Bop fam, take ya pick... On the real man ain't really dance, ya more likely find me at the back a the club innit, vibesin, but shit I'm a make an exception jus' for you, i'm a cut up ya rug like I'm wearin' Itchy The Killer's shoes, ya feel me? Yeah, you watch movies innit... you a cultured dude, kinda.”
He looks arrogantly in to the camera as he puffs on his joint.
"So I hope you got a photo of you holdin' both a those belts coz thats the only time that shit gonna happen'. You ain't the one Tyke, it ain't matter what shit you pulled in the run up, in recent memory, truth is you had my attention for a long time and man always knew this day a come eventually. But make no mistake that's all it is for you fam, jus' a day trip, class outin' ting so I hope ya got ya permission slip coz ya certainly followin' that buddy system. So walk on down to the ring with Lance Mikes hand held firmly in ya own if ya want coz we ain't want ya to get lost on the way, plus it ain't matter if he there or not... I'm walkin' in with one strap and I'm walkin' out wit two."
He shakes his head arrogantly and puffs on his joint.
"Coz shit I was already gonna beat you Tyke, but now I got a point to prove too, or suttin'... so now I'm really gonna beat you Tyke... and you nah you can't stop me."
He leans forward, towards his phone.
"An that's what all this nonsense and foolishness has been about."
He taps at his phone, ending the recording.
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Deleted
Deleted Member
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Post by Deleted on Sept 11, 2019 16:58:32 GMT -6
Chapter One
Tyke Index apartment
Denver, Colorado
1pm, 10/9/2019
Three beers, a bottle of vodka and a couple of joints are all that it took for Skrabz to say how he really felt. I had been sitting in the same position for hours maybe even days, hell if it wasn’t for laying off the cheese I would have thought I had been sitting here for years; I would rewind the sentiments our champion had laid out for me time and time again. Finally, I had his attention. I wanted to pick up my phone and call every single mother fucker in it; words couldn’t describe how I was feeling right now. A toast with my name was read out, a few vowels and a dozen consonants would change our entire landscape, my path was finally chosen. I would find my paddle and I would set out to the great unknown, only this time I knew where I was going. I was heading straight for Skrabz, I was heading straight for his throne, I was heading straight for the heart and soul of everything he had ever known and by the end of Sunday he would say my name.
I had called Lance Mikes to let him know that I wasn’t taking calls this week; I even called Jansen to let her know that all curried favours were off until I found the right spices for my massala. This was a journey I would need to take alone and as I reached for the string on my blinds, I knew that I just had to pull these things down, because damn it was about to get dark in here, real dark, put the kids to bed and listen real closely.
Then there was silence, hushed silence as I watched Skrabz scramble for breath after each and every draw of his joint. Something about Skrabz had always fascinated me, he was right, this was a guy that for all the bravado seemed to have a lot in common with Tyke Index. Skrabz had been battling addiction his entire life, even now in the eye of a storm, he still had time to pick up the same bottles and substances that I couldn’t put down. I kept thinking to myself that maybe in another time, we could have been friends, like real good friends, best friends. I genuinely think that we had more in common than either of us would ever let on, but the sad twist in this arc was that it was already too late. I closed my eyes and curated this vision of a bridge collapsing under the pressure of a gale force wind and as that bridge collapsed for miles on end all you could see was water pass underneath it, smoothly sleeking in and out of every space of land it desired. I couldn’t help but imagine Skrabz as that bridge but the part that startled me the most is when I realized this entire time I was the water which passed over this collapsed bridge, I was the architect of something far bigger and far more beautiful than anything that bridge ever stood for. I was faster than Skrabz, I was slicker than Skrabz, I was that guy that Skrabz never truly wanted to face, not if we are being honest and as Skrabz will tell you, honesty is a very hard thing to conduct when you have spent your entire life being a compulsive liar, it’s okay, though, I used to be a liar to Skrabz, let’s tell this beautiful lie together.
I watched with baited breath, anticipating Skrabz’ next words, nobody had ever described my actions in such a succinct and direct manner, not for a long time. Yet, the part that I enjoyed and savoured the most was when Skrabz would revere his highest praise for how my feet moved and how my soul embraced a dance floor. Skrabz wasn’t wrong, I loved to dance. Dancing is what I was born to do, it was all I could ever do, it was something Skrabz wished he could do, yet something had always stopped him moving like he knew he probably could if he just tried that bit harder. I found myself standing in the centre of my living room, maybe it was my bed room or perhaps even the bath room. There was no sink in here, though, no showers or beds just a floor and a snowy television. I had nothing left, just two good feet and a gram of mandy. There was this song constantly bubbling in my head, though, these beats I just couldn’t shake and as I navigated from one room to another to another to another till suddenly I felt more alive than I had ever felt before. I could see white puffs of dust drip from my nose and as red drips of crimson fell from my nostril, I realized how real this had really gotten recently.
Skrabz and I were drug addicts.
Fuck, I reached for my phone through blurry bloodshot eyes and tried to call him one more time, tried to call my friend, tried to call Skrabz.
“Hello, you’ve reached Mangos Rosemary Florist, how can I help you?”
Fuck, wrong number. I was always dialling the wrong number, always taking wrong turns, always seemingly drifting further and further away from Skrabz instead of closer and closer. This whole time all I ever wanted was for us to be close, like fucking fridge magnets. Now, though, I realized that would never happen. Skrabz would never be my friend; Skrabz would never sit beside Tyke Index, we would always be apart.
As I shovelled a grotesque amount of devils dandruff up my nostrils, I could feel my pupils dilate and my lungs separate like the wings of an eagle. I was free, free to be myself, free to slump into this couch and acknowledge every fear I ever had. I had several fears coming to think of it as my backside massaged itself into the bottom of this mangly old sofa; I was scared of spiders, scared of dying alone, scared of hanging from a high height without a harness, scared of cheese, especially cheddar oh and Skrabz. I was scared of Skrabz.
Well, per se, not scared of Skrabz but scared of what Skrabz stood for. I tried to think of ways I could elaborate, persecute and punctuate my point without sounding like an idiot yet I couldn’t. I had already went way too far tonight, way too far and I wasn’t about to stop now. I couldn’t stop now and I wouldn’t stop now, not today, not tonight, hell I couldn’t even stop tomorrow or the day after that or for that matter the day after that. I could never, ever stop.
As I thought about it more, I raised my hand high above my head and pretended to be Hitler, I marched around the room for five minutes jaywalking, I watched as light turned to night back to light through my dimmed down blinds, this whole time I had been marching around my living room like a constipated kangaroo. Skrabz was still on my telly chatting about bitches, blunts and performing academy winning macarenas, it seemed like he had been haunting me for hours, maybe he had been, maybe he hadn’t been but I had tuned out five hours ago. His puffy, scruffy little bald face baffling me with scenarios that were supposed to induce me to tears or at the very least belittle a reaction out me, yet all I could do was laugh or giggle, that’s all I could ever do when presented with the face of our Mai Hai Champion Skrabal Stanzas.
Skrabz was the funniest guy I had ever met and I was scared shitless of him, he had a presence I had never seen before, oozing the machismo of a sober man but walking the walk of a drunk left on the side walk with piss running down his leg.
I would daze in and out of consciousness through hazy eyes more than a few times between 5 and 6pm, at points I would even hallucinate and believe that I was genuinely standing naked in the middle of the road outside my house. I wasn’t though, I was somehow standing butt naked in front of my living room mirror pretending to be Hitler whilst talking and giggling like Skrabal Stanzas. I’ve never heard Skrabz giggle but if he did it would be something like:
“Hyeh Hyeh Hyeh Heek Heek Heek”
Suddenly the laughing would stop and I felt a surreal and euphoric wave of sadness crash over me poignantly, why would Skrabz dodge my calls? Why did he never want to speak with me? I moved away from the mirror and sat down on my couch, as I perched my head in my hands I began to cry, I couldn’t stop this overwhelming grief caused by rejection. I had been rejected my entire life and all I ever wanted was to have some friends, people who liked me. I wanted Skrabz to admire me, I wanted Skrabz to like me; I wanted Skrabz to respect me just like I tried so hard to have everyone like me and for a few months there people did love me, they loved me, they truly did. As I sulked and sulked, suddenly it dawned on me that I was sitting naked in my living room and that I had been having an in depth conversation with myself for almost two days now. I wondered if I was the last man alive and if I was, did that make me the Mile High Ultimate and Phoenix Champion? Had I already defeated Skrabz? What day was it? I started rolling around on the floor uncontrollably, not sure if I was having a seizure, hallucinating, swimming or all three, my arms flapping everywhere and the legs below my waist twisting inwards and outwards like Edward Scissorhands. In the midst of this I tried to control my breathing but all I was doing was screaming at the top of my lungs:
“I LOVE YOU SKRABZ, COME BACK FOR ME”
I wanted to be the last man alive because only then I knew I would be living in a world where Man Like Skrabz wouldn’t be able to hurt my feelings anymore.
Chapter Two
Denver, Colorado
Saint Joseph Hospital
4.23pm, 11/9/2019
Turns out I had taken a pretty bad turn, Harvey Goodfellows was sitting facing me and I had absolutely no idea where I was or how long I had been there.
“One day, fifteen hours, six minutes and three seconds Tyke”.
I tried to push myself up the bed I was in but I had all these ridiculous looking tubes obstructing my movement, my wrist had a drip in it and my head a bandage wrapped around it.
Harvey and his fat wagging chubby little two chins would inform me that I had fell head first into my television, there was sparks and even some flames in the apartment as my entire legacy flashed before my eyes in the midst of a frenzied late night LSD hallucinogenic scramble. I’m not sure what came over me but I had become fixated with Skrabz, I was obsessed with him, everywhere I looked I could see that muggy little face telling me that he was going to cave my skull in.
Well here I am, lying helpless in a hospital bed and still Skrabz was nowhere to be seen. I made Harvey promise not to tell Robert Mack that I was in hospital again, I knew they would want to run some tests on me, somehow screw me out of my moment, the moment I had planned for over a year with that beautiful human being Skrabal Stanzas. This was our dance, our Macarena, our Mambo #5, we would walk it talk it walk it talk it and drop it like it’s hot but only if Harvey kept his fat little trap shut. Besides, if Harvey grassed on me I would grass on Skrabz for all that weed he had been smoking, let’s face it nobody likes a grass.
I hated being stuck in this ward with Harvey, I felt trapped with my past, all those demons sauntering over me like an unwanted scent, yet at the same time it almost felt vindicating, kinda like this was where I was supposed to end up all along, back at square one just in time, just in time to make one last climb culminating at the top of that mountain I had climbed so many times before, culminating at the tipping point of Coke Mountain.
I told Harvey that this was my last chance to make Skrabz notice me, that Skrabz was finally in a vulnerable state, words that I felt silly uttering considering I was lying in a hospital bed after overdosing. I believed those words, though, I genuinely believed and believe that even after everything that has happened, that Skrabz is still in a more perilous and luckless condition than I was.
Harvey wasn’t sold, he made it clear that Skrabz would rip me limb from limb, punch my face in and leave me for dead. Harvey saved his most chilling sentiments for last, though, when he said that I would deserve every single second of pain inflicted on me. Harvey would soon be the one grimacing though as I grabbed his shady little bald head and punched him right in a mouth which would soon learn to shut up.
I crept off my hospital bed and ripped the drips out my hands, removed the tubes from my chest and leaned over a whaling Harvey Goodfellows, I would hear his shrieking haunting me in my dreams for the rest of my days but tonight all that mattered was my fist caving against his skull time after time after time. I began to snigger as I seen lacerations open on his disgusting humungous forehead, I couldn’t stop, I wouldn’t stop, I could hear Harvey screaming from beneath me, his flailing body screeching to a halt as each and every fist I was throwing started to cause a wider and wider dent. Suddenly the struggle would end and it would be Harvey unconscious this time, I took that little bitch to Coke Mountain and left him for dead.
By that point I had swapped drips for handcuffs, hospital beds for jail cell mattresses and sickness for an extended criminal record. I was sitting in the same cell I had been in last week but this time there was nobody to bail me out. I had already cut ties with everyone, nobody left; I could and probably would die alone. To make matters worse, the officers sitting facing me were the same ones I was giving some serious jip to last week so they came for me ten times harder this time. I was putty in their hands and as they asked me how it felt to throw my career away three days before the biggest match of my career I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, a dilemma which summed up my life these days.
Then just as I was about to give up all hope in walks Harvey Goodfellows demanding the officers let me go and that he wouldn’t be pressing charges.
Well thank fuck for that.
Harvey would sit facing me in the chair those officers had been occupying previously, he sat and stared at me for what seemed an eternity but in reality it had only been a few minutes, maybe five at a push. Then, then he spoke. Harvey informed me that if I ever tried to take him to Coke Mountain again it would be the last trip I ever made; I could tell by the look in his eyes he was being deadly serious.
Then there was some home truths, plenty of them in fact, I told Harvey that I genuinely believed I could beat Skrabz and that I would beat Skrabz, I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince anymore though; Harvey or myself. Harvey asked how I planned on beating someone I was afraid of, how did I plan on laying a glove on the untouchable, dethroning the invisible. Truth is, I had no idea, not a single inkling and then it dawned on me. It wasn’t Skrabz I was afraid of; it never was, this whole time it had been something far bigger than Skrabz and even far bigger than Tyke Index that I was afraid of. As I whispered the words out, Harvey asked me to speak up.
“I’m the man who changes fate”
I laughed, Harvey laughed, we all laughed, except inside I wasn’t laughing. I was being deadly serious. It was never my fate to be Ultimate Champion but I was going to do what no man had done before and create my own fate, forge my own legacy and ULTIMATELY it would be at the expense of Skrabz, it had to be, it was the only way it could be, the only way this was going to end.
I told Harvey in that chilling volatile jail cell that I was going to maim Skrabz; that I was going to take Skrabz to places he had never been before. Genuinely, truly, honestly I was going to hurt Skrabz and make him pay for all those times he dodged my calls, all those times he hurt my feelings. I told Harvey that Skrabz would watch me hoist the Phoenix and Ultimate Championships over his head one more time but only this time when it happens it will be an exclamation point on the career of Skrabz. All good things would come to an end, even my good friend Skrabal Stanzas.
Harvey nodded, turns out the fat fuck believed me all along and was just trying to push me to levels he had never seen before. Harvey would learn like Skrabz, though, that it’s probably best not to try and tease me, I don’t like being teased, I never did. Oh and about when I said I was afraid of what Skrabz stood for? Well just look at him, would you want to end up like that? Nah, didn't think so. Harvey nodded, I nodded, we all nodded. We kept nodding until I told Harvey to stop fucking nodding, he was getting on my nerves now, really really starting to get on my nerves was Harvey.
I walked out of that prison cell knowing that on Monday morning I would wake up as the reigning, defending and undisputed Ultimate and Phoenix Champion.
Oh, I just can’t wait to be king.
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Post by Skrabz on Sept 14, 2019 18:17:54 GMT -6
Location: Outside Gold's Gym, Denver, Colorado
Date: September 13th 2019 Time: 11:20AM
Skrabal walks along the side walk with the hood of his Toll Gang hoody up and his head down. Beneath his hood his ear buds fit snugly in his ears, filling his head with the sound of British rapper Datkids track titled "Dont Look At Me". Just as Skrabal is about to walk through the doors of the gym and enter the building the song playing in his ears is interrupted by his phones ring tone. Skrabal releases his graps on the doors handle and takes a few steps away from the building as he reaches for his phone. He takes it from his pocket and on the screen sees the words "Video cal from Ty". He swipes the screen without hesitation, answering the call from his life long friend and fellow Toll Gang member.
“Yo Skrabz, how's it goin' my G?” Ty asks.
“Shit... that's a deep question fam.” Skrabal replies nonchalantly.
“Oh it's like that?” Ty asks in animated fashion with a beaming, sympathetic smile.
“Yeah, kinda. But I'm say tings are good and keep it movin'.” Skrabal says, attempting to push any thoughts from his mind.
“It's one time ya nah, and ya nah it's on you. The gyal caught you slippin' and it is what it is, but it's onwards and upwards now.” Ty says supportively.
“True say fam, but it ain't that shit that be botherin'.” Skrabal says.
“For real?” Ty asks with his eyebrows raised in surprise.
“For real.” Skrabal replies candidly.
“What is it bredaa? You upset over leavin' the Magness Arena?” Ty asks sarcastically.
“You're a fuckin' dickhead blad.” Skrabal replies through laughter.
“Facts! But c'mon G, talk to me.”
“It ain't a ting fam, man is jus' preppin' for this Tyke Index match an...”
“Big tings bredrin'! Big tings!” Ty interjects enthusiastically.
“Ya done know... but it's... fuck it... Ty I can't do it fam. Man has been tryin' a play it down, shrug it off, act like it ain't a ting but it is blad."
“Azurinne?” Ty asks.
“Shut up fam, don't even say her fuckin' name.” Skrabal snaps back as his friend.
“Woah relax bradda, relax.” Ty says, his voice raising but remaining supportive in tone.
“Nah, fuck relxain'. That's twice now blad! TWICE fam and...” Skrabal trails off as Ty interrupts.
“Ya need to get off this shit bruh, ya can't be goin' in to this Tyke Index match if you still caught up on that.” Ty tells Skrabal, trying to get him to focus on what's ahead.
“Nah, I disagree fam. This exactly what I need to be thinkin' about.” Skrabal replies with a determined tone in his voice and a focused look in his eyes.
“This somethin' we gonna have to agree to disagree on my G, but it's all love, so do what ever ya think think gonna motivate you.” Ty replies sincerely.
“Yeah... look sorry fam I jus' got to the gym so I'm a have to cut this short, I'm a call you soon though.” Skrabal tells his friend, seemingly disinterested in his words of advice.
“Make sure ya do bredda, and reach out to the twins yeah?”
“Maybe...”
“...Aight take care fam, Toll.”
“Toll”.
Skrabal swipes his phones screen and ends the call. He pauses and looks down at the phone in his hand. After a few seconds he returns it to his pocket then turns and enters the gym.
Location: Skrabals Motel Room, Denver, Colorado Date: September 13th 2019 Time: 11:15PM
The scene opens with the Mile High Wrestling Champion sitting on the floor of his Denver Motel Room with his back against the magnolia wall behind him. He has a joint in his left hand, an open bottle of beer by his side sat next to his Mile High Wrestling Championship belt, and he wears Tyke Index's brand new 'Real Friends Answer The Phone' t-shirt.
“On the real I ain't nah why they keep doin' it, I mean I do but I don't.”
He gestures towards the Tyke Index shirt he has on.
“On one hand it make sense coz they got the eyes of the world on 'em when they up against man like Skrabz so there ain't no better time to put out some new merch. Plus they prolly nah I'm a wear they shit too, so that a help they numbers for real. It be kinda short sighted though, no longevity, jus' quick sales and a fast buck or two. I can't knock the hustle but this the same as that Man Like Zombie shit. Yeah, it be good good for a few tweets and a lil social media buzz but once we hit the ring and I handle bidness ya sales a soon dwindle.”
He narrows his brow and takes a slow pull on his joint.
“But that's what ya do Tyke? That same ol' played out shit? And apparently a lil' birdy done told me ya somehow got yaself a side gig workin' marketin' for some coffee shop bullshit...”
He laughs and shakes his dismissively.
“A coffee shop? For real fam?... Man ain't surprised ya nah, not really coz you look like ya love ya self a vanilla soy milk latte. Yeah you on that basic white gyal tip innit, Ugg boots, yoga pants and cocaine...Nah, but really Tyke ya need to get ya life in order. Fix ya frame fam, before e'rythin' give out and collapse underneath ya. Shit it's already started to happen, coz ya nah they say ya been tryin a get inside my head wit' the way ya been actin', but you ask me and I'm a say you only actin' the way ya been doin' coz man like Skrabz already livin' rent free in ya brain space. You ask me and I'm a say that's why you been actin' out lately. I mean what is fam, two arrests and a drug overdose?”
He reaches out for the open bottle of beer and takes it in his hand. He swiftly moves it up to his mouth and finishes what's left then places the empty bottle on the floor next to him.
“I mean between ya misreadin' certain' situations and exposin' yaself for the eejiat you are, callin' man's line like some D cravin' sket and getting' yaself into debt wit' Jansen you goin' off the rails innit. And that's because despite ya persona, despite ya recent success in the Mi' High ring and others in the past ya nah full well that when we push the antics aside, when we drop the bullshit ya nah there be a whole world a difference between you and man like Skrabz. I mean how long you been in the business fam? Shit it's a lot longer than I have, man is jus' five years deep and he spent the last year a them on top. You though, shit you been around for time. You like that ol' drunk at the bar who be there proppin it up e'ry day. He had a rep at one time, local celeb status but nobody really remember what he did, so he doin' suttin' new e'ry week jus' trying extend his long expired fifteen minutes. And he ain't care how low he have to stoop coz he ain't got a shred a self-respect left.”
He pauses and takes another long pull on his joint.
“Yeah... you really wildin' out lately, on a Nick Cannon vibe. Nah it's not funny man really shouldn't joke about the state ya life's in right now especially seein' as tings about to get even for worse for ya real soon. Coz I been waitin' a long time for this Tyke, too fuckin' long...”
He takes a final toke on his joint then leans out of the shot and stubs it out in an ashtray.
“It was June twenty seventh, twenty eighteen, when ya first stepped a foot in the Mi' High ring. You stood between those ropes chattin' that gas about the bossman leavin' H C Dub when it needed him most and all I saw was a manipulative lil' cry baby pissin' and whinin' 'bout bein' left on his own in a company that was collapsing' all around him. And why was H C Dub collapsin'' Tyke? Why was Greeney's hardcore dynasty crumblin' at the foundation'? Wouldn't be nuttin' to do with Tyke Index droppin' pipe bombs on a Phil Brooks vibe would it?.. Yeah, there's a name drop for ya Meltzer dick ridin' self.”
His arrogant stare lingers on the camera for a few seconds before he leans out of the shot again. He returns to the center of the frame holding a fresh bottle of beer.
“H C Dub comin' undone at the seams, it wouldn't be nuttin' to do wit' ya lil' buddy Lance Mikes would it? Nah, it's the bossman's fault obviously, coz he saw that ship sinkin' and bailed out before it took him down with it. Yeah, it's anybody's fault but yours and Mike's innit, jus' like e'rythin' else... So I'm sat there, Magness arena, June twenty seventh twenty eighteen as you stood in that ring with ya tears and ya tantrums and before long who make an appearance? Jumpin' the bossman from the back? Well shit, it's ya lil' buddy Lance Mikes.”
He twists the top of the bottle of beer and tosses it on the floor next to him.
“Speakin' a Lance Mikes...”
He takes a long drink from the bottle of beer, consuming half of the amber liquid contained within.
“Listen up bredrin and listen good coz I'm a only tell ya one time. You needsta to concern yaself less wit' who I look like and more wit' who I am coz if you ain't noticed man like Skrabz is the big fish 'round here and right now you flappin' and flailin' about in my pond. You already done put yaself on man's shit list and ya karmic debt be risin' with e'ry lil ting ya do, you livin on borrowed time fam and make like Skrabz jus' sittin' right here clock watchin', trust!”
He takes another long drink from the bottle, finishing the beer. He puts the bottle down next to him and continues.
“But lemme wheel it back for ya, to June twenty seventh twenty eighteen and I'm sat in the back watchin' Tyke Index and the lil H C Dub invasion wonderin' jus' what all the fuss and hype been about coz all I saw was a couple washed up old H C Dub has beens jumpin' on that new hotness tryin' a steal a lil' shine for they selves. Then July eleventh twenty eighteen, Rise In Phoenix rolled around and I sat in the back a the Talkin' Stick arena, bottle popped, joint bunnin' with my feet up on a lil' pre victory celebration tip before my title match wit' Candi Bratton... and as I watched ya lil' tag ting, you and Mikes bodyin' the bossman and Deuce Holmes I had a couple a tings runnin' through my mind. First ting was why the fuck the bossman out there teamin' with Deuce in the first place, the ol' bare foot stinkin' poser, and the second ting runnin' through my mind was that maybe ya weren't quite as washed up as I first thought and one day it might jus' come down to me and you in the middle a that ring, the top dog, the grandmaster... against the so called king a coke mountain. And I been watchin' you real close ever since.”
He leans out of shot again, reaching for another joint. He leans back into the frame with it already in his mouth. He sparks a lighter and lights the end, inhaling a cloud of smoke deep into his lungs.
“Ya nah that buried alive match you had was real ironic, I mean how the fuck ya gonna get buried alive by a Zombie? Fam zombies dig 'emselves outta they grave they ain't put bodies in 'em but I guess you got that twisted jus' like e'rythin' else.. But I been watchin' you and you had ya ups and down's, for real. While man like Skrabz been steady cruisin' at altitude you been hittin' nuttin' but turbulence on ya ascent but tings been levelin' out for ya recently, in the ring at least, but ya personal life a wreck. That's the ting wit' junkies though innit.”
He pauses again and takes a couple of quick tokes on his joint. Looking in to the camera a feign expression of sincerity he continues.
. “On the real though man ain't ever make a good sponsor coz I be kinda glad to see you back on the gear I can't lie. Coz you kinda like Eminem, I like you better when you on drugs.”
He laughs and reaches out of the shot again, this time when he returns to the center of the picture he has another bottle of beer in his hand. He twists the top of and casually throws it to the side.
"Nah, it's not funny fam. But shit since ya wanna talk about addiction, you right. Man like Skrabz is an addict, straight and simple. That's facts. But shit addiction takes many forms bredda, ya got ya nymphomaniacs, ya kleptomaniacs, pyromaniacs, ya got gamblin' addicts, shoppin' addicts, alcoholics and drug addicts.”
He again takes a long drink from his bottle of beer.
“I'm tryin a get drunk when I drink, I might take some drugs when I drink, fuck what ya think.”
He takes a couple of long, deep tokes on his joint and continues.
“But you think me and you are the same innit. What coz man like a lil' smoke and a drink? Nah, see one a them medicine fam, that's science ya nah, plus we both residin' in a legal state right now so ya views be kinda outdated innit, with all that talk about snitchin' you been doin' I mean who ya gonan tell fam? The bossman? Shit he already nah all about it fam I ain't hidin' it. On the real though I got two or three bad habits, or shit maybe I be in the denial I ain't know. But none the less I'm a admit it still, my name is Skrabal Stanzas, I'm the Mi' High Wrestlin' Champion, yeah ya heard me right man said the Mi' High Wrestling... and I'm an addict.”
His shifts forward in his seat, now sitting on the edge of the sofa he looks anxious as his eyes dart around the room.
“I can't deny it no more, I can't hide it. I ain't functional fam it's all an act. Man like Skrabz is addicted to the dub"
He relaxes instantly, an arrogant smile creeping across his face as he again puffs on his joint.
"And after that shit with Azzy ya done know I be fiendin' for a fix. See I was steady getting' it weekly at the start, but then that dose got switched to a bi-weekly schedule and shit I was strugglin' to maintain, come day ten and man a start cluckin' ya feel me? But e'ry fourteen days was kinda manageable. Then it finally happen though, I got caught slippin' and missed a dose and now I be deep in to them withdrawals blad. I got them cold sweats for days and my skin hurts ya nah. Fam it feels like the blood is ice in my veins and the sunlight burns my eyes. I nah ya been here Tyke, I nah you understand how desperate it gets when ya can't sit still, when ya can't sleep or eat, when ya cravin' that one ting that a jus' make e'rythin' better. See it's easy for you blad, you get like this and you jus' make a phone call, meet ya guy and soon enough you doin' e'rythin' ya can to avoid lookin' at yaself in that mirror ya snort those lines off, but ya feel better in the end. My fix ain't come that easy, my fix ain't come in a bag or a wrap, ya can't buy it by the gram fam, nah. Man like Skrabz has to work for his fix.”
He pauses and takes a quick drink of beer.
“But man be no stranger to hard work, ya can tell by the callouses. Ya can tell by checkin' back through Mi' High history, e'ry single pay per view since the first one had one name at the top of card, one name printed jus' a lil larger than all the others pon the top a the poster. That's my name fammo, in big bold letters... SKRABZ. And the shit ain't an accident blad,, it ain't happen by chance nah, I came in runnin' up those steps two at a time and I been planted firmly at the top in a Rocky stance ever since The Rise In Phoenix. So I'm a get my fix fam no doubt about it.”
He looks away from the camera and around the room as he puffs on his joint.
“Ya nah on the real this ain't have to be a personal issue fam, it really didn't. But you been runnin' 'round the past month or so doin' e'ry lil ting ya can to make it one. Coz you have to be Tyke Index innit, but all a that shit been unnecessary from the off coz it became personal the second ya went to the bossman instead a challengin' me like a man. Tyke ya been runnin' round actin' like a bitch since ya were granted the match and it make ya look weak to me fam coz I ain't nah about you but where I be from ya got an issue wit' somebody you confront 'em head on but seems all you been doin' is runnin' round tryin a cause dramas, attackin' man when he out there tryin' secure us both a dub in a tag match and havin' ya be ef ef jump me from the back too... Well come September fifteenth you ain't gonna have nowhere to hide blad, ain't gonna be no phone calls, ain't gonna be no Lance Mikes and even if there is I'm a slap him straight to the back in a second. Come September fifteenth you gotta go face to face, toe to toe with the big strap packer, the thick stack trapper, the king's back get whiplash I bitch slap actors... Yeah, and that's all ya been doin' fam, playin' ya part, and since ya wanna act up for the cameras man a take it to a castin' couch vibe ya nah. What that mean? It mean you 'bout to get fucked real good on cam, ya feel me?... Yeah I nah you get that one fam. You got that I post comments on pornhub steeze locked down. ”
He laughs smugly and shakes his head.
“But on the real you no different to e'ryone I done zipped up before ya. You jus' as depressin' to listen to as Solomon Cain and you 'bout as fake as Bullet too. Coz you on that misrepresent reality shit she been on, talkin' about man like Skrabz ain't acknowledge you when I did it for a year straight while you stayed sushed waitin' for ya hero Lance Mikes to come have ya back. Yeah, you a sweat shop fraud fam, poorly made and barely held together, in fact ya whole shit be comin' undone at the seams and man like Skrabz a be there to tear it all the way through on a Terry Marshal vibe, ya get me?”
He pauses and reaches out for his Mile High Wrestling Championship belt, he pulls it close and places it in his lap.
"Tyke I nah ya want this, I nah ya claim ya don't but that's ya insecurity talkin', they all want it fam and you ain't no different. And if it was ever gonna happen this the time, man is fresh off his first L since the re-boot but there a reason I be the Mi' High Champion and yeah you ain't misheard me... I said the Mi' High Champion coz they might a done renamed the ting but this the shit I been reppin' for a year and more so until I see a new piece that's what I'm a stay callin' it. There's a reason I had it for so long Tyke and I'm fixin' to remind e'ry single one of 'em what that reason is. So you might a done skirted past e'ry one that stood in front a you lately but I'm pickin' right back up where I left off, I got two names at the top a my shit list and you jus' above ya boy Lance so Man like Skrabz be walkin' in to Spectacular Two and gettin' his fix, catchin' that dub and walkin' out with both belts held high and there ain't a single ting you or anybody else can do about it"
He pauses again and finishes his beer.
"Coz it's my true nature to slew fakers, screw haters. Who greater than this soothsayer? It's true playa, ya see me packin' two straps like the Tomb Raider!”
He takes a finale deep toke on his joint then continues, smoke shooting from his mouth and consuming the camera's view.
Standard!
He leans forward, through the cloud of smoke, and taps at his phone ending the recording.
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