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~~C Y R E N~~ · (04-11-2013)

Trashing the Senator
The bad press junket needs no greased wheels

Disappointment upon disappointment.

Sir?

This guy...just...what can you really say when someone is clearly so inept at forming sentences, never mind opinions and arguments? And so, so easily led.

Led, sir?

We’ve opened to find Neonero reclining on a large leather sofa, his right leg draped across his left knee, tablet in his lap. Opposite him, in a small wooden chair, sits Norris Cole, his trusty PA.

Yes, Norris. When you have someone on the back foot two promos in a row, you know you have them by the jaffas (ooc: testicles). See how he backtracked on his first promo faster than his secretary going down on the local football team? ‘Oh, I didn’t mean it guys, I was drunk!’ The great irony here is that I created this silly little ‘bad press junket’ as a kind of pastiche, but he’s done all the work for me. I had more planned, I was going to visit so many places...but really, what's the point? It’d be about as pointless as letting this guy speak in front of children. We already saw just how pointless that little exercise was.

Well, eh, quite, eh, eheh...

He called me a hypocrite...Norris, am I a hypocrite?

Umm...

You’re damn right I am a hypocrite! Firstly, though, I stole no ideas from the Senator. He sat down and pretended to be useful to a room of children, in what was really just an exercise in showing his xenophobia towards Hispanics. I stood and educated a class of real ‘All American’ candidate kids, and told them how their neo-con-fascist regime works, and they applauded me. How that relates to Ursula Areano stealing everything but my cock, I have no idea.

...

But Senator, I AM a hypocrite. You tell the world Neonero is a hypocrite as if you’ve just unlocked the Bible code or something. Guess what, I have never hidden my hypocrisy. It’s somewhat ironic that the last guy to point this out to me was Japanese. But I am not a nice guy. I am not your friend, I’m not the XWF’s friend. I don’t pretend to be a nice guy. Unlike you, I don’t pretend to be something I’m not. Bad guys don't give a shit if they tell a few lies to get ahead. Cowards pretend they never lie.

Nero chuckles.

It’s borderline hilarious that you claimed to have ‘done your research’ on me, and yet all you offered up as follow on from that was ‘Nero thought Ursula was copying him’. Wow, proper sleuthing there, Sammy! No wonder you need a fucking PA to do all your work for you. How about looking back a little further than a week? Or two weeks? How about the turn of the year, when I captured the European title from YOUR former US champion, Mark Flynn? Back when he was considered a main event talent around here, one of the best, not the one man loss train that he is today? How about the guy who reached the Lethal Lottery finals, carried Gilmour twice, and twice stood toe to toe with another man who’s become a one man loss streak, Cyren, back when he was still considered a ‘legend’ and one to be beat? Are you seeing a pattern here, Senator?

I think I d...

Norris, don't interrupt me when I’m in character you FUCK!

Sorry sir.

The pattern, dearest Johnny, is that I make people lose their shit. I take the best and have them questioning their own shit. I have the best falling off. You wouldn't understand this, because you are such a mess that you don't even know what you are. You thought you could come at me with your two-dimensional ‘anti liberal foreigners are lazy ten million racist jokes’ attitude and I’d be shitting bricks. You thought you could talk to me as if I were on the level of a Neil Capra. You thought your little bit about being the great American holding the European title was going to have me cowering. That calculation is possibly the funniest, because what you fail to recognise, is that when the bell sounds, you aren’t in ‘America’. You aren’t in ‘Europe’. You aren’t in ‘slant eyed land’. You aren’t in ‘deepest Africa’. You aren’t in...well I’ll leave the inane racial quips to you, clearly they aren’t my forte. That shit belongs on Saturdays.

Nero looks at the camera disparagingly. He’s previously expressed his distaste for the Saturday crowd, and doesn’t seem to want us to forget it.

The point is...when that bell rings, the one and only place you will be, is in the ring.

In my land.

Mein land

Nero beats his chest mockingly, as if he were King Kong protecting his island.

That was some German by the way. I don't know if you’ll relate to Germany and pat them on the back for their nationalism and expulsion of all other races in the 1930’s, or whether you’ll make a comment about bratwurst. Frankly, it’ll be just as original whichever way. But since you’re so eager to throw these boring things around, here it is again.

DU BIST HIER IN MEINE LAND.

Nero inanely sings the line in the style of Till Lindemann, making sure the German is fully accented.

You’re here in my land. It doesn’t matter if you have Heyman relay the mat with a bald eagle in the center. Stars and stripes on the valance. Red white and blue ring ropes. Your shitty anthem playing throughout the whole match. You dressed as Uncle Sam.

A shake of the head.

The outcome will be just the same. You have literally no concept of how fucked you already are. It would be one thing if you’d angered me. Then maybe I’d come at you blazing, ready to make mistakes and give you openings. But you’ve fucking bored me. You’ve left me with nothing but dull disdain. Which means, unfortunately for you, that I will have to make my own fun. And that entails treating you like a fucking gimp in that ring. I’m not just going to ‘kick your ass’, as I’m sure you’d imaginatively say. I’ll kick you in the mouth so hard my toes will be probing your Goddamned intestines. And you’ll develop the taste for feet in your mouth so easily being the miscreant you are, that you’ll inexplicably start copying old Scorpio promos week on week.

Oh shit, no he didn’t! Another pipe bomb!

Oh, America. Do you know how easy it would have been for me to come out and make stereotypical jokes about the US? Obesity? Plastic surgery? Blind nationalist sentiment? Celebrity culture? Steroids and shoulder pads etc? The reason I didn’t is that I mistakenly took this guy for a fucking senator. I made the mistake of believing such low brow jibes were the ballpark of the likes of more mediocre talent here. I made the mistake of thinking a politician would have something to say about politics. Does that mean I expected us to stink the joint up with political debate? Absolutely not. But I at least expected you to have some semblance of a grasp on politics. Instead, I get the sophomore kid I thought I was finally getting past seeing around here. So yeah, when I say I am disappointed in you, I’m being completely sincere. Whether that matters to you or not is beyond the point. I aint trying to ratify ya. It’s a statement of fact. It’s me telling the world you are a disappointment. Which you fucking are. And maybe one day, when you’re running America, and drunkenly firing off nukes like you’re a character in Dr Strangelove, then people will really see what I meant. And I’ll just stand in the corner throwing my arms up in despair.

Nero sighs.

Because that’s why people like you get away with being elected. You just hum the right tune, and it makes no odds what you say or do. You even cannibalise your own to get to the top. Remember what you did to poor old Budd Dwyer? No, I suppose you will have to ‘Google’ him, since you aren’t a real politician. Budd Dwyer was exactly what people like you feed off; an honest man. He was beloved in his hometown, the state treasurer, and well on his way to a bigger office. Then his supposed ‘friend’ sold him to the wind, took bribes from a Mafioso, and Budd was aired out in public as a liar who could be bought off. Even charged in court for it. The man then took a handgun to his final press conference, and shot himself. Years later it would emerge that it had in fact all been lies, that he was a good guy, but who lets facts get in the way of a good campaign trail?

Nero shakes his head.

That’s the kind of man John Samuels is, willing to do anything to get to the top. Don’t let his baby kissing fool you into thinking otherwise. Don’t let him dupe you into thinking he’s a hard-line guy who will give white America back to, well, white America? His xenophobia is genuine, but he will just as soon put his foot on the throat of another ‘white man’ to get to the top as he would a ‘coloured man’. Yes, Neonero is a liar, a cheat and a hypocrite, but at least he does it all to your face. Yes, I would just as happily pin another Englishman or Korean as pin an American. You know why that is? Because its all the same to me. What do you think, Norris?

Maybe we should ask Ricky Steamboat?

Ah yes! The great ‘Asian equaliser’. The instrument by which John Samuels attempts to fight what he sees as 'fire' with 'fire'. Only, Jackass, there’s a major problem with that. Steamboat is actually just as American as you. He was so ‘borderline’ Asian looking that he was even billed as from Hawaii. Which, even if it does have a fair few Asian looking faces, is still part of America. So you basically just beat up an American for no reason other than ‘you thought he had a little slant in his eyes’, and that was supposed to send a message to me? The only thing it did was reinforce how stupid you are to the people at home.

Nero laughs again, shaking his head disdainfully.

You see, once again, you’d have known this if you really ‘did your research’. Neonero is just as outspoken on Europe as he is on America. And given just cause to bring it up I’ll be just as hard-line on Asian affairs. You see, Sammy, I don’t live in my own myopic little bubble like you do. I make it a point to know about the world. While you’re banging your fist and worrying about your sordid little microcosm, I’m out here enjoying and learning about the macrocosm that is planet Earth. Which puts me in a distinctly better position than you to understand even your microcosm.

Nero shrugs.

Buuuuut, that’s to far over your head right? Shall I just come to the ring wearing a red coat, carrying a bayonet, will that put you more at ease?

I could be the drummer boy.

See, even fucking Norris is getting in on the jokes. You do realise that’s what you are, Samuels? Nary more than a caricature to be laughed at?

I do have a question for you, though. As well as your rampant xenophobia, you also expressed the phrase ‘this is what you do to them when they get too old’. So, I am very interested to know, which branch of eugenics is it that you studied? Which traits will you be looking for in your post apocalyptic human race?

Neonero shudders, the thought of a post apocalyptic world where the leader is someone like Samuels sending a shiver down his spine. Might as well just wipe us all out, it’d have the same amount of beneficial effect on humanity.

Ugh. Good day sir...

...I said good day.

Her
Glimmers, fragments of reality

When we look at the past, she eyeballs us right back, her sentient eyes filled with every fibre of mistake and humility that can be comprehended. She scalds us and soothes us, showing us all of the good in our lives, then showing us all the bad. She is indiscriminate, a creature of no whim or remorse; she exists simply as a mirror.

Memories are starting to seep back. Neonero is starting to receive flashes, glimpses, peeks if you will, of his own bizarre past. They come and go, in random patterns, like some impossible jigsaw, but certain factors remain constant, certain things remain...attention grabbing.

That face. She comes to him while he sleeps.

“You say let’s live together like birds of a feather,
You wont say that tomorrow.
I say let’s love today like it’s the last day that we know.”

She dances in his mind, her fingers pointing ever at him, but never reaching him. Her lips mouthing over and over...Do you love me?

[Image: sbq3pg.gif]

Who is she? Why does she haunt me so?

Another flash. This time altogether more real. Nero’s stood in a kitchen, presumably his home, a steaming mug of coffee resting atop the worktop beside him, the steam wafting gracefully into the air, right as Nero crashes with no hint of grace to his knees, propping himself from going face-first into the burgundy hued tiles with his palms. This memory isn’t just realer, its raw. It’s tearing at every muscle in his body.

//

They’re in a restaurant, open air...in the background a million beautiful city lights, which seem to be miles away across an expanse of water. It’s night, and those lights are just dim enough to cease from obscuring the stars, making it a beautiful combination. As always, we are left with this distinct feeling that we are not just witnessing a perfect moment, but we are also experiencing all the emotions it stirs in the heart as if we were Nero in his place. Yet we don’t know this girl. We’ve seen her face many a time, though compared to Nero’s mind, we’ve barely seen her once.

A small sailboat comes into view, arcing past both Nero and the girl; the sail flies high, momentarily obscuring our view of the pair. As it moves away, we realise that once again, Nero has been left all alone. The girl is nowhere to be seen, and he stares coldly out at the ocean, as if willing it to swallow him whole. But he is, of course, not granted this, and the ocean simply rises and falls....rises and falls...an impartial observer to all his tumult.

The scene seems all too familiar, until we hear Nero utter a single word...

Bora...

We fade

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