There's no diversity; because we're all burning in the melting pot - Immortal Technique




"Tell me again; who the fuck is this woman?!"

Michael stabbed his finger at Trevor with every word of his demand for information, before pointing over to me. Apparently, he doesn't believe that his own partner would even understand whom he was referring to. I pull the notepad from my back pocket, and begin to make note of it, when Michael turns his full attention over to me.

"Okay, another question. What the FUCK are you doing?"

He snatches the pad out of my hand and skims it, a slight chuckle escaping his mouth as his eyes scan further and further down the small piece of paper in front of him.

"Yeah, you got Trevor all figured out."

"What?! That bitch is fuckin' writing about me?! The fuck is she sayin'?"

"Nothing you shouldn't already know, T."

The chuckle erupts into a full on burst of laughter as he hands the notepad back to me. Taking it in my hand, I slide it back into my pocket. For some reason, I lost the urge to continue the thought. Trevor stands up, getting in the face of the still laughing Michael, when the front door swings open and slams shut. After a few moments, a pretty well built African American man steps into the room.

"Shit man, I didn't even know you could laugh!"

"Haha!"

"Fuck off, Franklin."

His demeanor shifts back in gear, cracking his knuckles loudly before laying his hands on the back of the couch that Trevor was seated on. Franklin's eyes wander around the room as he sits down in the chair facing where the others sat and stood.

"And your name is...?"

"Jessie."

I lean back against the wall, looking down at the ground while the others glare at each other, waiting for someone to talk. My fingers drum against the white painted walls in silence, further fueling the awkwardness of this silence to the point of overflow. That's too fitting, I think I can actually feel the awkwardness spilling onto the floor, dampening my feet and nipping at my ankles.

Okay, maybe not that vivid.

"Are we gonna fuckin' ogle each other, or did you call me here for something important?!"

Trevor snapped the silence in half, and threw it aside. Standing up, he began to storm out of the room, which I closely follow before a particularly desperate cry from the host turns us both back around.

"Wait! Yeah, I called you for something important. Just sit down, God dammit!"

He obliges, walking back toward the couch, when a wall rattling knock came from the door.

"LSPD! COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!"

"For God's sake Trevor; what did you do this time?!"

Grumbling under his breath, Trevor's arms crossed in front of him, a childlike look of annoyance crossing his face.

"Why do you assume it's my fault?"

Yeah, Michael's pretty pissed. He slams his fist down on the couch before charging at Trevor, shoving me aside and sending me at the wall.

"Oh, I don't know; maybe it's because YOU'RE A FUCKING PSYCHOPATH!"

The last four words emphasized by a change in volume and Michael's finger stabbing at Trevor's chest. Bouncing off the wall, heart racing, I step between the two and push them away before turning to Michael.

"Look, I could sit here and listen to you bicker like a fucking married couple all day. But we all know what's going to happen if we don't start running right now..."

Both of their heads turn to face mine. In reluctant unison, they nod in acknowledgement. Franklin, who up until this point was still in the chair, stands up and rushes over to us.

"Shit, we gotta get going!"

No hesitation here, from any of us. In a single file line, we hurry to the garage, before piling into a sports car owned by Mr. De Santa himself. Sitting in the backseat with Franklin, I feel something land on my lap. Looking down; I see the cause. A shiny new (well, I think it's new. It's shiny, so it most be new, right?) handgun, lay on top of my crotch. Oh, fuck.

"Oh, and Michael?"

A surprised look appears on his face when he turns to face me. Oh, right. I haven't learned his name yet.

"Yeah?"

I tilt my head to the side to look him directly in the eye, and in the most innocent sounding voice I can muster, a weak, childlike smile on my face, I tell him...

"If you shove me aside again, I will fucking murder you."

After that outburst, and the opening of the garage door; the inside of the car goes silent. The only noises now, the yelling of the police officers and the roar of the car's engines.

Was it something I said?

***


"Peter Gilmour. What is there to say about this man, that hasn't been said millions upon millions of times in the past? An overweight, under talented, attention craving man whore. A man who subliminally wishes he got half as much dick as Alexandra Callaway, and that last part being an insult only because of his own outspoken condemnations of the homosexual community. The hypocritical stigma that he carries around day in and day out on top of all the other weight he puts up with proves itself justified with that one truth alone.

Yet, I could easily point out hundreds upon hundreds of other examples, should I need them. However, that would be overkill, so I'll continue on with just one more example."

(10-05-2013, 12:15 PM)Peter Fn Gilmour Said: blah blah blah same shit different day from you immature pricks..

"Yes, he said that. The man who can't seem to find an insult above homophobic slurs, death threats, and the word cunt is calling others immature. You see, day in and day out, he will repeat these three comebacks because he is indeed too stupid, too fucking braindead to even comprehend the existence of other insults. What a miserable existence, that of the life of the most mentally handicapped man I've ever come in contact with.

Spewing hate speech on any and everyone of his gender who dares call him out on his bullshit. Now, I have to ask, how in the fuck has no one insulted us on the grounds of being gay, when we are? No no, they're all too content (them being Gilmour, the rest of the Extreme Revolution, The Brotherhood, and almost all of the unaffiliated roster) calling Luca Arzegotti and John Madison, two heterosexual men, for something they all very vividly imagine.

Meanwhile, Jessie brings her fucking girlfriend to a dinner organized on XWF money, and no one cares.

For God's sake; be consistent.

If there's nothing stopping you from lashing out with gay slurs at Madison and Arzegotti, what the FUCK is stopping you from berating us with the same thing?

Because it's offensive to an actual gay person? Fuck you, fuck all of you with the same dick you think goes in Luca's ass every night, you fucking pansies.

That really isn't how a champion should conduct themselves, and that's exactly why Peter Gilmour isn't a champion. Don't let the belt he wears fool you, the man is a handout dependent scrub who loses a title that didn't even win on his own. Must be a great thing for his Extreme Revolution to put their asses on the line and Peter 'F'n ' Gilmour shits the bed not even moments later. Now Mr. Radio's a champion again. Thank you Gilmour, that's what we needed.

He coasted by to his trios titles victory, much like Callaway did in her 'victory' over me. Wow, the more and more I think about it, the more and more it seems as though they're similar.

Both have unjustified senses of superiority.

Both NEED other people for one reason or another.

And both are as useless as our Fallopian tubes.

Scratch that, more useless.

They're made for each other, and they just can't see it. It's soooooo romantic!

Now, here's what I'll assume Gilmour will respond with.

'SHUT UP, CUNT!'

Because, I'm apparently, a...

Cunt!

Wow, I might need to take a seat, because that's a huge fucking revelation.

Shut up, imaginary Gilmour.

You're almost as useless as the real thing."