Episode 5: The Wheels on the Shortbus Go 'Round and 'Round

Where do I start?

Where the fuck do I even begin with this newcomer, greenhorn sack of goat shit that waltzed right on in, polluted the already worthless soil that is the current crop of new "Talent" that seems to enforce the fact that GMs instead of doing their jobs; instead of doing what they claim and pulling in the most talented and promising of prospects instead decide to pick up some scrub who couldn't sell glasses to the blind and not only that, let him run wild and free spouting out stupid bullshit about being the "King of Kings"? Whose idea was Axle King? I want names dammit.

Sure, at the end of the day, the only one responsible for this fucking idiot's brain dead challenge to the "King" of the XWF was himself and instead of Theo Pryce just coming out and saying exactly what he meant, he decided to go the whole convoluted route and told this rookie that if he could beat someone that he would throw them against that he would receive a shot at the oh so prestigious whatever the fuck the trinket is.

In reality, our great "King" would probably just invite him to his little conglomerate of people who have the skill but not the balls to face him. But because he knew that this fucking ingrate wasn't actually worth shit, he decided to throw him to the wolves.

That's where I stepped in. Someone with a very bad attitude.

Someone with a temper.

Someone with the overwhelming urge to destroy some rookie piece of garbage's entire livelihood, smash their self esteem into tiny, little pieces and then snort up the last remaining traces of whatever confidence they had going in. This isn't going to be me having some odd monologue where I talk about how great I am because obviously I'm so great that no one in the fucking world knows why I am or if I actually am.

Just take my word on it guys! I'm cool as fuck! I'm Axle King!

I'm the guy who's going to face off against Lazarus on Madness...

...And I'm the guy who's going to lose. I'm the guy who's going to get his ass kicked so hard that my intestines will line my fucking esophagus. However, I need to look confident so maybe he won't think I'm quivering in fear behind every word I unconvincingly spew out of my untalented mouth.

Guess what: I noticed.

I noticed and no amount of "When the day is your day all this cool shit will happen" will ever change the fact that i can recognize your fucking fear as you continue to ramble on about worthless appendages about worthless parts of a worthless life that you try to glorify. The perfect "life" is so fucking flawed fundamentally that I can rip it apart with one simple injection of truth:

You just can't get over the fact that I'm in a "superhero" mask and similar get up. That'll be the entirety of what you say in response behind your chattering teeth because you know that's the only thing you have on me. My clothing choice. My way to conceal my identity. Wow, way to go there Sherlock you sure have dug up the fucking dirt on me! I guess I have to just go away and hope that you in your infinite wit don't find some way to make this actually work as an insult-

Oh, wait. That's a little too far above your league, Mister "what I do and how I'll do it, it will lead to the very best outcome. Always." A little, way too far out of your league. No no, you'll sit there, at the very bottom of the drain, try reflecting what I call you back onto me for that like a fucking child saying "I know you are but what am I?" (Yeah Theo, take notes. That's how you call someone a fucking child.). Claim yourself to be great when at best you're mediocre and at your worst I presume you'll be worse than Peter Gilmour.

Call out people who say you've had things handed to you.

Because the way I see it: you shouldn't have to worry about that comment. You've gotten nothing handed to you. Certainly not any intrigue, or charisma, or likely talent.

All you have, is a shitty thought process and enough delusion to act like you stand a chance against me. Act being the keyword here because you know you're in over your head. That's why you won't dare open your mouth to talk about me and why you keep on talking about how "great" you are.

Never once bringing me up.

Never once mentioning your opponent. And yet, here you are, talking nothing.

What was it you said? About your story being a well told lie by an experienced conman?

I think it's more along the lines of a poorly constructed lie spoken by a shithead who deludes himself so heavily that he can't see the writing on the wall: the inevitable conclusion written in lights and broadcast across the stars plainly for all to see:

King Fails, Royally

Because that's the major difference between you and I. You're content to tell everyone who great you are.

And I'm content to show it. Just like what'll happen when I dispose of lukewarm vomit that's sullied up my ring. My return, my descent, my reintroduction to Madness has just begun.

You've met with a terrible fate, haven't you?

Soon, I'll be everywhere

And there's nothing your delusions of grandeur can do, or more accurately in the sense that you're the type who so heavily replies on telling the world your supposed greatness, can say to stop it. Just, embrace your failure. I'm sure if you're half as good as you say you are, you'll make losing look so fucking good.

Sunday, January 19th, 2014 - 11:00 AM PST - Sophia's Bedroom - Los Angeles, California

"So, how old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Ah!" I jolt upward, scattering the blankets off me and exposing my naked body to the sunlight for the first time in forever. Shit, it was just a dream. Sophia stirs next to me, tossing over onto her other side, facing me. Her eyes squint, forced into position by the beating rays of the sound pounding through the broken blinds.

"What was that about?" she asks airily. My eyes widen and dart across the room, hoping to find my clothes. lying somewhere on the ground.

"Oh, nothing," I said with an awkward chuckle, my eyes still trying their hardest to find my clothes and identity concealers. "Just gotta do something with the war mongers today. Apparently I need to do one more thing with them to further their trust of me or some cliche video game bullshit."

"Ugh, sounds like them. Just be sure to let me know when you come back. I'd hate for what we did to be a one time thing."

Well, if you're the age I think you are, it will be. I keep that thought to myself, not wanting to rouse suspicion. I get off the bed and wander around the room, stark naked in search of my clothes. Finally! I find them, laying adjacent to the bed, shrouded from above by none other than the covers I tossed about in the first place. Just my fucking luck, huh? Grabbing them, along with my identity concealers (which were nicely laid out atop my clothes; even in drunkness I realize that importance), I get dressed and rush out the door, down the hallway of the compound, wherein the absence of thee partygoers last night gave the calmest, most peaceful feeling of loneliness that I've ever felt. Naturally, that didn't last too long as soon I found myself in the main room of the building, where Tough Guy and Jorge were seated on the couch, watching the highlights of some basketball game on the TV.

"Shit man, you look like you had a rough night," Jorge said as I stepped in the room.

"What? Is my bandanna off balance?" I shot back, joking adjusting the thing so that it was, in fact, off balance.

"Well yeah, now that ya mention it..."

"Shut up, the both of you," commanded Tough Guy, the anguish in his body after last night still prevalent in his tone: meek and crackly as opposed to bombastic and cocky. His eyes drooped and bags sacked the lower portions of his eyelids, red and puffy in response to the rainstorm that battered the sides of his face in the darkness of his own room. His own sanctuary where he could be free from the prejudices that told him how to behave as the leader.

I saw it in them, and his response confirmed it.

He lost his brother last night.

"Look man, we gotta get you introduced to the next biggest part of our operation; besides killin' them Eighteenth Street muhfuckas. Come with us."

Getting off the couch, both Jorge and Tough Guy pass me on their way out the front door where in the driveway sat Jorge's car; the one we used to get away from the driveby that I want to say was forever ago.

I'm delegated to the backseat again. Oh well, it was comfortable last time.

"You ever sell yeyo before holmes?" he asks, jamming the key into the ignition. He takes a moment to adjust his seat before turning it however, and the silence between his question and the sound of the engine coming to life were just enough for me to think of the perfect lie: so ingenious in its one word simplicity:

"No."

"Well shit man, you're gonna learn a lot today."

You too, partner.

You too...