The Emperor Caligula once set out to conquer Britain, but on reaching the coast, he instead ordered his thousands of soldiers to collect seashells. He then returned to Rome declaring victory over the sea.
A cerulean sea rises and falls, stretching out in every direction, its waters calm, disturbed only by the perceptible ripple caused by whatever mode of transport we observe from. In the distance the sun; hanging high in the sky, casting its golden rays upon the gleaming surface. It’s the picture of idyll.
Things begin to shift. That bright blue sky, and the sun that is set so comfortably atop its azure muse, are suddenly darkened. First a wisp, then a large grey rain cloud...then in moments the sky is covered with a dark grey blanket of clouds; the sea no longer shines, its incandescent gleam replaced with dark shadows, and the waters start to look less and less inviting, as if some inky substance were dulling and darkening it from the depths below. The brume rolls across its surface like an avalanche.
All at once the heavens open, and rain teems down, smashing the water as if it were Sebastian Duke slamming French whores. The sea begins to heave. Waves crash all about, rising to heights previously unimaginable, at times completely obscuring our view of the sky. It’s as if there is some unknown tumult driving this change; its been too sudden, too extreme.
And then we see it. At first it’s just a glimpse; some rubbery foreign object in our gaze, just beneath the surface, but then as a wave rises and falls, it’s gone. Then we see it again, far to the left of the original sighting...and then another to the right. These strange eldritch masses start to rise from the water, and we realise we are looking at tentacles; they rise and smash the waves, as if their locomotion alone is dictating the motion of the seas, cracking like whips and parting what they affront.
The seas suddenly calm again.
The tentacles subside.
The skies clear.
The water returns to its glorious cerulean hue, the sky to its azure.
And, just as we are regaining calm, a lone tentacle rises, seemingly grabbing us, and pulling us down into the murky brine of the sea. Death is fast; if not by asphyxiation, it comes from water pressure. We’re smothered by this eldritch beast, and we are no more.
We now cut, suddenly, away from this bizarre nautical nightmare, and into Neonero’s office. He’s sat back in his reclining desk chair, feet crossed on the table. To the right, or, to be pedantic about it, to his left, sit two European titles, each identical but for one nuance; the nameplate. One reads Neonero, the other Jeff Hardy. Neonero crosses his palms, and raises his hands to his face, placing his forefingers under his chin, then quirks his head to the side a little.
I hope you all appreciate that elaborate metaphor I just spun for you. I realise it will go over about 90% of your heads. And for that reason I guess I had better explain it.
A long, deep inhalation through the nose, eyes closed. We wait for an awkward amount of time, almost as if Neonero is deliberately throwing us off kilter with his body language.
Youngest Jeffrey, your bedtime story skills are admirable. You must be a great father, which is fortunate, because lord knows you suck at just about everything else in life, unless falling from heights and swapping piss samples is a skill. You spun a tale of giant squid and cutlasses, off chopping up tentacles and heroics, book ended with Elmo.
The Kraken, Jeffrey, happens to be real. Not a figment of imagination. For centuries, tales of giant squid were passed around sailors, but the creatures were believed to be a myth. And then we confirmed their existence. Along with Colossal squid. These beasts grow almost 50 feet long. Imagine swimming next to that. It’d make you look smaller than your cock looks next to a pencil.
The most inane, sarcastic grin you’ve ever seen. Left for a second, then withdrawn as if it never were.
But back to our business. You and I know I didn’t spin you that luscious little story just to show you that squids can grow really, really big maaaan. This was actually one of those annoying, Nero-esque examples of a metaphor transcending wordplay. You see, just over a month ago, Paul Heyman presented you with the calmest of seas. You evaded the Kraken, the beast disappeared into a sea of faces, presumably never to rise again. You thought you were safe, you defended the belt that you’d barely won week on week, against all manner of pond scum – Corino, you’ll get a mention later.
But life isn’t that simple. You see, for a man who shares the name Nero, I assumed you’d have a bit more about you. Some refinement perhaps, a little fun insanity, some cruelty. But instead you are nothing more than the poster child for Rehab, who happens to read bedtime stories.
Nero looks at the camera and shrugs, a look of displeasure creasing over his face.
A man like you doesn’t belong in my world, and you will learn that very soon. You’ve spent the last month paddling in the shallow end of the pool, probably wearing your kids damn armbands. And I am sure you had lots of fun playing inflatable rings with the likes of JP Corino. Why did I attack Corino? Why did I attack you? Revenge? Anger? Pity? The simple truth is much clearer. I twatted you with a chair because I can. I dropped Corino on his head because I can. Bitch, I am not even out of first gear right now. You want to talk about what I can do, why don't you go back just two months and watch me making your current US Champion – as if that’s an accolade by the way – tap out? Do you know how many people have made Flynn tap? An army of one. Flynn is considered one of the best here, and I made him tap. You are to Flynn what shit is to a shovel. Which means you are to me nothing more than shit. I could say I am going to shovel your ass out of here but that is such a lame metaphor. So lame I could only give it to our dear Marcus.
Nero removes his legs from the table, and we take in the scene a little more. Behind him, the now famous bust of the emperor Nero looms, his eyes seemingly sterner and more intense than normal. We wonder how a marble bust can change its expression so, but the thought is fleeting as Nero clicks his fingers and brings us back into his thrall.
I’m trying. I really am. It’s rather hard putting a straight face on when I talk about this, guys. I mean, Jeff Hardy? Are we serious now? If it wasn’t for Heyman’s antics this guy wouldn’t be worth scratching smegma off a gnat’s dick. Ah yeah smegma, this one’s for that piece of human smegma, John Madison. You foolishly squared up to me and offered me a date with your STI ridden carcass in the gauntlet. You know, I gave some of the hookers you use a call the other day. On an inane whim, I thought I’d get the inside scoop on just what would make a girl so desperate for money that she’d suck John Madison’s cock for blow money.
Nero clears his throat.
You know the funny part? The girl I spoke to told me that in the world of whores, a day with a guy like John Madison is actually, I shit you not, referred to as ‘the gauntlet’. People used to sympathise with miners for their working conditions. Remember those daft cunts who got themselves stuck in a Chilean mine a couple of years ago? Those guys had it easy compared to these poor whores. Not only is it their job to get guys like you off, its also their job to get guys like you off. The sweaty piles of STDs and STIs. She told me that they usually relish having a younger guy to entertain, but you were so scummy they had to shower three times after leaving just to get rid of the stank. And that’s just the girls who watch.
Nero’s face is suddenly lighter, as if something has amused him.
The funniest part of that call, though, has to be the part where the girl seemed to go into some kind of lucid dream when she spoke about John Black. Apparently, you like to throw him the scraps from the table at the end of the day. Well, apparently he did them so good that they actually paid him at the end. Food for thought.
I’m throwing you a bone Maddy. We can do this or we can piss in the wind. If you want to step up let’s do it for real. Not just talk about whores and squid. Show me the old John Madison, the cunt who won the Captains War games match, the guy who made Shane ’s life a living hell, instead of this wisecracking whore shagging miscreant. Because lets face it, any of us can play that role, cant we?
Nero pulls out his tablet, it’s a Kindle Fire, maybe he’s been reading books while he was away? We make note that its not the HD version, because he doesn’t pay extra for pointless shit. Momentarily he turns the tablet to the camera. A British flag is waving as if it were a real flag waving in the wind.
I’m always amused with America country and the huge hypocrisy it breeds. You celebrate your ‘freedom’ from the English monarchy every year, but when our monarchy has news you’re more interested in it than we are. You bang on about your gun rights, how you need guns in case your government decides to subvert you – because guns are such good defence against satellites, predator missiles, planes etc right guys – and yet, you allow 40% of the tax money you all pay to go towards military which seems to have the sole MO of subverting other nations. You bleat about your freedoms while living off corporations. You support war on the sole basis that you must defend Christendom yet you claim to be modern. You reject the worship of leaders, yet you idolise your past presidents as if they were Gods amongst men, you laud your nation’s independence yet your monuments are all modelled on ancient Greek and Roman constructs and made at the hands of European masons.
Sniff.
So, you’d think I’d be happy to be back in England. Not so. See, I am, unlike you sappy cunts in the states, perfectly capable of criticising my own government without deeming that I am being ‘unpatriotic’. Our imperialist actions are as bad as yours. Our hypocrisy is as bad as yours. Our armchair sheep are a bag of nachos from being identical to yours. We wave our flags and celebrate our great, millennia old nation, yet our nations as we know them were only forged in the 1400’s, just a few centuries before your America.
The English wave the St George’s cross flag with no idea who he was historically, and no realisation of the fact he never even stepped on the British isle. Our greatest leaders, like Richard the Lionheart, actually lived in what is now the north of France, and didn’t even speak English. But who needs facts right? The decay of this nation makes me sick. We build our nations on the backs of the poor, then send the same poor out to die, just to make us richer, and just to spend all of that money on enriching those who are already rich. This country is a perfect amalgam of the fact that humans are just uncultured ants. Ants have the decency to understand their place in the colony. We humans? Selfish. Nothing but.
He clears his throat like an old drunkard with emphysema.
So why should I be any different? Hardy, you dandy cum rag, I am the fucking kraken in your ocean, you have no concept of how fucked you already are. Why do I have two belts? Because one of them is the belt I wore after beating Mark Flynn, and one of them is the codpiece Heyman gave you. We can decide on Sunday which is the real one, eh? I’m happy to smelt the other one. See, I could give a shit for these trinkets, its not them that hold power, it’s the word ascribed to them: Title. Champion. A reminder to all that I am your golden standard. I am your superior. I am that which should be feared.
He tosses the kindle aside nonchalantly.
A selfish cunt like me cares little for you, your drug paraphernalia, your kid and responsible parenting, your desire to hold what’s mine as a sign of progress. All I care about is what I want, and what I want nothing more than anything else right now is to paint the ring with your blood, take back what’s mine, and rag doll you around that cage like you were a whore in John Black’s bedroom. I have a message for your kid, since I’m sure being the responsible parent you are you will have her watching shows like this; study the word obituary, young one.
I’ve not come back here to fuck around. You may find humour in my words, the way I speak of John Madison, the way I describe myself as the kraken. But the truth is, Jeffrey, I am not even started yet. You want me to come at you for real, show me something. So until that day comes, I will treat you as what you are, the last minute man, and if Japan has it right, creatures with tentacles exist solely to rape. So try and keep your arse to the wall, because I am not one to stand on ceremony.
He sits back calmly, a wry smile creasing his lips.
And while I’m here, Paul E, don’t think I’ve forgotten you. We’ll be having words soon.
We fade
Put a little steak on the barbecue, we’re just getting cooking.
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’s life a living hell, instead of this wisecracking whore shagging miscreant. Because lets face it, any of us can play that role, cant we?![[Image: neeeeero_zps69f6b2d3.jpg]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v365/christianrules/neeeeero_zps69f6b2d3.jpg)
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