Post by THE Willie Pete on Feb 17, 2020 1:51:46 GMT -5
Mercy Killing
A blind-folded Willie Pete walks a narrow corridor. He’s beset on both sides by a riotous mass of people coming at him like angry dogs. They slam their hands against the flimsy chain link fencing separating him from them. Curled fingers clutch at the rusted wires, pulling it back and forth with a terrible wrenching noise.
Two people separate themselves from the pack. These two don’t want to attack Willie. They want to convince him of something. Convince him that they are above him and that he needs to give credit where it's due. Really, they’re desperate for his attention.
On his left, the female, she spits. She curses. She bleeds as she screams.
On his right, the damaged man, he wants Willie to know how important he is. He wants Willie to know that there’s no way he can hurt him.
“On my left, Anna Matthews. She’s desperate for attention while simultaneously posing as one who needs no attention at all. She struggles to find things original or unique. She sees herself when she hits play on the latest episode of ‘Doctor Who’, but as soon as the credits roll, she sees her sad insincere expression reflecting right back at her. She doesn’t know who she is, obscuring herself in a bright patchwork of pop culture references. She thinks she’s sophisticated, but she’s so painfully simplistic.”
Willie keeps walking as the wild man beside him glowers at him and roars.
“On my right, Cy Riddle. Yes, making his umpteenth return to the squared circle. He’s back to cast a petulant shadow over the wrestling world. How long will it be this time? Cy Riddle thinks so highly of himself and every statement he makes is aimed to protect himself from a potential attack. For Cy Riddle, every opponent is skulking in the darkness waiting for an opportunity to point out a weakness, or highlight one of his many hypocrisies. I won’t be one of them. For Cy Riddle, I have one thing to say, but to hear that, you’ll have to wait.”
Up ahead is a hanging tree. The corridor he walks, similar to a cattle run, opens up to it. There lies Willie’s Coup de Grâce.
“Coup de grâce is much more than simply a catchy name for a pay per view. The original meaning of the term is a death blow. The death blow that ends the suffering of those with no hope of survival. Whether it’s by choice or sheer mercy, the coup de grâce ends the misery.”
Moonlight illuminates the hanging tree and the noose hangs heavy and thick from the branch. As Willie approaches it, his posture loosens. Is he the dead man walking? Is this his final moment?
And still, the man and the woman harass him. Spit splatters his hair as he walks. Cries of belligerence deafen him.
“Should I condescend to acting as if I’m impressed with either Anna Matthews or Cy Riddle?”
He stops walking and despite opening himself up to further and much louder harassment, he actually has to ponder that thought as he gazes at the noose dead ahead.
“Neither will feign enthusiasm in regards to their opponents. Both share that insane self-righteous superiority. They truly believe they’re head and shoulders above all others. Anna Matthews believes hers is a kind of intellectual superiority. As if she’s ‘woke’ in some way we aren’t. If only I could blind myself to how basic her diatribe truly is. It’s this kind of inept manifesto laced with entirely borrowed sentiments and unoriginal attempts at being philosophical. She’s stuttering in a childish attempt to appear intelligent. Anyone can do that. Then Cy Riddle. Oh, how he believes he’s above and beyond every other wrestler he sees. He believes he’s this Christ-like figure, the sacrificial lamb, over and over again. Still, is he really? Isn’t this the same Cy Riddle we’ve seen replicated time and time again? Isn’t this the Cy Riddle that shows up like a lion at every new promotion before tucking tail and running? Yes, he’ll come back and yes, he’ll snarl like the wild beast, but once he’s seen for who he really is, he’ll once again dissolve. I promise that he will not last long at Union Battleground. Quote me now.”
Again, Willie puts one foot in front of the other. He’s steadily closing the distance between him and the noose. Those two belligerents to his left and right still follow him. Now they’re tearing their hands up against the chain link. Desperate for his attention still, at the expense of their own health.
“I prefer to smile. I am more likely to choose a joke than an insult.” He looks left and right and lets out a sigh, “But under these conditions, I have no choice but to wear a frown and accept my fate. For you watching, this may seem as if I’m giving up or I’m simply making a subtle statement that I’ve already been defeated. You may be correct in your assumption, but don’t hold your breath.”
Finally, Willie reaches the noose. All his peers can do is watch as he makes his way up to the steps. Now, they call for him to stop. They call for him to wait. They know that they are nothing without his attention. Nothing at all.
“The coup de grâce. Put me out of my goddamned misery! Not because I fear Cy Riddle or Anna Matthews. Not because I have already given up on my career at Union Battleground. No. Put me out of my misery because I cannot bear having to listen to Cy Riddle and Anna Matthews speak about themselves any longer! They both produce so much noise with so little substance. They both exist purely to suck the oxygen out of their surroundings, only to waste it as they eject masturbatory nonsense. Look at it yourself. That’s exactly what it is.”
Willie slides his head through the noose, It tightens beneath his chin. Now he’s smiling with cheeky relief.
“Put me out of my misery.”
He steps forward and falls, abruptly. All that can be seen is the rope as it pulls tight, followed by an abrupt and hollow snapping sound. His peers vanish.
SMASH CUT to a funeral.
Bobby Benson, Brodie, James Radford, Fukushima Zombie, Bryan Williams and even Wendy Wynner are all present, amongst others. They’re all dressed in black and each one wears a somber expression.
It’s a beautiful day, much too beautiful for such a sad event.
Bobby Benson lets out a sigh, offering, “How does one come to this sad end?”
A voice out of view of the camera answers, “When one’s existence is to suffer, is it not mercy to put an end to that existence, once and for good?”
Bobby nods as he steps back.
Pan around - It’s Willie. He’s standing over two graves. He’s wearing a black double-breasted suit, shirt, and tie, all by Brooks Brothers.
Pan around again and the crowd is gone; now he’s alone. He kneels down and grabs up a fist full of dirt.
“My misery was hearing them. Their misery was being themselves. I’ll put an end to all of that.”
He tosses the dirt - zoom out. He’s kneeling between two graves. The headstones oppose each other. One reads “Anna Matthews”, and the other, “Cy Riddle”. Both headstones share the same date: February 23rd, 2020.
Willie breathes out, “I prefer to wear a smile. I’d much rather share a joke than an argument. Shame on you both for turning me into this sad sack. I’m disgusted with your undeserved senses of superiority. I know it’s up to me to save you both from yourselves. At Coup de Grâce, you’ll both receive the mercy killings you both deserved, all of this time. And me? I’ll get to smile again.”
Now another hand full of dirt comes up, flying towards the lens of the camera, blacking it out.
End.
A blind-folded Willie Pete walks a narrow corridor. He’s beset on both sides by a riotous mass of people coming at him like angry dogs. They slam their hands against the flimsy chain link fencing separating him from them. Curled fingers clutch at the rusted wires, pulling it back and forth with a terrible wrenching noise.
Two people separate themselves from the pack. These two don’t want to attack Willie. They want to convince him of something. Convince him that they are above him and that he needs to give credit where it's due. Really, they’re desperate for his attention.
On his left, the female, she spits. She curses. She bleeds as she screams.
On his right, the damaged man, he wants Willie to know how important he is. He wants Willie to know that there’s no way he can hurt him.
“On my left, Anna Matthews. She’s desperate for attention while simultaneously posing as one who needs no attention at all. She struggles to find things original or unique. She sees herself when she hits play on the latest episode of ‘Doctor Who’, but as soon as the credits roll, she sees her sad insincere expression reflecting right back at her. She doesn’t know who she is, obscuring herself in a bright patchwork of pop culture references. She thinks she’s sophisticated, but she’s so painfully simplistic.”
Willie keeps walking as the wild man beside him glowers at him and roars.
“On my right, Cy Riddle. Yes, making his umpteenth return to the squared circle. He’s back to cast a petulant shadow over the wrestling world. How long will it be this time? Cy Riddle thinks so highly of himself and every statement he makes is aimed to protect himself from a potential attack. For Cy Riddle, every opponent is skulking in the darkness waiting for an opportunity to point out a weakness, or highlight one of his many hypocrisies. I won’t be one of them. For Cy Riddle, I have one thing to say, but to hear that, you’ll have to wait.”
Up ahead is a hanging tree. The corridor he walks, similar to a cattle run, opens up to it. There lies Willie’s Coup de Grâce.
“Coup de grâce is much more than simply a catchy name for a pay per view. The original meaning of the term is a death blow. The death blow that ends the suffering of those with no hope of survival. Whether it’s by choice or sheer mercy, the coup de grâce ends the misery.”
Moonlight illuminates the hanging tree and the noose hangs heavy and thick from the branch. As Willie approaches it, his posture loosens. Is he the dead man walking? Is this his final moment?
And still, the man and the woman harass him. Spit splatters his hair as he walks. Cries of belligerence deafen him.
“Should I condescend to acting as if I’m impressed with either Anna Matthews or Cy Riddle?”
He stops walking and despite opening himself up to further and much louder harassment, he actually has to ponder that thought as he gazes at the noose dead ahead.
“Neither will feign enthusiasm in regards to their opponents. Both share that insane self-righteous superiority. They truly believe they’re head and shoulders above all others. Anna Matthews believes hers is a kind of intellectual superiority. As if she’s ‘woke’ in some way we aren’t. If only I could blind myself to how basic her diatribe truly is. It’s this kind of inept manifesto laced with entirely borrowed sentiments and unoriginal attempts at being philosophical. She’s stuttering in a childish attempt to appear intelligent. Anyone can do that. Then Cy Riddle. Oh, how he believes he’s above and beyond every other wrestler he sees. He believes he’s this Christ-like figure, the sacrificial lamb, over and over again. Still, is he really? Isn’t this the same Cy Riddle we’ve seen replicated time and time again? Isn’t this the Cy Riddle that shows up like a lion at every new promotion before tucking tail and running? Yes, he’ll come back and yes, he’ll snarl like the wild beast, but once he’s seen for who he really is, he’ll once again dissolve. I promise that he will not last long at Union Battleground. Quote me now.”
Again, Willie puts one foot in front of the other. He’s steadily closing the distance between him and the noose. Those two belligerents to his left and right still follow him. Now they’re tearing their hands up against the chain link. Desperate for his attention still, at the expense of their own health.
“I prefer to smile. I am more likely to choose a joke than an insult.” He looks left and right and lets out a sigh, “But under these conditions, I have no choice but to wear a frown and accept my fate. For you watching, this may seem as if I’m giving up or I’m simply making a subtle statement that I’ve already been defeated. You may be correct in your assumption, but don’t hold your breath.”
Finally, Willie reaches the noose. All his peers can do is watch as he makes his way up to the steps. Now, they call for him to stop. They call for him to wait. They know that they are nothing without his attention. Nothing at all.
“The coup de grâce. Put me out of my goddamned misery! Not because I fear Cy Riddle or Anna Matthews. Not because I have already given up on my career at Union Battleground. No. Put me out of my misery because I cannot bear having to listen to Cy Riddle and Anna Matthews speak about themselves any longer! They both produce so much noise with so little substance. They both exist purely to suck the oxygen out of their surroundings, only to waste it as they eject masturbatory nonsense. Look at it yourself. That’s exactly what it is.”
Willie slides his head through the noose, It tightens beneath his chin. Now he’s smiling with cheeky relief.
“Put me out of my misery.”
He steps forward and falls, abruptly. All that can be seen is the rope as it pulls tight, followed by an abrupt and hollow snapping sound. His peers vanish.
SMASH CUT to a funeral.
Bobby Benson, Brodie, James Radford, Fukushima Zombie, Bryan Williams and even Wendy Wynner are all present, amongst others. They’re all dressed in black and each one wears a somber expression.
It’s a beautiful day, much too beautiful for such a sad event.
Bobby Benson lets out a sigh, offering, “How does one come to this sad end?”
A voice out of view of the camera answers, “When one’s existence is to suffer, is it not mercy to put an end to that existence, once and for good?”
Bobby nods as he steps back.
Pan around - It’s Willie. He’s standing over two graves. He’s wearing a black double-breasted suit, shirt, and tie, all by Brooks Brothers.
Pan around again and the crowd is gone; now he’s alone. He kneels down and grabs up a fist full of dirt.
“My misery was hearing them. Their misery was being themselves. I’ll put an end to all of that.”
He tosses the dirt - zoom out. He’s kneeling between two graves. The headstones oppose each other. One reads “Anna Matthews”, and the other, “Cy Riddle”. Both headstones share the same date: February 23rd, 2020.
Willie breathes out, “I prefer to wear a smile. I’d much rather share a joke than an argument. Shame on you both for turning me into this sad sack. I’m disgusted with your undeserved senses of superiority. I know it’s up to me to save you both from yourselves. At Coup de Grâce, you’ll both receive the mercy killings you both deserved, all of this time. And me? I’ll get to smile again.”
Now another hand full of dirt comes up, flying towards the lens of the camera, blacking it out.
End.