Post by THE Willie Pete on May 4, 2020 2:48:01 GMT -5
 Preface And if the lady, Anna Mathews or Anna Daniels or whichever name will follow can call herself a time lord - I can call myself whatever I want. If Anna Daniels or Anna Mathews or whatever bastardized naming convention she chooses can bastardize dissociative identity disorder, then allow me to become a perpetrator of any manner of offensive content. Who am I, then? Am I the Warhorse Champion? Am I THE Willie Pete? Hmm, might I even be the Time Lord hisself? Time will tell that tale. O my brothers and sisters, wouldn’t it be such a travesty for the Mathews/Daniels if I pilfered that identity which she believes is her birthright? Me, that is Willie Pete, brandishing the ‘sonic screwdriver’ all in an attempt to save the universe from itself? O, well wouldn’t that be quaint. Watch her ball her fists as she finds her copyright infringement stolen right out of her soft little meat-mitts. Watch her mind fall apart. Watch her eyes melt. The useless sod who is Anna Mathews-Daniels. The identity crisis. More nicknames than a boxer still clinging to his prime. O, my brothers, now I meet her again, for the second time. Now she boasts only a win over Cyrus Riddle, but is that really a win at all? Was Cyrus Riddle ever a threat? I can be whatever or whomever I please and tonight. I shall channel Mister Alex DeLarge. Everyone, even you, my little droogie, should channel Alex The Large at least once in their life before they snuff it for good. Sing in the rain, if you please. What a wonderful feeling. Ahem, one final thought before we move on. It’s important, nay, vital that the following statement resonates quite clearly: For you Anna, perhaps ‘Willie Pete’ is a silly name, or even worse, a ‘stupid fucking name’, but you miss the point. Willie Pete is military shorthand for ‘White Phosphorus’, which is a sunstance so awful that many (victims of, o my brothers) wish it was never discovered nor used as a weapon of war. Once it finds you - you burn and burn and burn and burn some more. Make fun of that, Time Twat. Tonight, beneath this covid drenched moon, I shall be Alex. And you, through the camera lens, shall be my droogs. If you haven’t read the book, or at least have seen the movie, you’re in for a confusing time. But, I promise, oh my useful droogie-woogie, what will follow will be no less/no more confusing than anything Anna Mathews/Daniels et al, has ever produced. Yes, I had lost my mind. There I was, beside my droogs, you included. We were taking our time at the Korova Milk Bar drinking milk plus. I had Milk plus adrenochrome, which explains the psychosis which had me ready for a bit of the ultraviolence. I had recently done away with the scoteena that was Wendy Wynne and had found myself the recipient of one Warhorse Championship. The latter was not much to me, but the former, o my brothers, was truly glorious. Real horrorshow, if you follow. But I was still tainted by the realization that the soomka (Wendy) I faced at Relapse no longer had the fire within her. Right, perhaps we’ll meet again for part three. A small subtle sadness set in at the thought of never facing Wendy again, but I had no time for that. You, my droogie, you deserve a smiling and wonderful narrator. Not a gloomy Gus. Then, the powers that be had the yarbles to put me back up against Anna Daniels-Mathews believing that since she had defeated that Riddle veck that she’d earned the right to challenge me again. Fair enough. Only this time, she would challenge for the gold plated prize I had yet to find the value in. Did that mean she would be a fiery cheena ready to pounce? Or would she be the same Anna Daniels who has made a career out of rolling eyes? Likely a bit of column A; a bit of column B. What’s it going to be then, eh? I call to you, my droog. What will be our next step at Light’s Out? Will we have our way with the awkward girl that is Anna Mathews-Daniels? Will we make her pay for the hours wasted yawning as we were forced to viddie her promos? Will we give her that real horrorshow bit of ultra violence? Perhaps, o my brothers, she deserves such things. After all, she seems to fancy herself a step or two above us all, doesn’t she? She’s created a world where she looks down upon us all despite the fact that she can barely and rarely compete. What I say is harsh, but for such harshities, I make no appywollyloggies. So what’s it going to be then, eh? If she were to walk away with the Warhorse Championship, she would take any meaning I’ve gained at Union Battleground with it. She’s won once, against a man who had already given up. You could see it in his gaping rot as he entered the ring, couldn’t you droogie? He was already winded and all that, the sad sack. Who would I be if I fell to her, right? Nothing glorious anymore, I should say. I’d certainly fall to the bottom of the roster, having lost to the local fishmarket who is Anna Whocares-Anymore. I finish my milk plus and imagine what is to come next. Time for a bit of the ultraviolence? SMASHCUT I’m standing over this man who calls hisself Jacky, or JACKY or repetitively. He’s trying to convince both of us (Me, your narrator, and you the droogie) that he’s worth more than a stiff boot right to his ignorant mush. Too late, here’s a kick, JACKYJACKYJACKY. Look at his teeth coming out the side of his gaping rot. What a sight, isn’t it? He’s one of these many personalities Anna the Self-Righteous keeps like an impossible pet. O my brothers, he’s one of the many voices who interrupts whilst Anna goes on and on about absolutely nothing. If only this Jacky chap had a pair of yarbles. Go ahead little droogie, no one’s watching, give JACKY a little stomp. Give the storyteller what she deserves. Stomp stomp stomp until your leg gives out. Flatten what little there is left of Anna Daniels. She deserves our absolute worst. DISSOLVE Now I’m in prison. I’m a step away from the treatment. The one to cure me of my ultraviolent tendencies and all that. Here I am. A minute away. In fact they wish to cure me of the whole rotten thing. Maybe it’s for the best? What good is a Warhorse Championship if it paints a target on your humble narrator’s back? Furthermore, what good is a Warhorse Championship if it grants never-will-bees like Anna underserved opportunities? Well, can’t fuss about that now - I’m in a straight jacket and all by my lonesome in a movie theatre. I’m desperate now, aren’t I? Imagine that, o my brothers, your careful and loving narrator in bondage. Shh. Don’t tell. My eyes are held open, by what, I’m not sure. No matter how hard I try, I can’t close them. What a thing. FLASH and on the big screen is one of Anna Daniels-Mathews promos. All of them; running at once. For good or for ill, (mostly ill) they play out before me. I can’t stop them. I can’t close my eyes. I can’t close my ears. I’m in peril, oh my brothers. Rotten rotten peril. I call out, begging them to stop, begging them to let me go. But what can I do now? This is the difficult part of facing the Time Twat. CRASH That’s where you come in, my little droogie. You crash through the wall, you pull the lights up and you save me from the nightmare playing out before me. You help me close my eyes. You knew I had already sat through the movie ‘Split’ once. Anna Daniels-Mathews regurgitates M. Night Shyamalan more often than whoever regularly sucks his cock. O but you saved me, my brave little droogie. You saved me and you’ve given me the opening I need to give her that required dose of ultraviolence. She can look down her nose at that red-red krovvy as it drips out of her rot. FLASH I see myself now, I see myself standing over all of Union Battleground. I’m looking at those who truly know what ultraviolence is, and those who deserve a right good kicking in the sharries. It’s time to transcend opponents the likes of Wendy Wynne and Anna Daniels. It’s time to transcend the very title I’ve barely wrapped around my waist, o my brothers. Here we are, my droogie, still at the beginning, but Union Battleground feels like home, doesn’t it? And what would a proper battlefield be without THE Willie Pete? So, what’s it going to be then, eh? |