EST. AUGUST 2016 - TOKYO, JAPAN
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| Dying Dog of a Dead God | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Feb 26 2018, 05:36 PM (84 Views) | |
| Kalinda | Feb 26 2018, 05:36 PM Post #1 |
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Look around you, Jack Tillman. Tear the scales from your eyes and realize that you are small, fuzzy dog swept up in windstorm and are no longer present in Kansas. In your day to day works as professional wrestler you have rubbed much chitin with liars, with fools, with hyperbolites, with cowards, with cheaters, with exaggerators, and with the vainglorious. But you aren't there anymore, Jack Tillman, you are here. You are with me. And your faux outrage at the perceived slights against the supposedly sacrosanct sport of professional wrestling will be the death of you. Look around you, Jack Tillman. Look at the dragoness that is DTW World Champion. Look at the horror-clown that walks amongst us with her casual violations of the laws of physics. Look at the man who was slain through automobile and flame and was brought back to the land of the living through dark magics. All your life you were told that there was no such thing as the supernatural. All your life you were told that magic wasn't real. All your life you were told that you were special. They lied to you, Jack Tillman. And do you know what the greatest lie of all is? That professional wrestling is something so sacred that my very presence is disrespectful. Your sport is tree grown from the manure of carnival scams. Your "greatest" women's wrestler made whores of women, took their money, and enslaved them. Your wretched paymasters class you as independent workers for financial purposes, suck you dry for all that you can accomplish for them, and toss you casually aside when they've drained you like juice box. You see someone not like you. You see someone different. You see someone who stands out. And what do you do, Jack Tillman? You lash out at them. You piss and moan and rage at me for daring to be different, calling my very presence disrespectful. Where was your outrage, Jack Tillman, when your wretched paymasters sacrificed entire generation of wrestlers on the altar of cocaine and steroids? Where was your outrage, Jack Tillman, when the whole of nation agreed that half the population was good for being nothing more than eye candy, spending decades treated as jokes, afterthoughts, and fodder for self-pleasure? Where was your outrage, Jack Tillman, when your sacred sport fuelled the fires of hatred and xenophobia by paying immigrant wrestlers to adopt personas of evil, with nothing but loathing for their host nation so that the unwashed masses could pay to hate them? Where was your outrage, Jack Tillman, when it was decreed that able-bodied and minded men would portray persons with physical and mental disabilities in exchange for money? Where was your outrage, Jack Tillman, about the casual racism that's tossed around in your sport so frequently? I look upon your sport, Jack Tillman, I look upon the way it took my sweet, happy, bouncy dragoness and turned her bitter and cynical, and I spit on it If your sacred sport, if your church demands such sacrifices from those who attend service in the squared circle than it is not worthy of my respect. I spit on it just as I spit on you, corrupt priest, toady, pitiful mongrel devoted to pitiful master. You are dog, Jack Tillman. You are wolf with the intellect and killer instinct sucked away, made forever childish and content to devour the garbage and excrement left behind by those better than you. You are made soft and fluffy, made complacent by living in eternal protection from those that would hunt you and feast upon your flesh. I am not professional wrestler. I am greater. I am warrior. I am not devotee of your corrupt church filled with ambulatory, empty suits-and-ties who fuel themselves with money and misery. You are their lapdog, Jack Tillman, and you are useless. You are just another crab in bucket filled with crabs, forever loathing the idea of someone escaping, of doing something better, something greater, something grander with their life. You seek to drag everyone down into your mire of excrement, Jack Tillman. Clawing, grasping, stinking, reeking. The Menagerie seeks to raise up the sport of professional wrestling from the grotesque mire of corruption, hatred, narcissism, and vainglory in which it dwells. You have nothing to offer me, Jack Tillman. I need no respect from you, for it is fetid thing nestled in the soul of fetid man and to become something that would garner it would diminish me infinitely. And I need no mercy from your human god. Your god is dead, Jack Tillman. Your world is empty of deities. Bereft of the spark of divinity, the roaring flames of magic burned down to cold, dying embers. Your world is nothing more than husk, zombie orb shuffling along, drooling, looking to suck the life out of anything magical that happens to wander in. Breaking down their hearts, breaking down their souls with the scorn, envy, and hatred of those that dwell upon it. Your god is dead, Jack Tillman. For He made you in His image, looked upon the black hearts and shriveled souls that are oh so common amongst you, and then sat upon His celestial throne and slit his wrists in despair at the wretched creatures he had breathed into life. And just like Him, you will bleed. The wounds will be from my claws, from my fangs, from my blades, but they will be self-inflicted nonetheless. Just like your dead god, Jack Tillman, you too have slit your wrists. For you turned your razor tongue upon me, but woe be to you. I am Delilah na Kinai, Bolt-fired From the Darkness, the blood of the Ancient Smith Metsuki Tahari flowing through my veins; assuring that no mortal blade shall ever harm me. The dog has laid open his veins for sanguinary banquet and the cat will feast upon the spilled blood. Pray to your dead god, Jack Tillman. Pray that the clotting begins in time. |
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