April 01, 2020, 04:36:05 PM

Author Topic: The 4CW App  (Read 85 times)

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Offline PoeIsFilth

The 4CW App
« on: February 03, 2020, 05:52:28 AM »
At the Malcovich property in Osaka Japan, at a bar stool in the family home’s kitchen sat the 5 year old Nami, the young lady of the house. With her tablet, with the child’s thick rubber case on the edges, she had set up on a house plant so it sat up, enjoyed her morning cereal of Frosted Flakes with the specifically Japanese language logo on the box, watching the episode of Spongebob where Mr.Krabs tricks Spongebob and Patrick into competing in a wrestling match. As she ate her breakfast, her tablet made a “ding” noise, getting a notification from the 4CW app labled “Edgar Malcovich has words for Johnny Violence, Willie Pete, and Cross Recoba ahead of his 4CW 111 tag team match.” Nami clicked the link, her tablet sending her to the 4CW app and right to a video of her father. She reached over and pressed play.
As the play Icon became a dot circling a small perimeter of the center of the screen, a thumbnail of Edgar sitting on the floor of the locker room with some kind of black cloth in hand. The video then started from the beginning. Pure blackness fading into Edgar Malcovich sitting on the floor of the 4CW locker room floor, with the unknown black cloth in his mouth. One of the 4CW Medical Professionals looked over at Ed’s scalp with a small flashlight and rubber gloves. He didn’t bother talking to Ed, not wanting to bother him any further.
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Medical Professional: “You’re good to go Ed. That piledriver didn’t do too much damage. Just Ice it and the swelling will go down.

The trainer stood up from his kneeling position on the floor and walked out of frame. The sound of the heavy door opening and then shutting behind him as he exited the room could be heard. Edgar spat out the cloth as it just dropped to the floor. He reached over to unzip the duffle bag sitting to his left. He reached inside to grasp a pack of Marlboro Menthols with the white and light blue packaging. He removed a metal lighter, opening it which igniting a flame. He lit a cigarette an placed it between his lips, taking a long drag before releasing the smoke into the air. The frustrated puff of the cigarette was followed by a heavy sigh. He still wore his ring gear, not having bothered getting dressed after his loss to Cross Recoba. All that could be heard was the ambience of a wrestling federation at work. The very faint sound of Eli Carlson and Perry Wallace insulting each other over the online gaming sensation that was Call of Duty could be heard somewhere.
Malcovich: “Zero and Five.”

Edgar suddenly spoke up, splitting the ambient sound with his words. He took another long inhale of menthol right into his longs before blowing the smoke out of his nose.

]Malcovich: “Thirteen years in the wrestling business, trained by The Zombie Clan, a member of the Filth Parade, won more god damn championships than I give a shit to mention all at once across the earth, but I get to Four Corners Wrestling and so far I am just Zero and Five.”

Edgar looked into the distance, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek, face covered in irritation.

Malcovich: “Zero wins. Five mother fuckin’ losses.”

A long sigh came from his throat, as Edgar reached over to his bag again to remove his phone, the wallpaper a selfie of himself and his wife Dona Rotten. He scrolled through his phone to find the 4CW app. From the home screen, he clicked the white bar labeled “home”, and scrolled down to clock “Hall of Records.”

Malcovich: “Technology can be amazing. You go to this convenient fuckin’ 4CW app, you got to the records section, and every 4CW fan worldwide can very easily see the records of anyone in the company. At the very bottom of that list, under Freedumb, under Jim Bob, under Leroy Frost, under Sadman Polanski…”

Eddy stopped for a second and did a double take at his phone. It really did say “Sadman Polanski.” He chuckled and cracked a bit of a smile.

Malcovich: “… under Danny Gordon, who are all helpfully labeled “Jobber”, you see my name. “Edgar Malcovich.” And it says Zero Wins. Five Losses. Zero Draws.”

H scrolled down a little bit further on his phone, giving a somewhat aggressive, clearly sarcastic “Ha!” out loud, pointing his finger at the screen.[/center]

Malcovich: “Oh! Check this out! If you Scroll a little further, the Tag Team records show up, and you can see I’m Zero and One. Becomes Bad Company counts but fuckin’ Snuff Fest doesn’t.”

Edgar looked right at the camera on the tripod and lifted up his middle finger directly to his current employer Perry Wallace who would without a doubt see this video. [/center]

Malcovich: “I’m in a difficult position, as it were. I’m in the most popular wrestling federation in the world, and the only time this audience has ever seen me win a match, it didn’t even count, so I may has well have not even bled buckets of blood in that death match. It was fuckin’ pointless. Now that I’m actually a fuckin’ roster member, I’m literally at the very bottom of the food chain. I knew this wasn’t gonna be easy, but I didn’t know I was going to be under all the god damn, mother fuckin, useless jobbers.”

Ed lifted the cigarette to his mouth and took the longest puff of his menthol cigarette so far. His eyes flickering with anger and irritation. He left the cigarette in his mouth, between the left portion of his teeth, as he put his phone down, reaching down to the floor to grasp the cloth that had previously occupied his mouth, and opening it from it’s crumple to reveal the very shirt Cross Recoba had stuffed into his mouth. A picture of Cross Recoba and his wife standing over the fallen Aokigarah and Fukushima Zombie emblazoned upon the shirt.

Malcovich: “Fernandez might have tossed “Sadman Polanski” off a fuckin’ Scaffold and killed him, but I’d say getting a T-shirt stuffed into my mouth with the Zombie Clan having had their asses handed to them on the front to be one of the most embarrassing things to happen in recent fuckin’ 4CW memory. As the cherry on the god damn cake, I’m sat on the very bottom of this super convenient list. God fuckin’ damnit."

Edgar looked over to the lockers on his right, cocking his fist back to slam it against the aluminum in an infuriated punch, leaving a nice couple of knuckle sized dents in the small storage space.

Malcovich: “So then imagine how pissed I was, when one of these producers comes to me and says…”

Edgar switched to his comical impression of Chris Farley’s bears fan impression.

Malcovich: “… Hey Ed! Great fight! Sorry about yah loss. Hopefully yah ain’t too sore about it, cause at 4CW One Hundred and Eleven, Yah going up against Johnny Violence and Willie Pete, and good ol’ Cross Recoba is gonna be yah partner! Ratings are gonna go threw the roof!”

Edgar took a frustrated half puff of the cigarette before flicking it onto the floor instead of finishing it.


Malcovich: “So now I’m between a rock and a hard place. I have to make nice, with this total prick who shoved a sweaty T-shirt in my mouth on national fuckin’ television or add another loss to my already pathetic record.”

Ed backed his head into the wall behind him, staring into space. His incredibly tense shoulders slowly dropped as he released a weary sigh.

Malcovich: “Alright Perry. I get it. I’m no Hayden, I’m no Laughlin, I’m no Smith, Madison, or Tommy. You shove me in this old as dirt style wrestling trope match of rivals being put together in teams because it boosts your ratings. Can the bitter enemies make peace for one night in order to claim victory and increase their standings in the company? Everyone constantly on their guard. Everyone constantly looking over their shoulder at a man they don’t trust, and yet is tasked with assisting them in their match. Nobody has faith in anyone but themselves. It’s got drama, suspense, instant pop from the crowd for when one of the competitors eventually turns on his partner and causes the other team to win. It’s a formula they’ve had since fuckin’ Ed “The Strangler” Lewis and Billy Sandow. Easy ratings.”

Edgar bit his lip and looked away, torn between his options emotionally.
Malcovich: “My pride, or my record. Winning, or punching Recoba in his smug ass face.”

The man behind the mask sighed in his state of aggravation.

Malcovich: “You want to know what I’m gonna do?”

He looked directly at the camera now, the intensity boiling in his glare.[/center]
Malcovich: “I’m gonna do what brought me to the dance in the first place, and I’m not talking about this dumbass rage dancing that your moron whose name is just a fuckin’ dick pun does. I’m gonna do what got me signed to 4CW. I’m gonna do what Johnny “has the fuckin’ balls to literally call himself Violence” wishes he could do. I’m gonna do the only god damn thing I’ve ever been any good at my whole life. I’m gonna have the most brutal match on the card. I’m gonna crack skulls. I’m gonna tear muscle. I’m gonna launch blood and teeth all the fuckin’ way to the fourth row of the crowd. I’m gonna massacre Willie Pete. I’m gonna break Johnny Violence like a twig. If Cross Recoba decides to get in my fuckin’ way, I’m gonna take this T-shirt, tie it into a noose, and hang him with it. I’m sick and fuckin’ tired of being a joke. I’m sick and fuckin’ tired of being at the bottom of the list. I’m sick and fuckin’ tired of being a little bit further, every show, from another shot at Eli Carlson and The North American Championship. I’m sick and FUCKIN’ tired of my only success being from carrying that damn chainsaw when I was at my absolute lowest. I won’t let any of you mother fuckin’ sons of bitches stand in my way. Not Violence, not Pete, not Recoba.”
The fuming mad Edgar Malcovich went to his knees, kneeling before placing a hand to his knee and pushing off to rise to his feet. As he stood up the wall behind him could be seen, directly to his back was spray paint that read “Weed Football” across the concrete wall.

Malcovich: “I will not let Poe be the name that is written in the history books. I will not let guys like Sadman Polanski sit above me on the fuckin’ Hall of Records section of the 4CW app. I will not let my matches end with cocky, Godfather wannabe, pricks stuffing their ugly ass merch in my fuckin’ mouth!”

Edgar reached to grasp the shirt with both hands. He pulled on the opposite sides of the cotton T-Shirt with all his might, causing it to tear down the middle until it was unevenly split into two different pieces. He then let the shirt Cross had had made drop to his sides on the floor.

Malcovich: “At 4CW 111, I’m gonna march into that ring. I’m gonna stand across from Johnny Violence and Willie Pete with Cross on the Apron behind me. I’m gonna beat Dick Pun and Backyard Wrestling gimmick copyright infringement from pillar to post. I’m gonna beat one of them with the other until they’re both unable to stand, and then pin them. And after I win the tag team match, I’m gonna follow Cross Recoba home and make his wife watch while I strangle that cocky prick. I’m more than a former chainsaw swinging psycho. I’m the man behind the mask. And I’m the man who’s gonna flip this whole company on it’s ass. Johnny? Willie? Cross? Here’s a tip. When I put you down… Stay Down!”

The video faded to black before ending, coming back to the thumb nail as the translucent play button sat in the center.