April 01, 2020, 05:37:20 PM

Author Topic: The Funeral of Johnny Violence  (Read 175 times)

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Offline Johnny Violence

The Funeral of Johnny Violence
« on: February 06, 2020, 07:45:44 AM »
“We are gathered here today to mourn a great loss to the world...” a stout, pudgy, balding, white haired man in nice church clothes stands at a podium on a stage with an old brown panelled wall and a large bouquet ring of flowers beside a raised, closed casket. An old woman with permed hair and drab brown and cream floral pattern shirt-capris combo plays an electric organ in the background. “...and to remember a great man with great contributions to society. It is with great sadness that we lay to rest such a young and handsome man like Johnny Violence. A world champion, a son, a brother, a lover... the world loses another piece of the peace and love it so desperately needs in these very trying times when hatred and evil and darkness seem so imminent. A shining star with a light bright enough to one day ward off all evil now snubbed to the inevitable entropy we’re all destined to succumb to so unjust and unfair.”

For a small pause the camera pans to the very small church with rows of empty folding chairs. One moustachioed man sits quietly in the second row, stifling a cough. Upon further inspection, it’s just Johnny Violence in a fake moustache and brown fedora but it’s hardly a disguise by any means.

“... right.” The pudgy pastor continues reading off of a template with his hands in his pocket fiddling with his keys like he’s some nervous blue collar worker in a shirt and tie trying to give a speech at an A.A. Meeting. As he rambles on, the sound begins to muffle in whomps like a Charlie Brown cartoon with a quick cut to a moment of complete darkness before a flicker of light comes from a zippo that dimly illuminates Johnny’s face. He lights up a cigar before he brings the light up a little higher and a little closer to himself, revealing the top of his suit, his greying skin and sunken eyes, surrounded by a royal purple lining. Almost like he lies in the casket beside the rambling pastor.

[#FF0000]“Lies.” [/color]Johnny says with a large exhale of smoke between his mouth and his nose. “Everything in life... everything you think you know is a fucking lie. They always told me smoking would kill me... yet here I am. Here I am, laying in a casket and it’s certainly not the first time. And so far... it’s never been the smoking that’s put me here. Altair... heroin... Dakota Smith...” Johnny says with a knock on the oak. “... and yet continue to violate us and our eyes and our minds with their signs of cancer and decay... if cancer was the main goal, I’d be certainly failing at that.” he finishes with a long drag.

“Once upon a time I said Johnny Violence would never see the lights underneath a 4CW ring... they said that if I couldn’t get past Dakota Smith, I certainly wouldn’t be here the next week... well special delivery boys! COMING TO YOU LIVE FROM A PINE BOX SOMEWHERE IN WISCONSIN... Johnny Violence back from the dead! But that’s nothing new. My greying skin... my soulless stares... I’ve been dead for years. I mean... they do call us heroin addicts zombies. Maybe it’s time I embrace just that... I mean if drugs couldn’t take me... if... strangling me to lifelessness couldn’t put me in the ground... if actually being put IN THE GROUND couldn’t stop me from making my return to the ring once... twice... what is going to stop me this time?”

“Is it Cross Recoba and his “unbreakable” Garibaldi’s Guillotine? Because I don’t know if you saw last Adrenaline Cross... maybe you weren’t... if you can’t eat it and you can’t fuck it, why would you pay attention?... no if you saw Adrenaline Cross you’ll see that I don’t quit. I don’t stop fighting. The only thing that could slow me down was a blind side and a rope and even then it was the referees hand that was forced to make the stoppage. You might have the fancy suits... have the walk... talk a good jargon... but I don’t think you have the sheer power... the sheer force... the enigmatic energy to hold any type of hold on me without me scratching and clawing until you just don’t have it in you to keep going and until I don’t have it in me to keep trying because in those moments, I thrive. When we’re both battered and beaten... those are the precious seconds my body lives for... it holds that little bit of extra something in me that when you think we’re out ready to quit... it turns out I’m just getting started. When you’re bloody and bruised and you’re thinking to yourself “how... it’s impossible... nobody has ever broken out of it before!” I’ll be dusting myself off and walking with a limp earned by the very victory of your legacy broken! A broken leg to break your record.”

“You see behind your fancy suits lies a small... weak and weak minded man. Beyond your fancy suit might be a man with a supposed unbreakable hold but beyond this suit... holds the heart of a warrior. It’s filled with the passion of a fighter and although I call myself a King!.. I call myself that because I am more than a leader. I do more than just command and demand the respect of my peers that I have so rightly earned... I lace up my boots, I sheath my sword and I ride in to battle like the men that I lead! Anyone can call themselves a king, a God, a legend... but unless you’re ready to soil your hands with the blood of thine enemy then you are nothing but a coward. And beyond all the vanity and narcissism... lies just another fraud. A lie... a fake... nothing more than a hollow shell.”

“And now... it will be my job to break you.”

“You see fancy has nothing to do with who I am as a person. While my head is heavy with the weight of this crown, the jewels encrusting it are the only thing that are precious on me. It’s not very often I dress up in church clothes like today, no. It’s usually cut off metal shirts and ripped black jeans. Maybe a black leather jacket broken from years of blood and sweat. I am a King of the common man and while you’re busy worrying about your hair out of place or what particular disease you might get from THE Willie Pete, I paint my face like a warrior with my own blood... I slick back my hair with the grease of my own sweat and I charge in head first. While you’re worrying about your partner relapsing or something WITH THE Willie Pete... well from the immortal twitter account of Dakota Smith... maybe “always watch your back.””

Johnny chews on his cigar before spitting it out in a fit of rage.

“And Edgar... oh Eddy. I haven’t forgotten about you. How could I forget about you? It’s incredible what we have in common together. It’s almost eerily similar. We’re both... former zombies...” Johnny stares down at his arm which is currently covered by a suit sleeve. Under the surface lies his tattooed arm hiding many scars and track marks. “Our childhoods were stolen from us... drugs and trafficking running our lives... but that’s where the buck stops. You let the drugs and your captors... you let them win. Me? I sat back for a minute. I pondered the entire situation... I knew out of everything in his world... it’s me or them. You wait... you comply... you buy your time until it’s time to strike. They want a couple watches, a couple rings... I could get them. If I didn’t, they broke my fingers. So I better get them...”

“They want me to move this bag of coke quickly... get the product sold by tomorrow. I got friends... I know fiends... if I don’t flip it, I better have the money to cover it. Maybe this guy wasn’t paying his bill. He was good for it he swore... but last time my boss showed up he had a BMW... what’s with the Porsche? He was paying someone... and it wasn’t us. Hey Johnny, how much have you been benching lately? Take care of it. How? Just leave the kids out of it.”

“One day you have enough. One day you go too far. You find yourself in a warehouse somewhere on a Sunday... not a soul insight. There’s plenty of tools and somewhere in the back of the warehouse is a thicker concrete room where screams are muffled like the pastor outside this casket. The horrors those rooms hold... their memories are truly unforgettable. Almost irrepressible. And one day you finally that it’s not you or them anymore... just that you can’t do it for them anymore.”

“And just when you think there’s no way out... there’s no way to win... you have that extra bit of something... special. And instead of ending up in a box...”
he takes a quick, wondrous look around the coffin inside and the irony of the situation, “I only ended up in prison. “Only prison?” Yes you heard that right. I didn’t have to end up homeless in the streets of Japan laying in a pile of garbage with a dead girlfriend. I never had to black out my arm like a child scribbling out his past in crayon. I never had to get my start wrestling under a mask of some famous “family” like a Manson follower. No I took my name... earned by years of the Violence I work so hard to recoup for... generic in all of its glory and I waltzed up to every motherfucker The Warden sent to me during my time in Prison Wars and I slapped them in their mouths just before I spit in them... because that’s the courteous thing to do before you beat someone within an inch of their life each and every week until your release.”

“And from there... begins the rest of our lives. You’re out wrestling in death matches... running from your past, going nowhere like a treadmill. You change your country, change your style, change your god damn name and no matter what you do, you end up here... in Corners Four... 0 and 2... 0 and 3... 0 and 4. Even if you put your record together and reverse the numbers, it still doesn’t even match how many times Dakota Smith has won in this company alone. Edgar... you lose this time, where do you go from here? If Johnny Violence loses, it’s okay. He comes back, he regroups, he faces a few more Brax Clovas before they give him another chance to put himself in a good position with a match against Chris Madison... but where does Edgar Malcovich go from here? Eddy Poe left. Detroit Zombie? No more. The Slasher is done.”

“It seems like the door is the only option left... once again. Brax  Clova couldn’t get through Johnny Violence... she hasn’t been seen in weeks. Wrigley took a super kick and hasn’t more than mention my name once from his mouth... talking through a throbbing jaw no doubt. So what happens Edgar? I win... you leave? Leave Cross Recoba to be fed to THE Willie Pete one on one like he’s been vying for... Johnny Violence continuing his quest for infamy.”

“If that sounds good to me... who do you think that might sounds good to, Eddy? How much can you trust the man you have to call your partner this week from really wanting to keep you around? See, to Willie I’m no more than a hired gun. If I take you out for good, he gets what he wants. If I take you out... Cross no longer has to deal with a junkie nipping as his heels... just Oscar the Grouch with a problem with huffing glue and hallucinations. How much do you believe all the flash and flair Eddy? Does he have your best interest in heart through all this? Or is your loss his gain?”

“With Willie, we have nothing to lose... and everything to gain. We’re both men of the streets. We’re savages... scavengers. We’re vultures. We make our living feasting off the scraps of our fallen prey and we fly high above our predators. And when I call someone a vulture... trust me Eddy when I say that I know one when I see one. And do I... see one? Is that the stench of a vulnerable corpse ready to be picked apart for fresh meat flying high above us? Or is that just the regular stench of a possum playing dead waiting to be picked over by a feasting murder, hoping to remain unscathed in exchange the juicy, ripening fresh kill beside it.”

“Vulture or possum, Ed. Who do you trust more?”
Johnny slips up another cigar from his from lapel, chomping down one the end and lighting it up. “Personally... the only right answers are “nobody” and “my gut instincts” but hey... that might be too scary for ya.”

Johnny let’s out a guttural chuckle before flicking closed the zippo lighter, the only light being shined was the red embers from here tip of the cigar.

Fade to black.