Post by Kai Stevens on Feb 16, 2019 4:49:10 GMT
THE BOOK OF
KAI STEVENS
CHAPTER FIVE,
PART TWO:
talktalk
“Try braving the rain.
Try lifting the stone.
Try extending a hand.
Try walkin' your talk or
get the fuck out of my way.”
A Perfect Circle
We open on a mundane viewing room with eight rows of ten seats all orientated towards the focal point of the room-- a closed casket resting upon a small stage. The polished wooden frame of the casket almost glistens under the lighting of the room in a stark contrast to the mauve carpeting beneath the stage and the feet of the aforementioned chairs. There is no signage visible that would suggest whom resides within the casket, which serves to only deepen the foreboding of the locale as all eighty seats remain unoccupied. After a moment or two trained on the coffin, the faint sound of footsteps permeate the air. Sooner than later, the creator of these footsteps struts into frame and continues forward towards the casket, his face having yet to be revealed. Once the man reaches the coffin, he reaches out with his right hand and rests his open palm on the midnight black exterior. When he turns around, it becomes clear that this man is none other than current Divine Wrestling Pure Champion, Kai Stevens. The Infernal Baptist dons a pair of dark blue jeans, a pair of Timberland boots, a rubber band around his right wrist, and an official New Age Plague t-shirt that one could find on ALPHAWrestling.net/shop right now! He shakes his head rather disdainfully before curling the corner of his mouth into a sinister smirk. He swallows and wets his lips before drawing breath inward through his nostrils and addressing the Divine Wrestling universe for the first time.
“They say that the definition of insanity is to do the same thing over and over with the expectation of a different result.”
The words hang in the air for a moment, as if they were Kai himself as he soars across the ring after leaping to the top rope for his Springboard Coast-to-Coast maneuver that he dubs the Usurper. His smirk fades for a moment as he loses himself in thought, but he snaps out of it rather quickly so that he may continue his resentful rhetoric radiating a subtext of contempt and condescension.
“Ordinarily,” he elaborates. “I'm not one to criticize or mock mental illness. But after the last couple of weeks having to listen to the drivel that spews from Michael Rissi's mouth when he isn't busy with a dick between his lips? There remains only one actuality about my victim for tomorrow night, and that is that he has to be mentally ill. What other explanation could there possibly be for the shit that he talks, for the unending diatribes that sound like they were constructed by someone suffering a stroke?” Stevens shakes his head with abhorrent disgust, clearly not fond of his opponent whatsoever. “I can't spend five fucking minutes doing things I wanna' do without having to hear about the nonsense this motherfucker's got to say. It's like how every morning I wake up to a new instance of our President embarrassing himself and our country with his idiocy and ignorance, except it's worse because I've got to go out there and see Rissi's ugly fucking mug a whole Hell of a lot more often than I've gotta' see Trump's stupid fuckin' face... Y'see, Mike, typically I wouldn't give you the time of day. You haven't deserved my attention for a single second since I met your bottom bitch ass all those months ago, and you sure as fuck don't deserve it right now. So then why would I bother taking the time to address you again, to humor you again? The answer is quite simple, really, Mike.” Grinning darkly, Kai flicks his eyes away from the camera for a moment. When he snaps his attention back, his eyes burn with hatred. “Because you've gone ahead and done the single most suicidal thing you can think of,” he spits. “You've pissed me off... And as anyone in this industry can tell you, when Kai Stevens gets pissed, he gets even. You've been doing a metric fuckton of talking lately, Mike. You've had my name in your mouth almost as much as whatever member of management's dick you're sucking this month. And you know what they say, don't you? Talk, much like your wife? It's cheap.”
“Talk is cheap,” he repeats for emphasis. “But your funeral sure as Hell isn't. I'd say that this fact would make me feel bad for your wife, worse than I already do, what with her having to suffer through your banal and redundant bullshit, but we all know she's gonna' be immeasurably better off without your bottom feeding bitch-ass. With that in mind, Mike, I think I'll reserve my pity for sanctimonious taints like you.”. Kai exhales through his nostrils in a half-sigh, half-scoff before he wets his lips and continues his verbal skewering of his opponent this week. “I have had it with all this shit you've been talking, Rissi. Not just because of your complete and utter lack of the capability to back it up... But also because you're just saying the same God damned shit over and over and over and over again, expecting something new, some new result. The fact of the matter is that you haven't got a single original thought to call your own... There isn't a single fucking novel concept rattling around in that thick skull of yours, and tomorrow night I'm gonna' break it the fuck open so I can show everyone just how true that is. Every single thing you've had to say about me is recycled from some other sorry shitstain or some half-assed attempt to respond to what I've already said-- to the facts I've shared. You can sit there and delude yourself into thinking you're somehow superior to me despite every single shred of evidence stating the exact fucking opposite and stating it unequivocally. You can sit there and play pretend like the child you are, thinking that because you perverted my words to fit your own bullshit narrative that that somehow paints you in a better light. You're more than welcome to suffer from this obvious bout of insanity. In that same regard, though, Mike? It means I'm more than welcome to put you in your fucking place like the bottom bitch you are. And the sooner you realize that? The sooner you realize that the only thing that's null and void is your fucking opinion? The better... Because the longer you go on running your fat mouth and letting said mouth write checks your ass can't cash, the more I'm gonna' enjoy kicking your jaw clean through the back of your scalp.”
“But let's say I humor you, Mike,” he chuckles humorlessly. “Let's say we do this your way since we'll be doing things my way in the ring... You wanna' call what should have been the only warning necessary to send your cowardly ass packing flawed, and cliché? Let's get something straight, motherfucker... The only thing flawed in this entire situation is your brain chemistry. I guess it's a good thing that you won't have to worry about your brain chemistry when I'm splattering your undersized brain across the canvas tomorrow night, huh? And as far as your cliché accusation goes? I feel like the human embodiment of cliché named Michael Rissi isn't exactly the person to trust when it comes to determining whether or not someone or something is cliché... And then you had the audacity to not only call me cliché, but then you went on to spit cliché after cliché, talking about how you hit back and murdered me, massacred me.” He lets out a thunderous and resounding cackle that can only be described as maniacal and humorless. “It's gotten clearer and clearer that you haven't got the faintest fucking clue what any of those words mean... Because what you call hitting straight back and verbally murdering me, the rest of the planet call pussyfooting. You see, Mike, as I'm going to show you and show everyone else tomorrow night, you're not even fucking close to having what it takes to hit straight back. I've seen the film, buddy. I've watched every match of yours I could find, and the underlying theme seems to be that you couldn't hit water if you fell out of a fuckin' boat. I guaran-damn-tee you that if you try to hit me tomorrow night, I'm gonna' laugh in your ugly fucking face. I want you to to hit me, Mike. So that I can hit you right back and show you how a real man hits... And then I'll teach your firsthand what murdering someone looks like... What it sounds like... And it sounds a whole lot like it's sounded every single fuckin' time I've stepped foot in a Divine Wrestling ring-- in any ring, matter of fact... Here is your winner... Kai motherfucking Stevens.”
“I'll give credit where credit is due, though,” he admits with an amused raising of his eyebrow. “At least you were willing to admit for all the world to hear that you don't have a single original thought by telling us all just how you regurgitated what I already said. Unfortunately, buddy, there isn't exactly going to be much time for you to finally have that first novel thought, because I'm gonna' kick your fuckin' skull in and I'm gonna' do it with a smile on my face that's bigger than your ego, if that's even possible.” Kai shakes his head aggressively before he turns his attention back slightly to the casket behind him. When he wets his lips once more, he turns back towards the camera with a sneer. “Your talk is cheap, Mike. You've spent the last three weeks just thinking about how to talk at me... How to use your words to do your fighting because you're so damn dickless that you don't have the balls to fight like a real man. You got your head so wrapped up in the words I said, the facts I forced you to hear... That you forgot about the only thing that actually matters at the end of the day, and that's that I am better than you in every fiber of my being. What words I say, what lies you spew, at the end of the day those things don't fucking matter. What matters is that I'm gonna' beat your ass so bad that you'll fuckin' tuck your tail between your legs and run away like the little bitch you are... Just like Maddox, the guy you delusionally tried to argue I struggled with... The only thing I've struggled with in my time in this company is restraining myself from coming to your fucking doorstep and putting you in the ground where you belong. I've struggled with settling for putting you on your back for a one two three... While you haven't experienced that thus far in Divine Wrestling, I'm sure you could ask your wife, considering she spends the vast majority of her time on her back.” Kai's upper lip twists into a resentful hooked shape before he continues with each and every syllable dripping with vitriol. “But you just couldn't get past the words, Mike,” he says disgustedly. “You couldn't get past the talk.”
“But me? You said it yourself-- I've maintained radio silence of late. Wanna' know why, motherfucker? Because I'm gonna' let my fists do my talking for me tomorrow night. I know it's a foreign concept to you, walking the walk instead of just talking the talk, but to me? To me, going out there and fucking doing it instead of sitting in your desolate rooms talking about it is the only fucking way to do things properly. Which brings me to where I stand right now, Mike. It brings me to your pathetic attempts to intimidate me by talking about humility... About embarrassment. Y'see, motherfucker, I know all about humble. You and I, just like every other fucker on this spinning rock we call Earth? We all end up in the same pine box six feet in the dirt. Doesn't matter if you were rich, poor, white, black, kind, or a pretentious prick, we all end up in the ground one way or another... But the difference between you and I, Mike? The difference is that while you're running around talking... And talking about talking? I'm traveling across the fucking globe and bringing the house down on every fucking continent. I'm the single most recognizable name this company's got to boast, and you want to humble me? If I were you, Mike, and thank FUCK I'm not? I'd concern myself much more with myself. While you're talking all of this shit, boldly proclaiming that you're gonna' embarrass me and knock me down a few begs? I'm gonna' be exposing you for the fraud you are... For the cockless coward that you are and have always been. You wanna' talk about how it is, boy? Fine. This is how it is, you piece of shit.”
With this, Stevens turns back and rips the top half of the onyx casket open, revealing the lifeless carcass of a man that looks remarkably like Michael Rissi, himself. While it is not Rissi, it could certainly be a close relative based purely on the aesthetics. Stevens spits directly in the man's face before snapping his ravenous gaze back to the camera with his teeth clenched together and his words clawing through the spaces between.
“Tomorrow night I'm putting you the fuck down,” he roars scathingly. After a moment, he cocks his head violently to both sides to crack his neck audibly before continuing. “Talk about my statements. Talk about my nicknames. Talk about who I've embarrassed half as much as I'm gonna' embarrass you, and talk about my two fucking titles while you don't even have one other than my next fucking victim. You're gonna' move mountains, bud? Okay, whatever you say... The only thing you've ever succeeded in moving is my God damn fist through your teeth. So go on with your talk. Go on with illustrating your hypocrisy with each and every dishonest syllable that you let come out of your mouth. Talk all about how you've emasculated me, embarrassed me, and destroyed me. Because when it's all said and done and the sun has set and the dust has cleared? The whole fucking planet will see what I and anyone with the sense of sight can see as clear as day already... You're all bark and no bite and in a dog-eat-dog world, Mike? Barking isn't gonna' get you shit. You keep saying the same bullshit over and over-- on two different occasions now you've done this. I said before that they say the definition of insanity is doing the same shit over and over expecting a different result, and you know what, Mike? I don't care that you're clearly mentally ill. I don't even have that pity I talked about earlier for you anymore. The only feeling I have towards you one way or another, you lying sack of shit? Is the feeling of bloodlust, because I'm gonna' spill each and every drop of it you have tomorrow night. I will bathe in your blood and taste in your torment, Mike. So take your words, your seemingly unending series of words that sound like someone cut up a dictionary and fired the shredding pieces from a fucking cannon at the wall and then just went with what sticks, and you shove them right up your ass, motherfucker. Because your redundancy has only succeeded in inspiring me to bash your skull into the apron as repetitively as every dumbass thing that comes out of your mouth. I don't mind that you believe -- incorrectly, mind you -- that you've done any of these things you talk about. Just like I don't mind that you've deluded yourself into thinking your words precipitate a systematic destruction of the single best athlete to ever honor this industry with his presence. Know why? Because for you, for all of your stupid fucking talk that sounds just like the last bullshit you said and even more like the last pussy piece of shit who tried to step up to Kai Stevens? For your title aspirations?. For that undefeated streak you hold so dear? For your career? The end isn't nigh anymore... It's fucking here, and you will never get to talk your shit ever again.”
Stevens turns back and slams the casket shut once more before slicing his vicious gaze back towards the camera. Like A Man Possessed, the Pure Champion struts out of frame to go get ready to show Rissi what all of the words he used actually mean.
fin.
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