PROMO - Immanentizing the Eschaton

[Guest WhollyChao]

 

In his office, Tom Flesher sits at his desk, rubbing his forehead and praying for his secretary to arrive with headache medicine. A voice on the other line screams at him.

 

“They made me a hell of an offer,” is Flesher’s calm reply.

 

More screaming from the other end of the phone.

 

“Yes, I understand that. This old guy just walked in and pitched it to me. I couldn’t turn him down. He spoke terrible English anyway, he probably wouldn’t understand if I did say no.”

 

The voice on the other end is screaming less, but still clearly using his outside-voice.

 

“The guy’s insane anyway. He won’t know. No, like, literally insane. Not even the usual ‘eccentric wrestler’ shtick, either.”

 

Tom Flesher is very tired.

 

The voice on the other end is somewhat more civil, now. It poses a reasonable question.

 

“No, now that you mention it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him without the mask. Still fairly certain he’s not someone we’ve hired before. He’s not Cutthroat, I’m sure of that.”

 

Another question over the phone.

 

“I’m sure I’ve got his contract around somewhere, I’ll check.” There is a rustling of papers on Tom’s disorganized desk. He finds what he’s looking for. “Here it is.”

 

Surprise.

 

“Oh…”

 

The person over the phone queries.

 

“It’s got a fake name on it. It also gives his personal residence as being the Lindbergh Palace Hotel. Has been for years. God, I really hope this doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass. Listen, I’ll call you back.”

 

The voice asks another question.

 

If it’s not one thing, it’s another in Tom Flesher’s world.

 

“It doesn’t matter. It’s a fake.”

 

Question.

 

“Look, it’s not important. I’ll call you back.”

 

A more forceful question.

 

Sigh.

 

“It says… ‘John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.’”

 

And more screaming.

 

_________________________________________________

 

 

Jimmy the Doom and Fulminatus sit quietly on top of a mountain.

 

Why they’re there is irrelevant.

 

How they got there is even more useless.

 

Where the mountain is is nearly pointless.

 

Suffice it to say that they are both sitting on top of a mountain.

 

C.A.P.Y.B.A.R.A. is also there, but his presence is insignificant.

 

The two men sit silently atop the mountain.

 

Fulminatus stands up abruptly, raises his arms to the sky and yells,

 

“YAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRRRRRRRG!!”

 

His shrill voice echoes throughout the mountain chain. Ever the concerned tag partner, Jimmy looks up and says “For the up of wrongingness? To having on be to with upsetted?”

 

Fulminatus sits back down and pauses before answering.

 

“At the upcoming Ground Zero, I am to have a cage match against… an octopus.”

 

“Knowingology, for yes, muchlies,” Jimmy replies to his friend. “To being, of for us, priored, with a fightations, we.”

 

“So you have said. And now you are reconciled, are you not?” The cold mountain air steaming from every squeaky word.

 

“Of manied, with having to yes, much of friendlies, on with to myselves. On what, to your of beens distressment on to some?” the Doom suspiciously asks.

 

“I worry,” comes the reply. “I worry that I might do irreparable damage to your cephalopod friend when trapped within the confines of the steel cage. I would not wish harm any friend of yours, Pope Jimmy.”

 

“Having to of that of whiched on being fearness? Octopus, of none having muchly on with, for several of utmost strengthlies, to before on opposition,” Jimmy reassures. “In much, for matchations, simpleness of for to friendosity. Though, of perhapsery, to on more in worry with of youing.” Jimmy chuckles, but it is a grotesque, unnatural sound, shaped by the hard life of Doomtopia.

 

Fulminatus would like to feel relieved, but he cannot shake a feeling that has been bubbling inside of him since first he saw the card. He raises another question to his Doomtopian compadre.

 

“What if my opponent for the match is not the same octopus you have fought before? What if… it is… another?” the masked man asks cryptically.

 

“Of whats being to for maked you with having on sayness in why that?” Jimmy asks.

 

“I have… felt him.”

 

The two men and the one capybara fall silent again on top of the lonely mountain.

 

_________________________________________________

 

 

“What the hell do you mean ‘you don’t talk to him’?” Flesher demands of a confused Ced Ordonez. “He’s just another wrestler, for crying out loud!”

 

“Yeah, I know. I mean, it’s not like we purposely shun him or anything, it’s just that…”

 

“Just what?” Flesher demands, sensing the tiniest of pauses in Ced’s voice.

 

Hesitance.

 

“It’s just that… he’s weird,” is Ced’s simple reply.

 

“Yeah, I know he’s weird. You can see that every time the bastard ‘wrestles’,” the Commish answers using the finger quotes for the word ‘wrestles’.

 

“Like, he’s fun to have around when we go out to the bar. I mean, he’s a friggin’ riot,” Ordonez explains. “But usually, he just keeps to himself. And sometimes you cant make out what he’s saying. Like, if you ask him what he’s doing after the show, he’ll moo at you like a cow.”

 

Tom Flesher would like to get mad at Ced for his lack of information, but he cant fault him for not liking a guy. Oh, hell, of course he can. He’s Tom Flesher for crying out loud! But at this particular point, he declines such an action.

 

Disappointment.

 

“Thanks.”

 

He walks down the hall, smoldering. He stops at a vending machine to get a refreshing Kit Kat, but finds only the scattered currencies of a dozen foreign lands in his pocket.

 

“Why the hell doesn’t anyone know anything about this guy?”

 

Flesher goes into a room where records are kept and decides to do some investigation himself. His secretary is still out, apparently trying to track down some headache pills. He grabs two huge armfuls of papers and folders and hauls them back to his office, where he can look over them over a glass of something strong.

 

_________________________________________________

 

 

An old man, hunched and weathered, stands over something.

 

“The time iss sooon, my friend,” comes a voice as creaky as an old wooden door with one hinge. By his accent, you could place him as being from Eastern Asia, but only a keen linguist could say exactly where.

 

“Yo moment of venchance is ne-ah!” the old man attempts a laugh, but his entire body shakes into a cough. He steadies himself against his walking stick.

 

“I hope you ah prepa-ahed for batt-ahl, fo at Ground Zer-ho, the gods weell smi-ahl and you weell have yo revench!”

 

The old man walks away, and we see what he was standing over.

 

It is a fish tank, but it’s contents are dark.

 

From the tank comes a quiet, calculated noise. A noise we've heard before... only not quite the same.

 

 

“Glurb.”

 

 

The most terrifying “glurb” you’ve ever fucking heard.

 

_________________________________________________

 

 

Tom Flesher’s desk is now even more of a desk, simply covered in so many layers of documents that an archaeologist would have a field day going through. Amidst all the smoke and alcoholic beverages and ancient documents, Flesher looks a bit reminiscent of Gandalf. Except without the beard, hat, long hair, and big shnozz.

 

Finally, he finds the piece of paper he’s looking for.

 

Some actual tangible evidence on Fulminatus.

 

As he hungrily scans the document, he notices something odd.

 

In fact it’s more than odd.

 

It’s downright strange.

 

For a brief moment, Tom Flesher feels something he’s not felt in some time:

 

 

Reticence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What did I do?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And then it’s gone.

 

“Ah well, it’s already booked.”

 

 

* FADE *

 

 

 

 

[Secret Agent 0]

 

It was certianly entertaining!

[Toxxic 0]

This is the best build to a match involving Another Octopus I've ever seen.

[Mad Scientist 0]

This is the best build to a match involving Another Octopus I've ever seen.

 

I'll go even further. This is the best build to any wrestling match involving any cephalopod. EVAR.