Cecilworth Farthington
Chaos is a difficult beast to train, to calm, to put at ease. For most people, when chaos enters their life, they look for immediate strategies to nuzzle the dangers of the approaching whirlwind, so by the time it falls at their feet, it is nothing more than a pretty purring pal. Under control, sitting at their feet, no longer about to swallow them whole.
I mean, that’s certainly the strategy. It’s the hope. It’s the aim.
Yet, in the vast, vast, vast majority of cases, we never get to that point. The chaos sweeps us in, it consumes us. It becomes us. It is the thing we never see past, it is the thing that enters our thoughts just before we sleep, it’s what we see in the mirror as our exhausted faces turn on our bathroom lights. It wraps us up tight and makes damn sure that we never feel free of its clutches for even a single solitary second.
A beast that is so draining, so mind crushing, so physically exhausting… I’m no therapist, but it doesn’t feel like the kind of lifestyle that you should invite upon yourself. The consequences in many cases can be fatal. I don’t mean that in the wrestler “I’m gonna kick your ass” sense, because Jesus Christ, how trite, how dull. No no, I mean this in the sense of chaos being the end of your reign on this mortal coil.
Manageable chaos seems like a mirage, a little lie to tell yourself to scratch and claw back the smallest sense of control. To any outsider, they would have to wonder why you would invite such punishment into your life. Any outsider would question the absolute falsehoods you tell yourself to invite the chaotic lifestyle that flows around you. To say that you thrive with the beast breathing within… a lie on the scale of seeing a soothing lake in the middle of the driest desert.
Yet, as science has always proven, outliers exist. People that do not trend to our accepted norms.
Rezin.
Now there’s a guy who wants everyone watching to know that he hasn’t just tamed the beast, he rides it bareback to work every week. Segments on the ACE Network, interactions with long suffering interviewers on ReVival. Every small slice of the life of Mr. Black gets beamed directly to our phones, our tablets, our laptops, our televisual devices…
He really wants us to think little of him. Grossout, disgust… just sheer annoyance. He is truly and beautifully talented at acting exactly how you have chosen to think of him. A remarkable piece of human camouflage.
So is Rezin an outlier or a man with convincing ways?
I have a theory but not much confidence in it. I’m not an expert in punk rock, so I can’t bore everyone to death with a lecture about the 70s music scene that somehow concludes in Rezin being a fraud. Nor do I dabble in the drugary arts. I’ve never snorted nor sniffed anything more than humble tea tree oil during my days on this planet.
So, I don’t have the firm footing to call it all an act. I can’t say with 100% confidence that Rezin is a mirage that has gone into overdrive.
I can spot a man with intellect though. I can see when a smart man rolls himself up in the cloth of fools. It’s one of the sport’s greatest tools, actually. Gets the less wise to lower their guards, you lure them into overconfidence and then you snap ‘em in two.
Rezin is his own lure. He is bait.
A Five-Star title run.
A Universal title run.
All within a calendar year.
Does that just happen by accident?
When Hayes Hanlon stood across from Rezin, both times with his title on the line, was he hit by a twister, or just a man spinning around really fast?
—
The closing moments of ReVival 27 have concluded, so sorry, you’ll have to watch the replay to catch up on what happened there, but I promise you that it’s some real good stuff! Highly recommended. With the awful deeds of PRIME’s newest and stickiest trio still fresh in the minds of wrestlers and fans alike, we find ourselves backstage at the T-Mobile Arena, where perhaps more surprisingly, Cecilworth Farthington is pacing up and down in front of a small locker room’s door. From the vantage of the camera angle, it’s clear that this is the room that the Glue Factory members commandeered for the evening’s adventures.
Despite the excited buzz flowing through The Factory’s Financier, Farthington still seems reluctant to join his comrades to celebrate the launch of the new venture. Instead of joining the party, he remains outside the room, slowly breathing to himself, eyes rather wide. With his eyes firmly shut, Cecilworth begins to whisper to himself.
“This is finally it, this is finally your shot. You’re in charge. You’re the light. You’re the leader…”
As Farthington continues his whispered self-affirmations, he’s caught off guard by the locker room door creaking open, the eyes of Dirk Dickwood, the Factory’s Chief of Operations, peering at him from the small gap that’s been open. Dirk puts on his best concerned face…
“Everyone wants to see you! This was our night…”, Dirk tries his best impression of a father trying to coax a particularly petulant child downstairs so that he can have some ice cream. Farthington looks at Dirk, a bit of a hangdog look dripping from self-proclaimed Best Boy. At first, Cecilworth barely processes that anyone is even talking to him, continuing instead to whisper further affirmation to himself, including reminding himself that his butt just refuses to resign. Dirk decides to take physical action, probing Cecilworth in the back of the shoulder and this finally snaps the man out of his trance. Cecilworth slowly turns to Dirk, a shocked look still sitting strongly upon his face. Maybe shocked is too light a term.
Terrified?
Scared shitless?
Somewhere in that region.
Dirk tries to coax Cecilworth back into the room, but Farthington’s feet remain firmly planted at the threshold, like a reluctant vampire. In his current mental state, it’s very unlikely he would even have the capacity to either suck or fuck, so no vampiric concerns on this night. After a few moments of awkward silence, with no man having anything to say to the other, it’s The Financier who finally makes the first move to break it up.
With the expression of a toddler who just broke the family’s priceless vase, Cecilworth looks towards Dirk and asks, “what if I fuck this all up?”
—
It was rare for anyone to call to the Farthington Family Manor over the past two years. For a lot of the time, the manor would sit empty while the master was gallivanting around the world in his wrestling endeavors. Hell, even when Cecilworth was present in the manor, he viewed every phone call with a strong degree of suspicion, like almost everyone in his generation. It was very unlikely that a call would get picked up.
So they stopped.
Well they mostly stopped.
You’d still get the occasional brazen sales call, but it’s hard to get your pitch in under a man who, if he elects to answer the call, just yells “I WILL BREAK YOUR FUCKING ARM” until his “opponent” on the other end of the line “submits” by hanging up. A brazen strategy, but a very successful one.
As Cecilworth decided to try and get the manor back up to fully operational levels, he required and hired a multitude of new staff. Those who were tasked with regrowing the hedge maze had priority, of course. Cecilworth had already had calls from the ACE Network requesting the use of the maze for a special presentation, so the burnt husk needed correcting at a rapid rate.
Then of course, there was staff charged with the upkeep of the manor, including a handful of cleaning staff.
That’s where today’s problem happened.
“Lord Farthington, there’s a call for you…”
Up until the very moment, Lord Farthington was having an incredibly wonderful day. He had just declared himself “Mr. Jabber” to a jury of his peers and no one had dared to dispute the unanimous truth. He was very cozy as he curled up in a chaise lounge in the estate’s East Wing. A small fire was crackling warmth in the background. Farthington slowly looked up from his slowly developed Jabber addiction, now instead glared at Agnes. Agnes was the kind of old British lady who could be 103, or could be 47, and it wasn’t like Cecilworth was going to take the time to learn which one was true. Cecilworth raised his eyebrows at dear old Agnes, gesturing to her to continue her point.
“A man is on the phone saying that he’d like to discuss the merger plans…”
Almost as if he was being tazed moments before being rolled into a wrestling right, Cecilworth jerked straight up, breaking out of the relaxed cat position he had possessed moment straight up.
“Did you get a name?”
Agnes shifted around in place, clearly slightly scared of the sudden demeanor change of her employer. Although, the minute anyone goes from “petulant child” to “steely-eye serial killer” at the snap of a finger straight in front of you, it’s likely going to make you uncomfortable. Agnes stammered but didn’t manage to get out much of an answer… this did little to stop Cecilworth’s questions.
“Okay, okay, did you at least get a sense of the accent…”
Agnes clutched her broom tightly (she had a broom in her hand), as her thoughtful face tried to bring back her memories. She dug around in her mind palace for a few moments, before opening the door that caused her to state “I think… I think Scottish…”.
Agnes’ words caused an immediate and visceral response from The Glue Factory’s Financier…
“FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!”
—
That was a call I did not need.
I’m in charge now.
This is my company.
This is my group.
These are my friends.
I’m going to make the future of this brand VERY clear. Once he sees my determination, he’ll step back. He’ll step away. He will know that I am a worthy heir.
He will accept me.
Or he will perish.
—
You know, at a certain point, all Vegas desert looks the same. I could describe where Cecilworth and Dirk came from, I could even take a solid guess at where they will go. I got nothing on where they currently are though. It’s got a lot of sand though. Sand by the fuckton. If you are a fan of sand, you will love the current scene we are in. So much sand. Right there for your arse crack, on demand, anytime you want it!
The more important question I suppose would be wondering why Farthington and Dickwood found themselves slap bang in the middle of the harsh conditions of the Nevada Ditch Fields (™), despite both men being medically declared as “pasty as all fuck.”
Well, the reason they are here and now is of course that Cecilworth insisted on it. You see, the remains of the Civil Dusk Glue stock had managed to find themselves buried in ditch fields and the chance that the product could survive in the hands of a desert roaming fool, that was not a risk that Farthington wanted to come to pass. He wanted all the stock gone, out of circulation, out of hands, out of the damn planet. So, as Dirk and Cecilworth got out of the car, Cecilworth began to unload the supplies that he had gathered for the event. Cans and cans of gasoline were getting dropped off from the back of the hired family van. While Cecilworth continued to produce gas cans at a “psychopathic” speed, Dirk decided to take a look at the pit.
The pit was quite well packed, it certainly contained a lot of product.
“That’s a lot of glue…”
Cecilworth looked up from shifting the cans out of the van, clearly a little annoyed by Dirk’s attitude. “And whose fault would that be?”
Dirk heard the tone of Cecilworth’s voice and decided that in this particular situation, it probably wasn’t worth pushing the point further.
“We need to do this, Dirk, we need to make the point that the old ways are dead. We have killed our god and now we are the masters…”
Cecilworth can’t even see Dirk’s face scrunched up in complete confusion as he starts tipping litres upon litres of gasoline in the glue pit. Dirk looks down at the pit…
“Isn’t this going to cause a toxic cloud?”, Dirk stated as he slowly surveyed the scene.
“I have no idea what this glue’s opinions on race are…”, Cecilworth replied, clearly paying no attention to his own words, never mind Dirk’s. Dirk knew better than to reply to that. Cecilworth knew exactly what Dirk had meant and had chosen the most obtuse reply possible.
“Look Dirk, it’s better a toxic cloud, than getting phone calls from a toxic clown…”
Suddenly it all came together for Dirk.
“He called, didn’t he…”, Dirk said in a tone that would be best described as “disappointed father”.
“No idea what you’re talking about…” Cecilworth retorted as he started to light a match.
—
DEATH CLOUD ENGULFS NEVADA DITCH FIELDS (™), MORE AT 11
—
I think I see you, Rezin. I can’t say that I’m one thousand percent confident in that statement. There’s always the chance that you are just a remarkable outlier of a human and trust me, the fact that might just be true, that eats at me.
However, hear me out for a second, let me know if I’m on to something here. This world you want us to indulge you in – this world of drug taking, of drug referencery, of foul stenches, of garbage crawling, of pornography, of accountancy – all of these things are offensive to the senses of good and decent people. You seem tailor made to be the most offensive human imaginable. Just a stinky, weed cloud, goblin of a man.
Yet you survive.
Fuck, you don’t just survive. You thrive.
…tailor made…
It just feels like it’s by design. It’s your armour, your shield. You are certainly a man who knows that the best offense is a great defense, and in terms of defensive capabilities, the concept, the brand that is Rezin… it might be the most brilliant piece of tactics that I have witnessed in this industry.
See, I think some people would expect me to sit here and think about making jokes like “lol, Rezin gonna sniff all the glue.” but there’s two factors here:
- I destroyed all the fucking glue.
- That’s what Rezin wants me to do.
Rezin doesn’t want me to see a man who once held the most prestigious title in this industry. Rezin doesn’t want me to see a man who has such a wealth of ring awareness, he can sneak up and grab a victory before the referee has finished patting you down. Rezin doesn’t want me to see a man who has had the answer to a two-time Universal Champion like Hayes Hanlon SEVERAL times.
He wants me to point and laugh at the disgusting punk rock goat.
Sorry that I’m going to disappoint you, like I did my father. I just tend to avoid playing into the conventions.
This match is important. Every match is important, sure. We live and breathe by the validation of the three counts, we have orgasmic joy when we hear the tapping against the mat. We do this sport because it completes us. It fills that hole that was missing our lives. The victories validate us, the failures… they bring the dark storm.
Yet, at ReVival 27, I decided it was time to make a statement. At ReVival 27, the old guard once again reared their ugly heads. Brandon Youngblood and Coral Avalon needed another bite at the cherry. The prophecy as foretold by Mr. Atken had once again come to pass. Mr. Atken’s sacrifice served only to stem the tides for a few months, but now it’s surf season and the juices of the elderly have washed down on the PRIME canvas yet again.
Now people are looking at me and wondering what the alternative is. What do Tyler Adrian Best, FLAMBERGE and Cecilworth Farthington have to offer this company? Why do they have the right to take the actions they did against Hanlon and Youngblood?
Some idiots even started speculating that this was some sort of invasion of outside forces.
No matter what jibbering words were uttered by a clown car of fools, the meaning was the same in every case. The wrestling world is watching me, it’s watching glue. Three talents with title shots in their future. FLAMBERGE, him, they know. They’ve seen his talent for neck collection. TAB, hard to question a man who won a forty one man Battle Royal. Sure, some will try to, but that’s on their heads. Which will then get kneed off by TAB.
Me though? Couldn’t win the Battle Royal. Barely managed to squeak by the incredibly talented Adam Ellis. There’s a question mark over me. Can I successfully carry the legacy of Phil Atken forward? Can I prove why FLAMBERGE and TAB should even fucking listen to me?
I’ve already had to surrender the name of “Mr. Finish Line”, I cannot surrender my sense of self.
That’s why I need to understand you, Rezin. That’s why I need to understand what lies beyond the surface. A win, against you, there’s no more questions. There’s only opportunity. There’s only open ears and open hearts.
No longer a jabber dipshit, but a man who can conquer PRIME’s finest.
—
It was a dark and stormy night at the Farthington Family Manor. I mean, it normally is. The manor is in the United Kingdom. It would be more surprising and ominous if we found ourselves in the middle of the “bright and sunny day”. That would be some real apocalyptic level shit.
Still, there were flashes of lightning hovering on the horizon as a small black car took the long pathway from the grounds of the estate up to the manor. The car drove carefully, dealing with the twists and turns of the path, dealing with a real degree of expertise at the slickness of the ground below.
Normally one of the new members of staff would be rushing out with an umbrella to meet the guest at the stairway entrance to the manor’s main hall, but tonight, the greeter had a buffer aura.
Cecilworth Farthington rushed down the steps just as the car started to pull up, his hand already resting on the handle as the creak of the break was heard. For a split second, there were conflicting signals from Farthington’s brain. The arm did not yet yank the door open, clearly experiencing some degree of trepidation in seeing whoever sat inside the car. Cecilworth looked down at the rockery that was currently consuming his nice hush puppies, took a deep breath and swung the door open, plastering a very insincere smile upon his face.
“Phil, it’s a pleasure to welcome you to Farthington Manor.”
—
Rezin, my friend. My entire hypothesis here, it could be wrong. After all, science is not a perfect art. Only a very few things are true for all people. So even if this is how I see you, you may not see it in yourself. That’s the wonders of the human mind.
Yet, I like my hypothesis. It definitely allows me to respect you a lot more. In some ways, with your level of intellect, you would be a wonderful project for the Glue Point Oh changeover. Yet, we both know your pride wouldn’t allow it.
The beauty of this deal, even if I’m wrong, it has reminded me of the real danger you present in the ring.
In my time as a wrestler, I’ve faced literal murders, I’ve faced monsters and maulers. I’ve seen rings explode, cages fall apart. I’ve seen people rushed to hospital. I’ve seen people put their bodies on the line and to the limit. I’ve even had to wrestle for ninety seven straight minutes. Yet, a simple wrestling hold brought down my empire. I have Cancer Jiles to thank for that. A roll up, a three count, an aura of inevitability evaporates.
So, I know the risk of the mirage you are trying to cast. It’s not the monsters that get men like us, it’s the ones that out-think us.
That’s why, at ReVival 28, I have only one valid strategy.
I drive over that mirage.