Arthur Pleasant
I’m gonna keep this really fucking simple.
I need to beat the absolute fuck outta somebody this week.
It’s my medicine. It’s my antibiotic from the infection of failing in my debut match in PRIME. It’s the only medicine that’ll help numb whatever little soul remains inside this battered and scarred body after being eliminated from the Culture Shock Battle Royal. ‘Cause I’m not gonna lie. I’m not gonna pretend I’m not bothered by the fact that I was only the tenth guy eliminated and had to watch thirty-one other fuck wagons, from the showers, fight each other for a shot at the Universal Title at Tropical Turmoil.
That fucking stings.
That fucking hurts.
That fucking… uuuuggggggggggh… that fucking PISSES. ME. OFF.
I thought I was better than that. I thought I could hold my own against the best of the best in my debut, ignoring the fact it’d be in something where my chances of winning were astronomical. I was wrong, and that’s on me. I won’t make that mistake again.
Because I know in my fucking bones I’m waaaaaay better than that performance you all saw out there.
What’s done is done. Now? We’re not dealing with the inherent unknowns that come with a forty-one person clusterfuck. Or secret entrants wanting to keep their involvement hush-hush so they could get a leg up on the competition. Now? The playing field has evened. Considerably. Now? It’s only a matter of time before everybody in PRIME recognizes what I can fucking do. Not just in the ring. Not just in terms of my ring acumen and God given ability. But what I can do to other people. How I can hurt and maim on a whim. It’s only a matter of days before the world bears witness to me carving someone’s flesh with my fingernails and teeth without blinking once, never mind twice.
ReVival 26? Paycom Arena? Oklahoma?
Fucking bet.
The perfect environment.
FLAMBERGE.
The perfect opponent.
One of PRIME’s premier athletes. A competitor with one of the best win/loss records on the entire roster.
Yes.
GIVE.
ME.
THAT.
SHIT.
Give me a kid who’s surrounded by a group of competitors that call themselves “The Glue Factory”. Give me some shithead Frenchman who’s backed by a shithead Hall of Famer, guarded by a shithead seven-foot security guard, and any other shitheads the Overlord/Financier bankrolls for their services. Yeah. It would take a glue-sniffing idiot to ignore how difficult a situation this might be to overcome.
But fucking give it to me anyway. I don’t care.
I’m ready to fucking murder, such as all killers are ready to do.
Mm, mm, mm.
But here’s the thing about all of that.
That kid? He’s never experienced anything like me before. Not in his entire cup-of-coffee of a career has FLAMBERGE dealt with a monster fresh from the shadows. And if I’m being honest? Which–believe me or don’t, I don’t give a flying fuck–I am, not Phil, not Cecil, not Hank, and not even fucking the almighty Elmer himself will save him from what I’m about to do to him.
You’ve been wanting the Glue Factory to reassemble for some time now, right?
Well, congratulations. They’ve assembled. The band’s back together and quasi-relevant again. There’s one problem, though.
You’re up against maximum strength acetone.
You’re up against an entity that just fucking melts right through glue.
The adhesive is about to loosen, FLAMBERGE…
…and I’m gonna pull your fucking world apart.
*****
Lakewood, Washington
WESTERN STATE HOSPITAL
07/12/2006
“Do you know why you’re here, Arthur?” asked an older woman with gray hair shaped into a messy, pixie-cut bob. Popular among the Karens these days.
She was dressed in straight-legged, ecru-toned trousers, a black cashmere crew-neck jumper top, and conservative-looking short black heels. Everything about this woman screamed “psychiatrist” given the sharp and confident nature from her choice of clothing. Her demeanor was serious, suggesting she had been doing this for a long time. A badge hung from a plain white lanyard that read “Dr. Dolores Zulaski”.
“Arthur?” she asked, trying to gain the attention of an adolescent whose mind often wandered.
Arthur Pleasant, small and underdeveloped, just sat in holding with both of his hands clasped together in handcuffs. His head hung, but not with shame. It was more like utter boredom than anything else.
“Yes. I know why I’m here.” he said, finally acknowledging Dr. Zulaski’s presence.
Dr. Zulaski and other white coat personnel all stood around the newly committed patient to Western State Hospital. Just transferred from the McLaughlin Youth Center in Anchorage, Alaska; a juvenile detention center that acted as a placeholder for juveniles not yet adjudged by “the system”, Arthur continued to look down at the plain metal table he’d been handcuffed to.
“Then why are you here, Arthur?” she further inquired.
Arthur looked up, brushed the long, crow-like hair out of his pallid looking face. A ghastly smile had taken hold of his countenance, like a demon with its uncooperative host.
“It’s my birthday!” shouted thirteen-year-old Arthur.
No one said a word. It was true, though. July 12th was Arthur Pleasant’s birthday. Even if that was not the real reason he was admitted to Washington state’s best psychiatric hospital, it was true nonetheless. On that day, Arthur Pleasant turned thirteen-years old.
Heh. Lucky number thirteen.
Just a few days before, this child put a bullet into the heart of his Adoptive Mother. Crazy, but true.
Before he even experienced the throes and woes of life in his twenties or thirties, he became a killer. A cold-blooded, rotten-to-the-core killer.
“Yes. It’s your birthday, but that’s not why you’re here.” calmly responded Dr. Zulaski.
Arthur played with the chain to his handcuffs, counting each link like so many stones in a game of Mancala.
“I know why I’m here.” articulated the young Arthur Pleasant, calmly and collectively.
Sighing, he sat back in his plain metal chair that was bolted to the floor.
“My Mom’s dead.”
Arthur made a gun barrel with his finger and clicked his tongue. Cocking his thumb as a makeshift gun hammer, he aimed it at his heart.
“Right here. BOOM! Dead.”
Dr. Zulaski nodded. She appeared to be glad Arthur wasn’t making up stories or blinded by some undiagnosed disorder. He was aware of what he did. Whether he understood what he did was wrong was another story entirely.
“Yes, Arthur. Your Mother is dead. You shot her.”
Arthur scoffed.
“It wasn’t a bad thing, though! She deserved it!”
“Now, why would you say that?” Dr. Zulaski asked, feeling brave enough to walk a little closer to the patient/prisoner.
“Because she did. She was weak.” he said indifferently. The coldness to his demeanor was palpable. It was unlike anything most of the people in the vicinity had ever seen.
“She was trash. Mom let my Dad hit her until she bled everywhere. Until her teeth laid on the floor. Do you have any puzzles? I like puzzles.” he professed, matter-of-factly. Pausing for a moment, he continued.
“She was so… weak. I didn’t mind my Dad hitting me. I could take it. The belts. The cans of vegetables. The bare fists to my head. The pain grew on me after a while. I’m not weak, you see. But my Mom? My Mom allowed it to happen. Like a coward. Do you have any puzzles? I like puzzles. Like, a lot.”
Dr. Zulaski wrote something down on a white sheet of notebook paper with her black ink pen.
“POP…POP…POP…POP.” Arthur suddenly uttered, over and over, imitating the sound of the gun going off. The white coats reacted in panic, ready to tackle the thirteen-year-old boy, despite him being handcuffed through a loop in the bolted down metal table.
“POP…POP…POP…POP…POP…POP…POP…POP…POP…POP…POP…POP…POP…POP…” he bellowed, over and over, with each ‘pop’ sounding more disturbed than the last.
Finally, he squinted an eye and turned the imaginary gun on Dr. Zulaski.
With a whisper, he pulled ‘the hammer’ one more time.
“Pop.”
There was a distinct silence after that final pop.
“If you’re not going to fetch me a puzzle, then why don’t you sing me Happy Birthday?” he asked out of nowhere.
One of the white coats whispered into the ear of another.
“The fuck is wrong with this kid?!”
If only they knew, right then and there, who this teenage boy would eventually become.
*****
It’s too bad they didn’t serve me three courses of our Five-Star Champion this week, ‘cause I’d gobble him up, excavate the remains, and power-wash the literal shit off that championship before clasping it around my waist. Why? Simple. I owe Paxton a receipt, whether he understands it or not.
Too bad, indeed.
For me?
Naaaaaah.
Too bad for you, FLAMBERGE.
‘Cause now you’re about to be on the receiving end of the most heinous of all revenge-fueled ass kickings.
Yeah. It’s like that, you Stranger Things-kid looking, Elden Ring-obsessed dickweed. Unlike most of these sensitive little snowflakes around here, I’m not afraid to get in the dirt with my opponent. Y’all think ‘Lil Mike is the Best at it? Sure, let’s keep thinking that.
Jack said it best, didn’t he? Wait’ll they get a load of me.
My need for some chicken noodle soup for the soul notwithstanding, don’t let it fool you into believing I’m underestimating you or pretending you’re not any good, FLAMBERGE. You may look like a little zennial cunt and when you speak sound like Inspector Clouseau with an eighteen-inch dick stuck in your fucking throat… but we both know you are talented.
And then some, apparently, Mr. Fourteen and Zero.
(Fuck ties. They don’t exist to me.)
Despite this inconceivable notion that you haven’t been able to graduate from the Junior’s League in BRAZEN to the Professional League in DEFIANCE, what I really give a shit about are the skills you possess. Not just in the ring as a professional wrestler, but in the world of martial arts.
Practitioner of Judo? Excellent. You have knowledge of throws and holds in “The Gentle Way”. That’s all well and good, but here’s the problem with that; I’m a highly ranked competitor in Muay-Thai. Or was. The Muay-Thai community excommunicated me after I started using chokes in ranked fights because chokes in Muay-Thai are taboo, to say the least. That’s why I’ve practiced Judo in my spare time recently. Unfortunately for you, that means I know a thing or two about knocking (or choking) people the fuck out.
Think about that, FLAMBERGE. Reeeeeeeally think about it. Because when you resort to your training and try to unbalance me into any sort of self-defense mechanism to gain the advantage? Seriously, kid. I will make you pay. Not in dollars. In fucking BITCOIN. I will wrap my arms around you and stretch you so hard you’ll be able to lick your own fucking perineum.
That means grundle, or taint, for the uneducated morons out there watching.
But I gotta be honest here. I’m not really concerned, or interested, or feel any sort of way about where you’ve been, what you’ve done, or who you know. Inside or outside of PRIME, to be honest. We’re post-Culture Shock. Slate’s fucking clean. Momentum ain’t in anyone’s favor right now, save for Tyler Adrian Best and our NEWWWWW PRIME Universal Champion, Hayes Hanlon.
Oh, I absolutely dare you to have Cecil get involved on your behalf. I’ll fucking knock him back into retirement with a Calamity Pain, temporary though it may have been, just like I did in HOW.
You’ve beaten The Anglo Luchador. Sure.
You’ve beaten a PRIME Hall of Famer in Nova. Nice. I’m sure that one got you some love and respect from the boys ‘n’ girls in the back.
You’ve even choked out the former PRIME UNIVERSAL Champion, Rezin. SWEET! I remember when I beat him in DEFIANCE. Maybe some day I’ll get the chance to do so again here in PRIME.
Golf clap, bro. You’ve obtained some victories in PRIME that officials have paid close attention to.
You ready for the hammer to drop, kid?
You did it all with a watered-down version of my fucking move.
So, congratulations on all your success, standing on the shoulders of someone who’s been doing it better since before you even took your first bump.
It’s fine, though. You were here first. I get it. It’s funny how I’ve been making my rounds across the world, choking people out left and right– legends and Hall of Famers alike– with the guillotine choke, while you’ve been playing catch-up to my younger Uncle down in BRAZEN. But, it’s cool. I’ll abide by that whole “first come, first serve” unwritten rule.
I’m just as good without it as I am with it.
Besides, I’ve been meaning to switch my game up anyway. You don’t get to places where people like my Father or Grandfather have been without evolving as a competitor.
Evolving as a FIGHTER.
Evolving as a motherfucking WAR MACHINE.
So, fuck it.
Keep the guillotine.
You obviously need it more than I do.
It matters to me none, since I could beat you with any number of precision kicks to the jaw or surgically placed elbows to the temple. I could fuck your day up harder than chugging a two-liter bottle of soda while downing a bag of pop rocks just by flicking my pinky at the center of your throat. Or, hell, maybe I’ll bust out the Calamity Pain and all this talk of choking you out will be moot.
Full disclosure, though?
I prefer choking out people.
It’s so much more satisfying than… well, anything. Even rough sex with a couple of gerbils, a ball gag, and a tight-fitting gimp suit.
There’s just something euphoric about seeing the lights leave a man or woman’s eyes when preventing O² from reaching the brain. There’s something delightfully forbidden about the unadulterated power of someone being able to take a life, but having the restraint and cognitive awareness in choosing not to. So, I think I’ll stick with something like that.
Rendering motherfuckers unconscious in the middle of that ring will continue to be my thing. Young, old, tall, short, and everything in between.
The Sleep Paralysis doesn’t discriminate.
So, you try to catch me with your generic ass Brand X version of the guillotine choke. Think I won’t be able to find a way out of it if you seize the opportunity to apply it?
Biiiiitch. Just fucking try me.
At ReVival 26? I end you with the D’Arce Choke.
Yup. Thaaaaat’s the one, baby.
Calling my shot now. Eight-ball, corner pocket… I flip your fucking off-switch.
Wherever you are after you regain consciousness, I’m sure you’ll be wondering where you went wrong with ole Uncle Arthur, even though the answer is, and always will be, right in front of you:
Stepping into the ring with Arthur Pleasant.
The most dangerous person… not only in PRIME… but on the whole fucking planet.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you, FLAMBERGE.
Calamity Pain.
Sleep Paralysis.
Pick your fucking poison and drink it.
*****
AT&T Stadium
Arlington, TX
CULTURE SHOCK | NIGHT TWO
04/08/2023
Water ran down his back, cascading off his ass like a waterfall in the mountains. The steam was thick, but his anger was thickest.
“Fucking Paxton fucking Ray…” he muttered to himself.
THUMP!
Arthur pounded his fists off the cement walls of the shower stall simultaneously. Standing there naked and exposed, blood ran down the wall underneath his fists, eventually washed away and swirled down the drain from the water runoff sliding down his arms.
Where do I go from here?
THUMP! THUMP!
More blood oozed down from his busted knuckles as he continued to reflect upon his untimely and unexpected elimination from the Culture Shock Battle Royal. Out of a possible forty others only nine others had been sent back to the showers. When he signed on to PRIME Wrestling, he aimed to shock the world. Even in his last promo, he mentioned bringing a “REAL CULTURE SHOCK” to the PRIME Faithful and the entire locker-room.
But he failed.
Miserably.
How the fuck could I let that shit happen?!
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
Pulling his hands away from the wall, part of his skin ripped away from his right hand. It hung there, off his knuckle, by just a measly tendril, glistening from the lights above and the water from the shower, dangling in a sickening sight. The left-hand bled profusely from the middle knuckle. Looking at the exposed meat from both knuckles, Arthur couldn’t help but blurt out a laugh.
Pain was his gateway to clarity, see.
Closing his eyes, letting the water fall from the shower head to his heavily scarred face, Arthur took a deep breath.
Slowly releasing it, images popped inside his mind.
Lindsay.
Rezin.
Anna.
Mortimer.
The spasms of searing hot pain soothed him as he continued to see images flash across the backs of his eyelids.
Tyler.
Brandon.
Jiles.
Ivan.
…
Ivan!
A lightbulb switched on in Arthur’s head. He immediately turned the water off and darted out of the shower, buck naked, making a beeline for the locker room bench; specifically locker number thirteen, where his bags and clothes had been stored for the night. Quickly grabbing a solid black pair of Under Armour© basketball shorts, Arthur slipped them on in a hurry, even stumbling forward a bit from his right foot as it caught his elastic band.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Blood continued to drip from his knuckles to the locker room floor as he sat down on the bench. Reaching inside the locker, he pulled out his iPhone.
Pushing a button on the right side of his smartphone, then holding it up to his face for facial recognition, a click signified the phone had become unlocked. It was amazing that the facial recognition didn’t fail and ask for his passcode considering how his long hair was all over the place, partially obstructing his face. Nevertheless, Arthur quickly tapped on his contacts and scrolled alllllllll the way down to the Y’s.
Yuri Reznikov.
His old friend and bodyguard. One of the most cold-blooded mercenaries he’d ever seen in his life, and he had traveled to some truly dark underbellies in the furthest reaches of the world.
Arthur tapped on the contact, which caused a new screen to slide in. The circular picture was of Drago from Rocky IV: an innocuous joke Yuri may not have found funny the slightest bit if he knew about it. He then clicked on the blue highlighted number under the curved mobile space.
It started to ring just as Arthur looked down at his shorts and legs, noticing the blood from his knuckles that he had gotten all over himself.
Gonna need another shower.
“Da?” said a frightening voice on the other end of the line.