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aberrantangelsAnd of course there'll be sport.
It's a house show at Madison Square Garden (redesigned sometime in '05 by nova architect Piotr Enrikssen), full attendance of 87,996, of all ages, classes and colors.
The show led off with three undercard matches passing mitoids off as "rising nova superstars"; our reporter had to admit he (let's call her "he") found it cool "when Ballz Mahoney III power-bombed The Polyp through the hood of a '74 El Dorado". This was followed by a Silver Circle match between Marco "The Brazilian Anaconda" Mateiro ("throwing about 400 punches a second while twisting his body into some kind of fractal pattern") and Mariko Yukiko (bouncing off the Combat Zone's superstructure like a human-shaped Superball).
One's reporter had to watch the slo-mo replay to see what actually happened; the hang time on Yukiko's 5490° Explosion Death Press was pretty cool. Then the fridge logic set in and he wondered "If I have to watch the freakin' screen to see the fight, why did I pay for a ticket instead of watching it for free at the sports bar?"
Lastly comes the main event, with the Black Circle belt allegedly on the line (though it's really more like Godzilla vs Charmander). The challenger, El Diablo, displays the telltale "hose-pipe veins, blotchy skin" and (to sum up) collapsed groin of a mite abuser, his face concealed by a cheap Mefistofaleez mask that "fails to hide his Neanderthal brow. If he survives this match, or the next three, he will eventually succumb to the 10-count of his overtaxed heart." Muffled by the mask, his cry of "Core's goin' down!" comes out more like "Khrehh guhh deuuhhh!" The crowd knows what he is, and boos him accordingly.
And then the jumbotron starts to play "skew flavor-of-the-month Ryyptilique's cover of Proklamationn's remix [or should those be the other way around?] of dear old two-oh retro but still by-God-ass-kicking Metallica classic 'Enter Sandman'", and the crowd gives a colossal pop for the reigning champion of the sport and the master of the Core Meltdown™.
And our reporter finds himself among His worshippers, will he or never-so. "I am a mark. Let's get it on."
May 12
[Aberrant] The article "XWF: Blood Money" is posted to Details magazine's OpSite.
It's a house show at Madison Square Garden (redesigned sometime in '05 by nova architect Piotr Enrikssen), full attendance of 87,996, of all ages, classes and colors.
We've already got confirmed sightings of DJ Faiz, Senator Guiliani and... Rocky Elizondo, complete with aging diva/sugar mama Madonna in tow. I hear that none other than it-couple Lydia Divine [a nova] and Katie Holmes are watching this show from the Garden's VIP box.
The show led off with three undercard matches passing mitoids off as "rising nova superstars"; our reporter had to admit he (let's call her "he") found it cool "when Ballz Mahoney III power-bombed The Polyp through the hood of a '74 El Dorado". This was followed by a Silver Circle match between Marco "The Brazilian Anaconda" Mateiro ("throwing about 400 punches a second while twisting his body into some kind of fractal pattern") and Mariko Yukiko (bouncing off the Combat Zone's superstructure like a human-shaped Superball).
One's reporter had to watch the slo-mo replay to see what actually happened; the hang time on Yukiko's 5490° Explosion Death Press was pretty cool. Then the fridge logic set in and he wondered "If I have to watch the freakin' screen to see the fight, why did I pay for a ticket instead of watching it for free at the sports bar?"
Lastly comes the main event, with the Black Circle belt allegedly on the line (though it's really more like Godzilla vs Charmander). The challenger, El Diablo, displays the telltale "hose-pipe veins, blotchy skin" and (to sum up) collapsed groin of a mite abuser, his face concealed by a cheap Mefistofaleez mask that "fails to hide his Neanderthal brow. If he survives this match, or the next three, he will eventually succumb to the 10-count of his overtaxed heart." Muffled by the mask, his cry of "Core's goin' down!" comes out more like "Khrehh guhh deuuhhh!" The crowd knows what he is, and boos him accordingly.
And then the jumbotron starts to play "skew flavor-of-the-month Ryyptilique's cover of Proklamationn's remix [or should those be the other way around?] of dear old two-oh retro but still by-God-ass-kicking Metallica classic 'Enter Sandman'", and the crowd gives a colossal pop for the reigning champion of the sport and the master of the Core Meltdown™.
Depending on whom you ask, the XWF is a barbaric orgy of violence unworthy of a civilized society, a pandered selling lowest-common-denominator pap to cretinous, testosterone-addled teens and the emotionally retarded adults they will become, [or] the dry rot on the leprous corpse of a decadent, media-numbed, postindustrial, postmodern, postcaring, postfeeling, downloaded, wired-for-convenience society so devoid of any real soul that it has to elevate clown-gods to beat the shit out of each ohter simply to satisfy its stuporous concern that at least someone, somewhere, is doing and feeling something real, live, even if it is rage and fear....
All these things are, to some extent, true. It does not matter. To these 87,000-plus, there is one God and His name is Core.
And our reporter finds himself among His worshippers, will he or never-so. "I am a mark. Let's get it on."
