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A misty rain fills the night skies of the Dallas-Ft. Worth metropolitan area and deep in the heart of Texas. It is minutes after midnight down in the D. The main thoroughfares of the sprawling metropolis are still brightly illuminated by the street lights and the neon signs of the countless businesses still operating long into the night. Even deep into the night the city is alive and bustling. It would seem as though somewhere down in its core, beneath the concrete dermis, an unseen heart pumps life into both the dormant and the active bodies. The countless streets carry vehicles to various unknown destinations like veins carry blood.
However, deep in the dark underbelly of the city, a blacker heart beats with a far more sinister purpose. Here the collective mind of the inner city runs black with the poison of hate and resentment. Here there are schools that are over-populated and under-funded, assuring that this generous and those to come will remain chained these delapidated slums. Here the underprivileged lay trampled beneath the heel of the city like a serpent in a lush garden. Crushed beneath the boot of the more fortunate, these helpless and hopeless people turn cold and brutal even in the Texas heat.
Trapped beneath the suffocating weight of the upper classes, these naturally good and pure people become contaminated by circumstances beyond their ability to control. Those who dwell in the dark streets of urban America often grow up in crushing poverty with infinitesimal hope of escape. Out of hopeless desperation, many of these people turn either to violence and crime or drugs and alcohol- often times both. Such people have been infected with a toxic disease born from and transmitted by society alone.
Throughout the United States and other wealthy nations, the disease spreads like a plague, a plague transmitted not by rats but by the wealthy and the elite. Those who have abundant incomes and vast wealth ignore and abuse the poor and impoverished, trampling them under foot like blades of glass. As a response, the hearts and minds of the "less fortunate" become angry, bitter, cold, and corrupt.
In one dimly lit urban Dallas neighborhood, there is heard a smash of glass, immediately followed by the irritating whine of a car alarm. An engine starts. Tires squeal. Seconds later, the black Honda goes tearing down the street followed by a cloud of gray smoke and the odor of burning rubber as the tires burn out and the car disappears into the night. A young white man, no more than 18 or 19 years old, leans against a lamppost. Above him, the orange glow of the street light flickers like a strobe. The young man watches and shakes his head as the Honda speeds through the intersection, running a red light in the process.
He knows what has just happened, and knows that there is nothing anyone can or will do about it. In all likelihood, the vehicle will turn up crashed into a fence, or tree, or wall, with the culprit nowhere to be found. Or it will be discovered several blocks away, sitting on cinder blocks and stripped to the proverbial bone. There is no justice in this neighborhood. Justice is something that exists only to give the middle class and the wealthy some piece of mind. When the poor commit crimes against the poor, justice is most often served in the form of smoking hot lead.
As if to echo the young man's thoughts, the sound of distant gunfire rings out through the misty night.
"There's some more of that street justice now," the teenager thinks aloud, shaking his head again.
After the gunfire ceases, there is an eerie silence except for the faint sounds of one or two car alarms off in the distance. Distant alarms set off by the noise and vibrations of the shots fired, most likely. After a few moments those too fall silent, and an ear-shattering silence fills the wet night. The young man whispers a prayer in the dim light of the street lamp.
Fade to black.
Later that day, the scene reopens inside the American Airlines Center in Dallas. The arena is empty at the moment, but the floor is set up for a basketball game later in the night. High up in the rafters stands the SFT World Heavyweight Champion Josh Konnely. He is wearing a yellow t-shirt and black jeans. The coveted championship gold is around his waist.
"Today is the twenty-seventh of January. Around this time of year all of America turns their eyes and their minds towards the most feared date on the calendar among American people. The date is that of April 15.
The widespread saying in this country is that two things in life are certain: death and taxes. We cannot tell or hope to know on what day or in what way we will die. But by the laws laid down by the Internal Revenue Service, we all know how and when we must submit our tax forms. They must be postmarked and mailed no later than April 15 of each year.
Why is it that we fear taxes? I've often wondered why it is that we fear death, something that is inevitable and after which we are relieved of all suffering. But death is something we fear because it is unknown: the day and time and means of our death is unknown, and what happens next is unknown. Taxes. on the other hand, are deducted from our paychecks during the year. At the end of each year, we either owe more or we are owed money back in the form of a return. We pay our taxes, and we go on with our lives. How much is really lost? No one goes broke or loses their livelihood from paying taxes, as long as they make their payments when they are due.
So why fear taxes? The answer is simple. People, particularly those of wealth, dread and rue the collection of taxes because it means they will have less money for a time. They begrudge supporting police stations, fire stations, schools, the military, and government agencies because they hate giving up even a small percentage of their wealth.
The more money a person has, the more tax they pay, and in turn the more they hate tax day and the tax man.
The saying goes that money is the root of all evil. Others observe that it is the desire for or love of money that is truly the root of all evil. But I have said it before and I will say it again: the true root of evil is pride. Without pride we have no use for material possessions, and thus no use for money. The desire for money stems from individual personal pride. The rational self-interest of economics is the result of this pride. People desire to have more and be better than everyone else. This pride drives us towards a desire for and love of money. In order to love ourselves and be loved by others, we believe we need to have money and as much of it as we can possibly get our hands on."
Josh rubs the golden belt around his waist as he looks out over the empty arena and basketball court far below where he stands.
"We shoot for the sky, you could say. We shoot to be the best. Not just the best that we ourselves can be, but the best of the entire human race.
Tomorrow Strike Towers heads into nearby Arlington, Texas to the new home of the Dallas Cowboys. There at New Beginnings I will defend the World Heavyweight Championship against 'The Best Damn Tax Man in Washington D.C.' The Accountant. As he's been boasting since somewhere around 1999.
Accountant, I can see that it gives you a considerable amount of pride that you are the man who gets paid to take money away from the American masses. I cannot say I blame you. Tax collectors date back all the way to the Bible days and the beginning of Christ's ministry. Granted, tax collectors in those days were more likely barbaric bullies who would rape, plunder, pillage, and steal from those too poor to pay than the pocket protector and scientific calculator number crunching nerds of today.
As for your wrestling career, it is well known that you have been in and out for nearly a decade, always flashing potential before fading into the background again. Until now you have never had a chance to compete for the SFT Championship, just your occasional TV or US Championship. The World Heavyweight Championship has always eluded you, never quite able to get yourself into that main event of main events, the match of a career.
Blah, blah, blah. Waah, waah, waah. Save me the sob story, friend. I respect your efforts, your career, and your passion. But do I strike you as the kind of guy to take pity on the sob stories of anyone? Let alone 'the best damn tax man in Washington, D.C.?' I grew up in poverty. For a time, I was essentially homeless. I joined the Army National Guard in hopes of a better life. I have had to work and struggle and fight for everything I ever had. 'Legends' like you and Kyle Murphy always seem to want everything handed to you because you think you're entitled to it.
My world does not work that way, Accountant. My world is brutal, cold, and uncaring. In my world, you have to earn everything you get and take what you want. Grab life by the horns, shake it around, and kick it in the nuts. That's the only way to the top of my world. Face the world head on and conquer it with ruthless aggression. Dog eat dog. Survival of the fittest. Devour the world, or the world will devour you.
Still, Accountant, nobody can question your dedication and passion. Very few in the history of this business can match your heart. I will not take that away from you.
However, I do find myself questioning the calibur of your talent and the legitimacy of you as a challenger. Surely at some point during your tenure you have questioned why you never receive a title shot. Did you ever think that maybe the answer was simply that you just weren't good enough for it?
Then again, why would you have reason to consider that possibility when men like Knife and Knight and Goldeneye have competed for and won the World Heavyweight Championship before you? No doubt you are equal to or greater than those historical footnotes of SFT past.
My dear challenger, you talk about having a height and weight advantage. Clearly you missed November Reign when I dispatched John Schoonover and Kyle Murphy. I crushed The Standard. I proved myself superior to The Superior One. And I permanently silenced The Silent Assassin.
My current championship reign has lasted several months and turned back challengers of all shapes and sizes. I am successful and remain champion not because I am the biggest, or strongest, or even the fastest. I continue to triumph against all foes placed before me because I possess a rage and hatred that fuels me to be the most brutally heartless person in Strike Towers, now or ever. I conquer my foes because I am more than willing to destroy them in order to do so.
You should understand that as well as anyone, Accountant. You yourself alluded to my actions last week in your Hardcore Championship match against Brass Martin. I threw the Hardcore Championship in the ring so that one of you- I didn't care which one- could use it as a weapon against the other. Whoever used it, I would then lay out myself. It just so happened to be you.
My purpose in carrying out those premeditated acts of violence was to prove to both of you that regardless who won that match, I was still willing to do anything and everything it takes to make sure this World Heavyweight Championship remains securely around MY waist. It was not a random act, Accountant. I had to make sure that you and Brass both understood what you were fighting each other for. I had to show you both that you were dealing with the meanest man in the SFT locker room, and that when you cross me there are dire consequences to be paid.
Accountant, you say that my giving you that Egocide last week was a bad move. But the fact you mention it at all proves just how good a move it really was. The fact that you mention proves to me and to the world that I have gotten inside your head. You have seen that I am a cold, calculating, backstabbing son of a bitch that will stop at nothing to have his way. You also know is that it will take me just that one move and three seconds to defeat you tomorrow night, and thereby crush your hopes and dreams of an SFT Championship.
You also say that you will never submit or surrender, but claim that I will submit to you at New Beginnings. The problem is, I don't need you tap out. I can just as easily make you pass out in the Pentagram or the Final Extinction. I can and will choke the life out of you. Once you suck in your last breath before slipping into unconsciousness from one of my various chokeholds, the match will end and I will walk out of New Beginnings the same way that I walked in: as World Heavyweight Champion.
The quest is over? Your damn right it is. When I choke you out or pin you one, two, three, your quest WILL be over. Not in the form of a World Heavyweight Championship, but in the form of a shattered dream. You will have climbed almost all the way to the top of the mountain, only to falter and fail at the end of the long trail. I will send you tumbling down in a broken heap back to the bottom of that proverbial mountain.
Look on the bright side, Accountant. At least you have a great career to fall back on. A career in Washington, D.C.
Count up your assets and your liabilities. Add up all your credits, and deduct all your debits. Calculate your revenue, and minimize your loss."
Konnely gives the World Heavyweight Championship belt a couple of solid slaps.
"At the end of the day, The Accountant from D.C. will be slaughtered by The Butcher of Bridgeport, and Josh Konnely will once again walk out with this World Heavyweight Championship around his waist. There will be no New Beginnings tomorrow night; just one constant remaining at the top."
The lights in the arena suddenly go out. When they come back on, Josh Konnely is nowhere to be seen. Fade to black.
This is a song On the subject of class envy.
Let's go!
Have you ever prayed to the night sky?
But you try to say you know me.
They want to break me down. I hope I can hold my ground.
Your world is MTV, Spring breaks and ecstasy.
My world remains unseen by you.
They want to break me down. I won't back down.
I ain't your kind of white. I ain't that kind of white.
I ain't your kind of white. I've never been your kind of white.
Five years on down the road (you've got) two kids and a high paying job,
This path on which I walk: it ain't a game and it ain't all talk.
I ain't ever been nor will I ever be another blind eye in society.
Have you ever prayed to the night sky?
I ain't your kind of white. I ain't that kind of white.
I ain't your kind of white. I've never been your kind of white.(No way!)
If you're offended by this song.... Well I'm fucking offended by the way I had to grow up.
Let's go!
Have you ever prayed to the night sky?
I never had enough money Or enough Privilige to be white! I'm white trash! |