Datura vs. Alioth Starre

[Konrad Raab]

Special Challenge Match

Unsanctioned Match

3 RP Limit

Deadline: 5 PM ET Saturday, October 17, 2020

[AliothStarre]

Grey.

Not a name, not the sky, but the nothing that encompasses all of existence in a single moment. It’s that feeling of pressure on your chest and mind as your body realizes that it truly is stuck in the ever still present of reality as we’ve made it, and there’s nothing you can do about it. 

The swamp of time with all that came before expected to drag you down in the muck and mud with its dirty dreams. 

The Nothing has swept across the world in a silent storm that has quickly taken us into a new dimension of dissonance and discourse. It is born as a film of scum on the surface of the swamp that we cling desperately to and has usually allowed me to pull my greatest inspirations up from the muck and mud beneath to create a foul disgust of humanity that I have always commented on, if not been, but now, as I pick at the scabs and wonder why the wounds won’t bleed, I realize that the swamp has dried, the film that would otherwise create new life that would form, evolve, and generate new dreams to decompose the next generation have all been washed by a new silent storm. A new Nothing, but this Nothing is worse than all that came before it.

It’s a false Nothing.

What you may be wondering, as I spill the the congealed waste of an inhuman mind upon the black canvas you see before you is just what I may might be delving into, or alluding to when I reference the nothing, the swamp and the muck and the mud, and those dirty dreams.

Has that not been what I’ve always been about? The illusion of allusion with delusion as my intrusion of your amused and yet confused minds never used time like I, nor comprehended it, nor desired, until all that was left of a what was once fire is now contempt and nothing left to admire.

Let’s deep dive for a moment, shall we, because I really think you all, and especially you Datura, need to understand the what, and the why now.

One person years ago once attributed my wrestling, or performance if you will as ‘poetry in prose’. The greatest act to have ever graced the stage of wrestling up to that point. That point mind you is now deep into the past and even at the moment that it was spoken I had already left so much behind into the past of who I wanted to become and who I really was when I stepped into this squared circle, as you call it.

In that moment, when that was said, what should have been said was that I, Alioth Starre was really just gaga, outlaw, an absolute circus act of a human being.

Guns.

God.

Government.

Do you love them? I tortured many with them and the prose of others in my poetry of discontent for all that is wrestling and all that believe that they are wrestlers.

Wrestling is a thing olympians do in the grandest stage of them all. What I wanted to do, what you all have taken down a path so twisted and conjured is what used to be professional wrestling.

Alioth Starre is not a wrestler. He’s not a man who follows sports of any kind. He’s an artist and a work of art, a canvas that was eternally wet. For my opponents that would touch me, they would stain and their finger prints would permanently scar my canvas with their essence, the effigy of the effort they went to form a picture out of the nothing that I was. Each brush and each palette, knife, or technique could never quite understand what I had shown them and brought before them.

Then, in the past, it was always about being that wet painting, never finished, always to be interpreted by the viewer, by the artist and molded however they needed me to be in order to truly understand who they really are inside. See, they never finished that painting, because ultimately they would have found as if the paint could dry is just a mirror of themselves twisted and confirmed to what ever nightmare version of them they really were.

Few, and I mean few ever saw past, even a glimpse or a false idea of a glimpse into a better version of themselves through the novelized mirror that was Alioth Starre.

That’s only two people.

Myself not included.

---

My body has caked the earth and it is dry and ashen and cracked at the body of the muck and mud of the swamp in a forest cut down under a grey and dead sky. It is not the image of fog over film, specks glisten the air with thick humidity to press down on your heart as the killer emerges with machete and mask. It is the image you see before you, each and every one of you and not just Datura, my impotent opponent and the alleged subject of this ill content.

The Nothing has swept over the swamp like a wasp in search of gutter, soffit, tree, whatever to make its nest and cause a buzz in the community. It has passed us and it has gone, lost adrift in a sea of fires that, yes, Billy Joel, we did start.

This monster has grown over time and its core white hot, buts all that it touches with the tip of its RGB fingers that has destroyed everything even reality as we ‘new’ it.

It is massive, it is bold, but it is blind.

Like a super massive black hole it devours all it sees, but much like the black hole it does not keep what it eats and it does not spew out something better or worse, or new at all. It just devours and devours and for a third time, devours.

Once the forest is gone the monster turns at the withered ash and the cut stumps and blames the past for destroying it and that it is the future because everything before it is fresh and clean and ready to move forward.

The monster is you. It’s Datura, it’s Supreme Whatever Wrestling, and it’s all of you right now.
You could go deeper and say it’s humanity as a whole, you know the old Alioth would make an allusion to the current political climate as it indeed changes due to human discourse, but I’d like to keep things just a little more focused this time.

Hang in there, Datura, the rope you have hung for yourself by accepting this is still slack, but as you go you will feel it tighten. Hopefully each and every one of you feels it tighten as we continue down the path you have chosen.

You may wonder how will I pull the rope at the end to tighten it? Remember though, my body is caked at the depth of a dead swamp. It’s not me at all, but again yourselves.

As a collective you are the monster. The fire that burns brightest is also the hardest to see the darkness within itself. You destroy yourselves as you destroy the world around you and at the end of all life as you know it, you’ll turn around and wonder how the world was obliterated, or perhaps you’ll blame the dreams of others for your own destruction.

---

My lungs have failed me. Inside they wither, punctured by my own arrogance and my own self-destruction. 

Gaga. 

Outlaw. 

Circus act.

Who were you just now? Who were you just then? Are any of them the person you hope to be in the future, or will they be shells of your present self?

Let’s round back to that. The present. As live in a moment together you and I, you will imagine whatever you desire to imagine as this painting spills like wine through your brain, but like music fresh and new was created long ago and is nothing more than a star that has died but yet the light still reaches us because the vastness of space is cold and dead like the present.

Everything you see around you is a shell, or a husk, or an effigy. The sun merely the image of itself eight minutes ago. Your breath has already been wasted on your former self. How did you get here? Did you really mean to reach this moment and be the person you are right now?

The present we live in is a cold waste and a stuffy nose, a thick humid bog that has pressed down on us and left none free to change ourselves, let alone the climate. 

It’s all that came before, or perhaps the smug smog of all that is now that pressed down on us, nothing new, nothing to admire, and nothing worthwhile. It’s just all the waste we have created as life itself congealed to suffocate us and people like you, not just Datura, but all of you are the ones that have breathed it in and called it change.

You call it a revolution, or even so bold to say the word ‘evolution’ to describe your own suffocation.

---

The whites of my eyes, dead and waiting have stared blankly up into the water above the muck and mud. What filth has been peered through has not fallen to cover me, not a single speck. It moves like bacteria in the deepest depths of the sea, unable to be seen but yet you know it’s there and you wait for it to settle like everything else in the darkest depths from the great whales the die and become fodder for the feeders, to the very chemicals that create the stars themselves slowly dragged down to the depths where it can breathe life into the past to create a new future.

Nothing settles anymore here in the great swamp. If you weren’t such a monster perhaps you’d be nibbled and nipped at and all that you could provide the world and yourselves would eventually sift down and breed new life to the film of scum on the surface. This grave of desires and history has stared blankly up at the stale waters above and have waited desperately to be part of the creation of the future, but yet we lay motionless and unable to understand why the cycle of art has ended.

---

Datura, you’ve been around a while, certainly were when I was knocking about in GIW and other garbage federations like this one. You’ve been noticed before, but never have you ever been one my list of people to wrestle. Never have you ever been considered by me as a piece of the future.

At some point I realized I had been lost and thus wandered aimlessly for that flicker of hope and burning of starlight in others and reached for those canvases myself to inspire and understand my own. It was the act of a dead star casting its light billions of lightyears just hoping that the reflection of a pale blue dot could look at it and wonder. Those planets were the future and I wanted to be part of it, but only those of who I knew were the future.

Now they’re dead, dying, or like you, a false planet that was nothing more than a gas giant blowing hot air into the galaxy with no sun or light to actually give it reason to live.

---

So much talk of illusions that elude most likely all of you. The young Alioth was a professional wrestler. He was a technical wrestler and very much a submission maneuver kind of guy. Where did the gaga come from? When did the outlaw mud wrestling happen? Though the man I had desired to become never became of me, it is good that the moment the circus act took complete control of my everything, that’s when the name Alioth began to tarnish and that’s when my career fell apart.

It was the dance in the lights, the mirror acts and the convoluted stories my fragmented mind thought were somehow intellectual and better than anything before it. Unfortunately that man was nothing more than a sad little angel clown who, that cried. He was beaten and couldn’t understand why, and he blamed all that came before him because, well, everything ahead of him was so fresh and ready to move forward.

My terrible vigil of light waited impatiently for the hands of those I’d inspire to move forward as my flesh decayed. For a long time I’ve waited for my candle and spirit to float up and down the river with the others. We’d dance in the moonlight and the water would be so cold and frisky, so rejuvenated by our deaths that the light in the darkness, even though the darkness could never understand it, would give birth to something greater and new.

Instead we waited at the riverbanks and no one came to pick us up and send us off. No one, nothing. You all hid in your caves and banged on the walls and believed that you could make better paintings than the men and women that left them behind, but yet not a single one of you ever thought why those paintings were there or even how.

Let’s make this a little more current, shall we, or perhaps better to be understood by the dumb and the lame, which has become you Datura, and all those around us.

The wrestlers, the combat performers or professional whatever that came before you, Datura, like myself left blueprints, or laid the groundwork for you and those around you. We set these on a table for all to know and share and expand on, and even make better. Instead you saw a messy table and thought that all you needed were the pulsing lights inside your head so you shoved everything we were and left for you to the ground to fall into the muck and mud and instead of laying down any groundwork yourselves, you get drunk and high on the smoke and ashes! 

You insolent filth burn the tree of life, not for death, but to watch the suffering! You cry when your criticized for bringing gaga and outlaw garbage to the squared circle and you blame what came before because how dare the old tell the new what’s what? You know it all and you’re going to flaunt it? I’d welcome a bold and arrogant something to come through and supernova us all into oblivion and create something so exquisite not a single prehistoric mind among us had ever thought or seen it coming. 

You know, I was among no one, then only two other people after me. You think you’re one of them? Does anyone paying attention to what I’m saying right now have any thought that you were one of them?

None of you. Even if you were and you see this now, you know as well I, that you are no longer one of them. You know I’m not longer one of them, but even still I must do what I set out to do long ago in 2011 when this entire circus act began.

We begin at the end. The clip caught and cut in my mouth and the dark lord awaits, but this time it’s not some young blood who’s going in to the world of professional wrestling knowing he’s the greatest they’ve never seen before. This time, the dead must rise, never to breathe life again, but to show you that the clock can turn back that even the stale mass of cancerous flesh that cakes the ground you never even walked upon can still drag you under and cease your impotent flame.

Even the memory of what I wanted to become is still better than what all of you became.

What you call wrestling, I call the rape of the natural world. You are all clowns each of you from makeup to nose to hair. This mud wrestling that you parade on twitter and these shallow federations that claim to be havens of professionalism and sport is nothing more than all of you pretending to light a candle and claiming that you can feel it burn, because why would you ever rise above the ashes of those who burned so that you could become the future?
You don’t need what came before, right? You just dance around like lost little lambs and believe that everything’s okay.

---

So, all this talk and nothing to compose how Alioth, a forgotten effigy of something he never even became is going to fix things and make the wrestling world right again?

Can it be fixed?

Can it be right?

Can Alioth ever be what he never was?

When I first started this, I never intended to really see the affects or fruits of my labor. It was. To burn bright and burn different then die off as you all move forward. Never once paid attention to how I affected my opponents because a star never sees the earth’s reflection back when those billions of lightyears have been travelled to project for it.

Was that the circus act though, or really my intention? Do you deserve to beat me because you’re better, or because someone didn’t understand what I was trying to put across? Will you win because that’s what the climate is today, or will it actually be due to talent?

The old Alioth would have wanted to be defeated by those with true talent, but instead chose to defile himself in a federation of lip-service and corruption. He was part of that corruption until the gaga and the outlaw took over. 

You shouldn’t win because I’m nothing you ever thought you’d come up against. I shouldn’t win because my mirror is blunt and reflects the crude dissonance of each and everyone of you.

Perhaps neither of us should, because maybe it’s better that I show the present that the past still very much alive inside of you and you can’t run from it, and you can’t hide from it, even as you try desperately to ignore it.

Neither of us have ever succeeded at forging the future and that is my fate and failure as Alioth.

---

My body, still and dead desperately still reaches out into the water of the swamp that now suffocates me. Even if all this movement, all this desperation is nothing more than the fleeting imagination of the living dead, I know that some part of me still needs to do it. Some part of me, a part that’s lived deep within the core of my passion and reason for being here, it still burns.

There is a dull flame in a dead body, some dim flicker of electricity that thinks this lifeless corpse might still move if it just tries to spark and ignite harder and harder.

It is desperate to make known what I should have always known, but allowed bury deep within my arrogance. It is desperate to show you that you will never be as good as even the worst of me.
It will show all of you that none of you will ever be among me, even as I am cold and lifeless in the vast nothing of space, or buried in the depths of the past.

---

We are what we are.

We are copies of the imitation of ourselves that never fully realize what we hoped we’d become.
Now, I just hope to drag you down with my cliche. 

So, Datura, take your bow and close the curtains. 

When you finally walk off stage it’ll be the ghosts that remain.

---

[Datura]

Take a Bite of the Apple