Welcome to Gaia! ::

Freakshow is standing in the middle of the ring with this big jerkoff grin on his face. Flashing his thousand dollar gold teeth, with a flatpick sticking out his his yellow hebrew hair he is behind a podium. Not just any podium. A podium with a black velvet painting of the face of Mad Dog McLennon nail gunned right to it. The manager of champions is adorned in a satin tuxedo with a rose sticking out of the chest, holding a glass full of bubbly which judging from the cross-eyed expression on his face was no doubt in the double digits as far as his consumption was concerned.

In adjacent to the podium is a table with a black cloth over it, numerous beverages lining it as well as a very comfortable looking red couch in front. The bleach blonde beams at his arrangement, which was topped off with a rather large disco ball hanging overhead. In the background a generic big band arrangement of Tony Bennett's Rags to Riches, the official theme of the program, blares at an obnoxious volume. Freakshow makes a signal with his hand silencing the bad instantaneously.

"Boy, I'll tell ya. I just flew in from Tupelo and boy, are my arms tired!" Normally any crack that Freakshow made would be accompanied with raucous and unambivalent negativity. Booing, jeering, maybe some garbage. This time there was only cold, dead silence. They wanted him to know that on a fundamental level, beyond the basic realm of yay or nay, that what he had said was not on any level, good. Nor was it offensive or bad enough to even justify any sort of sustained reaction beyond a few lonely coughs. It was far worse than that, it was maddeningly mediocre. It was also the same exact joke that Freak had opened nearly every episode of his show to date.

He blinks a few times, starring out into the sea of dead eyes. "Get it? Because I flew... With my arms... It wasn't an airplane it was me, flying, with my arms. Like a bird, you know, flying-" Explaining the joke, contrary to what the greats of comedy had consented on throughout generations of vaudeville and theater, did not increase it's efficacy. If anything it buried Freak deeper into his hole of gluttonous self-indulgent pity, the show was, as it had always been, a masturbatory excercise no more no less, a vehicle for the manager to edify his integrities and gratify himself orally. Nobody wanted this.

"Aw to heck with you PARTY POOPERS. Welcome to the FIFTH and FIRST BBW edition of MY talk show, The "FREAK" Show, starring, well.." The hard cam zooms in on the mans face, his jaundiced skin clinging tightly to his skull, the flesh around the inside of his nose scrapped to redness by however many thousands of dollars had been inhaled through it. "ME! The most MONEY MAKING man in ALL of WRESTLING. The viceroy of of Rolls Royce, the needle in the hay with a billion dollars a day, yesiree it's me, little old Freak .G Fabulously!"

The man holds his hands up in defense upon finally illiciting the negative response, albeit delayed, that he was accustomed to. Nodding his head he motions trying to quiet the audience down. They did, but not because they wanted to, because they knew that the longer they made noise the longer it would take to get the man out of their ring.

"Now we've got a jacked, STACKED, LOADED and EXPLODED guest list for todays show, with one man in particular topping it off that I KNOW you're all EAGER to see. But it wouldn't be nothing, no nothing, without a little bit of that SWEET SOUL MUSIC to play is into out festivities... So before we get to the MEAT and POTATOES, ya know, the SUBSTANCE, of our show, how about we bring out our musical guest... My newest clients... THE F.W.U!!"

The lights dim..

Freakshow stands awe-inspired before the color coordinated perfectly choreographed spectacle of his boys, his players, his Beatles, The FWU. In the middle of the ring the jittery blonde shucks and jives wildly to the tune of the classic Frankie Valli hit. It was amazing, to Freak, how little dignity people had when you gave them a few dead presidents. The song ends with the manager mid-strut in the center of the ring. He lets out a triumphant "YEEEEAH!" Pumping his fist high into the air, clenching his eyes shut before throwing a hard punch at an invisible person, who one would assume fell to the ground gushing blood from their nose, just like Freak had fallen to the ground gushing from his nose last Wednesday in his hotel room. Only it wasn't because he got hit in the nose.

The coca cola cowboy holds the microphone to his mouth nearly out of breath for all the activity, semi-retired and reaping the rewards all the activity proved more strenuous than one could have possibly anticipated. He waves his band down to the ring, "Come on down fellas! Come on down to the ring- I mean- Uh, Roberto, you can sit on the outside if you want. We can't have all of you in at once-" The manager stares out at his boys, crinkling his nose, "It's bad for the hard cam, you know?" The spinster claps his hands together before twirling around, certainly the boogie had effected the man to his very core.

"But now that we're up, moving and shaking, shucking and jiving, livin' and dyin', I'd like to introduce you to my M.C's the men who can't stop the girls from cryin', oh yes, you know who I'm talkin' about. It's da big guys sheddin' tears from yo eyes, it's my boys that are too high to fly and too down to frown! AW YEAAAH BRING EM OUT. First, Nigeria's Finest son, Mark... LAUNDRE!!"

A morbidly obese Nigerian comes lumbering out onto the Gorilla Position with a white philly-cheesteak stained t-shirt that had a large broken heart printed onto it. With a little bit of spittle down the corner of his mouth he slowly waddles down to the ramp humming Rob Thomas' This is How A Heart Break, his thumb firmly into the side of his cheek being sucked on quite vigorously.

"And his friend, my friend, The Feathered Enforcer, The Elegant Peacock, KUJAKU!"

The lights black out on cue..

Freakshow smiles as his enforcer makes his appearance in typically theatrical fashion. Walking out from the podium he picks up a glass of scotch from his table and sips the beverage, savoring the burn in his mouth before setting it back down. Cracking his neck once, twice, he speaks to his audience who he had assumed would be at this point captivated by the spectacle of his live show.

"Now, look. I know, that you know, why we're here. Not why we're here in the uh, existentialistical sense, but uh, why I am here, right now, standing in this ring in my thousand dollar Versace tuxedo with a rolex on my wrist and a fresh coat of bleach in my golden hair.. We all read the program and we all know who the man of the hour is, a man that we have not seen in quite some time.."

Freakshow nods his head solemnly. He raises his wrist pulling back on the sleeve to show that he indeed was wearing a rolex, before continuing with his monologue. The audience members were becoming increasingly impatient with the managers grand standing, they wanted what had been promised them at the beginning of the night. They wanted the name that had been put on the marque.

"But see- When I got here- A little late... I'm sure you understand, when I got here I had found that BBW management had beat me to the punch. I found that our friend, Mad Dog McLennon.." Freak pauses the gap being filled with an explosive pop, "Had already been interviewed! And not just that, but that in conducting that interview, BBW management had to my chagrin pitched the Hardcore Legend softball after softball after softball.."

Freak shakes his head looking down in affected disappointment.

"Whatever happened to journalistic integrity? Whatever happened to hard hitting questions? And most importantly, what happened to the man we knew? When I scheduled this show, I expected to give you all something to remember, something to make you laugh, cry, maybe even both at once if that's the kind of stuff you're into. But as I stand here I realize that I, Freakshow, am tasked with something far greater than mere entertainment. No, tonight, I intend on taking you, THE AUDIENCE, on a JOURNEY through the BLACK HEART of my GUEST. And who better to do so than the man who-.."

Freakshow pauses. He grabs the bottle of scotch, popping the lid open and pouring himself a fell glass. The blonde picks up the beverage and downs the whole thing in frighteningly quick fashion. Letting out a burp he picks up the mic feeling courageous enough to finish his thought.

"And who better to do so, who better to interview Mad Dog McLennon, than the man who in December 4th of 2007 beat him for the PAW Crimson King title! A man who made his name off the defeat of an alleged King of The Deathmatch, by overcoming the legend in a deathmatch! A man who- Aw heck- this isn't about me WINNING- Nonono! This is about our guest.. Ladies and GENTLEMEN.. Give it up for Mad Dog McLennon!!"

Freakshow raises his fingers to his ears plugging them.

"HAHAHA! My old friend!" Freakshow blares into the microphone his tone and affability betraying the fact that he had filed in a injunction in his contract against the man who stood in the ring. "Ya know, these guys might not remember you.." The blonde points his thumb to himself, before grabbing his scotch glass from the table, "But I certainly do! Heck, I remember.. Hahahah-"

The manager breaks into obscene laughter. "I remember, when I first started wrestling.. When I first got my start in RWA--" He raises his glass, "I remember... The blood, the explosives, the barbwire--And I gotta admit.. Even though back in the day, that stuff was my bread and butter, my forte, so to speak.." The blonde steps right up towards the Hardcore Messiah, "I couldn't stand any of it. Nope. It wasn't for me. Pretty surprising huh?" He reaches down into his pocket pulling out a handkerchief to blow his perpetually runny nose. "See.. For me, all of that stuff, all of that deathmatch nonsense, the broken glass... It paid the gas money, it paid for the motels, but at the end of the day I couldn't wait to break out of the whole scene and become the.." He staightens his tie a little bit.. "International, versace brand Superstar that I am today.. And that, see, that's what I always figured was the difference between you and me.. Cause you..-"

He blows his nose again, his eyes a little bloodshot, "Ugh. 'Scuse me. I could always tell you really liked it. Me? I did it cause it was in vogue, it was the thing to do.. But you, with the staple guns and the piranhas, all that hoopla- I could tell you really, really liked it.." He places the handerchief down on the table, perceptive fans noticing little spots of red in it. "So that's when, well, when I saw your interview... It struck me as a bit queer.. When I heard you talkin' all this high talk about.. Humility and uh, what was it? Respect?"

Freak squints at his guest, "See, I don't know very much about respect. But what I do know is people and people don't change. The Mad Dog McLennon I knew was a sadist who didn't respect a soul on this earth. So uh, give it to me straight, huh? Why don't you tell me what REALLY happened in that 'dojo',"

"Huh? I'll betcha learned a lot of stuff.. DDT.. Hammerlock... Nerve pinch... All the jazz-- See that's good-- That's good cause that hardcore stuff. It catches up with you ya know? You get injuries, you get concussions, you get flesh wounds. Now when you can wrestle a good, clean match, you minimize the risk? Ya know? Cause all of that blood..-"

Freaks face drops at the mention of all of that blood. He falls silent, as if remembering something that he didn't want to under any circumstances remember. "All of that blood it..-" Freak stops again, crinkling his nose, laughing eerily, nervously, looking towards his interviewee. "Look uh, I'm not gunna lie. I brought you out here for a very specific reason. But before we get to that, I gotta get something out of the way, I'm sure you'll understand.. It's somethin' that's been bothering me for-- well--- longer than I care to remember."

The blonde reaches into his pocket pulling at an envelope, looking towards the camera. "See, you look at me, you look at my career, and you can make the connection. I've been with a lot of girls,' Freak tears at the edges of the envelope, "A lot of girls. Understand? Some of them were Puerto Rican. That's not good. I know that's not good. But I always used protection. That don't always work, I know that, so uh, a couple months ago I went to the doctor." Freak rubs at his chin, clearly grappling internally with what he had chosen to air publically. "I hadn't been there in a while, cause, well, I've always been real scared of those rubber gloves, since I was six. So I go to the doctor and uh, I get tested.."

Freak unfolds the paper he had removed from the envelope, his eye twitching a little. "And the results came back.. The results.." He looks up from the paper, not feeling the need to go into specifics. "Well, the results, they're not good." Freakshow looks down briefly, pausing. "They're not good at all.''

The manager downs the rest of his beverage, cringing.

"See, it's nothing that I haven't dealt with before, I've been around this block if you know what I'm saying. But uh, see, I'm a pretty shrewd guy, I know who I got chlamydia from, I know who I got herpes from, I know who I got gonorrhea from and I even know who gave me the warts. It took me like ten years, but I know who gave me warts. These things are easy when you're rich, the knowledge alone is a luxury worth more than the ailments themselves. But this."

He holds the paper up to Mad Dogs face letting him see it. "This. Has Always. Been." Freak leans close to the mic, whispering. "A mystery. I put my guys on it, I paid hundreds, thousands, trying to get the bottom to it. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero. After a while, I just sort of, well, you know. Forgot about it"

The manager holds a finger up. "That is... Well. That is until today. See, I was preparing for this interview, I was watching one of our old matches. Deathmatch. From PAW. I was watching it, and it was a darn good match, I gotta say. What struck me about it, see, was the amount of bloodshed not just on my end.. But on yours too... See, I've been in some real bloodbaths, but this one, I mean, hell-- And uh.. All that.. Fluid. All those open wounds. It got me thinking.."

His voice trails off. "I didn't have it before then." He holds up a finger, like he was counting something. "But I have it now." He pauses. The audience had no ******** clue what to make of any of this s**t. "Now-- I hate to go making accusations that I can't substantiate, quid pro quo and all that. Especially when said accusation is leveled at someone I consider to be an old pal', so uh.. Before we talk business.. I'm going to ask you this one time, and one time only.."

The Marauder looks to The Hardcore Messiah, face to face. Not quite face to face. Mad Dog was a little bit taller. But they were pretty close, close enough for the fan favorite to smell the whiskey and cigarettes on the villains breath, close enough to see his sunken in bloodshot eyes.