Post by Jules on Oct 6, 2012 12:54:34 GMT -4
...THE STEFAN RAABIES (and some love for the sooky slum dog)
Phil’s audio diary – tape #4476 (labelled ‘Stefan Raabies)[/u]
I answered the call immediately. It had come from Julius Farquhar’s new associate, Barry Hoskins, and he had sounded quite desperate, pleasing that Julius had been struck by some mystery ailment. I grabbed my car keys and headed out the door, without forgetting my trustee notepad and Dictaphone – this was going to be golden.
On the journey there I was found myself very intrigued about what could be the matter. I had never known egomania to strike a person down before, but then this was Julius Farquhar; anything was possible. Then I realised that as the official APW man on the scene I may be the one who would have to transmit the news to Reginald. I wasn’t in the Asylum’s General Manager’s good books as it was; I knew I would be the one to feel Julius wrath.
I have to admit another thought had crossed my mind: this was just another elaborate play by the Tap Out Champion. In spite of the outward bravado I knew the contents of Julius’ thoughts; I could read them in his various twitches and bodily gestures. He feared One Night In Hell. Of course he would never admit it publicly, but it seemed obvious to me. There was a new desperation in the self-proclaimed Quintessentially English man’s actions. The repeated attacks on TJ to force him to ‘quit’ or ‘submit’; the failed attempts at recruiting Asylum Megastars into his ‘Quintessentially English Empire’; they all smacked of the final, desperate plays of a man who knows he is physically outgunned and tactical outmatched. “The Soul of Philly” was a considerable threat to Julius; I know it, TJ knows it, the fans know, and in the deepest recesses of his heart Julius knows it too.
When I arrived at Julius’ residence Barry was in a flapping panic, sweating and twitching like a nervous wreck.
“I’m so glad you could get here so fast,” he told me. As soon as I walked in I could sense something was amiss; Julius’ usually immaculate residence was in disarray. The heavily stocked bookshelves in the hallway had been partially emptied of their contents; the umbrellas stand stood on its side, its content scattered across the floor. All of the door remained open except one: the door to Julius’ study, from where a most violent disorder could be heard.
I asked Barry what was wrong, he seemed perplexed. “I have no idea. One minute he was using the computer and suddenly he flew into a terrible rage, starting smashing and tearing away at things. Then he tried to bite me.”
I was astounded, almost disbelieving.
“Then he charged into the hallway,” Barry continued, “before I was able to partially restrain him and get him back into the study.”
What happened then I asked, with no little trepidation.
“Well he carried on with his violent surges, and began to speak in some kind of gobble-de-gook,” was Barry’s reply.
I asked Barry if he had called for the doctor, he shook his head and told me Julius demanded my audience immediately.
“Well I suppose you ought to take me through to see him,” I told Barry, although now I was beginning to wish I’d called the authorities in advance.
Barry led me through to the study where my eyes were immediately cast upon the most grotesque sight: Julius Farquhar, usually the epitome of sophistication, was sat in a completely dishevelled state: his attire was loose and sloppy; his unkempt, greasy and shaggy; his face red and oily with the sweat of an intense agitation. Julius recognised me and immediately fell at my feet.
“You must help me, Phil.” His tone was imploring, vulnerable, hinting at a rare call for help. This seemed entirely genuine; yet I have learnt to remain on guard as far as Julius is concerned.
I asked Julius what had happened.
“I have been infected,” he spat with venom. “I have been contaminated by that vile German.”
“He thinks he has Stefan Raabies,” Barry interjected at this point. I looked at him incredulously. “He thinks he got it through the Twitter,” Barry said as an addendum.
I pleaded that I didn’t understand, that I did know think it was possible to catch a virus through the computer.
“Have you never visited one of those seedy sites where they illicit tea? They have all sorts of malignant worms and malware lurking in wait to INFECT?” Julius barked, a dark look on his face. “People get viruses all the time through the internet.”
“I told him he should have bought Apple,” Barry added non-helpfully.
I tried to explain that they were computer viruses, but Julius cut me off.
“Then how do you explain...?” Julius paused and flopped into a chair. “Oh no, I can feel another surge; the virus is beginning to take hold.”
“These attacks are terrible, Phil,” Barry warned, “now might be a good time to call a doctor. It’s the Twitter you see; he visited that Stefan Raab’s Twitter and now he’s been infected with a virus that has turned him into an incoherent idiot.”
“Bratwurst! Eich Dicht Berlin-FUHRER!”
I was shocked by the sudden outburst by Julius. I told Barry to call a doctor immediately. Fortunately the world’s foremost expert in Stefan Raabies was in the Yellow Pages and he lived less than half an hour away. When he arrived and examined Julius he confirmed our worst fears.
“I am afraid Mr. Farquhar is in full grip of the virus now; his decline into an incessant stream of mindless and incoherent jibber-jabber is inevitable,” the doctor explained.
I asked what we should expect; he told us.
“Usually people experience symptoms such as a perpetual use of the Twitter device; delusions of grandeur that are highly unfounded by a non-Quintessentially English person; a tendency to use trash-talking tropes ad nauseum; a hankering for celebrity Bratwurst; finally, an almost magical ability to get viewers to switch off the TV set as soon as the infected person appears on screen.”
“That is horrendous,” Barry said shaking his head, “Mr. Farquhar is the foremost wrestler in the world; if he is in the throes of Stefan Raabies how is he going to entertain all of the world’s wrestling fans? How is going to be possible for Asylum to air without the true ‘Quintessentially English’ wrestler able to perform?”
“It is a shame,” the doctor replied, “but such are the perils of those who come into contact with Stefan Raabies.”
Suddenly, the conversation was interrupted by Julius in the full grip of a Stefan Raabies attack.
“Give me a celebrity! Feed him to me now! I WANT BRATWURST! I WANT CELEBRITY BRATWURST NOW! I WANT CELEBRITY BRATWURST IN MY MOUTH! I WANT IT ALL IN MY MOUTH! I WANT ITS JUICES RUNNING DOWN MY CHIN!”
I asked the Doctor if there was anything we could do.
“Symptons usually last 72 hours, then the victim returns completely to normal,” he said in reply. But the attack on Julius was continuing.
“GIVE IT TO ME PHIL! GIVE ME YOUR WIENER SCHNITZEL! GIVE IT TO ME!”
Julius slumped into a chair momentarily before bounding quickly to the computer.
“I am going to start a Twitter war,” he explained. “I’ll fight them all, show nobody can be as obnoxious in a completely irrelevant way like me.”
Julius turned to look back at the three of us, Barry & I gobsmacked at what we were witnessing.
“Don’t you people understand: that is what it’s all about - winning Twitter wars. Fuck winning actually wrestling matches. I may be a complete loser in the ring, a total bore on the mic, but at least no-one will ever defeat me in a TWITTER WAR!”
If this wasn’t bad enough, Julius cursing and all, nothing could have prepared us for what came next. As he typed on his computer Julius spoke out loud.
“I AM THE BEST! YOU ARE ALL LUCKY! Yes, let’s see you Twitter losers reply to that one. HATE ME LIKE I SHOULD HATE MYSELF. No, too honest. This is it: NOBODY CAN DEFEAT THE KILLERBORE – JEW VILL ALL ZEE ZAT JEW KANNOT DEVEET ME!”
“Holy shit!” Barry burst, “Julius is turning into a fully-fledged German.”
“MEIN FUHRER! MEIN FUHRER! EVERY VUN VILL BOW TO ZA FUHRER! BRATWURST! BRATWURST! GIVE ZEM TO ME!”
Julius grabbed the computer mouse and began to bite into it. I looked across at the doctor and shaking his head, he said morbidly.
“This may just be the worst case of Stefan Raabies I have ever seen.”
*
The Quintessentially English Podcast #1
One thing the only ‘Quintessentially English’ wrestler in the world has to contend with every week is that his opponent will always look upon him with admiring, yet envious, eyes. It is not simply the case that every single wrestler in the world wants to be like me, they are also hoping, by some dint of fortune, to earn even a modicum of admiration or acknowledgement from me.
I can understand it, even if it is pitiful in its sheer lunacy.
Look at the past: Phil Atken tried to get me to at least give a smidge of credence to his preposterous notion that tea is better served water after milk, and for all his troubles he ended up swimming in a bathtub of it. I know Anthony Bailey cries himself to sleep every night knowing that even though he has the World Title, he has not earned any ‘Quintessentially English’ respect. Jason Kash? Well, he strung a coherent sentence in my direction and gave me a look demanding praise like a dog that achieved some minor feat like finding its tail.
The turn this week falls to Jair Hopkins.
Mr. Hopkins, I do wish that there could have been made some relation between yourself and my associate Barry, because at least then the practice of nepotism, which is quintessentially blue-blooded, would have demanded at least I give you a fraction more thought than I would the contents of my bowels. Instead I cannot but help look at your protestations like the unruly behaviour of a spoilt child. It is all me-me-me.
You want my attention, Mr. Hopkins, then, pray, do something to merit it. As villainous as that friend of yours, TJ, is at least I can say about that man that he has been a source of some irritation in my life. Like a nasty rash my interaction with him has given me an itch that must be scratched, but his time will come. Your time is now and rest assured your fragile self-esteem need not worry about whether the world’s only ‘Quintessentially English’ wrestler has cast his thoughts upon you.
I have considered you, long and hard, and there seems to me no better target through which to send a message to TJ. Like a pesky little mosquito gnawing at my flesh, trying somehow to extract some of my life force in order to sustain your own, I will squash the very heart and soul out of you.
I have heard the industry insiders’ comment on how I should not take you lightly. Well fear not, I will deal with you appropriately. On that note, maybe I was a little unfair on you: your accomplishments stand out as fair and true given the short time you have been here. After all, you have managed to elevate yourself from the gutter and into the ring, but as far as being impressed is concerned, what you have achieved impresses me no more than the accomplishments of a sewer rat who has converted into one of the field. Vermin is vermin at the end of the day and I promise you extermination.
Your watch word is respect, and you plainly disrespect me by misappropriating my words (I see listening skills were not part of your ghetto education), well this weekend you will have your opportunity to earn yours, but when I am through with you and prove that ‘blue-blood’ trumps ‘ghetto spirit’ I expect you to show some, get down on your knees and PAY HOMAGE!
End transmission.
One thing the only ‘Quintessentially English’ wrestler in the world has to contend with every week is that his opponent will always look upon him with admiring, yet envious, eyes. It is not simply the case that every single wrestler in the world wants to be like me, they are also hoping, by some dint of fortune, to earn even a modicum of admiration or acknowledgement from me.
I can understand it, even if it is pitiful in its sheer lunacy.
Look at the past: Phil Atken tried to get me to at least give a smidge of credence to his preposterous notion that tea is better served water after milk, and for all his troubles he ended up swimming in a bathtub of it. I know Anthony Bailey cries himself to sleep every night knowing that even though he has the World Title, he has not earned any ‘Quintessentially English’ respect. Jason Kash? Well, he strung a coherent sentence in my direction and gave me a look demanding praise like a dog that achieved some minor feat like finding its tail.
The turn this week falls to Jair Hopkins.
Mr. Hopkins, I do wish that there could have been made some relation between yourself and my associate Barry, because at least then the practice of nepotism, which is quintessentially blue-blooded, would have demanded at least I give you a fraction more thought than I would the contents of my bowels. Instead I cannot but help look at your protestations like the unruly behaviour of a spoilt child. It is all me-me-me.
You want my attention, Mr. Hopkins, then, pray, do something to merit it. As villainous as that friend of yours, TJ, is at least I can say about that man that he has been a source of some irritation in my life. Like a nasty rash my interaction with him has given me an itch that must be scratched, but his time will come. Your time is now and rest assured your fragile self-esteem need not worry about whether the world’s only ‘Quintessentially English’ wrestler has cast his thoughts upon you.
I have considered you, long and hard, and there seems to me no better target through which to send a message to TJ. Like a pesky little mosquito gnawing at my flesh, trying somehow to extract some of my life force in order to sustain your own, I will squash the very heart and soul out of you.
I have heard the industry insiders’ comment on how I should not take you lightly. Well fear not, I will deal with you appropriately. On that note, maybe I was a little unfair on you: your accomplishments stand out as fair and true given the short time you have been here. After all, you have managed to elevate yourself from the gutter and into the ring, but as far as being impressed is concerned, what you have achieved impresses me no more than the accomplishments of a sewer rat who has converted into one of the field. Vermin is vermin at the end of the day and I promise you extermination.
Your watch word is respect, and you plainly disrespect me by misappropriating my words (I see listening skills were not part of your ghetto education), well this weekend you will have your opportunity to earn yours, but when I am through with you and prove that ‘blue-blood’ trumps ‘ghetto spirit’ I expect you to show some, get down on your knees and PAY HOMAGE!
End transmission.
