The Buzz

[music]

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With his staff in hand, he stood on a high cliff that overlooked the land before him.

In the sandy valley before him lay ruins and treasures beyond his wildest imagination. He’d consulted his maps, all of which marked this place as the one where there’d be dragons. Many had been there before him. Many had charted courses through this land far and wide, legends and outlaws and eGG Bandits alike. Yet, there always seemed to be new places to explore, uncharted ruins and uncollected treasures galore. He needed only to march out there and take it all.

For once, he finally had to do it all on his own. This is the place, this is where it all begins! Academically, Joe Fontaine knew he had to still be in Montreal, where Montreal things happened. Mentally, Joe was off in some faraway land where he hadn’t had his head dribbled like a basketball into a ladder by a man with a curious fixation on men’s ball situations. Mechanically, Joe wasn’t sure his arm was supposed to do that. Perhaps, he mused to himself, he should see a doctor.

“Stop squirming,” said Dr. Astrid Fihlguud as she applied more bandages to his head wounds.

Oh. Right, that’s a doctor.

The war with FYTT had been a brutal battle, the likes of which no one expected someone like Joe Fontaine – of all people – to actually come out on top in. Such was Glue. Idiots and dipshits on the surface, but dangerous no matter the setting once that bell rang and all the chips were on the table and the jolf ball flew. People underestimated Joe, because he was the only member of Glue who hadn’t been Universal champion. Perhaps they underestimated him because despite his sterling tag record, he’s never been in a singles match before.

Well, wrestling singles wasn’t something Joe had to worry ab—

BZZZT.

“Is there a bee in here?” Joe asked. His voice was far away, somewhere lost in the weariness of the other side of a war and from all that blood lost.

“That’s your phone.” Dr. Astrid said impatiently.

Joe considered this information for a second as the phone continued to vibrate.

“Why does my phone sound like bees?”

Astrid glared at Joe, muttering to herself that every member of this roster is either a “moron” or a “lunatic.” Considering that she’d have to attend FLAMBERGE and the Whoresmen soon, if she hadn’t already, that was likely an understatement. That being said, Joe was pretty sure that Astrid’s mutterings didn’t include him.

He considered the buzzing sound, an— …Where am I? He looked around with widened eyes to find himself inside of a tomb.

Light flickered from the torch in his hand as he looked around bewildered at the sights surrounding him. Hieroglyphs of many shapes and sizes adorned the walls, weaving tales that Joe had no ability to parse. That frustrated him, because Joe knew this was some sort of delusion his addled brain had conjured up. He should just know. He was going to have to fix this when he next has a delusional episode brought about by minor brain trauma.

Joe looked around, shining torchlight at the darkness. He saw that the hallway he was in had a dead end, and a door led into another passage.

“This isn’t one of those Pyramids of Peril dad’s always going on about, is it?” he wondered out loud. He asked this question despite the fact that there was a buzzing sound that was only growing louder as he entered this passage.

It led to a room that expanded greatly, like a small arena. It was like one of those shitty gymnasiums Joe remembered wrestling in when he was just getting started in professional wrestling, only that shitty gymnasium had sarcophagi lined up in several rows. In front of each one was a statue, and each statue was very different from one another. As Joe stepped further into the room, he recognized each statue as a member of PRIME.

He recognized all those deep weird pores on the statue of Bobby Dean, as much as he reaaaaaally didn’t want to. There were statues of Scott Hunter and Kerry Kuroyama together, doing poses far cooler than the genuine articles would do. Ivan’s statue had clown makeup painted messily on its face, Daytona’s had a suspicious white substance under his statue’s nose, and Fred Dick was a literal cherub statue.

“Not creepy at all.”

Joe said this while staring at the statue of Jason Snow, whose malicious eyes seemed to follow his every move. Joe decided that this statue might try to murder him like a Weeping Angel at any second. He gave it a wide berth, and it was only when he had a Hessian between him and the Snow statue that he turned around.

And that’s when he saw the source of the buzzing.

“Oh.”

Up on the ceiling, in a forgotten corner of this forgotten tomb, there was a pulsing sac. The words “pulsing sac” drifted in Joe’s mind, and he decided that there were few combinations of words more unpleasant than those two.

Okay, wait. I’m sure we can think of worse.

Joe didn’t need the scraping sound of knives that served as his mental drive to kill his way for the attention he sought making things worse, but unfortunately, that’s all it’s good at doing.

People don’t like the word “moist,” maybe we could throw a couple of phrases together with that one. “Moist pulsing sac.” Eeeugh. That one probably describes most of your co-workers, to be honest. Most of them barely meet the standards of “above fabby” in your eyes to begin with, and some like Felix Mullen might as well be a fabby in all but name. Wait. I got it. 

“Moist fabby.” Eeeugh. 

You know, I’m probably responsible for 90% of all of your crimes – though not the ones involving the letter J that you perpetrate – but that one might be up there for my worst. Anyway, you shoul—

The scraping of knives stopped cold.

That’s because Joe saw why the thing made up of an unpleasant combination of words was “pulsing.” Crawling along its surface were insects about the size of a mailbox. Joe, like most people and fabbies, would agree that this was entirely too much. They resembled wasps, the one insect on this earth that may have proven to Joe that if there’s a God out there, he’s not a particularly kind or loving one. One of the mailbox wasps turned its head and spotted Joe.

It let out a ferocious buzzing.

“Oh,” Joe said. The scraping had a different thought, possibly a more important one.

Fuck.

Joe turned and ran.

The buzzing intensified, an— “What the devil are you doing here?” Once again, Joe found himself looking around with a bewildered expression.

He’s no longer in the tomb, and he was bereft of any torch. He was, however, in mid-step of his sprint and he almost fell to the ground. Fortunately, he’s a professional wrestler that’s known for his balance and agility, and so he only looked somewhat like a fool instead of a full fool.

It took him a moment to recognize where he was.

He was in Farthington Manor.

Now, you might be asking yourself how Joe Fontaine went from Dr. Fihlguud’s office to Farthington Manor in the span of time it took for that delusional episode above to play out. That’s a reasonable question to ask. We’re not interested in those. We’ve left the concept of reasonable questions behind in the ladder match, and possibly even the jowling alley. We’re only interested in unreasonable questions now.

So, the unreasonable question we’re going to ask is…

“Oh! Hey, Philly A, how’s tricks!?”

How it came to pass that Joe wound up in the same room as Phil Atken was a tale as old as time. Which was to say that Joe barged in while Phil was waiting to speak with Cecilworth about important matters regarding the Universal championship match with that one rookie. His name was Jiles or somesuch. Phil looked at him with the type of glare that would wilt flowers and lesser men. This was, of course, also known as his default expression.

Mr. Atken mouthed the name he was given, “Philly A,” with every syllable being formed from his silence with contempt.

They say that Phil Atken only smiled once in his life and then all of the witnesses found themselves in a ditch field somewhere in Nevada to never tell the tale. They say that Phil Atken’s heart only knows joy from the discomfort and suffering of others. They say that the only reason why the minotaur was ever contained in the Farthington Manor’s ever-burning hedge maze was because it saw Phil Atken once and decided to go to the one place where he couldn't reach him. Other than space.

“Who’s ‘they?’” Joe asked of the scraping.

You know. “Them.”

Joe considered this far more than he ever considered anything else he did in life.

Mr. Atken actually heard Joe asking that question to the scraping of knives that lived in his head, and his only response was a raised eyebrow to accompany his steely, murderous gaze. Joe had been a member of the Glueminati for the past two years, and it was readily apparent that Phil liked to keep his encounters with Joe to as much of a minimum as possible.

So, he came to a conclusion.

“No.”

He turned on his heel and he walked right out of the scene.

Joe was several seconds behind as the door shut behind Phil by the time he asked, “Huh? No? What do you mean no?”

He decided that he needed elaboration from a man who could very easily send him to the same Nevada ditch field without hesitation, and he walked to the door, opened it up, an— Buzz, buzz, buzz! “Oh no, not the bees!”

That’s the sort of thing you shouted ironically these days. It’s especially bad because all of the bugs were now just chanting “buzz!” in some sort of rhythmic, occultist hymn. It’s also bad because even though Joe just called them bees, they’re still wasps. And it’s especially bad because not only were these wasps the size of mailboxes, they also had fabby masks on.

Okay, that’s just fucked.

Joe did what any man would do in that situation: He ran out of the whole fuckin’ pyramid that may or may not have been perilous. He turned on the jets, and he was gone, man.

By the time he stopped running, he’d found himself in an oasis in the middle of the desert, with the pyramid a considerable distance away. Far enough away, he hoped, for those moist fabbies to be a distant memory.

Buzz.

“Oh, come o—“

He felt something vibrate in his pocket, breaking him out of his complaining.

He pulled his cell phone out and stared at it.

And what he saw… Well, it generated quite the response from Joe. Oh. Aha…HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!!! It was a beautiful day in the back of the Farthington Manor, and the jolf course was kickin’ right now.

Dirk Dickwood lined up for a shot, dressed in a cabbie hat and with his league approved jorts hiked up above his knees. He had no idea what he’s doing. He had no idea how he got roped into a nice, rousing game of jolf by Joe Fontaine. He also had no idea if he was winning or losing, because his score was officially labeled as “🐟.” Was that better or worse than Hank’s “ᴥ?” He didn’t know. Joe seemed to make this up as he went along, after all.

All he knew was that his 4-iron, which was the novelty chair attached to a chain like the world’s stupidest morning star, was about to make contact with the jolf ball when Joe Fontaine burst out laughing. Dirk’s concentration broke, and he only clipped the jolf ball. The chair flew up into the air, and slammed right into his own face.

“GAH!” he shouted for everyone to hear, holding his face in pain.

Hank looked sympathetically at his longtime friend. That looked painful, after all. Nevertheless, the ball moved so he quietly made a mark on the official jolf sheet. He privately wondered what two plus “🐟” would be, but it’s not like he could ask Joe right now.

Joe was too busy laughing.

“OI!” Dirk roared angrily as he recovered from the improper use of a 4-iron, “What are you doing, you madman?”

Joe could barely keep it together. All he could do was show Dirk what was on his cellphone.

Dirk blinked at it. Or maybe that was just the tears in his eyes from hitting his nose on the 4-iron, we’ll never know. Hank, curious, peered over Dirk’s shoulder as well. They stared at the face on the phone for an agonizing moment, comprehending the mustache that desperately wanted to die, confused over that comb-over, and saw the text underneath that said “Joe Fontaine vs. Steve Lemieux” for UltraViolence.

Dirk looked up at Joe.

“Are they serious?”

Joe’s laughter renewed.

Dirk and Hank exchanged confused looks with one another. Dirk took his hat off, threw it to the ground, stomped on it a little bit, and then stormed off of the jolf course. Hank looked at Joe, and realizing that Joe wasn’t going to stop laughing, followed after Dirk.

Joe laughed and laughed and laughed an-- I know you’re laughing, but I need you to focus up here, Joe. Joe looked up from his phone and saw a man at the oasis.

It looked just like him. Yet, the man’s body was jagged, as though made from knives. When the man spoke, it sounded like knives scraping against each other.

This match is a trap. You know it, and I know it.

You’re riding on top of the world right now. Maybe half of it is a little undocumented post-concussion syndrome, I’m not sure you or I remember anything that’s been happening over the past couple of days or so. It’s a miracle you’re even cleared for this one after you and FLAMBO once again proved you’re the best tag team in the world right now. You’ve smiled as Anna Daniels melted down like a small child who wasn’t allowed to have the shiny toy. You’d have dabbed over Rob Williams’ corpse if you’d any idea where you were after the bell rang.

And so they gave you a gimme.

They gave you Steve Lemieux.

You’re not unfamiliar with this Lemieux. You saw him at Manhunt. You’ve watched him in the months since then. You’ve watched him act confused. You’ve seen him ask about “rehearsals” and “special effects.” You’ve watched this man flail around like a moron. The thing is, just as Dirk proved, even something that flails around can come around and smack you right in the face. 

“That was pretty funny, too, but not nearly as funny as this Lemieux guy’s face.”

Focus.

I need you to remember that you’re also considered an idiot by most of the people in this allegedly dead company that’s still holding a two-night pay-per-view next week, because you let them believe that. 

“I am pretty smooth, and cool, and Joe.” Joe said in agreement. Well, that’s probably an agreement. Maybe it was more a statement of fact.

Yes, yes, I know. I know. I agree. Verily.

Look, I need you to create a little “buzz” of your own.

You’re about to take your first step into the shark-infested pools of singles competition in PRIME. As decorated as you are as a tag team wrestler, you’ve never had to go out there by yourself. 

So, you need to make a statement, and I’ve got the perfect opening line to that statement. A real buzz-dinger of a statement.

You need to murder Steve Lemieux.

“Murder is a crime, you know,” Joe pointed out.

Urrrgh…

Okay. 

You need to horrifically maim Steve Lemieux in such a way that he will look at that ring with the proper amounts of fear and awe that he SHOULD be looking at it. You need to turn his spinal column into a fucking Mobius loop. You need to turn his whole entire flesh into a fucking Klein bottle. You need to create the goddamn PHILOSOPHER’S STONE out of his heart.

“This all still sounds like a lot of murder.”

THIS IS ALL METAPHORICAL ALCHEMY, YOU STUPID DABBING CLO—

Sigh.

I really need you to “mlem” with FLAMBERGE again at some point so I can compare notes with the scaly beast in his brain, but that’s a bridge we’re going to cross together when we get to it. We haven’t really had a chat since the whole “going to church” thing, and I feel like we’re one “mlem” away from cracking this cod—

“Oh, church! We haven’t been to church in forever!”

God dammit, Joe.

I’m over here trying to help you generate some buzz, the kind you’ve always craved and wanted, and you’re over here talking about Church’s goddamn Chicken like it’s a holy site.

“I mean, it is.”

THAT’S NOT MY POINT.

“Well, I thought it was a pretty good point.”

My point, Joe, is that our whole mission statement that I’m drafting over here depends on that match with this “Beefst boy.” We can’t just win this match. We have to destroy this man by any means necessary.

Then they’ll know how real you are. Harder, louder, and shining bright. That’s me. The Fabulous Gold Mask looked like he’d been through hell.

He had been, of course.

He had to get a new mask, for the one he’d been wearing had lost a lot of its luster. He had to be careful about how he went about getting his replacement mask, though. The so-called “lucha council” had been sniffing around him as of late, and the last thing he wanted to do was cross paths with one specific member of that council. Thus, the first time Joe Fontaine saw fabby since the events of ReVival the Nice Number was on the third day of training at the Farthington Manor.

On that day of training, Joe spotted him in the guest drippin’ room, shirtless but still wearing the new mask.

Joe was taken aback. This man was built like a fortress, it’s like he’d never missed a day in the gym. Joe saw all of the scars and bruises that covered the man’s body from what the Whoresmen had done to him. Not a word of complaint came from fabby since he returned to the side of Glue, the mark of a good fabby in the eyes of many on the Glue side of things.

Even though the Whoresmen had declared him free, he still chose to return to Glue.

“Huh.”

fabby tilted his masked head, and shrugged.

Joe shrugged back.

“You know,” Joe said to fabby, “I’d have thought after all of the ways we all treat you that you’d have given up by now. Leaving you with the Whoresmen couldn’t have been good for you, either. And, uh… Gotta say, I don’t think any of us are going out of our way to get you a real job in PRIME.”

It took fabby a long time to respond verbally.

“I know.”

“So, why’d you come back?”

fabby shrugged his shoulders, “Where else would I be?”

“I mean, this is the good drippin’ room, you should probably have taken up residence in the shitty, haunted drippin’ room that Cecilworth refuses to talk about,” Joe said, pointing in a direction that the aforementioned drippin’ room was, “So there, I guess.”

The masked face of fabby remained immutable, “Is that so?”

Joe’s expression remained equally as immutable, and although he turned on his heel to leave, he didn’t quite do so yet. Instead, he lingered at the door.

“Well, Steve, the jolf bag doesn’t carry itself,” he said. fabby’s body visibly shrank the moment he was suddenly addressed by the name, “I’ve got high hopes and big dreams to see myself as the biggest, shiniest star in this company someday. So if you’re done fucking around with the Whoresmen or whatever, I’ll see you in Toronto and you can have a better-than-front-row seat to this Lemieux guy being the first step to that goal.”

With his piece said, Joe walked down the hallway and out of fabby’s sight. The masked man sat in the drippin’ room, visibly shaken in a way that he hadn’t been with the Whoresmen.

After all…

His nephew really did know who he was.