The Ills of a Corrupt Society

Valkyrie, the Ascension Champion, a non-Christian stuck in a Christian world.

His hands hit the speed bag in rapid succession, planting the kind of quick jabs that would stun anyone in their path.

Slade Castle, a man forced to brutally fight to make a living in a world that frowns on it.

Sweat rolls across his furrowed brow as his left hand dives lower, landing against the bag with a hooked body blow.

Lesley Adora, a man that just wants to share the Light to a world that shuns him.

A right hook lands perfectly against the canvas’ surface, the heavy sand underneath giving way to the power behind his punch.

Graham Baker, a man who just wants violence in a world who wants peace.

His calloused knuckles continue to kiss the speed bag, landing in places that may seem random to the uninitiated but serve a strategic purpose to a trained fighter.

Havoc, a man with demons in a world that makes him feel inferior for it.

He places the open palm of his left hand against the bag before driving a straight right fist against it, precisely where an opponent’s face would likely be.

Arik Holt, a twisted psychopath who believes he can make others better by feeding into their base desires.

The straight right hands continue to land against the bag with increasing force as he begins to sacrifice style in favor of rage.

Pyro, a champion, a partner, and a friend; more of an outcast than all the others combined, and yet left broken as the first victim of Fallout’s new...true...society.

A final blow lands against the bag as his thoughts drift to his fallen friend, and if Julius Fairweather were in the midst of a cinematic scene, the punch would hit hard enough to knock the bag from its chains and send it flying across the room. Much like the reality we live in, the final result is not nearly so satisfying, as the bag answers his punch with a dull thud. He hangs his head and lets his hands fall to his side, his eyes landing on the bag’s shadow as it rocks back and forth. Mere seconds later, his silent contemplation is interrupted by the sound of a commotion directly outside of his private gym.

“Motherfuckers…”

He slips his white dress shirt back on, its sleeves rolled up over his forearms and the buttons left undone, as he makes his way across the gym. As he nears the door, the muffled noise begins to take a more recognizable form, as the voice of his personal servant, Joey Fatone, can easily be heard. Fully prepared to rip into his butler with great vengeance and furious anger, Julius flings open the door with a scowl upon his face. Yet instead of seeing the former member of N’Sync standing alone in the foyer, he is shocked to see the faces of multiple strangers. Before he can even question what these people are doing in his home, one of them pushes past Fatone and shoves a digital recorder in Julius’ face.

“Julius, have you given any thought as to who could replace Pyro in your tag team match at Bloodbath?”

His head snaps toward the reporter as his eyes bulge out in a threatening manner. Before he can verbally respond, another uninvited guest pushes closer to him.

“What are your thoughts on the True Society? Have you given any thought to joining them with fellow Detroit native, Slade Castle, involved in the group?”

Julius snaps his head in the opposite direction, but as he starts to open his mouth, another reporter presses in.

“You’ll be competing in two separate matches on the show; is one of them taking precedence over the other?”

With his adrenaline already primed from his workout, Julius feels his heart beat faster as a heat rises deep inside of him.

“How can you possibly compete at one hundred percent against Jason Long and Havoc with so much on your plate right now?”

As their questions swirl within his already crowded mind, Julius glances at Joey, who smiles sheepishly while failing to keep the reporters at bay. Seeing his manservant’s inept face proves to be the final straw. Raising both arms from his sides like some monstrous Halloween creature, he literally roars at the flock of wrestling reporters and online journalists.

“RRRAAAWWWWRRRR! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY MOTHERFUCKING HOUSE BEFORE I KILL ALL YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!!!”

Between the bugged-out eyes, popping veins, and the sheer volume of his threat, the uninvited guests are silenced and taken aback. While some immediately step back to give Julius some space, there are a few who are frozen in place by the sudden shock.

“I SAID GET TO STEPPIN’ MOTHERFUCKERS!”

Some of the reporters are quick to oblige, while others still linger, muttering amongst themselves. As they look from Julius to Joey and question the validity of a supposed press conference, Momma Fairweather steps into the foyer from a side entrance, a broom clutched in her hands like a medieval weapon. Without warning, she takes a swing that one of the reporters is barely able to duck under, and the wide end of the broom lands against the face of Joey Fatone.

“Get out of my house, you jackals! My boy said to step, so you’d best be steppin’!”

Swinging the broom overhead in a manner that would make Conan the Barbarian envious, Momma Fairweather places herself between Julius and the crowd of journalists. Finally, even the most stubborn of them gets the message. With the middle-aged woman herding them back, the last of the reporters retreats from Casa de Fairweather and she quickly pulls the door shut to keep them outside. For a moment, there is silence between the three individuals who remain inside, before Momma Fairweather slowly turns to set her gaze upon Joey Fatone. Red-faced from embarrassment, he looks back and forth between Julius and his mother before finally offering an explanation.

“I...thought you might like to address all the questions you’ve been getting so...I called a press conference…”

Still holding her broom in one hand, Momma Fairweather uses her free palm to smack Joey upside his head.

“Of all the damned fool things to do! Didn’t you think it might be a good idea to ask him first?”

“I...I...I forgot…”

The meek response earns Fatone another smack before Momma Fairweather points to the door.

“You’d best get that bubbly ass of yours out there and get those folks off my lawn! There ain’t gonna be no press conference unless my little sugar bear says so!”

Joey hangs his head as he makes his way to the door, and as he opens it to step outside, Momma Fairweather gives him one last smack to the back of his head for good measure. There is a momentary din of voices as the butler exits the house before she closes the door behind him and flips the latch to secure the deadbolt. She then turns to look at Julius, who has been uncharacteristically quiet since his previous outburst.

“You okay, angel?”

Julius shakes his head with a heavy sigh.

“Yeah, Momma. I just...I’ve got a lot to figure out.”

She nods her head with understanding before stepping forward to give her son a loving embrace.

“Well you ain’t gonna be able to do that here. At least not with that idiot Winston left us with. Go on, baby. Go clear that handsome head of yours. I’ll tend to things here.”

She breaks the hug and gives him a thoughtful smile. While his head is still filled with questions and his blood pressure is still higher than normal, he cannot help but smile back. Knowing that his mother has things well in hand, Julius makes his way back through his private gym towards a door on the opposite side. He enters his spacious garage and immediately sets his eyes on the golden Cadillac parked inside, its mere presence calming him as if it were a port in the storm. The door handle feels welcome in his hand, almost as much as the thought of running over Joey Fatone once he’s behind the wheel. He starts the engine as the garage door raises behind him, and once he’s sure that he can clear the gap, Julius floors it. As he whips the car onto the adjacent street, he glares out his window at his miserable manservant and the remaining reporters, pausing on the road just long enough to extend his middle finger in their direction.

“Suck on my salty balls, motherfuckers! And you can quote me on that!”

With that, Julius slams his foot back down on the accelerator in order to leave the lingering scent of burnt rubber in the air. As he leaves his home in the rearview mirror, Julius glances at his dash-mounted GoPro, and almost immediately decides that there’s no better way to clear his mind than by sharing his personal words of wisdom with the Project: Honor faithful. As the video begins, we see Julius with one hand on the steering wheel and his other arm resting on the edge of his open window.

“Buckle up, motherfuckers, cause your captain has a lot on his mind with Bloodbath creeping up on us, and it should come as no surprise to hear that the True Society is front and center. As if Arik Holt wasn’t bad enough, it seems that he’s managed to surround himself with a bunch of sycophants who are looking for an easy payday. They can claim it’s because they’re a like-minded group of outcasts, that society has kept them down or taken a collective piss in their motherfucking Cheerios, but anyone with a shred of common sense can see right through that heap of bullshit. Up and down the line, from Valkyrie to Slade Castle, those motherfuckers see an easy road to the top because the boss has their backsides. Well you’d all better pucker those cheeks up really tight, cause the only thing Arik is interested in is screwing each and every member of the Fallout roster in a very uncomfortable place. Newsflash, motherfuckers; the ills of your corrupt little society are already worse than what we live with on a daily basis.”

Julius moves his left hand to the wheel as he fishes for something in the center console. Seconds later, he slips a tightly rolled joint between his lips before raising his lighter to set it ablaze. For a moment, he looks at the dancing flame that emerges from the top of his Zippo, as if the sight of it brings something to the forefront of his thoughts. With a snap, he closes the lighter and glances back at the portable camera.

“Wouldn’t you know it; the first motherfucker to get screwed was my tag team partner. You all did a fine little number on my boy, Pyro. I won’t sugarcoat it; you fucked him up pretty bad, so bad that even I don’t know if we’ll see his ugly mug again. Bad news for you though, cause I was actually getting used to seeing that Frankenstein-looking motherfucker in my corner. Then you had to go and fuck him up like a bunch of little bitches to make papa Holt a happy camper. Well congratulations, motherfuckers, because in removing Pyro from the field of battle, you’ve succeeded in making me angry. No, scratch that. You’ve straight-up pissed me off, and the Bad Motherfucker is enough to handle without getting him all riled up. Now there’s a goddamn nuclear warhead of vengeance on the launching pad for each and every one of you. Lucky me, cause I get to fire off three of those motherfuckers in one night.”

Julius takes a deep drag and holds it for a few seconds before releasing a cloud of pungent smoke into the air.

“Graham Baker and Lesley Adora, consider this T-minus-ten seconds until those motherfucking missiles are headed your way. You want the tag team straps that Pyro and I worked our asses off to earn? You want to give your new group some credibility at my expense? I don’t fucking think so. One of you wants to spread a message of violence and the other wants to show everyone the light. Do I have that right? Well allow me to indulge you both, because I’ll bring plenty of violence with me to Bloodbath, and once it’s all said and done, you can lay next to each other in the motherfucking desert and count all those pretty stars up above. Not only that, but while you’re laying there wondering where you went wrong, here’s a little nursery rhyme you can sing to each other...:”

“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
Did we take things too far?
We have lost our wrestling bout,
Cause Julius Fairweather knocked us out.”

Julius gives a nod of satisfaction as he takes another hit after his brief freestyle verse.

“Of course there’s still the question of whether or not I’m gonna take you two on by myself or if I’m going to recruit a tag team partner for the night. I admit, there’s nothing I’d like more than to win my second handicap match; you can ask your new buddy Havoc all about the last time I did that. Then again, I keep thinking about all the motherfuckers who would like a chance to beat the living hell out of you. I thought Savannah Sunshine might like that opportunity, but I know she’s already got enough Arik Holt madness on her mind along with Slade Castle for the Noble Title. So I kept on thinking, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my boy, Jason Long, might like to tag up with yours truly before we throw down for the Prime Championship later in the night. As well as that might make for some good drama, I'm just not sure how the teamwork would be with Jason since I’ll be relieving him of that glorious ten pounds of gold. Hell, I even thought it might be fun to give ol’ Christian DeMarco a call, but there’s no telling where that motherfucker’s head is at right now. I have a few other motherfuckers in mind as well, but I don't see why I should show all the cards in my hand to a pair of motherfuckers named Graham and Lesley. They sound like the morning DJs from a Christian radio station for fuck's sake.”

Julius pauses again, giving some more thought to the different partners he’d been considering. Then, with a grin on his face, he glances back at the camera.

“I guess you boys will just have to wait and find out like everyone else. Just know that whether I step into that ring alone or if I’m there with a tag team partner, you’re both in for a rough trip and a very bad landing. Say your prayers, tape your fists, and kiss each other’s asses goodbye, because it won’t be a matter of whether or not you’re the tag team champions, it’ll be whether or not you can leave the ring under your own power. I’m fixing to show the entire world that the only thing true about your society is that you’re no stronger together than you were on your own.”

The loud interruption of a honking horn can be heard as Julius swerves from one lane to another in order to pass a fellow motorist. The flipped middle fingers and rude shouts that follow do little to distract him from continuing with his rant.

“So not only do I get to put a hurt on Lesley and Graham, but I get another chance to show off my bare-knuckled badassery against that motherfucker known as Havoc. Yet another member of the True Society who’s in line for a little taste of what the future has in store for everyone that’s suckling on the teat of Arik Holt. Of course this won’t be anything new for Havoc, because I’ve beat his ass before and I’ve got no problem doing it again. I don’t care how many layers of paint he slaps on his deformed face or how many newborn kittens he eats before the bell rings. As far as I’m concerned, it’s gonna be a brand new verse that sounds a lot like the first. He couldn’t touch me in the Girl Scout Cookie Battle Royal, he couldn’t beat me when it was two on one, and he couldn’t climb that barbed wire ladder to get a shot at the Prime Title before I did. When it comes to the food chain on Fallout, I’ve already proven that I’m a few steps above Havoc, but I’ll put some emphasis on it this time for those who haven’t been following along.”

Julius takes another drag before flicking the ashes from his blunt out the driver’s side window. With the smoke rolling out of his nostrils like some kind of fire-breathing dragon, he continues.

“It’s not the fact that he’s a member of the True Society that really makes me want to park Havoc’s ass in the ICU. Sure, that’s a damn good reason on it’s own, but what really burns my ass is the fact that he’s in the match with me and Jason at all. I gave up on tricycles when I was four years old, and now that I’m a grown-ass man, I find myself stuck with a third wheel. I don’t give a goddamn what kind of history you and Jason have together. I don’t give one single flying fuck if Arik Holt wants every member of the True Society to get a shot at some gold. I don’t care who you beat or how you did it. When it comes to the Prime Title, all I care about is having my time under the spotlight against one of the best in the business. Just in case you’re as confused as you look, I ain’t talking about you, Havoc. I’m talking about me and Jason Long, one-on-one in the championship match that I earned a long fucking time ago. This ain’t your night to settle an old grudge or please your new sugar daddy. It’s not your night at all. This is my night, Havoc. My time. My dance ticket is getting punched because I earned this motherfucker, and ain’t no Johnny-Come-Lately gonna fuck up my shot.”

The grin on Julius’ face is gone, and the scowl that’s replaced it makes it perfectly clear that he’s not thrilled about having to share his title opportunity.

“Coming up short against me in every outing shouldn’t have gotten you anywhere close to this title match, and yet there you are. Havoc; the festering zit that shows up just in time for class photos; the motherfucking period cramps that show up on the third date; Project Honor’s own lottery ticket that’s just one number shy of a jackpot. You’re not wanted in this match. You’re not needed in this match. You’re sure as hell not a contender in a match that has me and Jason Long in it already. So instead of showing up and disappointing your three fans, it might be a good night for you to keep your ass at the locker room card table, and just maybe you’ll win a hand of poker against Rapture or whatever curtain-jerker decides to ante up. 'Cause if you do step into that ring? If you so much as stick a finger in my spotlight? The injuries that Pyro is suffering from will look like a scraped knee when I’m done with you.”

As he continues to leave Detroit behind him, Julius looks out on the horizon spread out in the distance. There’s only one more thing on his mind. There’s only one more man to address.

“And then there’s Jason Long. I admit, a few months back when we were kicking ass together in a South American bar to prepare for a tag team match against this company’s last failed stable, I knew we’d eventually have to face off inside of the ring. That’s because I knew Jason had Drago’s number. I knew the Prime Championship was gonna change hands and that Drago’s little boy band would fall apart faster than a celebrity marriage. I could just feel that change coming. Not because I had anything to do with it, but because Jason is just that damn good. I knew he’d end up with the title that I failed to earn previously, but that one shot I had was gonna be far from the last.”

Julius briefly pauses as the car begins to slow down along the side of the road.

“So I watched Jason from the sidelines as he beat Drago to capture the gold and then as he defended it against every motherfucker that tried to step up his game. Only I wasn’t watching from my motherfucking couch. I was watching from the locker room week after week while I put together the kind of win streak this company’s never seen. I learned from my previous mistakes, and I wasn’t just jumping into the spotlight with snappy one-liners and a flashy dance routine. I was doing it with fast feet, submission holds, and plenty of hard right hands. I did it through buckets of blood and sweat. I left the tears out on purpose, cause ain’t no motherfucker on the roster capable of making the Bad Motherfucker cry. Even when Jason took a shiv to the gut and we didn’t know if he was dead or alive, I didn’t shed a tear. That wasn’t because I’m cold as ice. It was because I knew he would rise and overcome. Because if you’re like me and you’ve been watching Jason as long as I have, you’d understand that’s just what he does.”

The car comes to a stop and Julius puts it into park. He takes one long drag off of what little remains of his blunt before flicking it out the open window.

“Jason Long will put motherfuckers down. He will take the best they have to offer and come back with something stronger. He’ll even leave this mortal coil for a little while, but it’s only a matter of time until he’s stitched up and making some motherfucker rue the day they decided to test him. I know a man like Havoc will give him his best shot, and Jason will come back with a smile from behind the crimson mask. That’s what I know about Jason Long. That’s the man I’ve been working my ass off to meet inside of the ring month after month after month. He is, by every definition of the word, a motherfucking champion.”

Julius turns his head to look out the driver’s side window, keeping his expression momentarily hidden from the dash-mounted camera.

“Me? I’m just a guy from Detroit that doesn’t know when to quit. So how is a guy like me who hasn’t even been in this business for a year supposed to put Jason Long down for the count when even the Grim Reaper couldn’t get the job done? That's what this was supposed to be about. This was my test. My rite of passage. My way of proving to every motherfucker who’s ever been dumb enough to doubt me that I can hang with the absolute best. Win, lose, or draw, this was my chance at showing the world that I really am the Bad Motherfucker I claim to be. Not only that, but it was my chance to push Jason to heights he doesn’t even realize he’s capable of reaching. Only now it’s turned into some kind of adolescent fantasy straight from the head of a little motherfucker with a serious Napoleon Complex.”

He turns his head back to the camera, his face only displaying how serious he takes the situation at hand.

“By introducing his True Society, by figuring out a way to add Havoc to our match, Arik Holt has chosen to personally fuck with a man who has previously been unfuckable with. So here’s what I propose to my fellow anti-social motherfucker, Jason Long. He’s trying to take our defining moment, our long-awaited match, and turn it into a part of his sideshow. Well I say, “fuck Arik Holt, fuck Havoc, and fuck the True Society”. I say we take it back, Jason. You and me, two badass motherfuckers with mutual respect and a sense of what honor really means. We take that shit back from them and we give them a taste of the main event match they could have had. We can take turns stomping on Havoc till our hearts are content, and then once he’s been put aside, we show them how real champions fight. We give them our blood and our sweat, and then we throw it in their motherfucking faces.”

There is no bombastic bass in his voice and no bugged out eyes to over-emphasize his words. Instead he speaks in a dangerously calm demeanor, knowing that the quiet man is one to be heralded.

“We do that because we can, Jason. We fight until one of us can’t fight anymore, and when that time comes, we shake hands and go back to having each other’s backs. You, me, Sav, even that squirrely little Angelo Caito motherfucker. We come together and we show the True Society what it really means to be united. Maybe I’ll even share some goodies from my secret stash and we can give Project Honor some High Society in their place. Only we won’t just be burning one, we’ll be burning the whole house that Arik built down around his ankles. We do it for Pyro. We do it for Christian DeMarco. We do it for all the hell he’s put you and Sav through. We do it in memory of the one defining match he's trying to take away from me. We do it because we can. Because no one else will. Because in times like this, it's important to have a motherfucker that you can trust watching your back. The True Society can trust me when I say that their asses are mine, you can trust me to give you the kind of Prime Title match you've only dreamt of, and when the chips are down, you can damn sure trust that Julius Fairweather is the kind of bad motherfucker you want watching your back.”

Julius nods with satisfaction as if something has just become perfectly clear in his mind. No longer concerned with addressing the camera, he opens the car door and steps outside. With his camera still recording, we can see him dig into his pants pocket and retrieve his cell phone. As he holds it up to his ear, we can only hear half of the conversation.

“Get your shit together, White Lightning. We’re going to war.”

Even though we can’t see his face, the tone of Julius’ voice reveals the confident smile he’s making. There is a pause as he listens to a response that we cannot hear, but it’s not difficult to imagine the person on the other end of the call saying…


“Count me in, motherfucker.”