you kids like hip-hop music?

[SYREN IS BEST]

He is not to be fucked with.

It's more than a persona; it is a mantra of sorts. He is not to be fucked with.

If he can convince himself of this for one more day—if he can maintain his grip on the desperate lie of his own superiority—perhaps it will project onto the outside world. A world that will only leave him alone if he insists upon his own carefully manufactured toughness. The aloof arrogance, the confident and self-absorbed manner of speech, even his imposing physical presence... all of these are shields disguised as weapons, wielded by a coward disguised as a god.

The world must be kept at a distance, so that they may never get a good look at the disguise. Given the slightest opportunity, the world might steal a peek behind the mask and see the loathsome, impotent creature hiding within. The world might see him for exactly what he is.

Never has a man put so much effort into not giving a fuck. And to what end?

Despite the attitude, the fear is always there. The fear is only waiting for the right opponent to tear away all of the masks and all of the shields. The fear is waiting to be exposed. Fear of failure. Fear of obsolescence. Fear that if the spotlight moves off of him, even for a moment, it will never return.

The disguise is meticulous in its design... but the seams grow weak.

But hey, enough about TGO! This is a Scott Syren RP.

Not that an RP is a thing that exists. No, no, no... this... this is a window to a man's soul, an invisible eye in the sky that need never be explained nor considered, or maybe its a transcript of a video, or maybe we should just say that this isn't text at all and its an actual video—probably against e-fed protocol to admit you can read anyway, but then hey, “what's an e-fed?”, because that doesn't exist either.

Or maybe it's just a bunch of fucking weirdos spending hours writing and editing fiction that is pre-guaranteed to reach an audience of fewer than fifty.

It all depends who you ask. Matters of perception and all that. And as President Dean himself said, “perception is reality.”

But then Dean wasn't talking about the metaphysical paradoxes of our format. He was talking about Scott Syren resuming his reign as indisputable OCW World Champion.

Scott Syren appreciates and understands that this is controversial. This incarnation of OCW is, for all intents and purposes, a brand new entity with few concrete connections to its heritage. It's probably not at all fair for some dude to stumble out of an alternate universe, fight one match against a fucking retard, and suddenly be the World Champion. Scott Syren can see where one might be indignant. He sympathizes—at least to whatever extent his badly-crippled emotional sensitivity will allow such a thing.

Fortunately for Scott Syren, he does not need to rely on base emotion because he is a deeper and more brilliant thinker than you. He understands that we must live within a historical context, whether or not we agree with that history, whether or not we helped to shape that history, whether or not we even give a fuck about history.

I mean, we all think it sucks that Hitler enslaved the dinosaurs or whatever. But even though we had nothing to do with it, and even though we all despise it, we still have to live with the social and cultural aftermath. Historical context is rarely fair, and yet there it is, all around us.

So while you may not agree with Scott Syren's world title reign, you cannot fight history. You can, however, shape the future. And Scott Syren fucking dares you to try. Don't think Scott Syren deserves that belt? Come and fucking take it, tough guy.

Even if you succeed, it will be of little concern to him. With or without the belt, he will still be Scott Syren, and you'll still be, you know, not Scott Syren. Beat him and you still lose, for he'll have already begun to pull the strings that will set his next scheme in motion. And then where will he show up next? The Wild West? Running the forests, spirit-bound to a wolf? Outer fucking space?

Taking the World Title wouldn't mean much in the long run (which should be a comforting thought since you have no fucking chance of doing it.) You'd be standing there with some dumbass belt while Scott Syren continues to create his own reality, molding the perceptions of all those around him through sheer force of will, strength of muscle, and precision of wit—and all of those resources sharpened and amplified via piles of cheap drugs.

And while he composes his newest reality, he'll remember who fucked up the last one.

And when you think you've finally defeated him, he'll show up—maybe two months or ten years later, or maybe in another dimension, but he'll show up—and take the title back whenever it suits him. Fate demands that it be so.

Why? That's the easy part, gravytits. Scott Syren is the only real champion this place has ever had.

To be World Champion is a special thing... but to be Scott Syren?

That is something else entirely.

“Team meeting,” Syren announces. For the first time since his return, he isn't wearing his armor. The various components of the iron suit are heaped in a piss-soaked corner. The One True World Title Belt lies on top of the armor. Syren has gone casual in a Potawatami Bingo & Casino t-shirt paired with purple sweatpants, which don't match the shirt at all, but damn do they display a boner nicely. He wades through the squalor and filth of his single-wide trailer home (he has upgraded from the squalor and filth of his old efficiency apartment) and takes a seat at his kitchen table.

Most people wouldn't call it a kitchen table at all, but rather the rusted-out, overturned basket of a broken shopping cart with a sturdy sheet of old cardboard hot-glued to the top. But then most people lack Scott Syren's vision and resourcefulness.

Syren stacks a notebook and some papers off to one side, then produces a small packet from somewhere inside his sweatpants. He dumps the contents onto the fine cardboard tabletop. It appears to be crystal meth. “Come on, fuckers, don't you know what 'team meeting' means? I'm going to do all the drugs without you.”

Across the room, LilJungleMan sighs and closes the laptop he had been using to do Google Image Search queries for cartoon bananas and human skulls. Nobody knows why. He's a weird little fuck, but he's a good witch doctor and an adequate friend. He glides over to join Syren at the table. He leans in close to Syren, hovering over the sparkly pile of pre-crushed meth.

Syren slaps the little brown wizard away and begins to divide the powder into a few massive lines using a Bobbinette Carey trading card in like-new condition. It is her rookie card, limited edition and autographed. It is worth slightly more than the paper and ink used to print it—thanks only to the value of the meth residue on its edges.

As Syren works drug prep he yells, “Scizzle Tizzle, are you fucking coming or what?”

Scizzle Tizzle—better known as fucking Scoot Time—is too busy to heed his master's call. Scoot is completely nude, rolling around in a cardboard refrigerator box filled with Family Dollar brand cat litter. He laughs hysterically as he writhes and thrashes in the grit. It's obvious that the cat litter has been used, and the waste therein is much, much larger than cat-sized, giving rise to myriad questions about its provenance. Scoot pays no attention to the clumps of pee and turds smearing all over his skin as he plays in his sandbox, nor does he pay any attention to his two colleagues staring at him from the kitchen table.

At first glance, anyone would assume Scoot Time is extremely retarded, but he is, in fact, in possession of a laminated doctor's note absolving him of any known, diagnosable mental impairment. In truth, he's... well, he's just fuckin' Scoot Time, man. He also has pretty good hair, which helps. It's kind of like Justin Bieber's current style, except with a bunch of cat litter and shit all up in it.

Scoot Time takes a big mouthful of cat litter and begins to chew on it, laughing and half-choking as he does so.

“I guess he's busy doing... whatever that is,” Syren says.

LilJungleMan grunts in disgust and averts his eyes from the Scootish abomination. “So be it. More meth for us.”

There is a knock on the door. Scoot Time is well trained; he immediately halts his playtime to answer the door. He runs on all fours, his tiny dick jiggling weirdly as he does so. Syren and LilJungleMan don't even bother hiding the drugs while they wait to see who it is. They sooooo don't even give a fuck—I mean WOW, right?

Scoot Time flings opens the door and then sprint-crawls back to his filthy sandbox. Enter Berta, a transvestite and Burt Reynolds impersonator, and one of Scott Syren's only friends. He is looking totes FIIIIOINE in a tight lime green miniskirt and a torn-up, badly jizz-stained Siouxsie and the Banshees t-shirt.

They haven't seen each other in something like three years.

“You're late,” Syren says to the man who once saved his life. But hey, we can't keep living in the past.

Berta shrugs apologetically and explains, “Fuck off, sillyboner. There was a single-car accident in front of me on the way here and I had to stop.”

LilJungleMan groans sympathetically. “Had to call the cops and give a statement and all of that bullshit I suppose?”

Berta chuckles. “No, no, no, cutie-penis. I checked to see if the driver was dead. He was, so I had to suck his dick.”

Syren grins. “Classic Berta,” he says, because of how sucking a dead guy's dick is classic Berta.

Berta looks down at his mini-skirt. He has learned to use the shadow of his cock-bulge as a sun-dial of sorts. “Anyway, It's five o' clock, so what the fuck are you talking about, late?”

Syren shakes his head. “Wrong. It's three after five, stupid-ass.”

So they all do their meth on top of a cardboard table in a trailer home like sophisticated men have been doing since the mid-thirteenth century. Then maybe a bunch of other really rich and meaningful dialogue happens. I mean, really, just whatever you think should happen, Dean.

Eventually, Syren sets his phone on the table and says, “Okay, Google. Call Clubbin' Man.”

He waits fifteen or maybe twenty-three seconds. Nothing happens because the phone is an old-ass Nokia Tracfone from 2004.

“Fucking technology,” Syren mumbles. He dials the number manually and engages the speakerphone function.

“Talk to me, cool cat, 'cause you know I'm where it's at,” Clubbin' Man answers, because god forbid he just say "hello" or something. He's such a douchebag, but whatever, he has several pairs of cool gold pants and sometimes brings Syren gifts of modestly-priced cologne, and that counts for something. I guess.

“First,” says Syren, “I think we need to discuss the knight thing. I don't know if it's really getting over.”

LilJungleMan slams his fists down on the table, which of course fucking destroys the whole thing. Nobody bothers to fix it. They only needed it for doing drugs. (The phone lands upright on the floor with the speakerphone still engaged, so no problems there, you continuity-crazy fucks.) “I haven't been wearing wizard robes and talking like an asshole for the last month just so you could destroy this image we've built because you're bored of it or whatever.”

“Oh please. Before this you were wearing a faux-cheetah loincloth and talking like an asshole anyway.”

LilJungleMan leans back and considers this. “Okay. But what shits have you ever given about 'getting over' anyway?”

“That's just the thing,” explains Syren. “Back when I was just some dude who didn't give a shit about getting over, I got over awesome. Now I get over good with the Dungeons and Dragons crowd, which is cool because they have good weed and connections for acid, but everybody else is just kind of hashtag W-T-F'ed by the whole thing.”

“Hashtags don't work in actual speech,” Berta advises.

Syren shrugs. “Oh. I was just giving it a try. I've never twittled anyone before or whatever.”

Berta giggles. “I have.”

“Don't be gross.”

“A'ight, bro, I got an idea,” Clubbin' Man crackles over the shitty phone. “How about we get you some wife beaters and chains and shit? I got a hot new Eminem dubstep remix you can rock for your new entrance music—”

“Actually the knight thing is working out super well, forget I brought it up.”

Berta and LilJungleMan both breathe a sigh of relief. The silence on the other end of the phone emanates hurt and disappointment.

“Okay, moving on...”

The voice on the phone gets a second wind. “Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah, hear me out man, y'know whum sayin'? We can get you a Red Bull sponsorship and do like a cross-promotion with UFC, have you do some MMA matches, and, dude, maybe you could even turn into a black guy! Black dudes are very 'in' right now, and—”

“Hey, Club,” LilJungleMan interrupts. “I think we're losing service out here. Crackle, crackle, hiss. We'll have to, hiss-crackle, call you back later, crackle-hiss.” He picks up the phone and whips it towards the giant litter box.

The heavy-ass brick phone hits Scoot Time squarely in the temple and shatters into a dozen pieces. Blood explodes from Scoot's head; the cat litter does a remarkable job of absorbing it. Scoot Time whimpers and shudders. He falls over with his eyes crossed. He is probably dead, but nobody seems super worried about it.

LilJungleMan leans back in his chair, quite pleased with himself.

Berta seems oblivious to anything that is going on now. He is in a meth frenzy, with his hand up his skirt, “secretly” masturbating in a very obvious fashion. I guess it was nice of him to show up or whatever though.

“Okay,” says Syren, “now moving on for reals, how are we feeling about the match on Monday? At first I was kind of pissy. I mean, I don't care about being in the opening match. I can jerk a curtain just as well as I can jerk a dick, or be a dick to a jerk. And it's only going to make everyone that follows look that much stupider. But it's the nature of the match that bothers me.”

Scoot Time suddenly bolts to his feet. Blood pours out of his head and all over the adjacent side of his body. He throws a finger in the air and speaks. His voice is remarkably similar to James Van Der Beek's. “Indeed! Is it not an affront to your rightful claim to the World Title that Dean should throw you in such a cesspool of a match alongside rookies and jobbers and half-wits, with the so-called prize being only another slap in the face, namely, a shot at the ridiculous, made-up Internet Title?” After making this super-valid point, he falls down dead again.

“Exactly what I thought at first. But then, because I'm a deeper and better thinker than you, I realized what Dean is doing. He put me in this match with people I can't possibly lose to, to win at a shot against someone else I can't possibly lose to, so that I can consolidate the two titles and essentially just get rid of the shameful joke that is the Internet Championship.”

LilJungleMan rewards Syren's logic with a slow clap. By some miracle of nature, it interplays with the sound of Berta's dick-thwapping in a cool, rhythmic way. Then Scoot Time starts to moan in time with the beat. Syren goes over and begins to slap the pieces of his armor with the palms of his hands like metal conga drums. And it sounds really fucking good, at least twice as betterer as what it would sound like if you and your stupid fucking friends tried to do it.

LilJungleMan changes up his clapping to a more complex, more dynamic rhythm. He begins to throw in some of the clicking and chirping sounds of his native jungle language to accent the downbeats.

THWAPA-THWAP-THWAP-THWAP-THWAP-THWAP-THWAP-THWAP
clap-clap-CLAPPY/click! Clap-clappy-CLICKCLICK!
Urrrggghhhh!... Mrr-mrr-Urrrrrgh!...
ting-ting-tong-ting-tingy-tingy-tong-ting

Then Clubbin' Man burts through the door. He immediately picks up on the beat and starts doing a super-sexed-up dance around the trailer. He busts out a really bad freestyle in a cheesy, early 90's mainstream style:
“Yo, I got on down here as fast as I could
when I done heard the mothafuckin' phone was no good!
They call me Clubbin' Man, I'm as cool as a penguin,
I drink liquid ritalin straight out a silver flagon!
Now I'm here to rap about Syren's match,
Yo, Mia Stone? You're probably a snatch!
Yo, Queen of E? You're probably a snatch too!
Syren could beat y'all up even huffin' on glue!
Or with some tacks in shoe! Ooh-wee, like OUCH!
Then he'll take Sean Fuller's wife and break it off on the couch!
Then he'll pass her to me, to Scoot, and Berta and all,
Next thing you know, JungleMans eating her skull!
All you kids, do your drugs, and stay off of school—”

The beat has been building and getting super sick. Just as you're getting hella stoked to hear what Clubbin' Man is going to rhyme with “school”, the scene cuts to obnoxious rainbow-colored bars and that horrible, extended beep sound.

If I didn't know better, I'd say that SOMEBODY doesn't want you to see the end of Syren's latest round of hijinks. SOMEBODY can't stand to have the spotlight on anyone else. SOMEBODY is probably jealous, so SOMEBODY has hacked into the wires and rerouted the googlebox to twittle around the firerouter. So rather than the conclusion of the bomb-ass track, you get this instead...



At some point, you imagine you see the words “Brought to you by Kent Industries” flash across the screen, but maybe you're just getting tired.