The Gluebusters

The Diary of Cecilworth Farthington, Aged 39 years, 8 Months, 5 Days

Are you fucking kidding me? Jiles? Seriously? Out of all of wrestling, every wrestle person who has ever grappled a grap and you’re giving a shot to Jiles… again. 

What the fuck is this? Did we all just forget I was there to witness the end of his career at the hands of Chandler Tsonda? Was beating Chandler Tsonda some kind of oopsie whoopsie uno reverse card that means he didn’t put his career on the line in the Almasy? I don’t recall the subscript where if Brandon Youngblood’s bald skull yells loud enough, you get to just come back and not only do you get to come back… you also get a FUCKING Universal Championship match.

No.

No.

No. No. No. No.

I ended that man. Tsonda may have been the executioner, but I delivered the sentence at Ultraviolence last year. I hunted the Manhunter, I fumigated the cockroach. I consumed SO MUCH poison to be able to do that. People do not comprehend how much bug spray poison was running through my veins when me and Glue finally snipered the skull of every sniper’s dream. 

The bravado, the bear headdress, the idea of UNIFIED BANDITS (a very funny joke), that all came crashing down by my hand and sent ole T-Shade Eyes down the misery rabbit hole so much that every Almasy match was a career match. 

Fuck, I made sure to get on the announce desk every opportunity I had because I knew deep down I was about to see the end that I had created. I had flipped the first domino and I was just waiting for the beautiful art of Crumb Crumble to reach the terminus.

If I’m honest, Tsonda got us to the station quicker than I expected. Then again, he won the whole fucking thing, so what do I know? 

Well I know I beat him at Colossus, but that’s neither here nor there. 

Last I heard he was parading some title over in DEFIANCE, going home to where he belonged, probably picking up earned Hall of Fame spots along the way. 

Oh yeah, that’s right, he was disgracing PRIME while I saved the company’s face when DEFIANCE came knocking upon our door. 

Yet just big Big Baldo wants a bit of a scrap at Colossus, suddenly now I have to deal with the pond scum again? Then if I win, as a lil treat, I get to face my biggest ally in the company.

That Ms. Troy, she really does spoil me with her absolute bullshit this weather. It’s not my fault her precious pals weren’t strong enough to take down two Hall of Famers. We just wrestled a big hard tag match and came out the other side of it, it’s not like Hunter and Kerry went down in the Hall of Flame.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear she was getting a little bit vindictive in this cold winter weather. She knows my time is limited, she knows the pain and agony it takes to hold the Universal Championship, she knows how much of your very soul it takes to cling on to it. So you bring King Crumb back to the top of the toaster. 

It’s disgusting, that’s what it is.

He shouldn’t be here!

And now I have to make a big decision, I have to work out if I should do something dangerous again.

—

The Diary of Cecilworth Farthington, Aged 39 years, 8 Months, 6 Days

Dirk sent a few cans over, I don’t know if he was encouraging me or making a joke. Doesn’t matter, now my office has twenty cans of bug spray and I’ve spent the entire day staring at them.

It was horrible the last time. The worst that I have ever felt. I could have sworn one night that I was about to die.

Yet… I did beat Jiles.

Did it help me open my mind up to the world of the Cockroach King?

Would I be foolish to ignore the insider information once more?

No, I can’t be huffing bug spray again. 

No.

I didn’t even mean to do it last time, it just sorta happened.

What would an intentional dosage even look like? A bad time, I bet you exactly that’s what it would look like.

No, no, no. That was a one off.

He was supposed to be a once-more off.

We ended it.

Yet, here I am. 

Looking, staring, wondering if it’s time to take another huff, if this is what’ll keep this belt around my waist for at least a few more weeks. To extend my legacy, to extend what I have achieved

–

The Diary of Cecilworth Farthington, Aged 39 years, 8 Months, 7 Days

Do not huff.

Do not huff.

–

The Diary of Cecilworth Farthington, Aged 39 years, 8 Months, 8 Days

I’m going to huff.

–

Farthington Manor had been quiet, almost too quiet for quite some time. Where once there was a hedge maze fire every day, something the local children came to celebrate of a summer’s eve, it gave them more lights to play their hides and seeks after all, perhaps even a game of manhunt if the occasion called for it. It had been many months however since the manor had felt the hustle and bustle of local visits.

Most of the staff had gone off on holiday over the winter months, knowing there was not a lot of external work to take care of. Hell, even the famous Farthington Manor Hedge Maze Minotaur (a PRIME: Survivor adoption) had taken his own leave of absence, hanging a sign proclaiming “The Minotaur is: OUT” at the entrance to the curious always flaming piece of bushery that scientists had yet to be able to explain.

Yet, for what he was about to plan, this worked very well for the Universal Champion, the Lord Farthington. For what many did not know, and yet when they heard about it, they were not all that surprised, was that under the grounds of Farthington Manor lay a giant tactical secret. A secret that may have won many a war if it had ever come to having its use.

Under the manor, an entire air strip was present and Cecilworth Farthington always knew about it. He had tuned out his father, also Lord Farthington, bragging about having the “death of nations” living under their very home on many occasion, but you know, if someone says something often enough then you’re likely to at least absorb it casually and that may even be enough to cause you to investigate it twenty to thirty years later.

When Lord Cecilworth Farthington heard the King Cockroach was making moves to control the Octane once more, he knew that a new generation of tactics were required. He’d killed the beast once, but he rose up once more.

Oh… yeah… that makes sense… the whole “cockroach” thing, got’cha.

Yet, the Universal Champion was not going to let his opponent command high level military vehicles ahead of their grapple affair in Mexico City. No, that would allow a tactical advantage.

Somehow.

—

The Diary of Cecilworth Farthington, Aged 39 years, 8 Months, 9 Days

Oh yeah, that’s the good stuff. How did I end up with so much of the good stuff? I don’t remember ordering this much.

Did people start sending it by post?

—

“Lord Farthington, sir, she’s ready for you.”

Dirk Dickwood still looked very much like an angry ball of puce Scottish rage, his astray gray hair was still flowing out in all directions but to cap his look off, he was wearing his finest brown beige military uniform. A selection of medals hung from just above his nipple, a testament to his courage or whatever if Cecilworth had made any effort to read any of the awards that were displayed across the chest of his close confidant.

As Dickwood looked up and down his commander, he noticed a good few things that seemed like new developments. For example, he had never seen Cecilworth with a toothbrush mustache before. Also, today was the first day he had ever been requested to wear the Farthington Manor military uniform.

Dickwood was also curious what the eighteen medals that Farthington adorned across both perky nips were for, but knew better than to ask. He did plan to see his family again at some point after all.

“Commander Farthington, are you sure about this journey? I don’t think the Enola Yay has been used, not even by your father!”

Commander Farthington stood in place, silent, just scanning Dickwood up and down.

“Mr. Dickwood, we are at war. We must use the weapons of war. We know the enemy we deal with, he is not new, he is merely reborn and we must bring this birth to end in its crib…”

Dickwood cleared his throat, clearly concerned by the touch of madness that had now consumed his commanding officer. “We’ve never had to use these weapons against Herr Jiles and the Octane before.”

Farthington took a quick sip from the glass of brandy that had magically appeared within his hand, swirling it around in his hand as he had a healthy chuckle at Dickwood’s question.

“We weren’t seeking his death before, Dicky. Now be a good boy and fire up the systems, won’t you?”. As if to punctuate his request, Farthington tilted his glass of brandy towards Dickwood in the direction of the various leavers and pulleys that Farthington assumed would allow his journey to move forward.

—

The Diary of Cecilworth Farthington, Aged 39 years, 8 Months, 10 Days

I don’t think the toilet is supposed to smell like that.

It doesn’t matter though.

WE ARE AT WAR!

—

Lord Cecilworth Farthington, Champion of the Universal and British Airfighter stood in a room that contained many maps. The maps had small models of airplanes all over them, some of them pointing left, some of them pointing right. Cecilworth studied these models carefully, occasionally muttering “hmm” or “oh yes” to himself as he started to slide them around, occasionally colliding them into each other and knocking them over with the small rake he had. Every time a plane model fell down, Farthington would mutter “exactly as according to the plan” to himself.

Farthington, deep in study at whatever it was he thought he was studying, was quickly interrupted by Dickwood and Hank bursting into what I suppose one would assume was the “War Room.” This was not a matter to plus Farthington, in fact observers and historians have since said he was very nonplussed about this very interaction.

Turning his back away from the roaring fire in front of him that he was enjoying, Commander Farthington acknowledged both Dickwood and Lt. Hank.

“Ah, gentlemen! Lovely to see you both. What word do you have from the Russians?”

Lt. Hank quickly looked towards Dickwood and nodded. Dickwood took this as instruction to explain further.

“Yes, Commander Farthington, excellent news. Locals reported they saw the Russian’s crashing just behind the butcher. One big one, one small one. They said the big one was consuming raw meats, the smaller one was mostly trying to kick the testicals of anyone who was nearby.”

A weary Farthington nodded his knowing head, “ah, The Order of Red. I knew they’d try and ruin what we had planned. It’s their fault we must face the Battle of Octane in the first place!”

Farthington began to stroke his mustache, rubbing out the various chunky parts of the soup he had consumed while he was enjoying airplane model time and was not rudely interrupted by his own allies. Farthington, Dickwood and Hank stared at each other for a moment, and then a much longer moment, none of them entirely sure what they were supposed to do next. The Champion of the Universe was the first one to break up the silence. “Well, gentleman, bring the tall one and the short one to me. We need to know what they know.”

Dickwood seemed very surprised. “Do you really think they would give up The Baron?”

Commander Farthington began to uncork a nearby bottle of vodka. “I think we can find a way to speak a mutual language.”

–

The Diary of Cecilworth Farthington, Aged 39 years, 8 Months, 11 Days

Why did I think it would be better this time? It still hurts SO much. I suppose I haven’t lost a day yet.

I do keep having these weird dreams where I have a mustache and I must stress that if ever anyone finds this diary in the future, I do not want to have a mustache.

That’s my good friend Hayes Hanlon’s territory and I will not be encroaching on it, thank you very much.

Glue is very much a collective. 

I do think I suit beige military suits though. Maybe I could get medals made for each of the PRIME Year End Awards I won this year. That would be so many nice medals! I could look like I ran my own island. It’s a brave take on fashion, but one I think I could take.

–

Commander Farthington continued to push around his models, every so often either going “RATATATATATATATATATA” or “whoosh!”. This sweet bliss was never destined to last for long as Dirk Dickwood and Hank brought the Tall One and Short One to their Commander.

“Commander Farthington sir, the guests you requested.”

“Ah yes, thank you Dickwood.”

Commander Farthington beckoned the Tall One and the Short One into his study. His first attempt to get on their good side for the information he required was to thrust two coffee mugs full of vodka into their respective large meaty paw and much smaller but probably still with a reasonable amount of meat paw.

The Tall One was the first to break the silence “DAH! Commander Farthington, you will need to do better than this to get us to talk. DYAHAHAHAHAHA” or at least that is how Cecilworth imagined the Tall One talked, he had mostly been a made up enemy in his head for a while. No one would be that absurd.

A cocky Commander Farthington sipped on his own drink and smiled, “Oh, I think you’ll find the Farthington Farms Vodka has a bit of a kick to it…commrade.”

The Little One was the first to notice, his tongue wagging out in the air, as if it was controlled by means that were no longer of his body. “What is this trickery, Farthington? I am not grinning right now!”

The brilliant military mind, Commander Farthington simply smiled, “do not worry, Farthington Farms takes care of us all, I just need to know everything you’ve learned about the Octane based on your time upon it.”

The Big One laughed so hard he knocked over a few of the airplane models. “The Octane? Don’t you mean SFS Svet Fanyi?” The laughter, despite having many vibrating powers, was not the sort of thing to throw the great leader Commander Farthington off his game. The Commander met the eye of the Big One, stating with utmost confidence “I think we both know that I mean The Octane.”

–

The Diary of Cecilworth Farthington, Aged 39 years, 8 Months, 11 Days

You ever been naked in a basement before, clutching a bottle of vodka in one hand and a bottle of bug spray in the other?

Not that I have.

Dirk says that’s how he found me the other day, he said I was just yelling “THE OCTANE” and “RATATATATATATA” over and over again and if I didn’t believe him in the past, I’m not going to start believing him now.

I just assume I was naked in the basement because it’s downstream from the dripping room and the best way to deal with all that moistness is to strip off. 

Also the bug spray is giving me the power to see the end of Jiles. It’s so close. I almost did it before, I’m sure as hell going to find a way to do it now.

The vodka? Oh, she’s just for fun.

–

It took many mugs of vodka, but Commander Farthing learned everything he needed for his next mission. The Tall One and The Short One were always chatty Cathys at heart and since they had no emotional attachment to the brutally blunt military equipment of terrible power, they were more than happy to leak secrets like it was a faucet after a Bobby Dean dump. Leaking all over the joint.

So that’s when Commander Farthington boarded the Farthington Manor spitfire. As the room above him began to open, sliding away the Farthington Manor maze and giving a reasonable justification to why the minotaur was on vacation, the runway began to lift up upon the grounds of the manor.

As if by magic, a speaker system began to play “The Dambuster Theme” as up front below the hedge maze came Commander Farthington and his Spitfire. At the bottom of the Spitfire was tied an almost novelty comedic looking bomb, labelled “I hope you find this to be a high octane gift.”

The bomb looked like if you’d asked a theme park to design a 1940s nuke, and to be honest that was probably the request to start.

In a flash, the spitfire went from sitting idle on the ground of Farthington Manor to sky high and flying in the direction of Baron von Jiles’ Octane.

“For Queen… or King… and country, I kinda forget when this all happened and the bug spray is making it more fuzzy” screamed Commander Farthington as he hurtled off over the ocean, ready to find the enemy below.

“Maybe this is for the Queen of the Ring and King Cockroach. They have conspired after all” Commander Farthington muttered in smug self satisfaction in a “got’em” manner.

–

The Diary of Cecilworth Farthington, Aged 39 years, 8 Months, 12 Days

You know, I’m started to believe that I probably should not have huffed. You really would have thought I would have learned from the first time around. 

My dreams have been getting real weird. Last night I dreamt that I had a secret spitfire hidden under the Farthington Manor maze.

That seems like a terrible place to hide a plane. That thing is always on fire and based on my limited understanding, fuel for getting into the sky is very, very flammable. Seems like I’ve had a combustible element under my ground for quite some time.

Although when I asked Dirk if he knows anything about the hidden airstrip below Farthington Manor he just stares me dead in the eye and says “I have no idea what you’re fucking talking about” and then goes to watch Antiques Roadshow.

It’s weird though, those dreams where you know that it’s clearly the bug spray talking, but it feels true. It feels like there is something under the Manor. Something to end The Octane once and for all. The bug spray is merely the key to unlocking the secrets of your brain.

Although I did just take another huff, so maybe that’s exactly what the poison wants me to think.

Surrounded by enemies in every direction. 

Last thing I remember, I was dropping a big dump into a warship in the ocean. Although now that I think about it, I saw Hank this morning, so he probably wasn’t riding a bomb down to The Octane while speaking for the first time in his life as he yelled “yee haw.”

I should have learned my lesson on huffing last year, huh?

–

“You know Dickwood, I’m starting to believe that the enemy wears green…”

Farthington was quickly cut off by his comrade in arms “Surely not Cecilworth, they’ve been our allies for years.”

“They were, Dickwood, they were. They’ve grown hungry though. They don’t want to be in the shadows. They view our alignment with the French a threat and they will do everything in their power to break us up. Including empowering Baron von Jiles. It’s all off the table now. They’ve declared war.”

Dickwood looked at the manor, unsure if they would be able to hold everything together. “Are we ready for this?”

Commander Farthington patted his old war buddies back one more time “If we’re not, the new generation certainly is. That’s why we do what we do.”

–

The Diary of Cecilworth Farthington, Aged 39 years, 8 Months, 13 Days

He was supposed to be gone.

This was supposed to be over.

Lindsay Troy. This is by your hand.

There is no other option.

PRIME enters the era of Global Thermonuclear War.

The Manor stands ready.

Do you, Troy? 

Do you, Baron Jiles?

This ends. This all ends. It is what the universe decrees. It is what she wants. She asked for it, she prayed for it.

I will be her weapon.