To The Becker Brigade,
Do you believe in Fate? Do you believe that events outside a person’s control are predetermined? Predetermined by a supernatural power beyond all human recognition?
Typically, we are very selfish when we ask ourselves this question, simply because we don’t consider there are 7.7 billion other people on this planet. Are they all controlled by an entity, a puppet master, pulling strings from a void unknown? Paths of righteousness, paths of indecency. Paths of right, paths of wrong. Paths of victory, paths of defeat. Do you believe?
Every man, every woman, every animal… are they free of the puppet master’s strings? Their choice of breakfast, their education, friends, lovers, employment, their ultimate end... is every living thing on a collision course with God without a single say in how they get there? Who fated God to the throne? Do you still believe?
Well I’m Max Becker… and I fuckin’ don’t.
Future events are foretold by today's successes and failures. Destiny, perhaps. But you are your own puppet master as I am mine.
It was not fate that I choked Kendo into a whimpering quitter in Iowa. It was not fate that I bettered six other men in Nebraska. It was not fate that Jarvis King did not leave Frozen Over a champion. It’s destiny; a controllable outcome. Some people are simply better than others at doing it.
It’s an unforgiving bracket. I must better Jarvis King, but lets put a few make-believe bets on the favourites, The Shadow in round two, Amber Ryan in the Alpha semis, Loki Synn in the Alpha block final and perhaps Zach Van Owen in the warfare final? Now it could be anybody, but imagine that, Jarvis King, The Shadow, Amber Ryan, Loki Synn, Zach Van Owen. Is it fate that your Max Becker defies all odds and takes the Modern Warfare crown? No. But it is my destiny. A controllable destiny.
You may have heard me refer to myself as the unemployed, undisputed, undefeated, Backbone of Cologne. To keep that going, I’m going to need your help.
I need you to get onto the CWF shop and buy your Brigader t-shirts. I need you to get your tickets for Evolution 39. I need you to pack all sorts of security friendly goodies and make sure they end up in my hands on Tuesday night. The entire Becker Brigade will control my destiny. That’s you. It’s your time. I can’t do this alone.
ENTRY #960, BECKER’S DESTINY
Max Becker Online Shop & Warehouse, Händelstraße 57, 50674 Köln, Germany
The camera zooms out from a large, modern tablet screen revealing the above was the content of the latest entry of ‘The Brigader’, Max Becker’s newsletter. Two dudes, as best as they can be described, both with long unwashed hair, thrash metal t-shirts & ripped denim jeans. They are in a nature park surrounded by a sea of green, one of whom has blonde hair and glasses, Steve, hovering over the shoulder of the other black haired man, Dave, as they’re reading the newsletter entry together.
DAVE: “Duuude, that’s awesome.”
STEVE: “Yeah dude, I told you so. It’s $50 a year for membership but you get free postage and packaging across the states on his merch, discounts, random freebies and pre-sale codes for CWF events, so it’s amazing value. I had a free key ring randomly sent with a picture of Max choking out Kendo last week.”
DAVE: “I’ll definitely sign up for that. Then I too can be… a brigader!”
If there was ever a clip to put the young ones off those expensive acting lessons, this was it. It was terrible. Both Dave & Steve, if that’s even their names, are stuttering, looking at the camera and worst of all, putting far too much exaggeration on the price of a Becker Brigade subscription. Locals passing on by are gazing on and the whole thing is a little bit awkward.
STEVE: “You also get a login code for online videos and behind the scenes footage. It’s great. Did you see the Jarvis Rap this week?”
DAVE: “No I didn’t Steve! Can I see it?”
STEVE: “Of course you can! It’s on demand… 24/7.”
The camera zooms back onto the tablet device, the on screen content now making up the segment’s view entirely. After a few brief moments of navigating a well organised library, full of Max Becker highlight reels and shoot promos, the latest video ‘#JarvisRap’ is selected and after a moment of buffering… we’re a go.
Dressed appropriately for a LBGT pride event and not so much an aggressive shoot promo, we see Max Becker in a florescent pink and green vest top, turquoise swim shorts and a pair of red sandals that have seen much better days. He’s wearing a pair of sunglasses with one of the eye lenses missing completely; his neck is draped in low quality bling.
The near sore on the eye Backbone of Cologne is foreground to a beautiful aerial view of busy city life. He’s hoisted well into the skies upon a crane similar to those used by skyscraper window cleaners. Directly above him is a large advertising billboard, Max Becker and Jarvis King’s faces either side of the CWF logo, the phrase ‘#JarvisRap’ written across the bottom. The camera pans a slow three-sixty revealing beautiful high-rise buildings and the Space Needle, of course, Max Becker was already in Seattle. After panning full circle, the camera zooms close on Max Becker who considering his attire and current temperatures, is anything but the dithering mess he should be. He looks in his element completely.
MB: “Guten Tag brigaders. Welcome to the hashtag, Jarvis Rap.
Now, don’ be shy dawgs. Grab yo’ friends and make some sick beats yo. Beat box, tap yo’ hands, click yo’ fingers, it don’t matter yo. Just make a beat. Any sort of beat. It don’t matter even if it’s just in your heads, ja?
Come on, yo’ asses still bein’ all shy. This don’t work if you don’t play game homies.
Ah-one, two, a one two three four… ah-one, two, a one two three four. Easy yo. Let’s go.
Summer of eighty-nine, The Icon was born in North Carolina,
He was destined for greatness comin’ from a glorious vagina,
At just twenty-nine, an experienced hall of famer,
Experienced at losing and that’s a no-brainer.
Brigaders say, beware the Smokin’ Aces. Well I say Jarvis, bring yo’ friends,
Maybe I’ll smack them too if I can get yo’ mouth from off their bell ends.
Shout out to Freddie Styles and of course Duce Jones,
My message to you, if I see yo’ faces I’ll break yo’ bones.
Triple Threat at Frozen Over, big chance at a World title reign,
But you were the loser last week and you’ll be the loser again.
What could’ve been, what should’ve been, is that is the question?
What does it matter? Yo’ due a another loss in quick succession.
King and Becker, it’s fact, we’ve never crossed paths,
But I’m undefeated, so yo’ dumb ass do the maths.
What do you think will happen? Brigaders bring the weapons?
Let me simplify it for you homie, a hospital bed beckons.
It’s quite sad, you know, your history of injuries,
But that explains one thing, your lack of victories.
Your neck, your knees, yo, I’ve got all the knowledge,
Unlucky for you, our match goes on ‘til referee stoppage.
So please, dawg, take your swing,
The world expects that you’ll do yo’ thing,
But referee, ring the bell, ding ding ding,
Yo’ bitch ass is out cold, Jarvis freakin’ King.
Don’t cry, don’t moan, there’s no shame in defeat,
I’m the Backbone of Cologne, it was an impossible feat.
You fucked it up again, but who’d of known?
I did. You did. Mind. Blown.
Movin’ on, you’re done Jarvis, you’re now in the past.
Second round, I’m in the World Title match. Yo, that was fast.
Tobias, Shadow, it could be any one of you and who’d of known?
That by the Alpha block semis, Max Becker's on the throne.
Yo, yo, yo.
Auf Wiedersehen, hunde.”
From being so static and capturing every emotion and every expression, the camera’s focus zooms out and continues to do so until the German is the size of a meagre ant. The feed begins to fade with the beautiful Seattle in the background, looking ever so brilliant even on a cold January’s day, as the billboard’s ‘#JarvisRap’ image transitions to a generic advertisement for the Modern Warfare tournament.