Post by Deleted on Oct 5, 2014 5:14:44 GMT -5
ONE...
TWO...
THREE!!!
DING DING!!!
The bell sounded. Rage Against the Machine's legendary, counterculture, rap-rock anthem "Killing in the Name" assaulted the PA system. The crowd inside of the US Airways Center in Phoenix, Arizona erupted in cum-laden cheers. It was a momentous occasion. History had been made. An icon had finally received his due, his just desserts. Confetti fell from the rafters. Thunderous chants emerged from the sold-out audience. Panties flooded as if reenacting a Biblical epic. It was a dizzying spectacle, one that was vivid yet surreal. The dream had been realized. The greatest career in WCF history had instantly been validated. Robert H. Cairo, "The Godfather of Professional Wrestling," finally crossed the last item off of his WCF bucket list. Cairo pinned Jonny Fly to win WAR. It was a Herculean battle between two of the greatest superstars in wrestling history, a modern day Flair-Steamboat. When it was over, Cairo's victory would be forever etched into the global wrestling psyche by the enduring image of Cairo and his middle-aged manager Bolts Quackenbush celebrating inside of the ring, their arms thrust into the air, their bodies embraced as one in an act of sheer jubilation.
Eight years earlier Bolts had trained Cairo for a WCF career, one that no one could have realized at that time would result in an incomparable, controversial and unparalleled legacy. Bolts and Cairo did not remain in constant contact through the subsequent years of Cairo's career, but they reconnected before WAR and the pairing paid obvious and immediate dividends for The Godfather. Cairo was more focused and determined than he had ever been in his WCF career. Torture tried to take Cairo down; he failed. Chelsea's Coalition tried to take Cairo down; they failed. The whole of Pantheon tried to take Cairo down; they failed. Steven Roman-Orbit III tried to take Cairo down; he failed for the second consecutive year.
Robert H. Cairo would not be denied this time around. He had fallen short in his two previous entries in WAR. This time the stars were aligned. Cairo fought like a madman possessed. EAT, SLEEP, R-CAIRO, REPEAT! That was the prescription that was written time and time again on that fateful Sunday night in the Grand Canyon State. Even The Godfather was enraptured when it was all said and done. Cairo, a man of massive ego and unmatched thickness, was truly humbled by his victory. Yes, Cairo proclaimed that he would win WAR. Yes, Cairo believed that he would win WAR. But, BUT, until the referee's hand hits the mat for that three-count and the timekeeper sounds the bell, you never truly know what is going to happen in an unpredictable environment such as WAR.
Once he secured his victory, Cairo knew that he had achieved something special. He knew that for all of his previously stated bluster and bravado, winning WAR was immediately his finest achievement in his finest hour. Champagne was handed out inside of his locker room. Chad Evans and Phillip Baines joined Cairo to celebrate. Diablo Calzone was there as well. Doctor Ron Paul was there, and so too was Sarah Michelle Gellar, TV's Buffy the Vampire Slayer. All of Cairo's friends and colleagues showered The Godfather with respect, admiration and praise. Cairo knew that much of the goodwill would not last beyond that initial twenty-four hour grace period following the match because the ebb and flow of public opinion was a motherfucking monster of a hellacious and ungrateful beast, but Cairo lived it up in that moment of sheer victory and unbridled joy. He cherished it. He had earned it.
When Cairo awoke on Tuesday afternoon (note: he did not sleep at all on Monday), Cairo understood that the aforementioned ebb and flow had united against him. He did not lament this predicament. No industry could rally behind one man forever; such a stance would contradict the very essence of a consumer based economy. Society is every man for himself and the wrestling industry is no exception to the rule. Cairo was ready for each and every challenge that came his way. Beckman was already running and gunning his mouth. Cairo paid him no mind because, let's face it, NO SELL + R-CAIRO = NEW CHAMP AT ONE! There were others who attempted to ride that Poon Guinea Pain Train: Buddy Roman tried and failed to claim ownership of Cairo's championship reign. Steve Orbit batted his negro eyelashes and rolled them He-Man shoulders as he attempted to pass the excuse for his defeat upon the tired refrain of THAT MAN CAIRO HAD A VACATION BEFORE ONE! THAT'S WHY HE ELIMINATED ME FROM WRESTLING'S GREATEST MATCH FOR THE SECOND YEAR IN A ROW!
Even Jonny Fly was not without the bullshit: I BEAT CAIRO LAST YEAR. HE BEAT ME THIS YEAR. WE'RE EVEN. WE'RE ON EQUAL GROUND.
Cairo sat in his blood red throne of death, inside of his study at the Governor's Mansion in the People's Republic of Poon Guinea (Presented by Popeyes Chicken and Biscuits.) Cairo observed this huck-a-billy juke, jive and wail that his opponents proffered as a means of saving face, and he condemned each of the associated parties. Cairo condemned these hateful heathens and spurious scoundrels while delivering a tape recorded message before his mansion's security cameras: "You run your mouths about The Godfather's victory at WAR? Know this, understand this: I defeated you, all of you, because I am better than you. Fly, you attempt to suckle of The Godfather's thickness? You attempt to praise me while claiming to be on equal footing? You are not my equal, Fly. You are a pale and desperate imitation. Think back now: While you were hiding in witness protection, I was fortifying a Hall of Fame résumé and career. In relative comparison, your 'accomplishments' are tedium personified.
" 'Gifted the World Championship by Corey Black, blah blah blah; Pay-per-view title defense against FPV, blah blah blah; Jobber killing of Waylon Cash, blah blah blah.' Your so-called 'legacy' is the product of competing against watered-down competition, Fly. To your credit, you stole a pinfall over The Godfather last year, moments after I had eliminated Steve Orbit from WAR. However, what happened when you attempted to implement that same tactic this year? You were..." The Godfather cackled with glee. "You were R-CAIRO'd how many times, Jonny? Once? Twice? Thrice? More times than you would care to recollect? Yes, that sounds accurate. The truth is that we've never been on the same level. We've never been equals. The God-Daddy has always been your superior and he always will be. You celebrate finishing runner-up to The Godfather? Good. You should. Be proud. You are stronger than all, Fly, save for the strongest of all." Cairo snickered and chuckled; he savored in mocking Jonny Fly.
"These days, Jonny, unbearable as they may be for you, are not a fleeting moment in WCF history. You will not wake up in the morning and ascend to that same throne that you knew in years past. Fly's legacy, his dominance, that shit's been put to bed, put out to pasture with a bullet to the head. The fairytale of Jonny Fly as 'most dominant superstar in WCF history' has been condemned to society's ashbin, a farce, a hoax, an intellectual fraud. It was easy when you were competing against Sarah Twilight and Francis Patrick Venable every week, easy to appear dominant, easy to retain that fifteen pounds of gold and leather that bound your waist to your scrotum. Things got real when The Godfather planted his ped inside of the squared circle, for keeps this time. I'm not running comedy skits, playing games, having a good old time, laughing it up for shits and giggles with my Pantheon Bros. I'm asserting my will, my law, my dominance.
"Truthfully speaking, Fly, you performed as well as you could under the circumstances at WAR. You gave it the old college try, even if it ended up more like the old college dropout try in your case. You still outperformed every other member of the WCF roster, as you were quick to point out in your most recent promotional broadcast to the WCF Universe. You performed better, for example than... Steven Orbit? Yes, you did. Orbit, congratulations are in order to you, sir. You've been pinned by The Godfather twice in as many WAR campaigns. Last year you felt the wrath of my PerfectPlex, that Irresistible Bliss. This year you were R-CAIRO'd and pinned like so many others. I'm thinking that next year I will Cairopractor you. Would you like that, Steve?
"We'll see how it goes. I do not have to commit to any decisions on the matter for another... uh, let's call it eleven months and three weeks, yeah? You were the strongest performer out of your Vapor Kings group at WAR. Natural 'ICE' Beckman did not have the cumquats to actually compete in WAR, unlike previous WCF World Champions, because he is a coward. Zombie McMorris DID compete in WAR but was promptly eliminated because he is a jobber. Hmm... you, evidently, did not have much competition in that 'Best Performer from The Vapor Kings' category, which was precisely what I expected. Heh." Cairo chortled with a vindictive sneer. "You know what, Steve? I rescind my congratulations. You and your pathetic watered-down version of The Thickness are not worthy of such esteemed plaudits from The Godfather.
"I sit on my throne, feet propped upon their cushioned pedestal, Poonglourious Whiskey in my hand, crown nestled upon my cranium, and I mock you. I mock you wannabes and imposters because you have nothing for me, nothing to challenge me with, nothing to even hold my attention with. You and your so-called 'brotherhood' are a curious study in the excess of modern egotism, Orbit. You believed you were entitled to victory at WAR? Entitled to the glory of victory through prowess upon the battlefield? You were entitled to no such accolades, Steven Q. Orbit. The only thing that you were entitled to was another crushing defeat under my iron clad fist. That you won. That you won, Orbit! Chalk up another Pyrrhic victory for The Mack, ladies and gentlemen of the WCF Universe!" Cairo launched into a sarcastic and slow-handed golf clap to 'applaud' Orbit's 'achievement.'
"Then we have this, what do you call them-- oh yes: Chelsea's Coalition. Chelsea, let me ask you something: Was I supposed to be intimidated by the fact that your group had a seventeen-to-one advantage over me at WAR? See, that intimidation factor never really kicked in when I was pinning your shoulders to the mat with that Irresistible Bliss, eliminating you from WAR, destroying your most carefully laid plans of manipulating the numbers game to skew an advantage. Neither you, nor Jay Omega, nor Alexander Richards, nor... oh yeah, the crossdresser Cormack MacNeill could deny The Godfather of his rightful victory.
"I've done the group thing, Chelsea. Yep, been there and done that. I was a founding member of Pantheon. I was a founding member of Bravado. I was a founding member of The Thickness. One thing I've learned through the years is that I'm much better at competing as a lone wolf, no allies in the ring, no friends or hive mind collectives to answer to. As long as I've got my mentor Bolts at my side, I cannot go wrong. That's seventy-three years of wisdom, Chelsea. That's a Vietnam veteran and a wrestling trainer extraordinaire. You got anyone in your 'Coalition' who can match Bolts' track record, Chelsea? No? Of course you do not. That is why you lose. You've got all of the hype that comes with being a superstar in this business and none of the substance that comes with being a true champion, a truly elite competitor.
"Speaking of all hype and no substance, I understand that I am to face Jayson Allen Price on Slam Three-Hundred, live from the Bank of America Arena in Seattle, Washington? This is supposed to represent a marquee match-up to honor Slam's three-hundredth episode, but if you ask The Godfather, and you did, this is nothing more than a glorified jobber kill. Can we even confirm whether Jayson Allen Price is still among the living after the way that Gravedigger dropped him on his cranium at WAR? I saw the outrageously insipid tweets that were sent from Jayson's Twitter account this week, critiquing The Godfather, promising to do at Slam what Jonny Fly could not do at WAR, but what does that prove? Anyone could've stolen Jayson's phone while he was in a coma at a Phoenix area hospital and posted those status updates.
"If, IF we can determine that Jayson is alive and of sound mind and body to compete against The Godfather at Slam Three-Hundred, then I welcome the so-called 'challenge.' Price has been barking for this match-up for years, claiming that it's his dream bout. For me it's just another tune-up before ONE, a means of keeping mind, body and soul in tip-top shape to dispense a thick and lethal brand of justice against Natural 'ICE' Beckman. While Price and his Pantheon cronies were licking their wounds after WAR, desperately scurrying to concoct excuses and throw each other under the bus like the rats that they are, The Godfather was standing tall, unabashed in his pride and glory, ravaging a plentiful bounty of desert-groomed Arizona poon.
"Now, you might think the desert poon to be dry and unsavory, ladies and gentlemen of the WCF Universe? The Godfather has a remedy for such things: This thickness... this thickness would saturate the Sahara for an eternity to cum. Needless to say, the desert poon is now drowning under The Godfather's rapturous tide, and it didn't take global warming to make such things a reality. What say you, South Street Menace? Are you out there, Jayson Price? When we lock horns in Seattle at Slam Three-Hundred, what will you bring to the table, young man? Your status as King Internet? Cool beans, dude. Maybe you'd like to move up from that lower midcard spot where you find yourself anchored? The Godfather's got a co-main event opportunity waiting for you, though you should be forewarned: This is not going to be a free ride.
"The Godfather's vision of communism unfettered does not equate to a welfare state. You want to earn your keep? Earn it. Bust your ass at Slam, Jayson. Prove that you are what we all thought you could be. I once declared that you were a future lock for the WCF Hall of Fame. In retrospect I question my wisdom in such matters. For that I wish to make you pay, Jayson. I do not like second guessing myself. It does not suit a man of my grandeur, my splendor, my caliber of achievement in this business and industry. I want to hurt you, Jayson, but I don't want to fight a hollow mind and a cold body at Slam. I want to face you at your best, at the best that you've ever been. Can you do me that solid, Jayson? Can you up your game to my level, pretty please?" The Godfather folded his arms, leaned back in his throne, and shook his head. He never believed that he would have to beg an opponent to bring their A-game against him. Wrestling pundits, no doubt, would be quick to label this The Godfather's 'Jayson Price Conundrum.'
Speaking of conundrums...
A visibly shaken American President approached the podium inside of the White House press room. Barack "Barry Oak" Obama steadied himself as best he could and cleared his throat before addressing the assembled horde of media.
"My fellow Americans," The President began in typical, dry Barry Oak fashion as the cameras rolled and flashbulbs popped. "I stand before you today a humbled man, a humbled leader of this great, Godfather-fearing nation. I wish to-- I wish to come clean and apologize to you, my public, my people. I--We, yes, we underestimated the threat of Robert H. Cairo. We believed that simply throwing the entire field of WCF 's annual WAR pay-per-view at The Godfather's feet would be enough to thwart his efforts. We believed that it would be a sufficient tactic to subdue him, neutralize him if not destroy him altogether. We failed. I am sorry, America. I apologize to you.
"I am sorry because you deserve better. I, a proud Kenyan-born Muslim-American socialist, swore to you that The Godfather would not penetrate our borders with his heaving thickness. I swore to you that Robert H. Cairo would not upset the apple cart, so to speak, by capturing victory in the one event that had hitherto escaped his ass poon smashing prowess, WAR. Why did we fail? This is an important question that I've carefully considered along with the members of my cabinet. Truthfully, I think that much of the blame should be shouldered by my predecessor, the nefarious Georgia W. Bush. We, as in I, as in you, deserved better leadership than that unthick cracka brought to the table. But this is not the time to play the blame game," Barry emphasized while playing the blame game.
"The truth is that we cannot allow Robert H. Cairo to rest on his laurels. We cannot allow Robert H. Cairo to squirt his good shit in America's ass poon. This man, this menace-- This Godfather would bring us back to the dark ages. He would return us to the era of feudalist communism and dominionship that our ancestors fought to liberate us from. What I'm trying to tell you, my niggas--UH, my fellow Americans, is that WE have developed a plan, a new plan, a better plan." Barry shifted the documents that rested on the podium in front of him. In fact they were blank sheets of computer printer paper, but this was a nervous tick that Barry habitually resorted to during moments of intellectual treason. "We have decided that it is time to put troops on the ground."
The press room clamored. Reporters shouted questions at Barry Oak; they demanded further information. Barry offered soothing gestures with his hands in an understated effort to calm them, but they were rabid. The President pressed forward with his message. "I understand--Yes, yes, I understand that you have questions. You have questions and I have answers. My fellow Americans, my niggas--er, UH, yes, my niggas, I have decided to deploy the... JAYSON PRICE OPTION."
The entire press room exhaled in a collective gasp. Never before had such stupidity been uttered in the White House press room... and this was a press room that had previously been occupied by Georgia Prescott Bush.
The reporters offered their instant scathing critique of The President's plan, highlighted by Betty H. Taliban's infamous, "Troops on the ground? You call that troops on the ground? Jayson Allen Price ain't shit, Mr. President!"
Mrs. Obama stood behind the scenes, observing her husband's press junket on a closed circuit television monitor. She shook her head in abject disapproval of her husband's bumbling of the Cairo threat. What a conundrum, indeed. Michelle was pissed. She nearly stormed out to the podium and dragged Barry away by his Dumbo sized ears, but she resisted the urge. She would punish The President by withholding The First Lady ass poon and forcing him to sleep on the couch. That would teach him a lesson, she thought.
The political pundits, so-called 'experts,' were quick to weigh in with their respective assessments of The President's Cairo plan on their respective nightly chat shows:
"Jayson Allen Price couldn't stop a nose bleed and he's gonna stop this Cairo threat? I do not think so! Mr. President, you have failed us time and time again, just as Jayson Price has failed inside of the WCF ring! This plan is baloney, it's an insult to the American public, and frankly its very proposal is tantamount to an impeachable offense! Shame on you, Mr. President!" - Bill O'Reilly on 'The O'Reilly Factor'
"I don't like it. It stinks. It's a terrible plan. The President is desperate, he's grasping at straws. Jayson Price? Please. What year is this? How can Price be viewed as a tangible force against communist terror threats from abroad? Did President Oak steal Johnny Reb's time machine and travel back to two-thousand-nine when Jayson Price was still relevant? Goodness gracious, The Godfather has us exactly where he wants us! We're all gonna die!" - Chris Matthews on 'Hardball'
"How can this president, this Barry Oak, purport to be putting America's best interests at heart when he offers this, this ABSURD plan to combat the Robert H. Cairo threat? Who is Barry Oak trying to fool? Does he think we've just stopped paying attention? Does he think we've raised the white flag and surrendered to the Poon Guinean-Canadian-Russian-Danish-ISIS coalition? How dare you betray our trust in this manner, President Oak? You've disgraced your nation, your office, and your family!" - Michelle Obama during 'Dinner that Night'
Robert H. Cairo walked through the pearly white gates, his manager Bolts Quackenbush at his side, puffy white clouds fluttering all about. Cairo was decked out in his finest pinstripe suit and leather loafers, his long black hair slicked back, and beard refined with berries and oils. The Godfather looked resplendent, per his usual. Bolts was dressed in his Army service uniform, the one that he wore during his Purple Heart ceremony following his return from Vietnam. Bolts stood stoic at his protege's side, obviously proud of Bobby's accomplishments though not allowing himself to be overcome by the emotion of the moment. Finally, Robert H. Cairo had arrived in the Pantheon of Immortals following his victory at WAR.
The walls were bedecked with the finest oaks and mahoganies, gold and silver inlays, slivers of the finest poon from the history of civilization. Cairo nodded his head and smiled. He belonged here. He deserved this. Cairo was greeted by a man with long black hair and a long black beard, wearing a long white robe. Was this the Son of God? Indeed it was. It was Jam Willy Jesus in the flesh... or apparition. Whatever He was exactly.
"Hot Fries, my friend?" Jam Willy queried toward Cairo.
"No, no," Cairo replied. "No, thank you. Real men do not eat that mass produced snack time rubbish. I require hearty portions of red meat and potato."
Jam Willy clapped His divine hands and summoned His bitches, bitches of large tit and protruding ass cheek. "So it shall be done. Bitches, fetch The Godfather and his manager their dinner. Steaks... medium rare?"
Cairo nodded his head.
"Steaks medium rare, a bounty of baked potato, freshly churned butter and sour cream on the side. Endless shrimp and breadstick options. And do not, DO NOT forget that Poonglourious Whiskey, or so help me, Godfather--"
Cairo punctuated Jam Willy's train of thought by pimp slapping the harem of bitches and sending them about their way.
"Thank you, Bobby," Jam Willy asserted.
"It is nothing, Jesus. I am just-- I am truly honored and humbled to have finally arrived here in the Pantheon of Immortals. This is Heaven for those in our industry, those who will never be able to reach the other Heaven, Lesser Heaven as I call it."
Jam Willy laughed. "So-called men of God such as a Steeltoe Joe and Jeff Purse? Yes, they will be in for a surprise, Bobby. Not only will they fail to reach the other Heaven..." Willy shook His head and sighed in despair. "They will fall well short of making it here. It is sad. I lament their misfortune. Alas, there is nothing that we can do. They are the unthick, Bobby."
Bolts chimed in with his gruff, gravelly tone. "Let us not forget the so-called true believer in the Flying Spaghetti Monster, Jayson Allen Price, that wayward jobbah. He won't even make it to purgatory like men such as Joe and Purse."
"You are correct, sir," Jam Willy replied. Jesus' face suddenly appeared blank, unfeeling, emotionless when the topic of Price arose. Clearly, the Son of God had little regard for King Internet. "Jayson Price is going to Hell. There is no doubt about that. The Pantheon of Immortals is not a place for... Pantheon heathens. They are a disgrace to the name. Price, Fly, Black, Booker... but especially that damned Price." Jam Willy spit on the ground, spit in disdain at the thought of Jayson Price. Perish that damned thought of that damned Price, He told Himself. An angel sprouted up from the marble floor and polished that spit with a rag before disappearing.
"Let us not think of such unpleasant thoughts, Bobby. Come with me, gentlemen." Jam Willy motioned for Cairo and Bolts to follow Him down the hallway, encouraged them to observe the sights and sounds of the Pantheon, the ornamentations, the sculptures, the paintings, the still motion photographs of the legendary moments of wrestling history. That night that Biohazard pinned Logan-- WOO HOO HOO-- that was something special, and there it was framed for posterity for all who entered the Pantheon.
Of course, Cairo was not the only immortal who had earned induction to the Pantheon. Cairo marveled in a state of wonderment as he encountered some of his all-time heroes of the squared circle. Bobby did not wish to stop and stare, did not want to ogle these grown men, did not want to act like a starstruck fool, but he could hardly contain himself. "Kong Kong Bundy? PC Cradle? Oh my Godfather," Cairo exclaimed. "Frankbates? My nigga, that's Frankbates!" Cairo grunt-trucked a stiffy in honor of Frankbates before Jam Willy led him and Bolts into the dining area.
Robert H. Cairo, duly elected leader of the People's Republic of Poon Guinea (Presented by Popeyes Chicken and Biscuits) held up a manila envelope that bulged at the seams with documents, as he sat in his throne at the head of an elongated dining table. Having returned from his imperial victory tour through the Pantheon of Immortals, the Playboy Mansion, and R. Kelly's crib, Robert H. was once again home at the Governor's Mansion. He hosted a roundtable discussion with his comrades in the Cairo Coalition (the only TRUE power coalition in professional wrestling today): Russian Premier Vladdy Daddy Putin, Canadian Prime Minister Robert Ford, and King of Denmark Maurice Zangles.
Cairo shrieked in hysterics while holding up the envelope marked in bold black ink with the words Magnum Opus: Liberation. " 'Does Old Man Cairo have anything left in him one week after WAR?' 'Will Robert Cairo succumb to the post-WAR hangover that has afflicted so many of his contemporaries?' 'Was it a fluke? Did Cairo catch his opponents off-guard at WAR?' These are the bone-headed questions that have been bandied about on social media and cable chat shows, gentlemen! We've got President Oak shitting himself, trying to come up with a final solution to eradicate the King of All Jews, that Godfather Bobby C., yet the peanut gallery remains unfazed. They just--they're too cool for school. They're so cynical, they're so millennial, they're so--AH, KICK WHAM R-CAIRO TO ALL OF YA UNTHICK MUTHAFUCKS!" Cairo slammed the envelope onto the oaken dinner table, nearly spilling the documents contained within.
"Godfather, please, a sense of decorum," Robert Ford implored. "I know what it's like to feel the backlash after a successful victory tour. When you first win, yeah everybody wants to be your friend. But once you get settled in? Believe me, oh believe me, Bobby, the claws come out."
"Yes, these are goods point from the fat man Roberts Ford," Maurice Zangles interjected. "You knows, we saw all these crazy comment from, uh, zee, what is she call? OH! Jayson's Price and he was all 'GODFATHER, I COME FOR YOUR SOUL! YOU GONNA SEE THE REAL ME, NIGGA!' I see these word from the Jayson's Price and I be like 'HAHAHA FUCK YOU, PRICE! MAURICE GONNA DROP YOUR ON THE HEAD AND FEED YOU MY FISH DICK!' Hah. #Fishsticks!"
Cairo nodded his head, allowing the calm waves to center onto his vessel, as he contemplated the pearls of wisdom from Ford and Zangles. "I just, I hate people. Do you guys know that? I'm the last man who should be the leader of a revolution."
Vladimir Putin scolded The Godfather. "Bobby, Bobby, you say such emotional words. Are you woman now? You have your period? Should we call you Goddess Mother instead of Godfather?"
"GAH!" Cairo nerd-raged as he thrashed about in his throne. "They question The Godfather, Vladimir, that's what I don't understand! Statistics say that I've never gone less than an hour in WAR. Statistics say that I've never finished worse than third in WAR. Statistics say that Robert H. Cairo is a veritable marathon man. Statistics say that Robert H. Cairo is immune to any possible post-WAR hangover. Statistics say, Vladdy Daddy, that as far as post-WAR hangovers are concerned, I've been drunk on victory and power this week while Price has been drunk on shame and cheap gin. Statistics, Vladdy Daddy," Cairo opined as he fingered that Magnum Opus: Liberation envelope like so much fine poon. "Say that Robert H. Cairo presents his strengths as weaknesses while Jayson Allen Price presents his weaknesses as strengths."
Cairo smirked. He inhaled deeply, exhaled sharply, and reclined in his throne, crushed red plush velvety throne. "Statistics say that Robert H. Cairo cannot be pinned inside of a conventional wrestling ring because his thickness will always find its way to the ropes."
The other gentlemen in the room raised their eyebrows. Were they capable of matching thickness for thickness with The Godfather? Did they dare play that game? Cairo shattered their heady contemplation with further diatribe. "But let's call a spade a spade, shall we? We talk about this Jayson Allen Price match at Slam Three-Hundred. We dismiss him as being less than a challenge. We do so, not out of ego, but rather out of understanding of the facts. It's not that Jayson Allen Price won't beat me; Jayson Allen Price can't beat me. Jayson Allen Price is a bed shitter. He shits the bed every time he's afforded an opportunity to accomplish something great in his career. No one is worse at dealing with prosperity than Jayson Allen Price. In fact, I'm going to call Seth right now and get him to switch the match at Slam. Price doesn't deserve a match with The Godfather, and on the heels of my victory at WAR, no less? HORSE SHIT!"
Within moments, Cairo had scoured WCF owner Seth Lerch's number on his Droid contacts list and connected to Seth's direct line. "Seth, I want-- I DEMAND competition! You don't bring me Jayson Allen Price at Slam Three-Hundred. You bring me competition, motherfucker! I want Fly, Black, Beckman and Orbit, four-on-one handicapped match versus The Godfather in Seattle or I'm flying out to Reading on Air Poon-ONE and R-CAIRO'ing your drunky ginger emo ass into a coma! Can ya hear me now?! Change the Slam card or else, Seth!" Cairo slammed the phone to emphasize his point. (Since this is 2014, he actually just pressed the disconnect symbol on the touch screen and lamented the lack of ability to slam a phone to emphasize one's point in this day and age.)
Cairo promptly realized that he had made an omission in his declaration and feverishly texted Seth the following: 'Oh and I want that Helloween main event against Chelsea's Coalition too, ya poon shriveled bitch, Seth!'
Bobby finally tucked his Droid into his pocket and once again hoisted the envelope marked Magnum Opus: Liberation. "Gentlemen, I acknowledge that I came a bit unhinged earlier, allowed myself to become emotional. Robert H. Cairo does not apologize for this--"
"NEVER APOLOGIZE, NEVER EXPLAIN!" Ford, Putin and Zangles collectively chimed in with the official Cairo Coalition mantra.
"YES, MY NIGGAS, YES!" Cairo fistbumped his comrades before settling down in his throne and touting the progress of his 'Magnum Opus.' "Our plan is in full swing, gentlemen. WAR has been conquered, Barry Oak is reeling, Seth Lerch is suckling from The Godfather's thickness. Life could not be better. No one, but no one, outside of our coalition could have foreseen the success that we would engender in such a swift and all-encompassing manner, yet here we are riding that thick and lethal wave of Poon Guinean justice under an Old Glory Poon Guinean Flag." The banner of liberty and communism hung above the dining hall as Cairo and his cohorts gazed upon it with pride. "That is why we fight, gentlemen. That is why we do not relent. That is why The Godfather will ride into Slam Three-Hundred in Seattle, Washington, USA, conquer all opposition placed before him, and continue his unstoppable campaign of liberation all the way to ONE, reclaiming that gold and leather strap that he should have never lost in the first place.
"Who should oppose The Godfather, gentlemen? Who should stand before me in combat, save for the meekest, most frightened little boy in the world today? Who else would play such a fool?"
The meekest, most frightened little boy in the world today stood before the mirror in his bedroom and flexed his modest muscles. "Who the man? YEAH! Who the man? Yeah, dawg, YEAH! Backwards baseball cap! King Internet, that's who! J-Preezy? WUHT! J-Preezy? WUHT!" J-Preezy flexed and fantasized. He fantasized about being a big man, a strong man, a brave man. He fantasized about being a real man with a great head of hair and beard to boot, like The Godfather Robert H. Instead, J-Preezy was an undersized teen, Caucasian in origin, with a shoddy buzz cut, lookin' like his dome got lopped on some straight up juvie hall fresh meat shit.
Fortunately for J-Preezy, he was not in juvie. He was nestled in the loving bosom of his mother's home. J-Preezy exhaled in relief as he remembered this comforting fact. J-Preezy knew that he could not survive in a jailhouse environment. He knew that he could not throw fists and feet to defend himself. This is why he talked tough, hid behind an internet persona, and avoided actual combat scenarios. If J-Preezy ever found himself in a true, violent encounter... well, J-Preezy violently shuddered as he contemplated such possibilities.
J-Preezy comforted himself again; he tweeted.
'@kinginternetdubseeeff Robert Cairo smells like poop'
'@kinginternetdubseeeff J-Preezy has a big dick'
'@kinginternetdubseeeff J-Preezy has sex with girls and stuff.. even though girls have cooties' (J-Preezy was covering all of his bases with this tweet: A) looking like a big man to his followers who 'like girls,' while B) avoiding mockery from his followers who think girls are 'gross.' Pretty slick stuff, eh? Gotta give J-Preezy credit; he knows how to play the game.)
'@kinginternetdubseeeff I am so bad ass'
As soon as he sent that last tweet the realization hit J-Preezy; terror set in: This was no mere dream. This was no mere fantasy. On Sunday night, J-Preezy would meet his maker, his creator, The Godfather. J-Preezy quivered and quaked. His knees knocked. He nearly dropped his phone.
'@kinginternetdubseeeff I am so frightened.. @jamwillypimpsaucedotcom please save me!'
J-Preezy frantically paced around in circles, raced around his bedroom. He stared into his mirror. He tried to flex and look tough but how does one accomplish such a task when they weigh all of a buck-oh-five soaking wet? J-Preezy fought through his bout of nerves. He summoned his courage. He sneered into the mirror and he flexed some more. "King Internet, bitch!" J-Preezy was feeling his oats now. He was on fire. It was time to get his main bitch under wraps. "Maawm, I want Totino's Pizza Rolls!"
His mother's voice beckoned from another room, from behind his closed bedroom door. "Get them yourself, Jayson Allen Price, ya deadbeat jobbah!" J-Preezy frowned. His posture slumped. He leaned against his bedroom door and stared at his sneakers. His mom called out once more. "Did you steal my iPhone again? Godfather, help you if you bent my shit, Jayson!"
J-Preezy could not take these accusations lying down. He had to defend his honor. "But I'm King Internet! I have to tweet! It's all I have in this world, maawm! I have to talk shit on the internet! It's my life! It's my persona! I'll die without it! King Internet fah lyfe, beeeeech!"
"You're gonna be king of my foot up your ass, ya vagina bruised bitch-- ya thickless chump!"
While J-Preezy lamented his latest bed shitter conundrum, a new anti-Preezy meme had taken social media by storm: #KickPriceInThePussy had skyrocketed and become the top trending topic worldwide on Twitter within minutes of first being tweeted by a rival Twitter user named J-Pursey.
J-Preezy knew that it was time for his weekly gimmick change. Last week he had attempted to 'get over' as a crime solving detective named Sherlock Price. However, unable to find his dignity, pride, common sense, sobriety, talent, honor, courage or a clue, J-Preezy quickly realized this gimmick would be short-lived. In order to numb the pain of his latest failure, J-Preezy dressed up in a penguin costume and fantasized that he had moved to an icy, arctic island. This seemed apropos to J-Preezy, considering that his once promising career had shipwrecked like the Titanic on that iceberg. Why not embrace the ice? Hey, it worked for Beckman. That guy was a can't-miss talent!
"I can be whatever I want to be. Except a successful man. A decent man. Well, a man, period. But I can build a sleeping bag fort, pretend that I have my own private tower in the City of Brotherly Love, even though I live at my mom's house and look like a haggard fourteen year old homeless kid... Hey, I know! I can pretend that I live in a castle like Corey and slay a dragon! Maybe? No, no, too dangerous. I can be an effeminate Jew like Jonny... NO-NO. A conspiracy theorist like Daniel Booker, I mean Diablo Calzone, I mean Bobby Cairo-- DAMN YOU, GODFATHER! Damn these delusions of grandeur. Damn it, J-Preezy! Damn it, damn it, damn it all to Hell!"
J-Preezy dropped to his knees and looked to the heavens. He spread his rail thin arms and prayed for guidance, prayed for protection, prayed for a sign from above, a sign from Jam Willy Jesus.
"Please help me, Oh Lord Jam Willy! I don't wanna be like a Jayson Allen Price anymore! I don't want to be a joke! I want to be like Bobby C! I want to be like Robert H! I want to be a bad man! I don't want to be a Jayson Allen Price anymore...!!"
J-Preezy sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. His mother banged on the door, screamed at him to nut up and stop being a pussy. J-Preezy wanted to, oh he wanted to-- but he didn't know how. "Jayson Allen Price, shut your gawddarnned whining crying pussy sliver of a mouth and grow a set!"
"No, no, no this isn't real! La-la-la! I'm not listening! This life isn't real! I'm not that loser drunk guy on TV! That's not me! But even so, even though he's not me and I'm not him-- Please Please Please, Godfather, don't kill him! Don't kill King Internet! Don't kill... me!"
J-Preezy spiraled into the fetal position and gently rocked to and fro on his bedroom floor as his mother finally kicked the door in. Horrified, she began shrieking when she witnessed her son in his state of utter emotional, mental and physical disrepair, J-Preezy having been reduced to an infant state, completing the Benjamin Button cycle of WCF life that he had begun five years earlier.
J-Preezy cooed in hushed tones, inaudible to humans-- barely audible to canines. "Keep me safe from harm, Oh Lord Jam Willy. Please don't kill me, Godfather."
His eyes shuttered, perhaps for the final time. He went into a state of cardiac arrest. And if he should die, if he should never wake, if he should meet his maker, his creator, The Godfather, his epitaph shall read, Here lies J-Preezy: King Internet, fake gangsta, wasted talent, eternal bed shitter. A conundrum.
TWO...
THREE!!!
DING DING!!!
The bell sounded. Rage Against the Machine's legendary, counterculture, rap-rock anthem "Killing in the Name" assaulted the PA system. The crowd inside of the US Airways Center in Phoenix, Arizona erupted in cum-laden cheers. It was a momentous occasion. History had been made. An icon had finally received his due, his just desserts. Confetti fell from the rafters. Thunderous chants emerged from the sold-out audience. Panties flooded as if reenacting a Biblical epic. It was a dizzying spectacle, one that was vivid yet surreal. The dream had been realized. The greatest career in WCF history had instantly been validated. Robert H. Cairo, "The Godfather of Professional Wrestling," finally crossed the last item off of his WCF bucket list. Cairo pinned Jonny Fly to win WAR. It was a Herculean battle between two of the greatest superstars in wrestling history, a modern day Flair-Steamboat. When it was over, Cairo's victory would be forever etched into the global wrestling psyche by the enduring image of Cairo and his middle-aged manager Bolts Quackenbush celebrating inside of the ring, their arms thrust into the air, their bodies embraced as one in an act of sheer jubilation.
Eight years earlier Bolts had trained Cairo for a WCF career, one that no one could have realized at that time would result in an incomparable, controversial and unparalleled legacy. Bolts and Cairo did not remain in constant contact through the subsequent years of Cairo's career, but they reconnected before WAR and the pairing paid obvious and immediate dividends for The Godfather. Cairo was more focused and determined than he had ever been in his WCF career. Torture tried to take Cairo down; he failed. Chelsea's Coalition tried to take Cairo down; they failed. The whole of Pantheon tried to take Cairo down; they failed. Steven Roman-Orbit III tried to take Cairo down; he failed for the second consecutive year.
Robert H. Cairo would not be denied this time around. He had fallen short in his two previous entries in WAR. This time the stars were aligned. Cairo fought like a madman possessed. EAT, SLEEP, R-CAIRO, REPEAT! That was the prescription that was written time and time again on that fateful Sunday night in the Grand Canyon State. Even The Godfather was enraptured when it was all said and done. Cairo, a man of massive ego and unmatched thickness, was truly humbled by his victory. Yes, Cairo proclaimed that he would win WAR. Yes, Cairo believed that he would win WAR. But, BUT, until the referee's hand hits the mat for that three-count and the timekeeper sounds the bell, you never truly know what is going to happen in an unpredictable environment such as WAR.
Once he secured his victory, Cairo knew that he had achieved something special. He knew that for all of his previously stated bluster and bravado, winning WAR was immediately his finest achievement in his finest hour. Champagne was handed out inside of his locker room. Chad Evans and Phillip Baines joined Cairo to celebrate. Diablo Calzone was there as well. Doctor Ron Paul was there, and so too was Sarah Michelle Gellar, TV's Buffy the Vampire Slayer. All of Cairo's friends and colleagues showered The Godfather with respect, admiration and praise. Cairo knew that much of the goodwill would not last beyond that initial twenty-four hour grace period following the match because the ebb and flow of public opinion was a motherfucking monster of a hellacious and ungrateful beast, but Cairo lived it up in that moment of sheer victory and unbridled joy. He cherished it. He had earned it.
When Cairo awoke on Tuesday afternoon (note: he did not sleep at all on Monday), Cairo understood that the aforementioned ebb and flow had united against him. He did not lament this predicament. No industry could rally behind one man forever; such a stance would contradict the very essence of a consumer based economy. Society is every man for himself and the wrestling industry is no exception to the rule. Cairo was ready for each and every challenge that came his way. Beckman was already running and gunning his mouth. Cairo paid him no mind because, let's face it, NO SELL + R-CAIRO = NEW CHAMP AT ONE! There were others who attempted to ride that Poon Guinea Pain Train: Buddy Roman tried and failed to claim ownership of Cairo's championship reign. Steve Orbit batted his negro eyelashes and rolled them He-Man shoulders as he attempted to pass the excuse for his defeat upon the tired refrain of THAT MAN CAIRO HAD A VACATION BEFORE ONE! THAT'S WHY HE ELIMINATED ME FROM WRESTLING'S GREATEST MATCH FOR THE SECOND YEAR IN A ROW!
Even Jonny Fly was not without the bullshit: I BEAT CAIRO LAST YEAR. HE BEAT ME THIS YEAR. WE'RE EVEN. WE'RE ON EQUAL GROUND.
Cairo sat in his blood red throne of death, inside of his study at the Governor's Mansion in the People's Republic of Poon Guinea (Presented by Popeyes Chicken and Biscuits.) Cairo observed this huck-a-billy juke, jive and wail that his opponents proffered as a means of saving face, and he condemned each of the associated parties. Cairo condemned these hateful heathens and spurious scoundrels while delivering a tape recorded message before his mansion's security cameras: "You run your mouths about The Godfather's victory at WAR? Know this, understand this: I defeated you, all of you, because I am better than you. Fly, you attempt to suckle of The Godfather's thickness? You attempt to praise me while claiming to be on equal footing? You are not my equal, Fly. You are a pale and desperate imitation. Think back now: While you were hiding in witness protection, I was fortifying a Hall of Fame résumé and career. In relative comparison, your 'accomplishments' are tedium personified.
" 'Gifted the World Championship by Corey Black, blah blah blah; Pay-per-view title defense against FPV, blah blah blah; Jobber killing of Waylon Cash, blah blah blah.' Your so-called 'legacy' is the product of competing against watered-down competition, Fly. To your credit, you stole a pinfall over The Godfather last year, moments after I had eliminated Steve Orbit from WAR. However, what happened when you attempted to implement that same tactic this year? You were..." The Godfather cackled with glee. "You were R-CAIRO'd how many times, Jonny? Once? Twice? Thrice? More times than you would care to recollect? Yes, that sounds accurate. The truth is that we've never been on the same level. We've never been equals. The God-Daddy has always been your superior and he always will be. You celebrate finishing runner-up to The Godfather? Good. You should. Be proud. You are stronger than all, Fly, save for the strongest of all." Cairo snickered and chuckled; he savored in mocking Jonny Fly.
"These days, Jonny, unbearable as they may be for you, are not a fleeting moment in WCF history. You will not wake up in the morning and ascend to that same throne that you knew in years past. Fly's legacy, his dominance, that shit's been put to bed, put out to pasture with a bullet to the head. The fairytale of Jonny Fly as 'most dominant superstar in WCF history' has been condemned to society's ashbin, a farce, a hoax, an intellectual fraud. It was easy when you were competing against Sarah Twilight and Francis Patrick Venable every week, easy to appear dominant, easy to retain that fifteen pounds of gold and leather that bound your waist to your scrotum. Things got real when The Godfather planted his ped inside of the squared circle, for keeps this time. I'm not running comedy skits, playing games, having a good old time, laughing it up for shits and giggles with my Pantheon Bros. I'm asserting my will, my law, my dominance.
"Truthfully speaking, Fly, you performed as well as you could under the circumstances at WAR. You gave it the old college try, even if it ended up more like the old college dropout try in your case. You still outperformed every other member of the WCF roster, as you were quick to point out in your most recent promotional broadcast to the WCF Universe. You performed better, for example than... Steven Orbit? Yes, you did. Orbit, congratulations are in order to you, sir. You've been pinned by The Godfather twice in as many WAR campaigns. Last year you felt the wrath of my PerfectPlex, that Irresistible Bliss. This year you were R-CAIRO'd and pinned like so many others. I'm thinking that next year I will Cairopractor you. Would you like that, Steve?
"We'll see how it goes. I do not have to commit to any decisions on the matter for another... uh, let's call it eleven months and three weeks, yeah? You were the strongest performer out of your Vapor Kings group at WAR. Natural 'ICE' Beckman did not have the cumquats to actually compete in WAR, unlike previous WCF World Champions, because he is a coward. Zombie McMorris DID compete in WAR but was promptly eliminated because he is a jobber. Hmm... you, evidently, did not have much competition in that 'Best Performer from The Vapor Kings' category, which was precisely what I expected. Heh." Cairo chortled with a vindictive sneer. "You know what, Steve? I rescind my congratulations. You and your pathetic watered-down version of The Thickness are not worthy of such esteemed plaudits from The Godfather.
"I sit on my throne, feet propped upon their cushioned pedestal, Poonglourious Whiskey in my hand, crown nestled upon my cranium, and I mock you. I mock you wannabes and imposters because you have nothing for me, nothing to challenge me with, nothing to even hold my attention with. You and your so-called 'brotherhood' are a curious study in the excess of modern egotism, Orbit. You believed you were entitled to victory at WAR? Entitled to the glory of victory through prowess upon the battlefield? You were entitled to no such accolades, Steven Q. Orbit. The only thing that you were entitled to was another crushing defeat under my iron clad fist. That you won. That you won, Orbit! Chalk up another Pyrrhic victory for The Mack, ladies and gentlemen of the WCF Universe!" Cairo launched into a sarcastic and slow-handed golf clap to 'applaud' Orbit's 'achievement.'
"Then we have this, what do you call them-- oh yes: Chelsea's Coalition. Chelsea, let me ask you something: Was I supposed to be intimidated by the fact that your group had a seventeen-to-one advantage over me at WAR? See, that intimidation factor never really kicked in when I was pinning your shoulders to the mat with that Irresistible Bliss, eliminating you from WAR, destroying your most carefully laid plans of manipulating the numbers game to skew an advantage. Neither you, nor Jay Omega, nor Alexander Richards, nor... oh yeah, the crossdresser Cormack MacNeill could deny The Godfather of his rightful victory.
"I've done the group thing, Chelsea. Yep, been there and done that. I was a founding member of Pantheon. I was a founding member of Bravado. I was a founding member of The Thickness. One thing I've learned through the years is that I'm much better at competing as a lone wolf, no allies in the ring, no friends or hive mind collectives to answer to. As long as I've got my mentor Bolts at my side, I cannot go wrong. That's seventy-three years of wisdom, Chelsea. That's a Vietnam veteran and a wrestling trainer extraordinaire. You got anyone in your 'Coalition' who can match Bolts' track record, Chelsea? No? Of course you do not. That is why you lose. You've got all of the hype that comes with being a superstar in this business and none of the substance that comes with being a true champion, a truly elite competitor.
"Speaking of all hype and no substance, I understand that I am to face Jayson Allen Price on Slam Three-Hundred, live from the Bank of America Arena in Seattle, Washington? This is supposed to represent a marquee match-up to honor Slam's three-hundredth episode, but if you ask The Godfather, and you did, this is nothing more than a glorified jobber kill. Can we even confirm whether Jayson Allen Price is still among the living after the way that Gravedigger dropped him on his cranium at WAR? I saw the outrageously insipid tweets that were sent from Jayson's Twitter account this week, critiquing The Godfather, promising to do at Slam what Jonny Fly could not do at WAR, but what does that prove? Anyone could've stolen Jayson's phone while he was in a coma at a Phoenix area hospital and posted those status updates.
"If, IF we can determine that Jayson is alive and of sound mind and body to compete against The Godfather at Slam Three-Hundred, then I welcome the so-called 'challenge.' Price has been barking for this match-up for years, claiming that it's his dream bout. For me it's just another tune-up before ONE, a means of keeping mind, body and soul in tip-top shape to dispense a thick and lethal brand of justice against Natural 'ICE' Beckman. While Price and his Pantheon cronies were licking their wounds after WAR, desperately scurrying to concoct excuses and throw each other under the bus like the rats that they are, The Godfather was standing tall, unabashed in his pride and glory, ravaging a plentiful bounty of desert-groomed Arizona poon.
"Now, you might think the desert poon to be dry and unsavory, ladies and gentlemen of the WCF Universe? The Godfather has a remedy for such things: This thickness... this thickness would saturate the Sahara for an eternity to cum. Needless to say, the desert poon is now drowning under The Godfather's rapturous tide, and it didn't take global warming to make such things a reality. What say you, South Street Menace? Are you out there, Jayson Price? When we lock horns in Seattle at Slam Three-Hundred, what will you bring to the table, young man? Your status as King Internet? Cool beans, dude. Maybe you'd like to move up from that lower midcard spot where you find yourself anchored? The Godfather's got a co-main event opportunity waiting for you, though you should be forewarned: This is not going to be a free ride.
"The Godfather's vision of communism unfettered does not equate to a welfare state. You want to earn your keep? Earn it. Bust your ass at Slam, Jayson. Prove that you are what we all thought you could be. I once declared that you were a future lock for the WCF Hall of Fame. In retrospect I question my wisdom in such matters. For that I wish to make you pay, Jayson. I do not like second guessing myself. It does not suit a man of my grandeur, my splendor, my caliber of achievement in this business and industry. I want to hurt you, Jayson, but I don't want to fight a hollow mind and a cold body at Slam. I want to face you at your best, at the best that you've ever been. Can you do me that solid, Jayson? Can you up your game to my level, pretty please?" The Godfather folded his arms, leaned back in his throne, and shook his head. He never believed that he would have to beg an opponent to bring their A-game against him. Wrestling pundits, no doubt, would be quick to label this The Godfather's 'Jayson Price Conundrum.'
Speaking of conundrums...
A visibly shaken American President approached the podium inside of the White House press room. Barack "Barry Oak" Obama steadied himself as best he could and cleared his throat before addressing the assembled horde of media.
"My fellow Americans," The President began in typical, dry Barry Oak fashion as the cameras rolled and flashbulbs popped. "I stand before you today a humbled man, a humbled leader of this great, Godfather-fearing nation. I wish to-- I wish to come clean and apologize to you, my public, my people. I--We, yes, we underestimated the threat of Robert H. Cairo. We believed that simply throwing the entire field of WCF 's annual WAR pay-per-view at The Godfather's feet would be enough to thwart his efforts. We believed that it would be a sufficient tactic to subdue him, neutralize him if not destroy him altogether. We failed. I am sorry, America. I apologize to you.
"I am sorry because you deserve better. I, a proud Kenyan-born Muslim-American socialist, swore to you that The Godfather would not penetrate our borders with his heaving thickness. I swore to you that Robert H. Cairo would not upset the apple cart, so to speak, by capturing victory in the one event that had hitherto escaped his ass poon smashing prowess, WAR. Why did we fail? This is an important question that I've carefully considered along with the members of my cabinet. Truthfully, I think that much of the blame should be shouldered by my predecessor, the nefarious Georgia W. Bush. We, as in I, as in you, deserved better leadership than that unthick cracka brought to the table. But this is not the time to play the blame game," Barry emphasized while playing the blame game.
"The truth is that we cannot allow Robert H. Cairo to rest on his laurels. We cannot allow Robert H. Cairo to squirt his good shit in America's ass poon. This man, this menace-- This Godfather would bring us back to the dark ages. He would return us to the era of feudalist communism and dominionship that our ancestors fought to liberate us from. What I'm trying to tell you, my niggas--UH, my fellow Americans, is that WE have developed a plan, a new plan, a better plan." Barry shifted the documents that rested on the podium in front of him. In fact they were blank sheets of computer printer paper, but this was a nervous tick that Barry habitually resorted to during moments of intellectual treason. "We have decided that it is time to put troops on the ground."
The press room clamored. Reporters shouted questions at Barry Oak; they demanded further information. Barry offered soothing gestures with his hands in an understated effort to calm them, but they were rabid. The President pressed forward with his message. "I understand--Yes, yes, I understand that you have questions. You have questions and I have answers. My fellow Americans, my niggas--er, UH, yes, my niggas, I have decided to deploy the... JAYSON PRICE OPTION."
The entire press room exhaled in a collective gasp. Never before had such stupidity been uttered in the White House press room... and this was a press room that had previously been occupied by Georgia Prescott Bush.
The reporters offered their instant scathing critique of The President's plan, highlighted by Betty H. Taliban's infamous, "Troops on the ground? You call that troops on the ground? Jayson Allen Price ain't shit, Mr. President!"
Mrs. Obama stood behind the scenes, observing her husband's press junket on a closed circuit television monitor. She shook her head in abject disapproval of her husband's bumbling of the Cairo threat. What a conundrum, indeed. Michelle was pissed. She nearly stormed out to the podium and dragged Barry away by his Dumbo sized ears, but she resisted the urge. She would punish The President by withholding The First Lady ass poon and forcing him to sleep on the couch. That would teach him a lesson, she thought.
The political pundits, so-called 'experts,' were quick to weigh in with their respective assessments of The President's Cairo plan on their respective nightly chat shows:
"Jayson Allen Price couldn't stop a nose bleed and he's gonna stop this Cairo threat? I do not think so! Mr. President, you have failed us time and time again, just as Jayson Price has failed inside of the WCF ring! This plan is baloney, it's an insult to the American public, and frankly its very proposal is tantamount to an impeachable offense! Shame on you, Mr. President!" - Bill O'Reilly on 'The O'Reilly Factor'
"I don't like it. It stinks. It's a terrible plan. The President is desperate, he's grasping at straws. Jayson Price? Please. What year is this? How can Price be viewed as a tangible force against communist terror threats from abroad? Did President Oak steal Johnny Reb's time machine and travel back to two-thousand-nine when Jayson Price was still relevant? Goodness gracious, The Godfather has us exactly where he wants us! We're all gonna die!" - Chris Matthews on 'Hardball'
"How can this president, this Barry Oak, purport to be putting America's best interests at heart when he offers this, this ABSURD plan to combat the Robert H. Cairo threat? Who is Barry Oak trying to fool? Does he think we've just stopped paying attention? Does he think we've raised the white flag and surrendered to the Poon Guinean-Canadian-Russian-Danish-ISIS coalition? How dare you betray our trust in this manner, President Oak? You've disgraced your nation, your office, and your family!" - Michelle Obama during 'Dinner that Night'
Robert H. Cairo walked through the pearly white gates, his manager Bolts Quackenbush at his side, puffy white clouds fluttering all about. Cairo was decked out in his finest pinstripe suit and leather loafers, his long black hair slicked back, and beard refined with berries and oils. The Godfather looked resplendent, per his usual. Bolts was dressed in his Army service uniform, the one that he wore during his Purple Heart ceremony following his return from Vietnam. Bolts stood stoic at his protege's side, obviously proud of Bobby's accomplishments though not allowing himself to be overcome by the emotion of the moment. Finally, Robert H. Cairo had arrived in the Pantheon of Immortals following his victory at WAR.
The walls were bedecked with the finest oaks and mahoganies, gold and silver inlays, slivers of the finest poon from the history of civilization. Cairo nodded his head and smiled. He belonged here. He deserved this. Cairo was greeted by a man with long black hair and a long black beard, wearing a long white robe. Was this the Son of God? Indeed it was. It was Jam Willy Jesus in the flesh... or apparition. Whatever He was exactly.
"Hot Fries, my friend?" Jam Willy queried toward Cairo.
"No, no," Cairo replied. "No, thank you. Real men do not eat that mass produced snack time rubbish. I require hearty portions of red meat and potato."
Jam Willy clapped His divine hands and summoned His bitches, bitches of large tit and protruding ass cheek. "So it shall be done. Bitches, fetch The Godfather and his manager their dinner. Steaks... medium rare?"
Cairo nodded his head.
"Steaks medium rare, a bounty of baked potato, freshly churned butter and sour cream on the side. Endless shrimp and breadstick options. And do not, DO NOT forget that Poonglourious Whiskey, or so help me, Godfather--"
Cairo punctuated Jam Willy's train of thought by pimp slapping the harem of bitches and sending them about their way.
"Thank you, Bobby," Jam Willy asserted.
"It is nothing, Jesus. I am just-- I am truly honored and humbled to have finally arrived here in the Pantheon of Immortals. This is Heaven for those in our industry, those who will never be able to reach the other Heaven, Lesser Heaven as I call it."
Jam Willy laughed. "So-called men of God such as a Steeltoe Joe and Jeff Purse? Yes, they will be in for a surprise, Bobby. Not only will they fail to reach the other Heaven..." Willy shook His head and sighed in despair. "They will fall well short of making it here. It is sad. I lament their misfortune. Alas, there is nothing that we can do. They are the unthick, Bobby."
Bolts chimed in with his gruff, gravelly tone. "Let us not forget the so-called true believer in the Flying Spaghetti Monster, Jayson Allen Price, that wayward jobbah. He won't even make it to purgatory like men such as Joe and Purse."
"You are correct, sir," Jam Willy replied. Jesus' face suddenly appeared blank, unfeeling, emotionless when the topic of Price arose. Clearly, the Son of God had little regard for King Internet. "Jayson Price is going to Hell. There is no doubt about that. The Pantheon of Immortals is not a place for... Pantheon heathens. They are a disgrace to the name. Price, Fly, Black, Booker... but especially that damned Price." Jam Willy spit on the ground, spit in disdain at the thought of Jayson Price. Perish that damned thought of that damned Price, He told Himself. An angel sprouted up from the marble floor and polished that spit with a rag before disappearing.
"Let us not think of such unpleasant thoughts, Bobby. Come with me, gentlemen." Jam Willy motioned for Cairo and Bolts to follow Him down the hallway, encouraged them to observe the sights and sounds of the Pantheon, the ornamentations, the sculptures, the paintings, the still motion photographs of the legendary moments of wrestling history. That night that Biohazard pinned Logan-- WOO HOO HOO-- that was something special, and there it was framed for posterity for all who entered the Pantheon.
Of course, Cairo was not the only immortal who had earned induction to the Pantheon. Cairo marveled in a state of wonderment as he encountered some of his all-time heroes of the squared circle. Bobby did not wish to stop and stare, did not want to ogle these grown men, did not want to act like a starstruck fool, but he could hardly contain himself. "Kong Kong Bundy? PC Cradle? Oh my Godfather," Cairo exclaimed. "Frankbates? My nigga, that's Frankbates!" Cairo grunt-trucked a stiffy in honor of Frankbates before Jam Willy led him and Bolts into the dining area.
Robert H. Cairo, duly elected leader of the People's Republic of Poon Guinea (Presented by Popeyes Chicken and Biscuits) held up a manila envelope that bulged at the seams with documents, as he sat in his throne at the head of an elongated dining table. Having returned from his imperial victory tour through the Pantheon of Immortals, the Playboy Mansion, and R. Kelly's crib, Robert H. was once again home at the Governor's Mansion. He hosted a roundtable discussion with his comrades in the Cairo Coalition (the only TRUE power coalition in professional wrestling today): Russian Premier Vladdy Daddy Putin, Canadian Prime Minister Robert Ford, and King of Denmark Maurice Zangles.
Cairo shrieked in hysterics while holding up the envelope marked in bold black ink with the words Magnum Opus: Liberation. " 'Does Old Man Cairo have anything left in him one week after WAR?' 'Will Robert Cairo succumb to the post-WAR hangover that has afflicted so many of his contemporaries?' 'Was it a fluke? Did Cairo catch his opponents off-guard at WAR?' These are the bone-headed questions that have been bandied about on social media and cable chat shows, gentlemen! We've got President Oak shitting himself, trying to come up with a final solution to eradicate the King of All Jews, that Godfather Bobby C., yet the peanut gallery remains unfazed. They just--they're too cool for school. They're so cynical, they're so millennial, they're so--AH, KICK WHAM R-CAIRO TO ALL OF YA UNTHICK MUTHAFUCKS!" Cairo slammed the envelope onto the oaken dinner table, nearly spilling the documents contained within.
"Godfather, please, a sense of decorum," Robert Ford implored. "I know what it's like to feel the backlash after a successful victory tour. When you first win, yeah everybody wants to be your friend. But once you get settled in? Believe me, oh believe me, Bobby, the claws come out."
"Yes, these are goods point from the fat man Roberts Ford," Maurice Zangles interjected. "You knows, we saw all these crazy comment from, uh, zee, what is she call? OH! Jayson's Price and he was all 'GODFATHER, I COME FOR YOUR SOUL! YOU GONNA SEE THE REAL ME, NIGGA!' I see these word from the Jayson's Price and I be like 'HAHAHA FUCK YOU, PRICE! MAURICE GONNA DROP YOUR ON THE HEAD AND FEED YOU MY FISH DICK!' Hah. #Fishsticks!"
Cairo nodded his head, allowing the calm waves to center onto his vessel, as he contemplated the pearls of wisdom from Ford and Zangles. "I just, I hate people. Do you guys know that? I'm the last man who should be the leader of a revolution."
Vladimir Putin scolded The Godfather. "Bobby, Bobby, you say such emotional words. Are you woman now? You have your period? Should we call you Goddess Mother instead of Godfather?"
"GAH!" Cairo nerd-raged as he thrashed about in his throne. "They question The Godfather, Vladimir, that's what I don't understand! Statistics say that I've never gone less than an hour in WAR. Statistics say that I've never finished worse than third in WAR. Statistics say that Robert H. Cairo is a veritable marathon man. Statistics say that Robert H. Cairo is immune to any possible post-WAR hangover. Statistics say, Vladdy Daddy, that as far as post-WAR hangovers are concerned, I've been drunk on victory and power this week while Price has been drunk on shame and cheap gin. Statistics, Vladdy Daddy," Cairo opined as he fingered that Magnum Opus: Liberation envelope like so much fine poon. "Say that Robert H. Cairo presents his strengths as weaknesses while Jayson Allen Price presents his weaknesses as strengths."
Cairo smirked. He inhaled deeply, exhaled sharply, and reclined in his throne, crushed red plush velvety throne. "Statistics say that Robert H. Cairo cannot be pinned inside of a conventional wrestling ring because his thickness will always find its way to the ropes."
The other gentlemen in the room raised their eyebrows. Were they capable of matching thickness for thickness with The Godfather? Did they dare play that game? Cairo shattered their heady contemplation with further diatribe. "But let's call a spade a spade, shall we? We talk about this Jayson Allen Price match at Slam Three-Hundred. We dismiss him as being less than a challenge. We do so, not out of ego, but rather out of understanding of the facts. It's not that Jayson Allen Price won't beat me; Jayson Allen Price can't beat me. Jayson Allen Price is a bed shitter. He shits the bed every time he's afforded an opportunity to accomplish something great in his career. No one is worse at dealing with prosperity than Jayson Allen Price. In fact, I'm going to call Seth right now and get him to switch the match at Slam. Price doesn't deserve a match with The Godfather, and on the heels of my victory at WAR, no less? HORSE SHIT!"
Within moments, Cairo had scoured WCF owner Seth Lerch's number on his Droid contacts list and connected to Seth's direct line. "Seth, I want-- I DEMAND competition! You don't bring me Jayson Allen Price at Slam Three-Hundred. You bring me competition, motherfucker! I want Fly, Black, Beckman and Orbit, four-on-one handicapped match versus The Godfather in Seattle or I'm flying out to Reading on Air Poon-ONE and R-CAIRO'ing your drunky ginger emo ass into a coma! Can ya hear me now?! Change the Slam card or else, Seth!" Cairo slammed the phone to emphasize his point. (Since this is 2014, he actually just pressed the disconnect symbol on the touch screen and lamented the lack of ability to slam a phone to emphasize one's point in this day and age.)
Cairo promptly realized that he had made an omission in his declaration and feverishly texted Seth the following: 'Oh and I want that Helloween main event against Chelsea's Coalition too, ya poon shriveled bitch, Seth!'
Bobby finally tucked his Droid into his pocket and once again hoisted the envelope marked Magnum Opus: Liberation. "Gentlemen, I acknowledge that I came a bit unhinged earlier, allowed myself to become emotional. Robert H. Cairo does not apologize for this--"
"NEVER APOLOGIZE, NEVER EXPLAIN!" Ford, Putin and Zangles collectively chimed in with the official Cairo Coalition mantra.
"YES, MY NIGGAS, YES!" Cairo fistbumped his comrades before settling down in his throne and touting the progress of his 'Magnum Opus.' "Our plan is in full swing, gentlemen. WAR has been conquered, Barry Oak is reeling, Seth Lerch is suckling from The Godfather's thickness. Life could not be better. No one, but no one, outside of our coalition could have foreseen the success that we would engender in such a swift and all-encompassing manner, yet here we are riding that thick and lethal wave of Poon Guinean justice under an Old Glory Poon Guinean Flag." The banner of liberty and communism hung above the dining hall as Cairo and his cohorts gazed upon it with pride. "That is why we fight, gentlemen. That is why we do not relent. That is why The Godfather will ride into Slam Three-Hundred in Seattle, Washington, USA, conquer all opposition placed before him, and continue his unstoppable campaign of liberation all the way to ONE, reclaiming that gold and leather strap that he should have never lost in the first place.
"Who should oppose The Godfather, gentlemen? Who should stand before me in combat, save for the meekest, most frightened little boy in the world today? Who else would play such a fool?"
The meekest, most frightened little boy in the world today stood before the mirror in his bedroom and flexed his modest muscles. "Who the man? YEAH! Who the man? Yeah, dawg, YEAH! Backwards baseball cap! King Internet, that's who! J-Preezy? WUHT! J-Preezy? WUHT!" J-Preezy flexed and fantasized. He fantasized about being a big man, a strong man, a brave man. He fantasized about being a real man with a great head of hair and beard to boot, like The Godfather Robert H. Instead, J-Preezy was an undersized teen, Caucasian in origin, with a shoddy buzz cut, lookin' like his dome got lopped on some straight up juvie hall fresh meat shit.
Fortunately for J-Preezy, he was not in juvie. He was nestled in the loving bosom of his mother's home. J-Preezy exhaled in relief as he remembered this comforting fact. J-Preezy knew that he could not survive in a jailhouse environment. He knew that he could not throw fists and feet to defend himself. This is why he talked tough, hid behind an internet persona, and avoided actual combat scenarios. If J-Preezy ever found himself in a true, violent encounter... well, J-Preezy violently shuddered as he contemplated such possibilities.
J-Preezy comforted himself again; he tweeted.
'@kinginternetdubseeeff Robert Cairo smells like poop'
'@kinginternetdubseeeff J-Preezy has a big dick'
'@kinginternetdubseeeff J-Preezy has sex with girls and stuff.. even though girls have cooties' (J-Preezy was covering all of his bases with this tweet: A) looking like a big man to his followers who 'like girls,' while B) avoiding mockery from his followers who think girls are 'gross.' Pretty slick stuff, eh? Gotta give J-Preezy credit; he knows how to play the game.)
'@kinginternetdubseeeff I am so bad ass'
As soon as he sent that last tweet the realization hit J-Preezy; terror set in: This was no mere dream. This was no mere fantasy. On Sunday night, J-Preezy would meet his maker, his creator, The Godfather. J-Preezy quivered and quaked. His knees knocked. He nearly dropped his phone.
'@kinginternetdubseeeff I am so frightened.. @jamwillypimpsaucedotcom please save me!'
J-Preezy frantically paced around in circles, raced around his bedroom. He stared into his mirror. He tried to flex and look tough but how does one accomplish such a task when they weigh all of a buck-oh-five soaking wet? J-Preezy fought through his bout of nerves. He summoned his courage. He sneered into the mirror and he flexed some more. "King Internet, bitch!" J-Preezy was feeling his oats now. He was on fire. It was time to get his main bitch under wraps. "Maawm, I want Totino's Pizza Rolls!"
His mother's voice beckoned from another room, from behind his closed bedroom door. "Get them yourself, Jayson Allen Price, ya deadbeat jobbah!" J-Preezy frowned. His posture slumped. He leaned against his bedroom door and stared at his sneakers. His mom called out once more. "Did you steal my iPhone again? Godfather, help you if you bent my shit, Jayson!"
J-Preezy could not take these accusations lying down. He had to defend his honor. "But I'm King Internet! I have to tweet! It's all I have in this world, maawm! I have to talk shit on the internet! It's my life! It's my persona! I'll die without it! King Internet fah lyfe, beeeeech!"
"You're gonna be king of my foot up your ass, ya vagina bruised bitch-- ya thickless chump!"
While J-Preezy lamented his latest bed shitter conundrum, a new anti-Preezy meme had taken social media by storm: #KickPriceInThePussy had skyrocketed and become the top trending topic worldwide on Twitter within minutes of first being tweeted by a rival Twitter user named J-Pursey.
J-Preezy knew that it was time for his weekly gimmick change. Last week he had attempted to 'get over' as a crime solving detective named Sherlock Price. However, unable to find his dignity, pride, common sense, sobriety, talent, honor, courage or a clue, J-Preezy quickly realized this gimmick would be short-lived. In order to numb the pain of his latest failure, J-Preezy dressed up in a penguin costume and fantasized that he had moved to an icy, arctic island. This seemed apropos to J-Preezy, considering that his once promising career had shipwrecked like the Titanic on that iceberg. Why not embrace the ice? Hey, it worked for Beckman. That guy was a can't-miss talent!
"I can be whatever I want to be. Except a successful man. A decent man. Well, a man, period. But I can build a sleeping bag fort, pretend that I have my own private tower in the City of Brotherly Love, even though I live at my mom's house and look like a haggard fourteen year old homeless kid... Hey, I know! I can pretend that I live in a castle like Corey and slay a dragon! Maybe? No, no, too dangerous. I can be an effeminate Jew like Jonny... NO-NO. A conspiracy theorist like Daniel Booker, I mean Diablo Calzone, I mean Bobby Cairo-- DAMN YOU, GODFATHER! Damn these delusions of grandeur. Damn it, J-Preezy! Damn it, damn it, damn it all to Hell!"
J-Preezy dropped to his knees and looked to the heavens. He spread his rail thin arms and prayed for guidance, prayed for protection, prayed for a sign from above, a sign from Jam Willy Jesus.
"Please help me, Oh Lord Jam Willy! I don't wanna be like a Jayson Allen Price anymore! I don't want to be a joke! I want to be like Bobby C! I want to be like Robert H! I want to be a bad man! I don't want to be a Jayson Allen Price anymore...!!"
J-Preezy sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. His mother banged on the door, screamed at him to nut up and stop being a pussy. J-Preezy wanted to, oh he wanted to-- but he didn't know how. "Jayson Allen Price, shut your gawddarnned whining crying pussy sliver of a mouth and grow a set!"
"No, no, no this isn't real! La-la-la! I'm not listening! This life isn't real! I'm not that loser drunk guy on TV! That's not me! But even so, even though he's not me and I'm not him-- Please Please Please, Godfather, don't kill him! Don't kill King Internet! Don't kill... me!"
J-Preezy spiraled into the fetal position and gently rocked to and fro on his bedroom floor as his mother finally kicked the door in. Horrified, she began shrieking when she witnessed her son in his state of utter emotional, mental and physical disrepair, J-Preezy having been reduced to an infant state, completing the Benjamin Button cycle of WCF life that he had begun five years earlier.
J-Preezy cooed in hushed tones, inaudible to humans-- barely audible to canines. "Keep me safe from harm, Oh Lord Jam Willy. Please don't kill me, Godfather."
His eyes shuttered, perhaps for the final time. He went into a state of cardiac arrest. And if he should die, if he should never wake, if he should meet his maker, his creator, The Godfather, his epitaph shall read, Here lies J-Preezy: King Internet, fake gangsta, wasted talent, eternal bed shitter. A conundrum.