Post by Deleted on Sept 28, 2013 18:07:49 GMT -5
"Cairomoves III: A Gift From A Friend"
This is not September of Two-Thousand-and-Thirteen. This is September of Two-Thousand-and-Nine. Some guy named Barack Obama is president of the United States. What the fuck ever happened to that guy, huh? HUH?! I'm shirtless and drunk and I'm asking what happened to the guy!
...
I apologize for that outburst, ladies and gentlemen. The craziness of WAR week, it got to me. It's not easy business being a third-person narrator these days. Anyway, it's September of Oh-Nine and Osama is in the White House. Bobby Cairo is not yet the Godfather of Professional Wrestling. Hell, Bobby Cairo is not even an active professional wrestler at the present time. Double hell, Bobby Cairo is not even a free man at the present time. He's in prison, remember? We went over this in the last promo? He got shot in the chest three times while attempting to sneak into a top-secret military base in New Mexico and he's been held prisoner for nearly a year now? If you didn't read the shit yet then this one won't make sense, I'm telling you that right now.
Dried blood mats Bobby Cairo's shoulder-length black hair. Drool slides down his chin at the incremental pace of a snail. Cairo is dressed in his slovenly tan prison bottoms and formerly white undershirt, which is now coated with a gruesome mixture of dirt and blood. He is passed out like a dead person on his shitty prison mattress, one of them cheap rubber jobs that you can purchase for fifteen cents at your local Costco. This is not the Holiday Inn. This is Rotersdam Military Base, located in the Cockapooni Desert of New Mexico. Specifically, this is military prison. Normally you have to be court-martialed to be held here. Bobby Cairo won't even receive that dignity much less the privilege. Cairo, the liar, the genius, the madman, believed that his intrusion at the base would go undetected. Boy, would he like a do-over on that one. Nevertheless, Cairo has reason to be hopeful. The truth is that he's either going to be butchered by sadistic Gestapo military officers, or he's going to find a way out of this shithole. From Bobby Cairo's perspective either option sounds appealing at this point, though of course the latter is preferable.
Cairo snores slightly as he dreams of nipples to be sucked, nipples attached to giant breasts, breasts of Caucasian. ebony and Latina descent. The breasts to be sucked, nibbled, tweaked and fucked, giving way to the poon that must be smashed. Understand something, Orbit, you mealy-mouthed, dime-a-dozen, zoot suit-wearing, fake-ass gangsta, wannabe pimp but you're really a bitch: this poon-smashing, ass-gashing, titty-mashing lifestyle that Bobby Cairo lives ain't a gimmick, unlike you and your carefully-crafted television image. You run your mouth, not that the world can understand a goddamn word you're saying, but you run your mouth about Bobby Cairo, dismissing his comeback, dismissing his thickness, disrespecting his adopted homeland of Poon Guinea. Let me tell you something, asshole. Bobby Cairo was locked in a prison cell four years ago, but he ain't locked in a prison cell no more. Anytime you want to throw fists with the motherfucking Godfather of Professional Wrestling, you let the man know and he'll be more than happy to accommodate cha, "homie". Bobby Cairo will take your soul, your ass, and your cash. Bitch.
As Cairo rests with the innocence of a horny teenaged boy, he suddenly feels a gentle rapping on his person. Tap-tap-tap... Cairo, still unconscious, becomes agitated. He feels as though a dick--er, a stick is poking him in the eyelid. Cairo subconsciously swats at the intrusion. Cairo's hand is grabbed, wrist tweaked. He lets out a soft yelp. Cairo awakens from his slumber, kips out of bed and instinctively reverses the wristlock into a hammerlock. After taking a split-second to identify his unannounced visitor, Cairo realizes what he's doing and immediately releases the hold. "Obsidian, my friend! It's good to see you! What brings you to Hell?" Obsidian is the only visitor that Cairo has had since his incarceration at Rotersdam began - his only welcome visitor anyway. Obsidian is not your typical guest. He is, truth be told, an apparition or "ghost" in layman's terms. Is Cairo insane because he can see a ghost? Well, take a look in the mirror, my friend. You're seeing that same ghost in your mind's eye as you envision this truthful retelling of Bobby Cairo's prison experience.
Of course, Obsidian is not just any ghost - he is Bobby Cairo's closest confidante and Bobby's former campaign manager during his quixotic bid for the American presidency. And he bears a striking resemblance to Daniel Day-Lewis's character in "There Will Be Blood". "I look at the eyes, a straight-to-the-soul doorway. I look at the eyes to know all you know." Cairo invites his spirited friend to take a seat on his shitty prison mattress, but Obsidian politely masks his repulsion while declining. "No, thank you, my friend. I prefer to stand."
Obsidian gazes around Cairo's dingy, filth-ridden cell and nearly gags. Cairo notices and grins sheepishly. "Yeah, it's not much to look at, but at least it's dark in here."
Obsidian shakes his head and sighs. "It is positively shameful that they have you living like this, my friend, but no more. Tonight is the night."
Cairo raises his eyebrows, a half-shocked and half-hopeful expression on his face. "Do you mean... You're busting me out of here, Obsidian?"
Obsidian clears his throat while thoughtfully glancing around the cell. "Not in so many words, my friend. It would be more accurate to say that you are busting you out of here, tonight and right now incidentally - so put on your shoes. I will, however, be aiding you."
Cairo sits down on his bed and pulls on his prison-issued socks and shoes. "I can't believe it, Obsidian. It's finally going down. Bobby Cairo is going to be a free man. Bobby Cairo is going to smash the poon. Bobby Cairo is going to win motherfucking WAR! DUB SEE EFF! DUB SEE EFF! DUB SEE EFF!"
Obsidian backhands Cairo like a pimp backhanding one of his ho's - a real pimp, mind you, not fake-ass Steve Orbit. Obsidian condemns Cairo in hushed tones. "Keep it down, you fool, or you're going to blow it! This is your one and only means of leaving this pitiable hellhole with your life and your wits intact!"
Cairo immediately halts his celebration. "Obsidian, I'm sorry, I--"
Obsidian cuts off Cairo in mid-sentence. "Do not apologize, Bobby. Never apologize and never explain. You know better than that. I taught you better than that while we were campaigning. All I want you to do is consider your predicament. For the past year you have been unlawfully incarcerated in this glorified dungeon. You have been granted no legal counsel. You have been granted no arraignment hearing. You have certainly not been granted a trial in front of a jury of your peers. All of these are your constitutional rights. Do you believe in the Constitution, Bobby?"
Cairo's eyes are bloodshot and sullen. He nods his weary head. Obsidian places his hand on Cairo's shoulder in an act of compassion and looks him straight in the eyes. Obsidian's eyes cast an uncommon gleam, filling his friend with a resurgence of hope and confidence. "You've been held captive for nearly one year, Bobby. Nearly one year of abuse, grief, regret and heartache. It is time for death or glory. You can escape from this hell on earth and I am going to help you. Do you understand me?"
Cairo studies the bars on his cell door. He gazes at the puddle of piddle that covers the floor in the furthest corner of the diminutive cell, still far too close for comfort. He gazes at the tray of half-eaten gruel and untouched orange drink near the door. I know what you're thinking - the piss must have tasted better than the orange drink... and it did. Hey, don't judge the man. Desperate times. Cairo takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. A feeling of serenity comes over him. He knows precisely what he must do...
Outside of Cairo's cell, prison guards make their rounds wearing military fatigues and carrying the automatic weapons that they seized from Cairo the previous year - because Cairo's shit is better than theirs. Unbeknownst to their cocky, fascist asses, an uprising is in the midst. A mechanical whirring sound emanates from within the confines of Cairo's cell, though the Gestapo goons can't hear it because they're too busy talking to each other about all of the hardcore butt sex that they had with their boyfriends last night. The whirring sound builds, growing in volume and frequency, before it cascades into a flash of brilliant white light, visible from the crack beneath Cairo's cell door.
Patterson, the lead homo Gestapo officer on duty this evening, looks at his cohort Harrelson with a quizzical expression on his face. "Did you hear something, like a big juicy cock erupting with cum--GAH! I love cock! Did you hear something?" Harrelson shrugs his shoulders. He's not so interested in the sound that Patterson heard, but he's very interested in any potential erupting cocks in the vicinity. Harrelson nods his head, indicating that Patterson should follow him. They explore the very same corridor where Cairo's cell is located, though they have not yet arrived there. "You know what? It might have been that Kung Pao chicken that we ate in the chow hall. Goddamn that Kung Pao fucked up my insides something fierce. Making my asshole explode all night long."
Harrelson raises an eyebrow, apparently very interested in further details regarding Patterson's asshole. Before he can pursue that line of dialog, Harrelson crinkles his nose and turns his attention elsewhere. Patterson throws in his two cents, of course, dickhead that he is. "What the fuck is that smell? Oh shit, this is Cairo's cell. Cairo! Shower time, shitbag!"
"Gladly, fag hag." Inside of his cell, Bobby Cairo smiles the biggest and most diabolical smile in the history of mankind. I mean this is the type of smile that would give Hitler and Freddy Krueger nightmares. Truly ominous shit, but apropos for the occasion. Cairo's cell door is popped open. Automatic rifles are pointed at his cock and balls by the guards. Cairo uncorks a vicious left hand, literally decapitating Harrelson with an uppercut. Blood showers the corridor as a human head flies through the air like a football - before careening into the concrete wall and landing on the floor with a dull, squishy thud. Harrelson's head rolls toward Patterson's feet and nudges the heel of his boot as it comes to a stop. Patterson looks scared shitless - his skin as pale as a sheet, his eyes bulging from their sockets like they were the thickness. Patterson can't even move. He's frozen in fear. His finger is on the trigger and Cairo is daring him to pull it but he can't. He can't even speak, the only sounds emanating from his mouth being high-pitched squeaks that only dogs could hear.
"Can't pull the trigger, eh, Patterson? I always knew you didn't have the balls to come through in the heat of the moment. Here, taste my balls." Cairo unloads with a one-two southpaw punching combo that crushes Patterson's face like a soda can under a car tire. Patterson does a reverse swandive, reeling backwards onto the unforgiving concrete floor and impacting head-first with absolutely brutal force, shattering whatever remained of his skull. Cairo observes the two dead officers and holds his hands out, cupping his palms. In his hands, Cairo is holding two solid-brass balls. He kneels down and places a ball in each corpse's mouth. "Didn't expect that, did ya? They were a gift from a friend."
Cairo seizes the guards' weapons and security badges and makes his way down the corridor at a brisk pace. It is fortunate that he killed Patterson and Harrelson before they had the chance to radio for help, but Cairo knows that time is a premium. He must kill as many people as he can in the most expedient manner possible. Rapid-fire shots ring out over the whole of Rotersdam prison as Cairo vanquishes and advances, gunning down one guard after another before they knew what hit them. The klaxons are sounded. Cairo knows he can't make it out of here. Not this way. He needs a hostage. Cairo takes a shortcut through the chow hall and makes his way down the flight of stairs to the infirmary. He finds the one decent looking broad who works at the base: Nurse Hatchet, a blonde fortysomething with nice knockers and a decent pair of legs, good for humping. Cairo places the barrel of the AK to Hatchett's head and tells her not to make a fucking move unless he tells her to, not even to scratch her sweet little ass. She whimpers and cries. He reminds her that his finger is on the trigger. She does as she's told and shuts the fuck up like a good little cockmuncher.
"Bobby Cairo ain't fucking playing. Bobby Cairo is going home. TO-NIGHT!" Cairo fires off several hundred rounds of ammo as he marches through the prison and nears the entrance, his first time being in this part of the facility since the day he was transported here, albeit with a blindfold covering his eyes. Still, he remembers the scent that he smelled that day... the aroma of freedom in its final throes, withering and dying. No more. Freedom is at hand once again for Bobby Cairo, alive and kicking, pumping flesh blood from its heart to Cairo's veins. Cairo's boner is hard, loud and angry, as it pushes into the kidnapped nurse's buttocks. Cairo attempts to soothe it, reassuring it with tales of poon and ass soon to be conquered. It is to no avail. The thickness wants what the thickness wants. And so, Nurse Hatchet is fucked primitively, violently and without remorse or relent as Cairo fends off the advancing military officers with his gunplay.
After getting his rocks off and murdering a few dozen more military police and random service people who got in his way, Cairo uses an ungodly hail of bullets to cut a path to the helipad outside of the prison. Cairo takes shelter in a chopper, still using Nurse Hatchet as a human shield. Cairo doesn't know how to fly the chopper, of course, but in a fit of desperation he starts flicking buttons. "You know how to fly this shit, Hatchet?" Of course she doesn't, she's a fucking nurse. All she knows how to do is administer meds, change bedpans and suck a mean penis. She shakes her head. Cairo shrugs his shoulders. "How hard could it be? And who knows? Maybe I'm a natural." The rotor blade on the top of the chopper begins rotating, accelerating in speed until it's ready for take-off. Cairo adjusts the controls accordingly and manages to somewhat unsteadily guide the chopper off the ground. As Bobby's adrenaline kicks in, he goes full speed ahead on the controls of the miiltary-grade chopper, powering through the skies at nearly two-hundred miles per hour. Cairo accidentally unleashes a pair of missiles that automatically lock in targets on the base, killing several dozen more officers. Cairo is positively giddy, despite being shot at from targets at the base. Cairo attempts to fire off more of the missiles, but he accidentally hits the wrong button and the chopper suddenly goes into a tailspin.
"OHHHHHHH SHIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!" Unable to guide the chopper out of its tailspin, Cairo and his passenger begin plummeting toward the earth at an ungodly trajectory. Cairo buries his face in the nurse's titties as a means of bracing for impact. After doing so, Cairo's boner grows to its full length and unwittingly hits the Eject button. Cairo and the nurse are sprung from their deathtrap and set a flight into the air high above the desert, still strapped in to their seats which are equipped with parachutes. Shocked by the turn of events, Cairo and the nurse both summon the wherewithal to pull the cord on their chutes. The parachutes unfurl in the blink of an eye and gently guide Cairo and Hatchet down to the sandy desert surface below. They land with a slight thud, if its possible to make a thud when landing on sand, and lay there for a good long while, several hours maybe, Cairo's face buried in Hatchet's poon, eating her out, a gesture of gratitude for her role in his escape.
Four years later, Bobby Cairo cruises down the New Mexico desert highway in his Eldorado, the memories of those harrowing months of captivity still fresh in his brain. "Eh, I can't complain. I got me that sweet Nurse Hatchet poon in the end." Cairo floors the pedal and roars past the cacti, the Gila monsters, the scorpions, the rattlesnakes, El Chupacabra, the human remains, and yes even Steve Orbit's mom. They are monuments from a different war set in a different time, a war that was fought and won through grit, hard work and an indefatigable will to persevere. These are the same tools that Cairo will use to capture victory in his current war, WAR XII, the granddaddy of them all, the biggest match in WCF history.
Cairo wets his lip with his tongue, a sign of thirst, a sign of the cottonmouth, not caused by the New Mexico heat, mind you, but rather the three bowls of ganja that Cairo just smoked while thinking about his time in jail-hell. Without ever taking his eyes off the road, Cairo reaches into the cooler in the passenger's seat and grabs an ice cold can of Panamanian brew. He cracks open the can and guzzles that shit like it's water. He drinks three more in the span of thirty seconds and then belches. Loudly. "Children, The Godfather is on his way to WAR. By the time I get to Arizona, there is going to be hell to pay. I've dreamed of winning this match for more than a decade. I've dreamed of achieving professional wrestling immortality for longer than that; ever since I was a little boy bouncing up and down on my daddy's knee while we watched Flair and the Horsemen kicking ass and taking names in the old school NWA, presented by Jim Crockett Promotions.
"Yeah, I was still a little shitbagger back then, not more than two years old, but at least I never pissed my pants on national television like Eric 'Pee-Pants' Price." Cairo glares directly into Price's soul with hate rays set to kill. "You'll be pissing your pants again when I get a hold of you in that ring on Sunday, Eric. Don't think I've forgotten about your betrayal, your lack of gratitude for my role in founding Bravado, your lack of regard for my health and well-being, your lack of regard for my creative input. How about the fact that I brokered the sale of WCF to you through Jonny Fly in the first place? Do you know something, Eric? You've never shown me the proper respect. You made the decision to invite Sarah Twilight to join our exclusive little group, before we even called it Bravado, back when we were just getting EPPW off the ground. You made that decision to invite her into the fold without even consulting me. If you had sought my opinion, Eric, do you know what I would've told you? I would have told you the bitch was crazy. Let me put this into terms that you can understand: The bitch killed her parents!
"Oh sure, call me a hypocrite. I've killed plenty of people in my life, but it was always for the greater good. No one can truly doubt that. My heart has always been in the right place even when my mind was led astray by crippling mental illness. Sarah Price--er, Twilight on the other hand, has always been about appeasing her own massive ego and manipulating others to achieve her self-serving agenda. Sarah leaves me with a bitter taste in my mouth, like the taste of a nine-volt battery when you're tasting it with your tongue to see if it has any juice left in it. Anybody else ever done that? Yes, no, maybe so? Oh well. My point is that if you had sought my wisdom and guidance, Eric, you would've learned all of these things months ago. You would've saved yourself plenty of heartache and embarrassment, And hell, you would still own EPPW.
"Of course, what's done is done. There's no turning back the clock. All that can be done now is to deal with the consequences. Your consequences are going to hurt like a motherfucker, Eric." Cairo dismisses the idiot jobber Price with a wave of his thickness, as if it were a magic wand with the power to make jobber Prices disappear. "Another chump that I have a few words for is this clown Bruno Mars or Steve Orbit or whatever he calls himself. He fancies himself as a real mack daddy, laying the smack down on the poon like his name was Cairo. Problem is Bruno Orbit or Steve Mars ain't got the swagger, the thickness, the look, the charisma, and did I mention the thickness that Bobby Cairo possesses. It's a thick dick with a not-so-thick intellect, Steve. I am a tactician in that ring. Do you know why I love WAR? Because it grinds people down. If you don't have the stamina to smash that poon from dusk until dawn, then how the fuck are you gonna outlast forty-one other WCF superstars in WAR?
"You ain't got the chops, Steve. You were a fluke World Champion, you're a fake-ass pimp, you're a black man with a white man's pee-pee, and you ain't got shit for Bobby Cairo in that ring on Sunday. Get off deez nuts, son, before you choke on em. Waylon Cash, another jobber whom I hold in eminently low regard. You speak about wanting to beat Bobby Cairo because Bobby Cairo is a legend and Waylon Cash can only become a legend by beating legends so Waylon Cash wants to beat Bobby Cairo so he can become a legend like Bobby Cairo. Well goddamn if that ain't a tongue-twister, son. I need to crack open another Panamanian to wet my whistle after that one." Cairo chugs another three beers like a dehydrated and dying man chugging a canteen filled with cold water.
"Waylon, you made an intelligent and truthful statement when you said that Bobby Cairo is a legend. The rest of your words were incoherent gibberish. You can't beat Bobby Cairo because Bobby Cairo is A) Better than you in every facet of this game that we call professional wrestling B) Wants this victory more than you do, has worked much longer and harder to earn it and C) Does not like you and refuses to be defeated by you. If you're unfortunate enough to be in the ring at the same time as me on Sunday, you're going to have your chance to beat a legend... and you're going to fail miserably in front of the largest pay-per-view audience to ever watch the spectacle of WAR." Cairo picks a booger from his nose and flicks it out the window, symbolizing the simplistic and straight-forward manner in which he's going to eliminate his enemies from WAR.
"I could spend hours talking about the things that I'm going to do to my opponents on Sunday. I could verbally dress down every single member of the WCF roster, every entrant in the WAR match. However, I'm not going to do that. It's a waste of my breath and I'm a thirsty, thirsty man. All that you need to know is this: If you're on my radar screen headed into WAR, then you're fucked. You have no chance of survival, much less victory. And if you're not on my radar screen then stay the fuck off of it, because if you get in my way at WAR then you're going to get hurt. See you at WAR. See you on Sunday. See you in Phoenix, Arizona. Love, Bobby Cairo."
Cairo once again floors the gas pedal while tossing a litany of empty beer cans out of the window. The cans land with a metallic clatter on the side of the road. If you look closely in the background, in the shadows of the cacti, you can see El Chupacabra creeping around, eyes locked on the road as if studying Cairo's progress on the road to WAR. Moments later El Chupacabra climbs into the Killer Bobbo 69er, Bobby Cairo's custom-designed military-grade all-terrain vehicle. The engine roars to life. El Chupacabra is on the move.
This is not September of Two-Thousand-and-Thirteen. This is September of Two-Thousand-and-Nine. Some guy named Barack Obama is president of the United States. What the fuck ever happened to that guy, huh? HUH?! I'm shirtless and drunk and I'm asking what happened to the guy!
...
I apologize for that outburst, ladies and gentlemen. The craziness of WAR week, it got to me. It's not easy business being a third-person narrator these days. Anyway, it's September of Oh-Nine and Osama is in the White House. Bobby Cairo is not yet the Godfather of Professional Wrestling. Hell, Bobby Cairo is not even an active professional wrestler at the present time. Double hell, Bobby Cairo is not even a free man at the present time. He's in prison, remember? We went over this in the last promo? He got shot in the chest three times while attempting to sneak into a top-secret military base in New Mexico and he's been held prisoner for nearly a year now? If you didn't read the shit yet then this one won't make sense, I'm telling you that right now.
Dried blood mats Bobby Cairo's shoulder-length black hair. Drool slides down his chin at the incremental pace of a snail. Cairo is dressed in his slovenly tan prison bottoms and formerly white undershirt, which is now coated with a gruesome mixture of dirt and blood. He is passed out like a dead person on his shitty prison mattress, one of them cheap rubber jobs that you can purchase for fifteen cents at your local Costco. This is not the Holiday Inn. This is Rotersdam Military Base, located in the Cockapooni Desert of New Mexico. Specifically, this is military prison. Normally you have to be court-martialed to be held here. Bobby Cairo won't even receive that dignity much less the privilege. Cairo, the liar, the genius, the madman, believed that his intrusion at the base would go undetected. Boy, would he like a do-over on that one. Nevertheless, Cairo has reason to be hopeful. The truth is that he's either going to be butchered by sadistic Gestapo military officers, or he's going to find a way out of this shithole. From Bobby Cairo's perspective either option sounds appealing at this point, though of course the latter is preferable.
Cairo snores slightly as he dreams of nipples to be sucked, nipples attached to giant breasts, breasts of Caucasian. ebony and Latina descent. The breasts to be sucked, nibbled, tweaked and fucked, giving way to the poon that must be smashed. Understand something, Orbit, you mealy-mouthed, dime-a-dozen, zoot suit-wearing, fake-ass gangsta, wannabe pimp but you're really a bitch: this poon-smashing, ass-gashing, titty-mashing lifestyle that Bobby Cairo lives ain't a gimmick, unlike you and your carefully-crafted television image. You run your mouth, not that the world can understand a goddamn word you're saying, but you run your mouth about Bobby Cairo, dismissing his comeback, dismissing his thickness, disrespecting his adopted homeland of Poon Guinea. Let me tell you something, asshole. Bobby Cairo was locked in a prison cell four years ago, but he ain't locked in a prison cell no more. Anytime you want to throw fists with the motherfucking Godfather of Professional Wrestling, you let the man know and he'll be more than happy to accommodate cha, "homie". Bobby Cairo will take your soul, your ass, and your cash. Bitch.
As Cairo rests with the innocence of a horny teenaged boy, he suddenly feels a gentle rapping on his person. Tap-tap-tap... Cairo, still unconscious, becomes agitated. He feels as though a dick--er, a stick is poking him in the eyelid. Cairo subconsciously swats at the intrusion. Cairo's hand is grabbed, wrist tweaked. He lets out a soft yelp. Cairo awakens from his slumber, kips out of bed and instinctively reverses the wristlock into a hammerlock. After taking a split-second to identify his unannounced visitor, Cairo realizes what he's doing and immediately releases the hold. "Obsidian, my friend! It's good to see you! What brings you to Hell?" Obsidian is the only visitor that Cairo has had since his incarceration at Rotersdam began - his only welcome visitor anyway. Obsidian is not your typical guest. He is, truth be told, an apparition or "ghost" in layman's terms. Is Cairo insane because he can see a ghost? Well, take a look in the mirror, my friend. You're seeing that same ghost in your mind's eye as you envision this truthful retelling of Bobby Cairo's prison experience.
Of course, Obsidian is not just any ghost - he is Bobby Cairo's closest confidante and Bobby's former campaign manager during his quixotic bid for the American presidency. And he bears a striking resemblance to Daniel Day-Lewis's character in "There Will Be Blood". "I look at the eyes, a straight-to-the-soul doorway. I look at the eyes to know all you know." Cairo invites his spirited friend to take a seat on his shitty prison mattress, but Obsidian politely masks his repulsion while declining. "No, thank you, my friend. I prefer to stand."
Obsidian gazes around Cairo's dingy, filth-ridden cell and nearly gags. Cairo notices and grins sheepishly. "Yeah, it's not much to look at, but at least it's dark in here."
Obsidian shakes his head and sighs. "It is positively shameful that they have you living like this, my friend, but no more. Tonight is the night."
Cairo raises his eyebrows, a half-shocked and half-hopeful expression on his face. "Do you mean... You're busting me out of here, Obsidian?"
Obsidian clears his throat while thoughtfully glancing around the cell. "Not in so many words, my friend. It would be more accurate to say that you are busting you out of here, tonight and right now incidentally - so put on your shoes. I will, however, be aiding you."
Cairo sits down on his bed and pulls on his prison-issued socks and shoes. "I can't believe it, Obsidian. It's finally going down. Bobby Cairo is going to be a free man. Bobby Cairo is going to smash the poon. Bobby Cairo is going to win motherfucking WAR! DUB SEE EFF! DUB SEE EFF! DUB SEE EFF!"
Obsidian backhands Cairo like a pimp backhanding one of his ho's - a real pimp, mind you, not fake-ass Steve Orbit. Obsidian condemns Cairo in hushed tones. "Keep it down, you fool, or you're going to blow it! This is your one and only means of leaving this pitiable hellhole with your life and your wits intact!"
Cairo immediately halts his celebration. "Obsidian, I'm sorry, I--"
Obsidian cuts off Cairo in mid-sentence. "Do not apologize, Bobby. Never apologize and never explain. You know better than that. I taught you better than that while we were campaigning. All I want you to do is consider your predicament. For the past year you have been unlawfully incarcerated in this glorified dungeon. You have been granted no legal counsel. You have been granted no arraignment hearing. You have certainly not been granted a trial in front of a jury of your peers. All of these are your constitutional rights. Do you believe in the Constitution, Bobby?"
Cairo's eyes are bloodshot and sullen. He nods his weary head. Obsidian places his hand on Cairo's shoulder in an act of compassion and looks him straight in the eyes. Obsidian's eyes cast an uncommon gleam, filling his friend with a resurgence of hope and confidence. "You've been held captive for nearly one year, Bobby. Nearly one year of abuse, grief, regret and heartache. It is time for death or glory. You can escape from this hell on earth and I am going to help you. Do you understand me?"
Cairo studies the bars on his cell door. He gazes at the puddle of piddle that covers the floor in the furthest corner of the diminutive cell, still far too close for comfort. He gazes at the tray of half-eaten gruel and untouched orange drink near the door. I know what you're thinking - the piss must have tasted better than the orange drink... and it did. Hey, don't judge the man. Desperate times. Cairo takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. A feeling of serenity comes over him. He knows precisely what he must do...
Outside of Cairo's cell, prison guards make their rounds wearing military fatigues and carrying the automatic weapons that they seized from Cairo the previous year - because Cairo's shit is better than theirs. Unbeknownst to their cocky, fascist asses, an uprising is in the midst. A mechanical whirring sound emanates from within the confines of Cairo's cell, though the Gestapo goons can't hear it because they're too busy talking to each other about all of the hardcore butt sex that they had with their boyfriends last night. The whirring sound builds, growing in volume and frequency, before it cascades into a flash of brilliant white light, visible from the crack beneath Cairo's cell door.
Patterson, the lead homo Gestapo officer on duty this evening, looks at his cohort Harrelson with a quizzical expression on his face. "Did you hear something, like a big juicy cock erupting with cum--GAH! I love cock! Did you hear something?" Harrelson shrugs his shoulders. He's not so interested in the sound that Patterson heard, but he's very interested in any potential erupting cocks in the vicinity. Harrelson nods his head, indicating that Patterson should follow him. They explore the very same corridor where Cairo's cell is located, though they have not yet arrived there. "You know what? It might have been that Kung Pao chicken that we ate in the chow hall. Goddamn that Kung Pao fucked up my insides something fierce. Making my asshole explode all night long."
Harrelson raises an eyebrow, apparently very interested in further details regarding Patterson's asshole. Before he can pursue that line of dialog, Harrelson crinkles his nose and turns his attention elsewhere. Patterson throws in his two cents, of course, dickhead that he is. "What the fuck is that smell? Oh shit, this is Cairo's cell. Cairo! Shower time, shitbag!"
"Gladly, fag hag." Inside of his cell, Bobby Cairo smiles the biggest and most diabolical smile in the history of mankind. I mean this is the type of smile that would give Hitler and Freddy Krueger nightmares. Truly ominous shit, but apropos for the occasion. Cairo's cell door is popped open. Automatic rifles are pointed at his cock and balls by the guards. Cairo uncorks a vicious left hand, literally decapitating Harrelson with an uppercut. Blood showers the corridor as a human head flies through the air like a football - before careening into the concrete wall and landing on the floor with a dull, squishy thud. Harrelson's head rolls toward Patterson's feet and nudges the heel of his boot as it comes to a stop. Patterson looks scared shitless - his skin as pale as a sheet, his eyes bulging from their sockets like they were the thickness. Patterson can't even move. He's frozen in fear. His finger is on the trigger and Cairo is daring him to pull it but he can't. He can't even speak, the only sounds emanating from his mouth being high-pitched squeaks that only dogs could hear.
"Can't pull the trigger, eh, Patterson? I always knew you didn't have the balls to come through in the heat of the moment. Here, taste my balls." Cairo unloads with a one-two southpaw punching combo that crushes Patterson's face like a soda can under a car tire. Patterson does a reverse swandive, reeling backwards onto the unforgiving concrete floor and impacting head-first with absolutely brutal force, shattering whatever remained of his skull. Cairo observes the two dead officers and holds his hands out, cupping his palms. In his hands, Cairo is holding two solid-brass balls. He kneels down and places a ball in each corpse's mouth. "Didn't expect that, did ya? They were a gift from a friend."
Cairo seizes the guards' weapons and security badges and makes his way down the corridor at a brisk pace. It is fortunate that he killed Patterson and Harrelson before they had the chance to radio for help, but Cairo knows that time is a premium. He must kill as many people as he can in the most expedient manner possible. Rapid-fire shots ring out over the whole of Rotersdam prison as Cairo vanquishes and advances, gunning down one guard after another before they knew what hit them. The klaxons are sounded. Cairo knows he can't make it out of here. Not this way. He needs a hostage. Cairo takes a shortcut through the chow hall and makes his way down the flight of stairs to the infirmary. He finds the one decent looking broad who works at the base: Nurse Hatchet, a blonde fortysomething with nice knockers and a decent pair of legs, good for humping. Cairo places the barrel of the AK to Hatchett's head and tells her not to make a fucking move unless he tells her to, not even to scratch her sweet little ass. She whimpers and cries. He reminds her that his finger is on the trigger. She does as she's told and shuts the fuck up like a good little cockmuncher.
"Bobby Cairo ain't fucking playing. Bobby Cairo is going home. TO-NIGHT!" Cairo fires off several hundred rounds of ammo as he marches through the prison and nears the entrance, his first time being in this part of the facility since the day he was transported here, albeit with a blindfold covering his eyes. Still, he remembers the scent that he smelled that day... the aroma of freedom in its final throes, withering and dying. No more. Freedom is at hand once again for Bobby Cairo, alive and kicking, pumping flesh blood from its heart to Cairo's veins. Cairo's boner is hard, loud and angry, as it pushes into the kidnapped nurse's buttocks. Cairo attempts to soothe it, reassuring it with tales of poon and ass soon to be conquered. It is to no avail. The thickness wants what the thickness wants. And so, Nurse Hatchet is fucked primitively, violently and without remorse or relent as Cairo fends off the advancing military officers with his gunplay.
After getting his rocks off and murdering a few dozen more military police and random service people who got in his way, Cairo uses an ungodly hail of bullets to cut a path to the helipad outside of the prison. Cairo takes shelter in a chopper, still using Nurse Hatchet as a human shield. Cairo doesn't know how to fly the chopper, of course, but in a fit of desperation he starts flicking buttons. "You know how to fly this shit, Hatchet?" Of course she doesn't, she's a fucking nurse. All she knows how to do is administer meds, change bedpans and suck a mean penis. She shakes her head. Cairo shrugs his shoulders. "How hard could it be? And who knows? Maybe I'm a natural." The rotor blade on the top of the chopper begins rotating, accelerating in speed until it's ready for take-off. Cairo adjusts the controls accordingly and manages to somewhat unsteadily guide the chopper off the ground. As Bobby's adrenaline kicks in, he goes full speed ahead on the controls of the miiltary-grade chopper, powering through the skies at nearly two-hundred miles per hour. Cairo accidentally unleashes a pair of missiles that automatically lock in targets on the base, killing several dozen more officers. Cairo is positively giddy, despite being shot at from targets at the base. Cairo attempts to fire off more of the missiles, but he accidentally hits the wrong button and the chopper suddenly goes into a tailspin.
"OHHHHHHH SHIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!" Unable to guide the chopper out of its tailspin, Cairo and his passenger begin plummeting toward the earth at an ungodly trajectory. Cairo buries his face in the nurse's titties as a means of bracing for impact. After doing so, Cairo's boner grows to its full length and unwittingly hits the Eject button. Cairo and the nurse are sprung from their deathtrap and set a flight into the air high above the desert, still strapped in to their seats which are equipped with parachutes. Shocked by the turn of events, Cairo and the nurse both summon the wherewithal to pull the cord on their chutes. The parachutes unfurl in the blink of an eye and gently guide Cairo and Hatchet down to the sandy desert surface below. They land with a slight thud, if its possible to make a thud when landing on sand, and lay there for a good long while, several hours maybe, Cairo's face buried in Hatchet's poon, eating her out, a gesture of gratitude for her role in his escape.
Four years later, Bobby Cairo cruises down the New Mexico desert highway in his Eldorado, the memories of those harrowing months of captivity still fresh in his brain. "Eh, I can't complain. I got me that sweet Nurse Hatchet poon in the end." Cairo floors the pedal and roars past the cacti, the Gila monsters, the scorpions, the rattlesnakes, El Chupacabra, the human remains, and yes even Steve Orbit's mom. They are monuments from a different war set in a different time, a war that was fought and won through grit, hard work and an indefatigable will to persevere. These are the same tools that Cairo will use to capture victory in his current war, WAR XII, the granddaddy of them all, the biggest match in WCF history.
Cairo wets his lip with his tongue, a sign of thirst, a sign of the cottonmouth, not caused by the New Mexico heat, mind you, but rather the three bowls of ganja that Cairo just smoked while thinking about his time in jail-hell. Without ever taking his eyes off the road, Cairo reaches into the cooler in the passenger's seat and grabs an ice cold can of Panamanian brew. He cracks open the can and guzzles that shit like it's water. He drinks three more in the span of thirty seconds and then belches. Loudly. "Children, The Godfather is on his way to WAR. By the time I get to Arizona, there is going to be hell to pay. I've dreamed of winning this match for more than a decade. I've dreamed of achieving professional wrestling immortality for longer than that; ever since I was a little boy bouncing up and down on my daddy's knee while we watched Flair and the Horsemen kicking ass and taking names in the old school NWA, presented by Jim Crockett Promotions.
"Yeah, I was still a little shitbagger back then, not more than two years old, but at least I never pissed my pants on national television like Eric 'Pee-Pants' Price." Cairo glares directly into Price's soul with hate rays set to kill. "You'll be pissing your pants again when I get a hold of you in that ring on Sunday, Eric. Don't think I've forgotten about your betrayal, your lack of gratitude for my role in founding Bravado, your lack of regard for my health and well-being, your lack of regard for my creative input. How about the fact that I brokered the sale of WCF to you through Jonny Fly in the first place? Do you know something, Eric? You've never shown me the proper respect. You made the decision to invite Sarah Twilight to join our exclusive little group, before we even called it Bravado, back when we were just getting EPPW off the ground. You made that decision to invite her into the fold without even consulting me. If you had sought my opinion, Eric, do you know what I would've told you? I would have told you the bitch was crazy. Let me put this into terms that you can understand: The bitch killed her parents!
"Oh sure, call me a hypocrite. I've killed plenty of people in my life, but it was always for the greater good. No one can truly doubt that. My heart has always been in the right place even when my mind was led astray by crippling mental illness. Sarah Price--er, Twilight on the other hand, has always been about appeasing her own massive ego and manipulating others to achieve her self-serving agenda. Sarah leaves me with a bitter taste in my mouth, like the taste of a nine-volt battery when you're tasting it with your tongue to see if it has any juice left in it. Anybody else ever done that? Yes, no, maybe so? Oh well. My point is that if you had sought my wisdom and guidance, Eric, you would've learned all of these things months ago. You would've saved yourself plenty of heartache and embarrassment, And hell, you would still own EPPW.
"Of course, what's done is done. There's no turning back the clock. All that can be done now is to deal with the consequences. Your consequences are going to hurt like a motherfucker, Eric." Cairo dismisses the idiot jobber Price with a wave of his thickness, as if it were a magic wand with the power to make jobber Prices disappear. "Another chump that I have a few words for is this clown Bruno Mars or Steve Orbit or whatever he calls himself. He fancies himself as a real mack daddy, laying the smack down on the poon like his name was Cairo. Problem is Bruno Orbit or Steve Mars ain't got the swagger, the thickness, the look, the charisma, and did I mention the thickness that Bobby Cairo possesses. It's a thick dick with a not-so-thick intellect, Steve. I am a tactician in that ring. Do you know why I love WAR? Because it grinds people down. If you don't have the stamina to smash that poon from dusk until dawn, then how the fuck are you gonna outlast forty-one other WCF superstars in WAR?
"You ain't got the chops, Steve. You were a fluke World Champion, you're a fake-ass pimp, you're a black man with a white man's pee-pee, and you ain't got shit for Bobby Cairo in that ring on Sunday. Get off deez nuts, son, before you choke on em. Waylon Cash, another jobber whom I hold in eminently low regard. You speak about wanting to beat Bobby Cairo because Bobby Cairo is a legend and Waylon Cash can only become a legend by beating legends so Waylon Cash wants to beat Bobby Cairo so he can become a legend like Bobby Cairo. Well goddamn if that ain't a tongue-twister, son. I need to crack open another Panamanian to wet my whistle after that one." Cairo chugs another three beers like a dehydrated and dying man chugging a canteen filled with cold water.
"Waylon, you made an intelligent and truthful statement when you said that Bobby Cairo is a legend. The rest of your words were incoherent gibberish. You can't beat Bobby Cairo because Bobby Cairo is A) Better than you in every facet of this game that we call professional wrestling B) Wants this victory more than you do, has worked much longer and harder to earn it and C) Does not like you and refuses to be defeated by you. If you're unfortunate enough to be in the ring at the same time as me on Sunday, you're going to have your chance to beat a legend... and you're going to fail miserably in front of the largest pay-per-view audience to ever watch the spectacle of WAR." Cairo picks a booger from his nose and flicks it out the window, symbolizing the simplistic and straight-forward manner in which he's going to eliminate his enemies from WAR.
"I could spend hours talking about the things that I'm going to do to my opponents on Sunday. I could verbally dress down every single member of the WCF roster, every entrant in the WAR match. However, I'm not going to do that. It's a waste of my breath and I'm a thirsty, thirsty man. All that you need to know is this: If you're on my radar screen headed into WAR, then you're fucked. You have no chance of survival, much less victory. And if you're not on my radar screen then stay the fuck off of it, because if you get in my way at WAR then you're going to get hurt. See you at WAR. See you on Sunday. See you in Phoenix, Arizona. Love, Bobby Cairo."
Cairo once again floors the gas pedal while tossing a litany of empty beer cans out of the window. The cans land with a metallic clatter on the side of the road. If you look closely in the background, in the shadows of the cacti, you can see El Chupacabra creeping around, eyes locked on the road as if studying Cairo's progress on the road to WAR. Moments later El Chupacabra climbs into the Killer Bobbo 69er, Bobby Cairo's custom-designed military-grade all-terrain vehicle. The engine roars to life. El Chupacabra is on the move.
