Post by Deleted on Dec 6, 2013 14:54:51 GMT -5
Interlude: "Charlton Heston Was A Brave Soul"
The tag team division in WCF is rapidly heating up, no doubt inspired by the glorious uprising of The Thickness and subsequent "half-a-milli" bounty placed on their heads by Scott Savage Incorporated (all rights reserved). Steve Orbit and Jonny Fly have thrown their hats into the ring as an official tag team and in fact tag title challengers. The 8th Wonder returned to SLAM, defeating the mighty components of BioWalker and staking their claim to a future title shot. We also have seen teams such as Jason Weslow and Makayla Cooper and Diablo Calzone and Zombie McMorris emerge as theoretical title contenders. Those last two teams are wrangling in triple threat action on this week's Sunday Night SLAM live from Vegas. It's an interesting proposal of a match concept.
Some say that it shall be a competitive bout. Some say that Weslow and Cooper are real hot dogs. Mr. High and Mighty with the intellect of a Barbell, known as Weslow. Ms. Perpendicular Eyebrow Slants with the weakness for Steroid Junkies, known as Cooper. So you're eager to make an impact here in the big leagues? So you talk a good game and now you're ready to fight? Allow me to introduce you to Mr. McMorris. The reigning Internet Champion. The man who defined and redefined that division. The man who put the Internet Division on the map and staked his claim to immortality. This ain't the Jeff Purse bullshit. The knock-kneed little homo with obsessive compulsive personality disorder. This ain't the Eric Price, oh let me knock up any Twilight bitch I can find because I like to be bossed around and humiliated and that's why I piss my pants on national television. This is vengeance. This is bloodshed. This is insanity. This is the motherfucking Zombie McMorris.
Well, you're very serious, Mr. Weslow. You don't like to smoke or gamble and you only drink a little bit and you consider yourself a legend because of what you did in some other bullshit fed that nobody's ever heard of and nobody gives a shit about. Do you know what I think, Weslow? I think you're a coward. I think you haven't truly lived for one moment in your life. You look at yourself in the mirror and you call yourself an agnostic because God's existence can "neither be proven nor disproven." And you listen to U2 and think that you're really rocking out because "it's the logical thing to do." I'll say it again: You haven't lived a moment in your life. If you decided to kill yourself and you climbed up to that ledge on the roof of the tallest building in town, you wouldn't jump. Fear? Nah, not even fear. It "wouldn't seem logical" to you that the ledge could ensure your hasty demise. You would stand there holding debate with the ledge, completely missing the point that the ground twenty stories below is what's gonna kill ya.
That's some crazy shit, Weslow. You might be the next Jeff Purse. Crazy obsessive compulsive motherfucker. Spouting off at the mouth anytime a thought pops into your head. Let me guess, you're one of these guys that posts about fifty tweets a day anytime a song lyric or a cute little pun or an observation about the colors of the rainbow or the effects of climate change pops into your head, right? You think the world is so interested in your opinion on how the trivial topics of the day affect the working class man. And oh sure you consider yourself a professional. Yes you do. We heard all about it. From the way that you dress to the way that you comport yourself. You're a real go-getter, let me tell you. A mover and a shaker. We gotta look out for this guy. He might take Mark Zuckerberg's job with his professional looking haircut and his fifty dollar dress shirt purchased at the nearest GAP retail outfitter.
Weslow, you might not even be a bad guy. I can't knock the fact that you have a family. You're probably a fine husband and dad. But you annoy the shit out of me. You really do. I hate looking at your face. I hate hearing the sound of your voice. I want to beat the ever-loving shit out of you with the business end of a fluorescent lighting tube. Anyway, how was your Thanksgiving? I had a good time. Got drunk with my fellow 90210 castmates and shit the bed after a fine turkey dinner. Yeah I said 90210. This is Jason Priestley narrating for Diablo Calzone's promo. What's the matter, you didn't think I could get work in the 2K13? Man, fuck you and the whores you rode in on. Speaking of which, we come to Makayla Cooper. Oh well, hello Dear. How are you? How's your syntax?
I, uh... I don't want to be crude to you. I was already extremely hostile toward your tag team partner. Jason Priestley is Canadian. He doesn't like to bash people, talk the shit, be all ugly like you American mofo's. I will say that you possess certain intangibles, Ms. Cooper. Intangibles which make you appealing to the male quotient of our viewing audience, in addition to our lesbian spectators such as Lilith and Sarah Twilight. Makayla--I'm sorry, MACK as you like to be called. Mack, how do you feel about the fact that Sarah and Lilith are fingering each other right now while fantasizing about your supple body? Oh shit. Shit. I was crude to you. Well, I'm not sorry. I'm not going to apologize. You're just going to have to accept the fact that you're a hot bitch and all men are perverts except for your tag team partner because he's too busy being "logical". Yeah. "Logical". Meanwhile he's sorting through your gym bag, sniffing your panties while you're distracted listening to this voice over. You're welcome, Weslow. It's the last and only favor I'm doing for you.
Now we talked about ZMAC. We talked about Weslow. We talked about Mack. We need to talk about the man who pays my old retired ass to narrate this shit for him, none other than "D-LO C-LO" Diablo Calzone. Calzone is obviously the most impressive, young, nubile specimen on the current WCF roster. Rookie of the year, hands down. Please make sure to nominate him for that award, whoever coordinates the year end award show. Jason Priestley is asking nicely because the alternative is that I go to your house and kill you and your family in your sleep. Thank you. In advance. Signed, Jason Priestley. Back to D-LO C-LO. The kid is undefeated of course. Holds victories in various forms against such names as D-Day, Denise D'Evil, Oblivion and Doc Henry. Not bad for a kid with two months wrestling experience under his belt. Perhaps his most impressive achievement was teaming with Jorge Diaz on the pot luck SLAM and actually carrying Diaz to his only career victory. I mean holy shit how good do you have to be to make a winner out of Jorge Diaz? That shit ain't an everyday occurrence now.
So what it boils down to is that we have the team of Zombie McMorris and Diablo Calzone, henceforth known as The Vapor Kings for their ability to consume large quantities of drugs, versus Generic Boy-Girl Team #875-30 (Weslow and Cooper) and Team Macaroni and Cheese (Marco Valintine and Original Gangster). Oh shit. I forgot to shoot some shit about Valintine and OG. Man, fuck it. Calzone ain't payin me enough for this shit. I need to go soak my ass cheeks in Preparation H. Let's get started with this shit. Roll the tape. Cue the promo, scene one.
Mark VI: "They Call Me Mr. Bitterness"
Open your eyes. Fear not. Just open them, child. March into the becoming. You've been reborn. The Phoenix has risen. A dragon-shaped mass that had been buried under the karmic collapse of a society in ruins. It roars to life and it triggers a memory. Something happened to you. Something that caused you to close your eyes and fall into that mighty, all-encompassing slumber. You had unearthed a horrible secret before you fell into a state of disenchantment. You discovered that America wasn't what had been promised to you by your parents, your elementary school teachers and those fanciful pop muzak stars on the Empty-V. They called you Mr. Bitterness. Derided you for your unflinching system of beliefs. You swore that you would make them pay. You invoked phallic symbols that had been used, abused and refused. You beared the burden of their sins. You beared the scars. You heard One Direction on your radio and you yanked the plug and tossed that shit into the bathtub, nearly electrocuting yourself. You couldn't abide it. No one could blame you. Not really. Not if they were willing to look inside of themselves and find their own Mr. Bitterness that resides inside each of us.
Open your eyes, child. Take in the sights. Inhale the aroma. Listen for the sound. Taste the taste. The vapors rise like cream to the surface of a bubbling, effervescent existence. That's the bongwater bliss. Now you've arrived and you're never turning back. Who can resist the urge to smoke pot and fornicate with obscenely curvaceous bitches? For some it's mere fantasy. They aren't equipped with the tools of the trade, i.e. they lack the thickness, the nerve or the irrevocable nasty to sweep a bad bitch off her feet and into the sack. What a shitty life one must lead to be like them, one of the lonely people, the sad people, the Jason Weslow's of the world. Perhaps they can "get it up" in the heat of the moment, but what's the point? They wouldn't know what to do with it. What? They're gonna visit YouPorn and rub one out? That's the extent of their jollies for the adjoinder.
You think about all of this, Diablo. You think about all of this and you recoil. The bile rises in your throat. Angry white men are headbanging. The hate in the air is palpable and it is shaped like a cloud of marijuana smoke. Diablo Calzone is nonplussed. The Vapor Kings are nonplussed. They're not happy about the direction of Wrestling Championship Federation. They're not happy about being blockaded from appearing at SLAM in Corpus Christi, Texas. They're not happy about being dismissed by the pundits and prognosticators as being a watered down product, a mere "Thickness B-Team". The drugs serve as catharsis. So does sex with the supple female form. And do you know what else does the trick? Music. Heavy metal music. Loud, abrasive and frenetic.
Zombie McMorris is jamming on his Gibson Flying V guitar, playing sloppy, fast-paced, Kerry King style riffs. His T-shirt reads "Smoke Crack and Worship Satan" in a bold white font with a pattern of blood droplets leaking downward to his tattered blue jeans. It is not apparent whether this is part of the shirt's design or if that's fresh blood. Nonetheless, Diablo Calzone joins his friend and mentor, banging on garbage can lids like a Vietnamese woman, doing his best Dave Lombardo impersonation. D-LO is wearing his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles footie pajamas. ZMAC and D-LO are presently sharing a loft space in some old cottage that they ransacked on the Jersey Shore. It is understood by the peanut gallery that Snooki would suck off towering black men in these quarters in exchange for dope money. Now she lies upon the floor, bound at her wrists and ankles, nodding out in time to the clumsy speed metal overture of the Vapor Kings.
Diablo Calzone is fucking ecstatic.
Calzone: Fuck yeah! My dick's getting hard in time to this shit, man! Fucking rock and roll and heavy metal and all that good shit! Eat pussy and smoke weed!
Even ZMAC cuts loose for once in a blue moon, not currently burdened with dropping coked out poetry on his young disciple.
ZMAC: Smoke crack and worship Satan!
ZMAC continues riffing with one hand while pointing to his T-shirt with the other as a handheld camcorder zooms in close. JWoww is doing a hell of a job filming this exclusive footage. And why not? She's about to get another kind of footage - a foot of D-LO's cock. Calzone gazes upon the dulcet silhouette of his blushing babe and renders an impromptu ultimatum.
Calzone: JWoww! Speak to your baby boy! Answer me something and I can do for you what you cannot do for yourself! Once and for all let it be settled: Do you prefer blow, dope or weed?
The Guidette wastes no time in replying. It's as if you're asking for her name, date of birth and cup size.
JWoww: Blow!
Calzone nods his head, a supremely confident smile on his face.
Calzone: Oh yeah? So blow my cock, ya bitch! Haha!
Peeved, JWoww flips D-LO the bird and hurls the camcorder at his head as hard as she can. Being an Italian woman she packs quite a wallop. D-LO is injured badly when the handheld camera clobbers his skull. And he never even saw it coming. Blood pours profusely from his eye socket. It doesn't matter though. D-LO keeps banging on those trash can lids, never missing a beat. JWoww is really enraged now. She jumps onto D-LO's back and thrashes about with slaps and bites and nails up and down the spine. D-LO is kind of into it but he's starting to get annoyed. He shrugs her onto a nearby mattress, easily dismissing of her psychosomatic syndrome and lingering aggression. Diablo sets aside his salad tongs/drum sticks and goes to work, ripping off his TMNT pajama bottoms and hopping onto her bosom.
Calzone: That's it, woman. I'm going to crucify you with my cock. Any last words?
JWoww: Yearh! Your dad sucks cawks!!
Calzone: God, your accent is disgusting. My dick is so hard right now.
D-LO slaps the shit out of JWoww with his cock and then lays waste to her pussy. El Diablo destroys that shit beyond any semblance of recognition. The thickness comes, the thickness sees... and the thickness comes again. No mercy. No relent. Killing on adrenaline. JWoww's fingers and toes invert at the hinges and her face scowls like a hundred and eighty three year old woman turned to dust. She's frozen in time and she cannot escape. Her moans and screeches articulate silent vocalizations, hollow expression caught in a vacuum lock in outer space where no one can hear her scream. JWoww's vagina lies in conquered ruins, no longer a vagina. It is now a frumpy buttermilk pancake, like the kind that's served at IHOP buried under several layers of blueberry syrup. Inside of JWoww's deconstructed body, sperm collides with overwhelmed egg, creating new life. This was Calzone's plan all along. D-LO hops off of her body and dresses himself, footie bottoms and turtle shell slippers covering his lower half - his thickness half. Behold the power of this man's groin. All shall be laid to waste. Cooper, please don't tempt fate. Don't become the next victim. Run. Run like hell.
D-LO speaks to JWoww. She is debilitated but not dead.
Calzone: You are now pregnant with my child. Do a good job raising him or I'm going to kick your ass.
She musters her last strength and issues a proclamation from within her savaged poon.
JWoww: Fawk you!
D-LO is not amused. He headbutts his baby mama, knocking her unconscious. JWoww smiles sweetly while dreaming of the Calzone sperm that currently has her mangled up inside and impregnated. All of the things that she wants to do with that sperm: drink it, slurp it, gargle it and burp it, all the while cum bubbles rising inside of her diaphragm. D-LO shields his eyes from this pathetic spectacle and turns away. ZMAC is still wailing on his guitar. D-LO rejoins him on the drums/aluminum garbage can lids. They run through a medley of classics by Slayer, Metallica, Celtic Frost and Megadeth. They shred for hours and hours and dance like no one is watching. Good times are had by all, including the unconscious bitches who finger themselves amidst their chaotic and disheartening slumber.
Feeling as though their vitriol has finally been satiated, D-LO and ZMAC decide to take a break from jamming. It's time to grab a bite to eat. They make sure to check that Snooki and JWoww are bound and gagged securely. These bitches ain't going anywhere. They still have purpose, reproducing that Vapor Kings sperm and advancing the progeny for the next generation. ZMAC barbarically skull-fucks Snooki one last time before stealing her car keys. Once outside, D-LO hops into the driver's seat. ZMAC sits in the passenger's side and snorts blow off the dashboard, his nostrils too coagulated from the litany of chemicals that he's inhaled to produce blood. This is tact. This is skill. This is experience. This is Zombie McMorris.
The Vapor Kings take off in Snooki's Mazda Miata, burning rubber and blasting early 90's stoner metal as they do so. ZMAC's grungy, matted hair flaps in the breeze as they cruise down the New Jersey turnpike in excess of one hundred miles per hour, racing past police sirens and paying their respects to transsexuals who carry big guns. D-LO glances in his rear view mirror. He sees a smoking Spanish hottie cruising down the road in a sporty little coupe. He slows down a bit and flashes his thickness to the bitch. Her eyes go wide. Her jaw drops. D-LO smiles. He engages the Latina in some Fast & Furious style road racing for a couple of miles before running her vehicle off the road. She crashes into the guardrail and instantly shrieks in pain, too stunned or injured to move. Too stunned and injured to flip D-LO the bird. D-LO smiles again. Life is good.
ZMAC is too busy snorting coke and playing air guitar to pay attention to anything else. Finally, D-LO interjects, snapping Zombie from his trance.
Calzone: Where do you want to go, man? I'm in the mood for some BK. I've had a hankering for a Triple Whopper ever since we crossed state lines with that dead hooker in the trunk.
Calzone races back and forth between lanes without bothering to signal and barely checking his mirror.
ZMAC: You speak to me?
Calzone: Come on, man. Drop the Balfore routine. You ain't hot shit. Where you wanna eat?
ZMAC shrugs his filth encrusted shoulders and unleashes a horrid bout of flatulence. D-LO winces and nearly runs them off the road, too overwhelmed by the stench to focus on his driving.
ZMAC: That's for runnin your mouth like you somebody.
D-LO rolls down all the windows and pops the convertible top despite the pre-winter chill in the air.
Calzone: You a nasty motherfucker, ZMAC. I almost don't even wanna eat no more. I still want that Triple Whopper though. Nasty motherfucker.
ZMAC: Normally I would just pick somethin out of a dumpster but if you want Burger King then let's go to Burger King.
Calzone: Alright fine then it's settled. We go to Burger King.
ZMAC reaches for his crotch, setting off bells and whistles in D-LO's brain. D-LO keeps his cool. Is this going to be payment for buying lunch? D-LO shudders and it ain't from the pre-winter chill in the air.
ZMAC: I don't have any money - got a ski mask and a Desert Eagle in my waistband though.
D-LO slides his wallet back into his ass crack. Phew. He's breathing a sigh of relief on that one. No butt rape for Diablo! And free lunch to boot? Hot damn. Ain't no party like a Jersey Shore party.
Calzone: You're pickin up the tab, ZMAC? That's a new one.
ZMAC: Hey you been doin good work inside of the ring and in the bedroom. Ya gotta eat, so... don't push the issue.
Honey Badger don't like it when D-LO gets uppity. Mind your manners. That's all that ZMAC asks for. The GPS in Snooki's Miata indicates that the next BK is a stone's throw up the road. ZMAC cranks some of that classic 90's stoner metal for the final crescendo before they pull into the BK parking lot. D-LO doesn't even hear his cell phone ringing. He feels it vibrating though. It feels good. Down there. He almost don't want to answer it. Could be important though. Could be The Godfather. He whips that shit out with his dick and holds it high for all of the bitches in the vicinity to witness. This is Diablo Calzone on the horn. Look out, Makayla.
D-LO kills the stereo and pulls into a parking space near the entrance of the fast food establishment that he's about to rob at gunpoint. He checks the caller ID. It's Cairo. D-LO immediately answers his phone.
Calzone: Bobby, what's up? What can I do for you?
D-LO sits tight and listens carefully to Cairo's reply. As D-LO's brain receives the information, his eyes grow wider and wider.
Calzone: Tina Machina has been abducted? Are you serious?
Honey Badger's expression turns grim. He yanks a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses out of his ass crack and slides them onto his face, hiding his eyes from the TMZ paparazzi republic like Jackie Kennedy on that fateful and harrowing day. This work that must now be done must be conducted in a discreet and secretive manner. Only the members of the wrestle-viewing public who watch this promo must be allowed to learn of what transpires from here.
THIS SHIT IS TOP SECRET - CLASSIFIED!!! KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT, JORGE DIAZ! DON'T SPILL THEM BEANS, YA JOBBA!!
Calzone listens intently to Cairo, who feeds D-LO his instructions on the other end of the line. The Triple Whopper will have to wait. More important matters are now taking precedent.
Calzone: Bobby, I understand everything perfectly. This plan is so fluid in my brain that it might as well be sexy time in the champagne room. Our directive is to recover Tina Machina. Once this is accomplished we shall apprehend the perpetrators who are responsible for this heinous act of terrorism and bring them to justice. Yes, sir. We will convene in twenty-four hours - I swear my thickness on it, or you may sever this thickness from its loins.
Calzone hangs up from this phone call of dire urgency and turns his eyeballs toward Zombie. ZMAC is rollin with double barrels locked and loaded, a Deagle in each hand and a fat blunt between his lips. The shit is about to hit the fan and it stanks like some rancid Twilight poon.
Calzone: My nig. I think we need to call... Swag Wilson.
DUNH DUNH DUNH
Mark VII: "Swag Wilson"
"Murder," she wrote. "This poon won't ever be the same," continued Angela Lansbury. "These Vapor Kings are kings not only in principle but in physical presence as well. Not just of the vapor but the starfish squirt-ology."
Who'da thunk that Angela Lansbury would be crashin out at the Motel 6, gettin that slit straight up tossed like Donkey Kong? ZMAC handles his talent, naked save for a well-worn pair of Dickies boots. D-LO leans up against the door, head hung in shame, guarding their temporary headquarters in the case of Bobby Cairo's missing Tina Machina.
Calzone: What has become of my life? The horror. The horror.
Angela Lansbury: Oh shut up. You loved smashing this old decrepit poon, you little sissy bitch.
ZMAC: Don't mind him, Jessica. He's just some homo that I get paid to hang out with.
Angela Lansbury: My name is Angela. Angela Lansbury!
ZMAC: No. It's Jessica Fletcher.
D-LO weeps quietly.
KNOCK KNOCK
The curdling groans of Ms. Lansbury go soft with the blunt force trauma of pillow.
Calzone: Is this our man?
D-LO checks the peephole and nods his head. Yep it's this motherfucker. D-LO unlocks the door and opens it. The man, the myth, the legend, the king of Bridgeport himself Swag Wilson stands in front of the door, live and in the flesh, looking sly as all hell, reppin that James Bond Double Oh-Seven gimmickry. Swag lets himself into the decadent Motel 6 suite and checks his watch. That's a Rolex. It's stolen, mind you, but it's a legit Rolex. Stolen from Steve Orbit actually. They was at the club one night, Steve Orbit was running his mouth so Swag Wilson bitch-slapped Steve Orbit, stole his Rolex and smashed his hoes in that stanky ho poon. True story. And you can't deny it, Orbit, because you know that's how that shit went down. Don't even try to deny it or Swag Wilson is gonna give you more of the same.
Swag: How much time do I have?
D-LO: It's one AM.
Swag: No shithead, how much time?
D-LO: Twenty-three hours I suppose?
Swag: Good, that's twenty-two more than what we'll need. Now if you shut up and do as I say you can keep your petty good for nothin thickness and do whatever-
Swag looks over towards ZMAC.
Swag: Well, whatever the fuck this guy's doin. Banging old broads, like drivin an old VW, trying to squeeze that shit dry. The well's tapped.
Swag turns back to D-LO, shaking the images of that ZMAC-Angela Lansbury poon smashing action from his swagged out mind.
Swag: Now, Robert Cairo has already informed me that his beloved Tina Machina has gone missing from the borough of Manhattan. Do either of you have any knowledge of the area?
ZMAC: I dropped freebase there back in the 80's.
Swag: Good. You think you can stop messin with that two dollar geriatric long enough to be of some use to us? Or do I gotta hold both your fuckin pricks to get this done?
ZMAC hops off of Angela Lansbury. His dick swings out, toppling Swag to the ground.
ZMAC: You couldn't hold my dick with a crane and a wheelbarrow. Howdy Doody called your punk ass. I don't need you to help me do shit. You wanna come up in here, in Honey Badger Turf. Duke of New York, long before Cairo won that electoral jobber race? You wanna help? Grab my fuckin gun.
Swag curses this mofo under his breath.
Swag: Mothafuckin coked out zombie piece of white trash mawfuckin piece a--
Swag squeezes out from under the girth of ZMAC's penis and starts to a crawl in search of ZMAC's pants. He finds the tattered jeans and pulls out a Desert Eagle, holds that shit up to the interrogation lamp.
ZMAC: That's my Deagle. I said my gun.
The sound of white noise interrupts the proceedings, a wallop of static crush, followed by a flickering of the lights that lasts for a good ten seconds.
Swag: What the fuck is this shit- more of that kinky Angela Lansbury boot knocking bullshit?
Angela Lansbury: Shut your fuckin faggot face and cover the door.
Swag reaches inside of his sport jacket and grabs the Smith & Wesson Model 29 Dirty Harry Special from his shoulder holster. He cocks the hammer and aims that shit dead to rites at the door. D-LO ducks under a chair, his Cairo issued Glock drawn and aimed at the window in case any of these motherfuckers are planning a kamikaze attack. You never know when TAKA Michinoku might crash the party. That dude was nuts.
Lansbury has her .44 Magnum drawn. ZMAC grabs two handfuls of Deagle. The cavalry is prepared for anything that might march through that door. Diablo Calzone wears a lampshade over his head. There's an ominous and powerful knock at the door. The lampshade tumbles from D-LO's noggin.
Calzone: Motherfucker, you better be packing the heat of the hottest hellfire because you ain't ready for this firestorm-
Angela Lansbury: Shut the fuck up!
D-LO does as he's instructed. Swag beckons to the entity or entities positioned outside of the door.
Swag: Who it be? Who is there? We will shoot you down without prejudice. Identify yourself or step the fuck off. If you're a crackhead we are not offering you a fix. If you're a hungry black person we are not offering you Popeyes chicken and biscuits. All that we are offering is cold, hard lead. Identify yourself as I've instructed or step off.
Calzone: We're gonna drop ya like you was Weslow and Cooper!
Lansbury/ZMAC/Swag: Shut the fuck up!
A "voice" beckons from beyond the door of the Motel 6 suite: "BLAAAAARGGHHH! GAAARRRGGGHHH!!!"
ZMAC: Oblivion! Get the fuck out of here, man! Stop playing around!
BANG!! CRASH!! BOOM!! CLOBBER!! WHACK-WHACK-WHACK!!
The door to the suite is kicked in. A six foot tall reptilian creature stands in the doorway, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts. ZMAC, D-LO, Angela and Swag open fire on the reptilian creature without warning. The giant green lizardlike being is throttled to and fro from the impact of the bullets, not having enough time to react to any one bullet before his body is jerked in another direction by another gunshot wound. The creature appears to be dancing, but it's not. It's being pumped full of lead like lead was jizz and it was Makayla Cooper.
The creature is eventually forced back towards the railing adjacent to the doorway. Several more shots force the creature to involuntarily tumble over the railing to the ground twenty feet below. He lands awkwardly, neck apparently snapped, arms and legs akimbo. No blood though. That's the strangest part about it... well strange relative to a six foot tall reptilian breaking into a Motel 6 "suite" in the first place.
Swag: What the fuck was that thing?
Calzone: El Chupacabra. He's been stalking me and Cairo for months now. That's all over now though. We won't be seeing any more of him.
ZMAC: You sure about that, D-LO?
Calzone: What are you talking about?
ZMAC is leaning over the railing outside of the room, appearing as though he's about to tumble over it. He points down to the ground below using two stinky index fingers.
ZMAC: There ain't no Chupacabra down there no more. That motherfucker high-tailed it out of here.
Calzone: What the fuck?
D-LO stalks over to the railing and peers down below. It's late at night and hard to see, but he spots movement in the far corner of the parking lot, beyond the pool, the tennis court and the laundry service area.
Calzone: What's that scrambling over there? That just some dopehead or do we have a Chupacabra on the run?
Swag: Shit, man, that ain't no dopehead. That's Chupacabra and he just hopped into Bobby Cairo's Eldorado!
Indeed, a hobbled El Chupacabra takes shelter in the passenger's seat of Tina Machina, Bobby Cairo's vintage 1974 Cadillac Eldorado. The car speeds away under cover of night, the only hint of the driver's identity being that it appeared to be a dark-skinned man.
Calzone: Did you see that? That was fuckin Steve Orbit!
Angela Lansbury: How could you possibly see that, Calzone? It's pitch black out there and they were at least a football field away!
Calzone: It was a black man driving the car and what other black man has a motive, Lansbury? Orbit steals Cairo's whip and throws The Godfather off his game heading into that tag titles match on SLAM. It's a textbook tactic of psychological warfare. We used to do it all the time in college, stealing the opposing team's mascot before a game. Same principle.
ZMAC: It's simple. The task must be done. We must track down Steve Orbit and murder him. Swag, you up for this shit or you gonna puss out?
Swag: Mothafucka, I was born to ice fools like Steve Orbit. Let's do this shit. My Escalade is parked out front. Let's high tail it out of this motherfucker and catch up to those fools. They ain't gettin out of this state alive.
The firearms are cocked and loaded. Lansbury covers her sagging bosom. ZMAC taps that old senile ass one more time, getting off a quickie cum shot. Diablo Calzone bites into a Triple Whopper sandwich. They pile into Swag Wilson's Escalade, leather interior shining in the moonlight, Daft Punk cranked on the stereo system. They hit the road. The chase is on. Justice shall be exacted. The Vapor Kings ride again.
Mark VIII: "A Steadily Crumbling Facade"
The Escalade of Swag Wilson tails the fabled Tina Machina in hot pursuit as it takes the highway on-ramp and heads South. That Angela Lansbury poon is taking a beatin in the back seat as Swag continues to be annoyed.
Swag: Motherfucker! Will you knock that shit off!? You've been banging that broad since Hoboken and she still hasn't cum. She ain't gunna cum, Zombie. Bitch is drier than Saudi-poon.
Calzone: Shit, she's still more supple than Madonna at this stage of the game.
ZMAC: They can't all be Mack or Mack-lite or whoever. That bitch is about to step into a world of fuckin pain. Her and that Jason Weslow motherfucker. Thinking that he's tough shit with his two and out. His glorious past that was soo fucking grand, he's gotta pop out for himself. Eleven time tag team champion? Motherfucker that's just a flat out motherfucking lie. He's proud of losing that shit eleven times and against guys like who? Like himself? The guys he fuckin rode in here with? Those guys? Fuckin circle jerkin each other to see who gets a shot at my Internet Belt, which one gets in line for that TV spot- and loss. Just taking turns, losing. Same goes for Marco and The Gangster.
Calzone: The Gangster?
ZMAC: Ain't that shit your department?
Calzone: He must be one of those hipster gangsters. Back from the twenties. Oh good, you can wear a hat and a suit. "Gangster" isn't a hat and a fucking ten dollar suit. The Vapor Kings will teach him that shit.
ZMAC: It is no coincidence that The Honey Badger's protege is undefeated. That is the testament of my power. To have taken over this Internet title and do what no one has ever done in WCF- give a belt new life, new meaning. I did that. The Thickness heads up those tag team belts but we ain't the Thickness B-Team.
Calzone: We are The Vapor Kings. Uncrowned kings of the six man tag. This triple threat ain't even that- a threat. It's just us versus four jobbers who don't know any better. The free ride and community they thought they had here in Dub See Eff is over, gone. We killed that shit and left it out to rot. I'm not about to give any of these guys their due. They haven't earned that shit.
ZMAC: Finally, D-LO. You're learning. You are becoming just as great as the man who taught you. Team Generic Counterpart and Team Macaroni and Cheese- two bland wastes of talent that stand in the way of The Vapor Kings from climbing that tag team ladder.
Calzone: We'll be the buffer of The Thickness.
ZMAC facepalms.
ZMAC: And yet still you disappoint, We won't be a buffer for The Thickness. If given the chance, we will defeat The Thickness. D-LO C-LO and ZMAC, The Vapor Kings, Tag Team Champions. I tell ya that it's a very real possibility. It is a possibility that begins on Sunday night when we take these four faggots from "Parts Unknown" and who really gives a shit and drop them on their fucking skulls for that three count.
Swag: I'm glad you two bitches are done with your monologue- Tina Machina is headed for Atlantic City.
ZMAC: Egg-Salad.
Calzone: How is that good?
Angela Lansbury: Because you dumb shit, Tina Machina, will be out of gas by the time they get there.
Calzone: They could have filled her up.
Swag: Right, kid. Steve Orbit and the goddamn Creature from the Black Lagoon just stopped off at a Hess to put twenty bucks worth of super plus into that Tina Machina gas tank so they could make off to Jersey. This is a distraction just as much as it is a heist. Whoever's in that car with the damn lizard must be one burnt out tweeker looking to settle some gambling debts. The Mayor's car? Worth at least sixty G, easy. We'll stay on their ass the entire way, follow them into Atlantic City and waste them there.
ZMAC: Chris Christie owes me a solid, so no worries.
Calzone: When did you do him a favor? What did you do?
ZMAC: Oh, he knows.. he knows...
ZMAC smiles the ever assured smile of the world's greatest living cokehead while the Escalade of Swag Wilson tails Tina Machina like Gumby on that Pokey the horse ass.
TO BE CONTINUED
The tag team division in WCF is rapidly heating up, no doubt inspired by the glorious uprising of The Thickness and subsequent "half-a-milli" bounty placed on their heads by Scott Savage Incorporated (all rights reserved). Steve Orbit and Jonny Fly have thrown their hats into the ring as an official tag team and in fact tag title challengers. The 8th Wonder returned to SLAM, defeating the mighty components of BioWalker and staking their claim to a future title shot. We also have seen teams such as Jason Weslow and Makayla Cooper and Diablo Calzone and Zombie McMorris emerge as theoretical title contenders. Those last two teams are wrangling in triple threat action on this week's Sunday Night SLAM live from Vegas. It's an interesting proposal of a match concept.
Some say that it shall be a competitive bout. Some say that Weslow and Cooper are real hot dogs. Mr. High and Mighty with the intellect of a Barbell, known as Weslow. Ms. Perpendicular Eyebrow Slants with the weakness for Steroid Junkies, known as Cooper. So you're eager to make an impact here in the big leagues? So you talk a good game and now you're ready to fight? Allow me to introduce you to Mr. McMorris. The reigning Internet Champion. The man who defined and redefined that division. The man who put the Internet Division on the map and staked his claim to immortality. This ain't the Jeff Purse bullshit. The knock-kneed little homo with obsessive compulsive personality disorder. This ain't the Eric Price, oh let me knock up any Twilight bitch I can find because I like to be bossed around and humiliated and that's why I piss my pants on national television. This is vengeance. This is bloodshed. This is insanity. This is the motherfucking Zombie McMorris.
Well, you're very serious, Mr. Weslow. You don't like to smoke or gamble and you only drink a little bit and you consider yourself a legend because of what you did in some other bullshit fed that nobody's ever heard of and nobody gives a shit about. Do you know what I think, Weslow? I think you're a coward. I think you haven't truly lived for one moment in your life. You look at yourself in the mirror and you call yourself an agnostic because God's existence can "neither be proven nor disproven." And you listen to U2 and think that you're really rocking out because "it's the logical thing to do." I'll say it again: You haven't lived a moment in your life. If you decided to kill yourself and you climbed up to that ledge on the roof of the tallest building in town, you wouldn't jump. Fear? Nah, not even fear. It "wouldn't seem logical" to you that the ledge could ensure your hasty demise. You would stand there holding debate with the ledge, completely missing the point that the ground twenty stories below is what's gonna kill ya.
That's some crazy shit, Weslow. You might be the next Jeff Purse. Crazy obsessive compulsive motherfucker. Spouting off at the mouth anytime a thought pops into your head. Let me guess, you're one of these guys that posts about fifty tweets a day anytime a song lyric or a cute little pun or an observation about the colors of the rainbow or the effects of climate change pops into your head, right? You think the world is so interested in your opinion on how the trivial topics of the day affect the working class man. And oh sure you consider yourself a professional. Yes you do. We heard all about it. From the way that you dress to the way that you comport yourself. You're a real go-getter, let me tell you. A mover and a shaker. We gotta look out for this guy. He might take Mark Zuckerberg's job with his professional looking haircut and his fifty dollar dress shirt purchased at the nearest GAP retail outfitter.
Weslow, you might not even be a bad guy. I can't knock the fact that you have a family. You're probably a fine husband and dad. But you annoy the shit out of me. You really do. I hate looking at your face. I hate hearing the sound of your voice. I want to beat the ever-loving shit out of you with the business end of a fluorescent lighting tube. Anyway, how was your Thanksgiving? I had a good time. Got drunk with my fellow 90210 castmates and shit the bed after a fine turkey dinner. Yeah I said 90210. This is Jason Priestley narrating for Diablo Calzone's promo. What's the matter, you didn't think I could get work in the 2K13? Man, fuck you and the whores you rode in on. Speaking of which, we come to Makayla Cooper. Oh well, hello Dear. How are you? How's your syntax?
I, uh... I don't want to be crude to you. I was already extremely hostile toward your tag team partner. Jason Priestley is Canadian. He doesn't like to bash people, talk the shit, be all ugly like you American mofo's. I will say that you possess certain intangibles, Ms. Cooper. Intangibles which make you appealing to the male quotient of our viewing audience, in addition to our lesbian spectators such as Lilith and Sarah Twilight. Makayla--I'm sorry, MACK as you like to be called. Mack, how do you feel about the fact that Sarah and Lilith are fingering each other right now while fantasizing about your supple body? Oh shit. Shit. I was crude to you. Well, I'm not sorry. I'm not going to apologize. You're just going to have to accept the fact that you're a hot bitch and all men are perverts except for your tag team partner because he's too busy being "logical". Yeah. "Logical". Meanwhile he's sorting through your gym bag, sniffing your panties while you're distracted listening to this voice over. You're welcome, Weslow. It's the last and only favor I'm doing for you.
Now we talked about ZMAC. We talked about Weslow. We talked about Mack. We need to talk about the man who pays my old retired ass to narrate this shit for him, none other than "D-LO C-LO" Diablo Calzone. Calzone is obviously the most impressive, young, nubile specimen on the current WCF roster. Rookie of the year, hands down. Please make sure to nominate him for that award, whoever coordinates the year end award show. Jason Priestley is asking nicely because the alternative is that I go to your house and kill you and your family in your sleep. Thank you. In advance. Signed, Jason Priestley. Back to D-LO C-LO. The kid is undefeated of course. Holds victories in various forms against such names as D-Day, Denise D'Evil, Oblivion and Doc Henry. Not bad for a kid with two months wrestling experience under his belt. Perhaps his most impressive achievement was teaming with Jorge Diaz on the pot luck SLAM and actually carrying Diaz to his only career victory. I mean holy shit how good do you have to be to make a winner out of Jorge Diaz? That shit ain't an everyday occurrence now.
So what it boils down to is that we have the team of Zombie McMorris and Diablo Calzone, henceforth known as The Vapor Kings for their ability to consume large quantities of drugs, versus Generic Boy-Girl Team #875-30 (Weslow and Cooper) and Team Macaroni and Cheese (Marco Valintine and Original Gangster). Oh shit. I forgot to shoot some shit about Valintine and OG. Man, fuck it. Calzone ain't payin me enough for this shit. I need to go soak my ass cheeks in Preparation H. Let's get started with this shit. Roll the tape. Cue the promo, scene one.
Mark VI: "They Call Me Mr. Bitterness"
Open your eyes. Fear not. Just open them, child. March into the becoming. You've been reborn. The Phoenix has risen. A dragon-shaped mass that had been buried under the karmic collapse of a society in ruins. It roars to life and it triggers a memory. Something happened to you. Something that caused you to close your eyes and fall into that mighty, all-encompassing slumber. You had unearthed a horrible secret before you fell into a state of disenchantment. You discovered that America wasn't what had been promised to you by your parents, your elementary school teachers and those fanciful pop muzak stars on the Empty-V. They called you Mr. Bitterness. Derided you for your unflinching system of beliefs. You swore that you would make them pay. You invoked phallic symbols that had been used, abused and refused. You beared the burden of their sins. You beared the scars. You heard One Direction on your radio and you yanked the plug and tossed that shit into the bathtub, nearly electrocuting yourself. You couldn't abide it. No one could blame you. Not really. Not if they were willing to look inside of themselves and find their own Mr. Bitterness that resides inside each of us.
Open your eyes, child. Take in the sights. Inhale the aroma. Listen for the sound. Taste the taste. The vapors rise like cream to the surface of a bubbling, effervescent existence. That's the bongwater bliss. Now you've arrived and you're never turning back. Who can resist the urge to smoke pot and fornicate with obscenely curvaceous bitches? For some it's mere fantasy. They aren't equipped with the tools of the trade, i.e. they lack the thickness, the nerve or the irrevocable nasty to sweep a bad bitch off her feet and into the sack. What a shitty life one must lead to be like them, one of the lonely people, the sad people, the Jason Weslow's of the world. Perhaps they can "get it up" in the heat of the moment, but what's the point? They wouldn't know what to do with it. What? They're gonna visit YouPorn and rub one out? That's the extent of their jollies for the adjoinder.
You think about all of this, Diablo. You think about all of this and you recoil. The bile rises in your throat. Angry white men are headbanging. The hate in the air is palpable and it is shaped like a cloud of marijuana smoke. Diablo Calzone is nonplussed. The Vapor Kings are nonplussed. They're not happy about the direction of Wrestling Championship Federation. They're not happy about being blockaded from appearing at SLAM in Corpus Christi, Texas. They're not happy about being dismissed by the pundits and prognosticators as being a watered down product, a mere "Thickness B-Team". The drugs serve as catharsis. So does sex with the supple female form. And do you know what else does the trick? Music. Heavy metal music. Loud, abrasive and frenetic.
Zombie McMorris is jamming on his Gibson Flying V guitar, playing sloppy, fast-paced, Kerry King style riffs. His T-shirt reads "Smoke Crack and Worship Satan" in a bold white font with a pattern of blood droplets leaking downward to his tattered blue jeans. It is not apparent whether this is part of the shirt's design or if that's fresh blood. Nonetheless, Diablo Calzone joins his friend and mentor, banging on garbage can lids like a Vietnamese woman, doing his best Dave Lombardo impersonation. D-LO is wearing his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles footie pajamas. ZMAC and D-LO are presently sharing a loft space in some old cottage that they ransacked on the Jersey Shore. It is understood by the peanut gallery that Snooki would suck off towering black men in these quarters in exchange for dope money. Now she lies upon the floor, bound at her wrists and ankles, nodding out in time to the clumsy speed metal overture of the Vapor Kings.
Diablo Calzone is fucking ecstatic.
Calzone: Fuck yeah! My dick's getting hard in time to this shit, man! Fucking rock and roll and heavy metal and all that good shit! Eat pussy and smoke weed!
Even ZMAC cuts loose for once in a blue moon, not currently burdened with dropping coked out poetry on his young disciple.
ZMAC: Smoke crack and worship Satan!
ZMAC continues riffing with one hand while pointing to his T-shirt with the other as a handheld camcorder zooms in close. JWoww is doing a hell of a job filming this exclusive footage. And why not? She's about to get another kind of footage - a foot of D-LO's cock. Calzone gazes upon the dulcet silhouette of his blushing babe and renders an impromptu ultimatum.
Calzone: JWoww! Speak to your baby boy! Answer me something and I can do for you what you cannot do for yourself! Once and for all let it be settled: Do you prefer blow, dope or weed?
The Guidette wastes no time in replying. It's as if you're asking for her name, date of birth and cup size.
JWoww: Blow!
Calzone nods his head, a supremely confident smile on his face.
Calzone: Oh yeah? So blow my cock, ya bitch! Haha!
Peeved, JWoww flips D-LO the bird and hurls the camcorder at his head as hard as she can. Being an Italian woman she packs quite a wallop. D-LO is injured badly when the handheld camera clobbers his skull. And he never even saw it coming. Blood pours profusely from his eye socket. It doesn't matter though. D-LO keeps banging on those trash can lids, never missing a beat. JWoww is really enraged now. She jumps onto D-LO's back and thrashes about with slaps and bites and nails up and down the spine. D-LO is kind of into it but he's starting to get annoyed. He shrugs her onto a nearby mattress, easily dismissing of her psychosomatic syndrome and lingering aggression. Diablo sets aside his salad tongs/drum sticks and goes to work, ripping off his TMNT pajama bottoms and hopping onto her bosom.
Calzone: That's it, woman. I'm going to crucify you with my cock. Any last words?
JWoww: Yearh! Your dad sucks cawks!!
Calzone: God, your accent is disgusting. My dick is so hard right now.
D-LO slaps the shit out of JWoww with his cock and then lays waste to her pussy. El Diablo destroys that shit beyond any semblance of recognition. The thickness comes, the thickness sees... and the thickness comes again. No mercy. No relent. Killing on adrenaline. JWoww's fingers and toes invert at the hinges and her face scowls like a hundred and eighty three year old woman turned to dust. She's frozen in time and she cannot escape. Her moans and screeches articulate silent vocalizations, hollow expression caught in a vacuum lock in outer space where no one can hear her scream. JWoww's vagina lies in conquered ruins, no longer a vagina. It is now a frumpy buttermilk pancake, like the kind that's served at IHOP buried under several layers of blueberry syrup. Inside of JWoww's deconstructed body, sperm collides with overwhelmed egg, creating new life. This was Calzone's plan all along. D-LO hops off of her body and dresses himself, footie bottoms and turtle shell slippers covering his lower half - his thickness half. Behold the power of this man's groin. All shall be laid to waste. Cooper, please don't tempt fate. Don't become the next victim. Run. Run like hell.
D-LO speaks to JWoww. She is debilitated but not dead.
Calzone: You are now pregnant with my child. Do a good job raising him or I'm going to kick your ass.
She musters her last strength and issues a proclamation from within her savaged poon.
JWoww: Fawk you!
D-LO is not amused. He headbutts his baby mama, knocking her unconscious. JWoww smiles sweetly while dreaming of the Calzone sperm that currently has her mangled up inside and impregnated. All of the things that she wants to do with that sperm: drink it, slurp it, gargle it and burp it, all the while cum bubbles rising inside of her diaphragm. D-LO shields his eyes from this pathetic spectacle and turns away. ZMAC is still wailing on his guitar. D-LO rejoins him on the drums/aluminum garbage can lids. They run through a medley of classics by Slayer, Metallica, Celtic Frost and Megadeth. They shred for hours and hours and dance like no one is watching. Good times are had by all, including the unconscious bitches who finger themselves amidst their chaotic and disheartening slumber.
Feeling as though their vitriol has finally been satiated, D-LO and ZMAC decide to take a break from jamming. It's time to grab a bite to eat. They make sure to check that Snooki and JWoww are bound and gagged securely. These bitches ain't going anywhere. They still have purpose, reproducing that Vapor Kings sperm and advancing the progeny for the next generation. ZMAC barbarically skull-fucks Snooki one last time before stealing her car keys. Once outside, D-LO hops into the driver's seat. ZMAC sits in the passenger's side and snorts blow off the dashboard, his nostrils too coagulated from the litany of chemicals that he's inhaled to produce blood. This is tact. This is skill. This is experience. This is Zombie McMorris.
The Vapor Kings take off in Snooki's Mazda Miata, burning rubber and blasting early 90's stoner metal as they do so. ZMAC's grungy, matted hair flaps in the breeze as they cruise down the New Jersey turnpike in excess of one hundred miles per hour, racing past police sirens and paying their respects to transsexuals who carry big guns. D-LO glances in his rear view mirror. He sees a smoking Spanish hottie cruising down the road in a sporty little coupe. He slows down a bit and flashes his thickness to the bitch. Her eyes go wide. Her jaw drops. D-LO smiles. He engages the Latina in some Fast & Furious style road racing for a couple of miles before running her vehicle off the road. She crashes into the guardrail and instantly shrieks in pain, too stunned or injured to move. Too stunned and injured to flip D-LO the bird. D-LO smiles again. Life is good.
ZMAC is too busy snorting coke and playing air guitar to pay attention to anything else. Finally, D-LO interjects, snapping Zombie from his trance.
Calzone: Where do you want to go, man? I'm in the mood for some BK. I've had a hankering for a Triple Whopper ever since we crossed state lines with that dead hooker in the trunk.
Calzone races back and forth between lanes without bothering to signal and barely checking his mirror.
ZMAC: You speak to me?
Calzone: Come on, man. Drop the Balfore routine. You ain't hot shit. Where you wanna eat?
ZMAC shrugs his filth encrusted shoulders and unleashes a horrid bout of flatulence. D-LO winces and nearly runs them off the road, too overwhelmed by the stench to focus on his driving.
ZMAC: That's for runnin your mouth like you somebody.
D-LO rolls down all the windows and pops the convertible top despite the pre-winter chill in the air.
Calzone: You a nasty motherfucker, ZMAC. I almost don't even wanna eat no more. I still want that Triple Whopper though. Nasty motherfucker.
ZMAC: Normally I would just pick somethin out of a dumpster but if you want Burger King then let's go to Burger King.
Calzone: Alright fine then it's settled. We go to Burger King.
ZMAC reaches for his crotch, setting off bells and whistles in D-LO's brain. D-LO keeps his cool. Is this going to be payment for buying lunch? D-LO shudders and it ain't from the pre-winter chill in the air.
ZMAC: I don't have any money - got a ski mask and a Desert Eagle in my waistband though.
D-LO slides his wallet back into his ass crack. Phew. He's breathing a sigh of relief on that one. No butt rape for Diablo! And free lunch to boot? Hot damn. Ain't no party like a Jersey Shore party.
Calzone: You're pickin up the tab, ZMAC? That's a new one.
ZMAC: Hey you been doin good work inside of the ring and in the bedroom. Ya gotta eat, so... don't push the issue.
Honey Badger don't like it when D-LO gets uppity. Mind your manners. That's all that ZMAC asks for. The GPS in Snooki's Miata indicates that the next BK is a stone's throw up the road. ZMAC cranks some of that classic 90's stoner metal for the final crescendo before they pull into the BK parking lot. D-LO doesn't even hear his cell phone ringing. He feels it vibrating though. It feels good. Down there. He almost don't want to answer it. Could be important though. Could be The Godfather. He whips that shit out with his dick and holds it high for all of the bitches in the vicinity to witness. This is Diablo Calzone on the horn. Look out, Makayla.
D-LO kills the stereo and pulls into a parking space near the entrance of the fast food establishment that he's about to rob at gunpoint. He checks the caller ID. It's Cairo. D-LO immediately answers his phone.
Calzone: Bobby, what's up? What can I do for you?
D-LO sits tight and listens carefully to Cairo's reply. As D-LO's brain receives the information, his eyes grow wider and wider.
Calzone: Tina Machina has been abducted? Are you serious?
Honey Badger's expression turns grim. He yanks a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses out of his ass crack and slides them onto his face, hiding his eyes from the TMZ paparazzi republic like Jackie Kennedy on that fateful and harrowing day. This work that must now be done must be conducted in a discreet and secretive manner. Only the members of the wrestle-viewing public who watch this promo must be allowed to learn of what transpires from here.
THIS SHIT IS TOP SECRET - CLASSIFIED!!! KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT, JORGE DIAZ! DON'T SPILL THEM BEANS, YA JOBBA!!
Calzone listens intently to Cairo, who feeds D-LO his instructions on the other end of the line. The Triple Whopper will have to wait. More important matters are now taking precedent.
Calzone: Bobby, I understand everything perfectly. This plan is so fluid in my brain that it might as well be sexy time in the champagne room. Our directive is to recover Tina Machina. Once this is accomplished we shall apprehend the perpetrators who are responsible for this heinous act of terrorism and bring them to justice. Yes, sir. We will convene in twenty-four hours - I swear my thickness on it, or you may sever this thickness from its loins.
Calzone hangs up from this phone call of dire urgency and turns his eyeballs toward Zombie. ZMAC is rollin with double barrels locked and loaded, a Deagle in each hand and a fat blunt between his lips. The shit is about to hit the fan and it stanks like some rancid Twilight poon.
Calzone: My nig. I think we need to call... Swag Wilson.
DUNH DUNH DUNH
Mark VII: "Swag Wilson"
"Murder," she wrote. "This poon won't ever be the same," continued Angela Lansbury. "These Vapor Kings are kings not only in principle but in physical presence as well. Not just of the vapor but the starfish squirt-ology."
Who'da thunk that Angela Lansbury would be crashin out at the Motel 6, gettin that slit straight up tossed like Donkey Kong? ZMAC handles his talent, naked save for a well-worn pair of Dickies boots. D-LO leans up against the door, head hung in shame, guarding their temporary headquarters in the case of Bobby Cairo's missing Tina Machina.
Calzone: What has become of my life? The horror. The horror.
Angela Lansbury: Oh shut up. You loved smashing this old decrepit poon, you little sissy bitch.
ZMAC: Don't mind him, Jessica. He's just some homo that I get paid to hang out with.
Angela Lansbury: My name is Angela. Angela Lansbury!
ZMAC: No. It's Jessica Fletcher.
D-LO weeps quietly.
KNOCK KNOCK
The curdling groans of Ms. Lansbury go soft with the blunt force trauma of pillow.
Calzone: Is this our man?
D-LO checks the peephole and nods his head. Yep it's this motherfucker. D-LO unlocks the door and opens it. The man, the myth, the legend, the king of Bridgeport himself Swag Wilson stands in front of the door, live and in the flesh, looking sly as all hell, reppin that James Bond Double Oh-Seven gimmickry. Swag lets himself into the decadent Motel 6 suite and checks his watch. That's a Rolex. It's stolen, mind you, but it's a legit Rolex. Stolen from Steve Orbit actually. They was at the club one night, Steve Orbit was running his mouth so Swag Wilson bitch-slapped Steve Orbit, stole his Rolex and smashed his hoes in that stanky ho poon. True story. And you can't deny it, Orbit, because you know that's how that shit went down. Don't even try to deny it or Swag Wilson is gonna give you more of the same.
Swag: How much time do I have?
D-LO: It's one AM.
Swag: No shithead, how much time?
D-LO: Twenty-three hours I suppose?
Swag: Good, that's twenty-two more than what we'll need. Now if you shut up and do as I say you can keep your petty good for nothin thickness and do whatever-
Swag looks over towards ZMAC.
Swag: Well, whatever the fuck this guy's doin. Banging old broads, like drivin an old VW, trying to squeeze that shit dry. The well's tapped.
Swag turns back to D-LO, shaking the images of that ZMAC-Angela Lansbury poon smashing action from his swagged out mind.
Swag: Now, Robert Cairo has already informed me that his beloved Tina Machina has gone missing from the borough of Manhattan. Do either of you have any knowledge of the area?
ZMAC: I dropped freebase there back in the 80's.
Swag: Good. You think you can stop messin with that two dollar geriatric long enough to be of some use to us? Or do I gotta hold both your fuckin pricks to get this done?
ZMAC hops off of Angela Lansbury. His dick swings out, toppling Swag to the ground.
ZMAC: You couldn't hold my dick with a crane and a wheelbarrow. Howdy Doody called your punk ass. I don't need you to help me do shit. You wanna come up in here, in Honey Badger Turf. Duke of New York, long before Cairo won that electoral jobber race? You wanna help? Grab my fuckin gun.
Swag curses this mofo under his breath.
Swag: Mothafuckin coked out zombie piece of white trash mawfuckin piece a--
Swag squeezes out from under the girth of ZMAC's penis and starts to a crawl in search of ZMAC's pants. He finds the tattered jeans and pulls out a Desert Eagle, holds that shit up to the interrogation lamp.
ZMAC: That's my Deagle. I said my gun.
The sound of white noise interrupts the proceedings, a wallop of static crush, followed by a flickering of the lights that lasts for a good ten seconds.
Swag: What the fuck is this shit- more of that kinky Angela Lansbury boot knocking bullshit?
Angela Lansbury: Shut your fuckin faggot face and cover the door.
Swag reaches inside of his sport jacket and grabs the Smith & Wesson Model 29 Dirty Harry Special from his shoulder holster. He cocks the hammer and aims that shit dead to rites at the door. D-LO ducks under a chair, his Cairo issued Glock drawn and aimed at the window in case any of these motherfuckers are planning a kamikaze attack. You never know when TAKA Michinoku might crash the party. That dude was nuts.
Lansbury has her .44 Magnum drawn. ZMAC grabs two handfuls of Deagle. The cavalry is prepared for anything that might march through that door. Diablo Calzone wears a lampshade over his head. There's an ominous and powerful knock at the door. The lampshade tumbles from D-LO's noggin.
Calzone: Motherfucker, you better be packing the heat of the hottest hellfire because you ain't ready for this firestorm-
Angela Lansbury: Shut the fuck up!
D-LO does as he's instructed. Swag beckons to the entity or entities positioned outside of the door.
Swag: Who it be? Who is there? We will shoot you down without prejudice. Identify yourself or step the fuck off. If you're a crackhead we are not offering you a fix. If you're a hungry black person we are not offering you Popeyes chicken and biscuits. All that we are offering is cold, hard lead. Identify yourself as I've instructed or step off.
Calzone: We're gonna drop ya like you was Weslow and Cooper!
Lansbury/ZMAC/Swag: Shut the fuck up!
A "voice" beckons from beyond the door of the Motel 6 suite: "BLAAAAARGGHHH! GAAARRRGGGHHH!!!"
ZMAC: Oblivion! Get the fuck out of here, man! Stop playing around!
BANG!! CRASH!! BOOM!! CLOBBER!! WHACK-WHACK-WHACK!!
The door to the suite is kicked in. A six foot tall reptilian creature stands in the doorway, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts. ZMAC, D-LO, Angela and Swag open fire on the reptilian creature without warning. The giant green lizardlike being is throttled to and fro from the impact of the bullets, not having enough time to react to any one bullet before his body is jerked in another direction by another gunshot wound. The creature appears to be dancing, but it's not. It's being pumped full of lead like lead was jizz and it was Makayla Cooper.
The creature is eventually forced back towards the railing adjacent to the doorway. Several more shots force the creature to involuntarily tumble over the railing to the ground twenty feet below. He lands awkwardly, neck apparently snapped, arms and legs akimbo. No blood though. That's the strangest part about it... well strange relative to a six foot tall reptilian breaking into a Motel 6 "suite" in the first place.
Swag: What the fuck was that thing?
Calzone: El Chupacabra. He's been stalking me and Cairo for months now. That's all over now though. We won't be seeing any more of him.
ZMAC: You sure about that, D-LO?
Calzone: What are you talking about?
ZMAC is leaning over the railing outside of the room, appearing as though he's about to tumble over it. He points down to the ground below using two stinky index fingers.
ZMAC: There ain't no Chupacabra down there no more. That motherfucker high-tailed it out of here.
Calzone: What the fuck?
D-LO stalks over to the railing and peers down below. It's late at night and hard to see, but he spots movement in the far corner of the parking lot, beyond the pool, the tennis court and the laundry service area.
Calzone: What's that scrambling over there? That just some dopehead or do we have a Chupacabra on the run?
Swag: Shit, man, that ain't no dopehead. That's Chupacabra and he just hopped into Bobby Cairo's Eldorado!
Indeed, a hobbled El Chupacabra takes shelter in the passenger's seat of Tina Machina, Bobby Cairo's vintage 1974 Cadillac Eldorado. The car speeds away under cover of night, the only hint of the driver's identity being that it appeared to be a dark-skinned man.
Calzone: Did you see that? That was fuckin Steve Orbit!
Angela Lansbury: How could you possibly see that, Calzone? It's pitch black out there and they were at least a football field away!
Calzone: It was a black man driving the car and what other black man has a motive, Lansbury? Orbit steals Cairo's whip and throws The Godfather off his game heading into that tag titles match on SLAM. It's a textbook tactic of psychological warfare. We used to do it all the time in college, stealing the opposing team's mascot before a game. Same principle.
ZMAC: It's simple. The task must be done. We must track down Steve Orbit and murder him. Swag, you up for this shit or you gonna puss out?
Swag: Mothafucka, I was born to ice fools like Steve Orbit. Let's do this shit. My Escalade is parked out front. Let's high tail it out of this motherfucker and catch up to those fools. They ain't gettin out of this state alive.
The firearms are cocked and loaded. Lansbury covers her sagging bosom. ZMAC taps that old senile ass one more time, getting off a quickie cum shot. Diablo Calzone bites into a Triple Whopper sandwich. They pile into Swag Wilson's Escalade, leather interior shining in the moonlight, Daft Punk cranked on the stereo system. They hit the road. The chase is on. Justice shall be exacted. The Vapor Kings ride again.
Mark VIII: "A Steadily Crumbling Facade"
The Escalade of Swag Wilson tails the fabled Tina Machina in hot pursuit as it takes the highway on-ramp and heads South. That Angela Lansbury poon is taking a beatin in the back seat as Swag continues to be annoyed.
Swag: Motherfucker! Will you knock that shit off!? You've been banging that broad since Hoboken and she still hasn't cum. She ain't gunna cum, Zombie. Bitch is drier than Saudi-poon.
Calzone: Shit, she's still more supple than Madonna at this stage of the game.
ZMAC: They can't all be Mack or Mack-lite or whoever. That bitch is about to step into a world of fuckin pain. Her and that Jason Weslow motherfucker. Thinking that he's tough shit with his two and out. His glorious past that was soo fucking grand, he's gotta pop out for himself. Eleven time tag team champion? Motherfucker that's just a flat out motherfucking lie. He's proud of losing that shit eleven times and against guys like who? Like himself? The guys he fuckin rode in here with? Those guys? Fuckin circle jerkin each other to see who gets a shot at my Internet Belt, which one gets in line for that TV spot- and loss. Just taking turns, losing. Same goes for Marco and The Gangster.
Calzone: The Gangster?
ZMAC: Ain't that shit your department?
Calzone: He must be one of those hipster gangsters. Back from the twenties. Oh good, you can wear a hat and a suit. "Gangster" isn't a hat and a fucking ten dollar suit. The Vapor Kings will teach him that shit.
ZMAC: It is no coincidence that The Honey Badger's protege is undefeated. That is the testament of my power. To have taken over this Internet title and do what no one has ever done in WCF- give a belt new life, new meaning. I did that. The Thickness heads up those tag team belts but we ain't the Thickness B-Team.
Calzone: We are The Vapor Kings. Uncrowned kings of the six man tag. This triple threat ain't even that- a threat. It's just us versus four jobbers who don't know any better. The free ride and community they thought they had here in Dub See Eff is over, gone. We killed that shit and left it out to rot. I'm not about to give any of these guys their due. They haven't earned that shit.
ZMAC: Finally, D-LO. You're learning. You are becoming just as great as the man who taught you. Team Generic Counterpart and Team Macaroni and Cheese- two bland wastes of talent that stand in the way of The Vapor Kings from climbing that tag team ladder.
Calzone: We'll be the buffer of The Thickness.
ZMAC facepalms.
ZMAC: And yet still you disappoint, We won't be a buffer for The Thickness. If given the chance, we will defeat The Thickness. D-LO C-LO and ZMAC, The Vapor Kings, Tag Team Champions. I tell ya that it's a very real possibility. It is a possibility that begins on Sunday night when we take these four faggots from "Parts Unknown" and who really gives a shit and drop them on their fucking skulls for that three count.
Swag: I'm glad you two bitches are done with your monologue- Tina Machina is headed for Atlantic City.
ZMAC: Egg-Salad.
Calzone: How is that good?
Angela Lansbury: Because you dumb shit, Tina Machina, will be out of gas by the time they get there.
Calzone: They could have filled her up.
Swag: Right, kid. Steve Orbit and the goddamn Creature from the Black Lagoon just stopped off at a Hess to put twenty bucks worth of super plus into that Tina Machina gas tank so they could make off to Jersey. This is a distraction just as much as it is a heist. Whoever's in that car with the damn lizard must be one burnt out tweeker looking to settle some gambling debts. The Mayor's car? Worth at least sixty G, easy. We'll stay on their ass the entire way, follow them into Atlantic City and waste them there.
ZMAC: Chris Christie owes me a solid, so no worries.
Calzone: When did you do him a favor? What did you do?
ZMAC: Oh, he knows.. he knows...
ZMAC smiles the ever assured smile of the world's greatest living cokehead while the Escalade of Swag Wilson tails Tina Machina like Gumby on that Pokey the horse ass.
TO BE CONTINUED
