Post by Odin Balfore on Dec 18, 2013 21:51:10 GMT -5
A THICK-NI JOINT PRODUCTION
Chapter X: "A Man In His Mind"
Odin sits on one of the only long wooden benches in the court room that still has legs to stand on. He sprawls out his massive frame and pulls out the necessary tools to craft himself a mighty blunt. Odin's facial expressions tell the story. Part anger, annoyance, sadness, confusion, and of course madness. The mad god licks the rolling paper and sparks the blunt. He takes a few puffs and lets that kush fill his lungs. He sits in the front row of the court room, closest to the retaining wall between the spectators and the official proceedings. Dead bodies are everywhere. A pool of blood soaks the floor in crimson sin under Odin's feet. Odin looks out towards the judge's seat and continues to ponder before expressing his thoughts.
Odin: Look around you, WCF. Look at what I do. At what I do to myself. Destruction, because there's a me out there that's just crazy enough to do it. You jobbers in the opener who think it will be a great experience to walk into WCF- into the biggest show of the year with the opportunity to take the tag team championship from myself and Bobby Cairo. Look upon all that you've seen. All of you that come up in here with this chip on your shoulder of inflated greatness from other companies. All of you may or may not know my name. Even less of you know of The Godfather, but you will. There is no training, no preparation, skills or knowledge that you think you possess that will be able to overcome a situation such as this. The match that you're in- those whose names I refuse to name- you're beneath me. That's not arrogance; that is truth. The truths of communism, pure and simple.
Odin takes a few more puffs before looking at his blunt.
Odin: This battle royal to pick my opponents is there for a reason. There are six other tag teams in WCF. That's not such a bad sum but if you look around this court room, you can see why none of those teams are fighting for the gold at the biggest pay-per-view of the year. We've destroyed them all. Whomever amongst you is unfortunate enough to emerge from this battle royal, will be no better off than the others. We've defeated three world champions. Let that sink in for a moment. Men who know each other, wrestled each other, get to watch themselves in that ring every week for over a year now, men who reap the praise of the masses. But what did it matter? What did it amount to when they stood toe-to-toe with The Thickness? It was if they were nothing. Look around and ask yourselves if you have the ability to top such a thing? A such thing that doesn’t come along very often in this business. It is to the point of frivolous bribes and bounties to be placed upon the heads of The Thickness, like a crown of thorns. We are not shaken by such attempts. We mock them.
Odin holds the blunt between his lips as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his massive wallet, exploding at the seams. He opens it and starts tossing money onto the floor; large sums of money that pile up in a substantial stack, Poon Guinean silverbacks.
Odin: Half a mill is nothing for me. I carry that around for lunch what most people would work their entire lives just to get. This is not a money thing but if such notions tantalize your brains like J. Alba on my cock, then dance those sugar plums right out of your head. We are the best, not due to lack of competition. There is no such thing. We are the best because it is our natural state. It's a feeling onto others that conjures up jealousy and hatred. Get used to it. Get used to where you are. None of you will make it out of that spot. That is not a challenge. Just another absolute truth of communism. This title is all I have ever wanted in my career. I have it and I have it with a man who is my kin. A man that I can ride with and know that he won't flake on me for reasons most unthick. Look around you and know that your fate is that of all these poor souls who perished in the crossfire of my life.
Odin tokes the potent strain of ganja that he wields in his hands, the aroma of the green filling the air, the smoke lofting to the ceiling, fire alarms being tripped, sprinklers casting their liquid-- Odin firing his Deagle to kill the sprinklers. He shakes his head, supremely dissatisfied with the opposition that has been placed in front of The Thickness at ONE.
Odin: Nothing. You have nothing that you stand for and yet you wish to step to The All-Father with his claims as if you were children playing pretend? Truly that's all that you are. Children playing pretend, compared to The Thickness. Such a challenge cannot and will not be taken with a heavy regard. NO, not if this match that you're in was just to satisfy the need for my belt to be “defended.” There is no defense. There is no offense. Just two jobbers lookin for a bone but getting the ax. Dreams are for dreamers. That's who you all are and that's what you're all in until you go up against Cairo and I; then that shit becomes a fucking nightmare. As it stands, I am the only threat to myself and even that will have come to a conclusion. You are no better individually or collectively than The Thickness, in part or whole. This match is mere formality, a contractual obligation set up by that dick hatin' bitch named Sarah Twilight but even she too... must end. Must end and will end in the most inglorious of ways, that all people like her do. She will not be remembered for any particulars but for lacking any particulars. Much like the rest of you-- lacking.
Odin takes one last puff of his blunt before running it along the edge of his boot to extinguish it.
Odin: Come at us with such jesting of talent, skill or a threat to our tag gold and you will be dropped without prejudice. Whatever else needs to be said, will be said in that ring and in a language that all can understand. The dominating power of The Thickness. From Ragnarok to the Security Breach. You will be put down under The Thickness and see why first hand we are the greatest tag team of the last three years- if not this company's history when WE walk out of ONE, retaining our tag team titles.
Our will is law...
and Ragnarok is in its wake.
Ready or not. Here we come.
Chapter XI: "Pressing Advantage"
An Yahvenhassle Hotel. Nuuk, Greenland.
A cozy bed and breakfast lies nestled quietly in the sleepy town of Nuuk in Greenland, one of the few hospitable and hospitality driven places in Greenland. The majority of the country is under a seven foot thick layer of permafrost, similar to that of Sarah Twilight's golden hood that no one has seen or touched- much like the arc of the covenant but with more Nazi melting power. The bed and breakfast's roof slopes like that of an IHOP but with a red roof and red walls and white wooden window shutters. This time of year, visitors are few as no one wants to visit the arctic circle in December. Why do you think polar bear populations have declined? They ain't dying, just gone south. Deep South. Beaver South.
MAVERICK sits at a small round wooden table, stirring a metal spoon around a brown ceramic tea mug. The spoon gently clinks against the sides of the mug, if ever so gently. He looks tired, worn out and weary, rung out from sleepless nights and showers that could not restore vigor to his soul. He wears a white terminal long sleeve and blue jeans- nondescript attire for a man who's trying to keep a low profile. As it is, mad scientists carry too much weight in the form of negative attention and with that crazy mofo John Stamos running around in a hockey mask, MAVERICK needs no such attention.
MAVERICK: Damn Odinator is destroyed. Fuck John Stamos, that Savate motherfucker. French foot fighting...
MAVERICK lets his thoughts carry his weight; his voice along with it.
MAVERICK: Am I the only one who considers the French to be cowards!? Gah, damn it Uncle Jesse! He could be anywhere, he could even be here now.
Suddenly a thin man with slicked back hair, sunglasses and a suit approaches MAVERICK from out of nowhere, appearing without so much as a sound as if an apparition or the figment of a paranoid mind.
Gentleman: It would seem as though you are having an internal struggle of mental anguish, no? Are you after the one called Odin Balfore?
MAVERICK gives rise to a bout of worry and issues the gentleman a confused look, but he eventually realizes that the man isn't here to harm him. His senses dull and he relaxes. A common cause is still a common cause, even amongst a mysterious stranger.
MAVERICK: He just...
MAVERICK slumps into his seat and shrugs his shoulders.
MAVERICK: He doesn't want to die.
MAVERICK looks at the stranger, studies him, observes his nondescript features and his manner.
MAVERICK: Tell me, stranger: How hard is it to kill an idiot savant?
Gentleman: Harder than one would think. Harder than it looks in the movies.
MAVERICK: And you are?
Gentleman: Just a man with a common enemy. You know what they say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. So what do you say, friend? May I take a seat?
MAVERICK nods as the gentleman takes the seat across from MAVERICK.
MAVERICK: And what do I call you, friend?
Gentleman: K. Mister K. will do for now. Best not to get involved with extended pleasantries. I'm sure that you understand.
MAVERICK: So what's your story? What did the Nordic oaf do to you?
Mr. K: It's not a matter of what he did. Rather what he can do for me. He has something I want. More precise, he knows the location of something I want.
MAVERICK huffs with laughter.
MAVERICK: Preposterous. He knows nothing of any possible value!
Mr. K: Such things are not a laughing matter. I can assure you that my reasons extend far beyond your petty desire for monetary gain.
MAVERICK: How do you know about that?
Mr. K: Because Mister Curtis, when you've been around this world as much as I have- you tend to pick up on these things.
Mr. K leans in and puts his elbow on the table. He slides his glasses down the bridge of his nose to reveal red irises surrounded by black instead of eye whites. He quickly yet slowly pushes the glasses back up on his face and lets a sly crack of a grin show between his lips.
Mr. K: Why go for this half a million when you can get Balfore where it hurts? His pride. The pride of The Thickness, Poon Guinea. Launch a full scale invasion while they are... distracted.
Mr. K reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a letter that's exactly the same as the letter that was given to The Thickness that sent them to Atlantis.
MAVERICK: What is this?
Mr. K: Insurance. In a manner of speaking. Just know that The Thickness is very. VERY far away from home and thanks to you, they are men divided between their houses. Your meager little exploits were not total failures. In fact, I could use you.
MAVERICK: I got it!
Eureka!
MAVERICK: While The Thickness is distracted, I'll attack their home base and force them into subordination and make them pay ME that half a mill on top of the half a mill from Scott Savage! Thus doubling my wallet! It's PERFECT!
Mr. K lets out a sigh in a facepalm moment as he speaks under his breath.
Mr. K: I should have just stuck with the lizard man.
MAVERICK creaks a brow and casts a sideways glance at Mr. K. MAVERICK feels as though he's floating on a body of water, floating on a body of breasts with nipples erect. He casts a glance down at Mr. K's groin, which is oblong, shaped like an almond.
MAVERICK: Say, you're not from around here.
Mr. K: That is correct... and incorrect. I am from many places and yet none. Why do you care about such things, Curtis?
MAVERICK: Why did you come here exactly? You seem to know so much about everything, including my plans. Why do you want me of all people to help you?
Mr. K. raps his obtuse knuckles on the table and casts a warning glance at MAVERICK.
Mr. K: You want to talk turkey, that's it? I aim to bring down Balfore. I aim to acquire this information that I require to do this work that I must do. I feel that you are, ostensibly speaking, a useful idiot. You do the job that I need you to do? Yes, you can take your pocket change, your crumbs from under the couch cushions. I require finances no more than Jorge Diaz requires poon- I have positively no use for it. It serves none of my interests.
The nails on K's rapping fingers appear insomuch as claws from some kind of hellish demon, a creature of the black lagoon perhaps. This hardly unnerves MAVERICK. He is accustomed to doing business with all kinds of freak show menaces and homicidal wraiths. It comes with the territory of being a mad scientist.
MAVERICK: The question is, how do we launch a full-scale invasion of Poon Guinea? Even with Odin and Cairo otherwise occupied, the Thousand Thick-ni Army is still an omnipresent force under the guidance of Five-Star General Zombie McMorris.
Mr. K: Oh you didn't know? Your ass better call somebody. The ZMAC Attack is otherwise occupied with cocaine, fat bitches, dumpster fires and Marco Valintine.
MAVERICK: Who the fuck is a Marco Valintine?
Mr. K: Jobber fodder, nothing overly disconcerting yet ZMAC has been obsessed with skewing the man's genitalia. Unimpressive rat-like genitalia at that. I'm told that McMorris has been simmering Valintine's testicles in a hearty stew along with carrot, potato, celery, moonshine and vaginal blood from a collection of deceased hookers.
MAVERICK: A balanced diet if ever there were. So the gourmet chef is distracted. The Thickness is on hiatus. All of this leaves Poon Guinea unguarded?
Mr. K: Truthfully speaking the Thick-ni Army is always on guard, but they are relatively compromised. This is the most opportune moment to strike that we are likely to see for several months, years even.
MAVERICK: Unfortunately my prototypes have been destroyed. I've lost contact with both The Odinator and The Gillinator. Goddamn it why did I think that a supersmart Odin Balfore cyborg could defeat the genuine article? Odin has always thrived on being a war-mongering neanderthal. To add intelligence to the mix is to humanize the beast. STUPID STUPID MAVERICK!
MAVERICK swats himself in the head while Mr. K. looks on.
Mr. K: Are you finished abusing yourself, Curtis? You swat your head and it's mere inches away from spanking your monkey. I don't want to see that. He don't want to see that either.
MAVERICK: WHoooo-WHAaa?
Standing behind MAVERICK, in fact towering over him, is none other than the reptilian being from the Caribbean Islands known as El Chupacabra. Chupacabra is dressed in white satin, fly pimp style gear that looks like it could be straight out of Steve Orbit's closet.
MAVERICK: Who the fuck are you?
El Chupacabra: AAARGHHHHHHHH!!!!
Mr. K. scolds El Chupacabra for his outburst.
Mr. K: Chupacabra! Use your words! Remember? We talked about this.
El Chupacabra stares at Mr. K. with those cold dead reptilian eyes. He turns his attention back to MAVERICK and clears his throat.
El Chupacabra: AHEM! Hello there, sir. My name is El Chupacabra. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. I believe that we can be of service to one another. You see, I have been stalking Bobby Cairo for months now. He owes me... let us call it, a debt from the old days. Do you mind if I take a seat?
Chupacabra takes a seat at the now exceedingly crowded coffee table.
El Chupacabra: You might be familiar with Bobby Cairo as a wrestling legend, but I know him on a more personal level. See, here in Greenland there aren't many of us chupacabras walking around, but in Puerto Rico? We're quite common. We work as judges and lawyers and some of us, take myself for example, work as pimps. Bobby Cairo? He was a major purveyor of my talent, the young ladies that would not walk the streets as prostitutes... no, no. These young ladies only dealt with the rich and famous clientele, men such as Cairo with deep pockets and a discreet nature. Cairo would call me and make his preferences known, large tits, bubble butts and shaved poon, and I would deliver. Bobby Cairo was a big fan of the Poonto Rican bitches as he called them, but a time came when Bobby Cairo decided to stop paying me the money that he owed me for my services and this left me...
Chupacabra rubs his reptilian paws together and sighs.
El Chupacabra: Let's just say that a chupacabra cannot survive on beer alone. This gentleman over here--
Chupacabra cranes his head toward Mr. K.
El Chupacabra: He offered me a deal. I help him track down this Balfore fellow whom I understand Cairo is friends with, and K. will make sure that I get my money from The Godfather.
MAVERICK nods his head.
MAVERICK: It seems as though we have common interests, gentlemen. Elimination of The Thickness and their Poon Guinean empire tops our list of priorities. The question becomes: How do we invade a nation that has proven itself capable of overthrowing dictatorial regimes? Even a compromised Poon Guinean military is a force to be reckoned with.
Mr. K: With our ambition and your technical savvy, Mr. Curtis, I believe that we are holding all of the cards to overthrow the Thickness regime. If you need funding to procure materials for these "terminators" that you've built, then I can assist you with that. But we need stronger machines, better machines, capable of launching a full-scale military attack on an unsuspecting nation. This is going to be Poon Guinea's Pearl Harbor, a national tragedy that will shake the very core of their nation.
MAVERICK grasps his hands together and laughs maniacally.
MAVERICK: AHA! YES! I'M BACK, BABY, I'M BACK!
MAVERICK sips his tea excitedly while discussing plans of attack with K. and Chupacabra.
Chapter XII: "The Motel 6 Championship"
It's a slug fest that's gone on for days. A battle of two gods over bragging rights. The Motel 6 Openweight Bedroom Star Championship. Current Champion: The Godfather Bobby Cairo. Five-time champion, edging Odin out by one. This time Odin is out for blood, drinking from the bath tub filled with Zombie Bombs. Paint thinner, Everclear and some Poonglourious for flavor. Two to three bitches apiece as they fight for pinfalls and submissions. John Stamos watches the door for any signs of Odin/Gillinators. Amongst the chaos there is banter. Not that of foreplay or arousing good times. NO. This shit is business.
Odin: Hey Bobby, what's the difference between the Bedroom Star Championship and the tag team battle royal?
Cairo: The Bedroom Star Championship is far more prestigious. To be fought over by gods- not boys or men who do not know how to handle the poon.
Odin: Absolutely right. That's why I'm winning!
Cairo: Like fucking hell you are!
Odin: Who do you think is going to win it? Based on what you've seen thus far?
Cairo: These mer-bitches because they know how to put up a fight. This mucus layer makes it a bitch-
Odin: That ain't no mucus.
Cairo: AH, you fucking son of a bitch!
Odin: It's the hopes and dreams and blood of all the jobbers in the battle royal. Fucking gone. Because they know they cannot step to us and our ways. They train for the match of their lives...
Cairo: And we battle it out for bragging rights here in motha fuckin Atlantis while those piss ass jobbers argue amongst themselves as to who's going to get massacred in that ring. Ain't that somethin about a bitch named Twilight?
Odin: Shit will be a massacre too. I love hitting Ragnarok on punk ass bitches. And my Mark on jobbers. Then my big ass combo on punk ass jobbers.
Cairo is furious as he slams the mer-bitch poon with a reckless yet calculated abandon, making the mer-bitch shriek in a pleasured alchemy of hatefuck.
Cairo: Unthick sons of bitches! I tell ya Odin, after all this shit – fucking jobberish bullshit with bitch Twilight throwin random ass bum-sucking shitbags at us and then this fuckin MAVERICK dipshit with his piece of garbage made in Taiwan ass bullshit Terminators, all the bullshit we gotta deal with and Barry Oak still runnin his fat fuckin mouth – we are still gonna retain these belts because our will is motha fuckin law!
Odin: And this Motel 6 title is mine!
Cairo: Nah you motha fucka it's mine!
Odin Balfore chokes a bitch while smashin the poon and Bobby Cairo smashes the poon while chokin a bitch. Contrasting styles that are equally effective.
Outside of the motel room, Poon Guinean Director of Security John Stamos stands guard at the door, armed to the teeth with the latest and best in Glock technology-- Glock being an official corporate sponsor of the Poon Guinean regime. Stamos is staring at an Atlantian mer-bitch who is wearing a skintight skirt and nothing else when he receives a call on his cell phone. He answers the call and listens intently for a moment, the information pouring into his ear drums: There is trouble in River City. River City, Poon Guinea. Stamos's eyes turn cold and dead. He hangs up the phone with a whole lot of shakin goin on in his soul, like that mer-bitch shakin her generous tatas and supple caboose. Stamos knocks on the motel room door before barging in.
Stamos: Ah, Bobby?
The Thickness pays no attention to their Director of National Security. This shit's neck and neck right now for the Bedroom Star Championship and even a slight distraction could prove the difference between victory and defeat.
Stamos: Bobby!
Nope. No response. The shit can wait. Finally, Stamos blurts the news out.
Stamos: Bobby! River City is under attack! That Odin guy- well the other Odin guy has invaded.
Cairo: What the shit?
Cairo is distracted for a brief moment but long enough for senior referee Stanley Moser to come in and make the three count.
1...
2...
3!!!
The time keeper rings the bell at a total time of 89 hours and 46 minutes.
Kyle Steel: HERE IS YOUR WINNER AND NNEWWW MOTEL 6 OPENWEIGHT BEDROOM STAR CHAMPION... THE ASGARDIAN ALL FATHER... ODIN BALFORE!
Cairo: Son of a bitch! What the fuck, John Stamos?
Odin: Don't cry because Uncle Jesse cock blocked your victory.
Stamos: The city is holding strong, but it cannot hold forever. With ZMAC away and you two away, the city does not stand a chance!
Cairo: That fuckin tweeked out zombie motherfucker... Well what about D-LO C-LO?
Stamos: He is not yet ready. He wears the TMNT footie pajamas but he does not wear them as a man wears them; he does not wear them as John Stamos wears them. We must return to Poon Guinea ASAP!
Cairo: See, motha fucka!? I told you.
Odin: No, I told you. I told you this would happen and what did you do- you bitched about some paternity suit that we easily could have gotten rid of with a big enough stair case.
Stamos: You might wanna get your things. We don't have much time.
Cairo: Really, Odin? You would go to war for half a mill?
Odin: It's the principle of the matter.
Cairo: Something doesn't smell right and it's not the decay of dead mer-bitch, either.
Odin: There's only one way to find out.
Cairo: You're goddamn right about that. And you're gonna pay. Well not you per se, but MAVERICK... the other you. HE'S going to pay!
Odin: Not likely. He's just as crafty as I am.
Cairo: Son of a bitch! Stop contradicting me! We're gonna go back to Poon Guinea, we're gonna smash that MAVERICK anti-poon, send that motha fucka back to the North Pole, make a man out of D-LO C-LO so we don't have to keep gettin called back to the office when we're on vacation, and I'm takin back my Bedroom Star Championship! This ain't over, Balfore!
Odin: Like hell! The belt is mine! You can keep the dead mer-bitch carcasses, but the belt stays with The All-Father!
Odin throws on his red leather pants and jean jacket. Cairo laces up his pinstripe suit and tie and those polished loafers. Reese Witherspoon rises from her seat, having spectated the entire Bedroom Star marathon without so much as speaking or moving a muscle.
Cairo: What do we do with Reese WitherPOON?
Odin: You mean Reese "With Her Poon"? Fuck, toss her to the wolves for all I care. Bitch don't have tits to speak of and the ass ain't much either.
Cairo: True but she's kinda cute. And she claims that she's been sent from the future to protect us. Isn't that cute?
Odin: Fuckin bitch is crazy. Lilith crazy. raYne crazy. You want to bring her, she's your responsibility. You feed her, you bathe her, you take her for walks.
Cairo: I don't know about all that. I'll slip her the thickness and then we'll take it from there. She does a good job I'll throw her some leftover Popeyes chicken and biscuits.
Odin: Not from my stash you won't.
Cairo: You're being awfully confrontational, my man. Why don't you save that Asgardian angst for your dystopian doppelganger?
Odin: Listen, man, it ain't you--it's the situation. Too much bullshit. The gods get cranky too from time to time. All I want to do right now is put this jobber ass clone MAVERICK in his place, roll into ONE and smash that clusterfuck battle royal poon, march into Twilight's office and shove my size twenty-two boot up her ass and take a well earned vacation to Valhalla.
Cairo: You keep with the program, Odin, the Bobby Cairo program and all that shit will be a reality. Let's keep our eyes on the prize.
Cairo polishes his Glocks and adjusts the scope on his AK.
Cairo: Time traveling cyborgs ain't shit. Jobber style battle royal ain't shit. MAVERICK the mad scientist ain't shit. And you know what? Sarah Twilight still ain't shit. I see Orbit and Fly talkin real big, gesturing wild with their hands-- I think they really think they're hot shit. I think they're popping for their own cause, popping like them old style clappers on the TV.
Cairo loads up his pockets with unshelled M&M's and tucks his guns into carefully placed holsters all about his person.
Cairo: People talk about immortality in this business. The Era of Fly. All of this childishness. We don't have to dream about being what they say. We're already there. We are livin it. We are not just immortal. We are impervious to attack from any and all forces. These jobber MAVERICK forces-- the terminator crew, whatever they call themselves. Let's think about it: Right now they think they're hot shit. They're making some in-roads against the Thick-ni Army-- an army that is presently without its leader. It's like who gives a shit? You think you're hot stuff, man? You think you're big timing The Thickness? You're playing kings of the castle but you don't even got the keys to open the door. Fucking childishness. Foolishness. Shootin fish in a barrel when all you got is a cap gun.
Stamos: Bobby, are you OK? Are you off the meds? Do you need booze?
Cairo: Nah, John Stamos. Bobby Cairo is fine. Bobby Cairo is just fired up. Tired of the bullshit, like my partner said. I look at Fly and Orbit. I look at Logan. I look at Twilight and Price. So much hype. So much fluff and bluster. I wish that The Thickness wasn't limited to one battle in the ring at ONE. I want to hurt all of these people. I want to make them suffer. Ain't none of them can hold a candle to what The Godfather brings, and that ain't even regarding The All-Father. I'm talkin about Bobby Cairo one on thirty against any WCF superstars that you want to throw into the mix, past or present. You want Logan? Torture? Corey Black? Slickie T? PC Cradle? Frank Motha Fuckin Bates? Line them up gauntlet style and Bobby Cairo will tear through them like this Bobby Cairo dick through a Copenhagen brothel.
The shoes are laced. The guns are cocked and loaded. Cairo looks at Odin. Odin looks at the heavens above. The skies are turning black. Blood and thunder are cast through the atmosphere. The Thickness rides again.
Chapter XIII: "River City Blitzkrieg"
The palaces of the city shine in silver moonlight. Flares of rocket tails light the night sky. The solid gold ubersleigh of death rides into town with Rihanna and Reese "With Her Poon" leading the charge. The Thickness has arrived with automatic weapons in tow. The thousands of futuristic Balfore cyborgs are planted in a flank formation, advancing upon the River City limits as a maelstrom of gunfire, grenades and missiles fills the air in a cacophonous militaristic onslaught of cataclysmic proportion. It's a mouthful, like the thickness on that "With Her Poon" tip, but it must be stated: all-out war has engulfed one of Poon Guinea's largest metropolitan areas, the base of Poon Guinean black market diamond trade and home of Poon Guinea's most lurid underground sex clubs. If River City falls then Poon Guinea almost certainly falls with it. This is an intolerable outcome and it shall not be tolerated.
Cairo: I want ZMAC on the horn, NOW! McMorris wants his blow and bitches? He needs to get his ass here NOW!
Stamos: It's already being handled, Bobby. ZMAC is en route to Poon Guinea. We chartered a private unmarked helicopter for his and D-LO C-LO's prompt arrival.
Odin: These bitches are gonna pay for interrupting Odin Balfore's Atlantian fuck-a-thon, I'll tell you that right now. Can't believe I'm wastin my time with this. Fuckin invading Poon Guinea with some pansy ass Odinators that I already slayed? MAVERICK must be on crack to think this half-baked bullshit scheme would work.
Odin chugs a gas can filled with turpentine and Everclear, a sort of bootleg Zombie Bomb. Cairo climbs on top of an elevated platform above the city and gets on the bullhorn. He barks orders at his military forces, that Thousand Thick-ni Army that has crushed so many opponents before it.
Cairo: MEN! LOAD THE FRONTLINES! NO MERCY! NO RETREAT! PRESS THE ADVANTAGE! NO OPPOSITION CAN DEFEAT US! WE ARE STRONGER, FASTER, BIGGER, BADDER, THICKER!
Cairo motions toward Rihanna and Witherspoon. They climb onto the platform, being pulled upwards by The Governor. The ladies situate themselves, straightening bosom and ass cheek while standing tall amidst the mass of Thick-ni soldiers, thousands upon thousands of Thick-ni warriors that form a sea of humanity. Spotlights flourish, air raid sirens sound their call, panicked citizens flee the city--but no. They stop in their tracks. Bobby Cairo is not letting them go anywhere.
Cairo: You. Are. Not. Leaving.
He says it just that way too, with the pause in between his words for added emphasis. This ain't no pussy ass Jonny Fly Bullshit (JFB for brevity's sake). This is the Bobby Cairo. The Governor of this great Poon Guinean land. When Bobby Cairo speaks his people listen.
Cairo: I speak loud. I speak with a force and a prime objective. I need this bullhorn to make you listen to me? No, no. Fuck this bullhorn.
Cairo punts the bullhorn into the 447th row of the Poon Guinean Grand National Coliseum. He speaks with the volume, the tone and the timbre of an inhuman dynamo, a hurricane of sophistication, dignity and intangible leadership. Winston Churchill is rising from his grave to take notes from this great Cairo, The Godfather. All fifteen million Poon Guinean residents listen keenly and acutely to Cairo, rising to the highest points in their respective places of residence and letting his words fill their brains with so much life-affirming wisdom.
Cairo: You think that we buckle under pressure? You think that we fall to their schemes, my people? Poon Guinea is under attack from the futuristic and altogether unthick forces of MAVERICK, an evil clone of our Poon Guinean Lieutenant Governor and my tag team partner Odin Balfore. This MAVERICK is not half the man that Odin Balfore is and he's got twice the brain that Odin Balfore has. What does this tell you? Sid Vicious was right all along. Sid Vicious taught us these soul-inspiring lessons long ago but we refused to open our eyes. The time has come, my children. Open your eyes, your ears, your mouths and your loins. Embrace this shit. Embrace what Bobby Cairo is feeding you.
Cold sweat drips from Bobby Cairo's brow as spotlights glisten, his blue eyes beaming and his lips contorting to form a prideful smile.
Cairo: This is the winter of our discontent, my children. Oh yes, we are being tested, but we do not fall. We do not quiver nor quake. We will win this battle because we cannot be defeated. Cormack MacNeill? Chase Michaels? Jayden Thunder? Jason Weslow? This is the challenge that The Thickness is faced with at ONE? All of this and so much less.
Cairo shakes his head, sweat droplets dropping onto the cold metal platform below his feet.
Cairo: Disappointment fills me because I want to be challenged. I truly do. I want to show the world that Poon Guinea will rise above all just as The Thickness has time and again. The fact of our truth remains that there is no challenge. There is no competition. I have to call out the entire WCF Hall of Fame and challenge them to a gauntlet style competition just to feign a foggy hint of opposition that you and I know shall never rear its head. Much as I crave a challenge I cannot fault our forces, our brave Thick-ni soldiers-- they are the reason that we will never be knocked from our perch of greatness. They are the reason why we stand tall. The Thickness stands tall inside of the ring as the Thousand Thick-ni Army stands tall on the battlefield of this great Poon Guinean soil.
Cairo spreads his arms like wings-- he flutters his muscular arms, causing his body to levitate from the platform beneath him. The citizens marvel at the wonder of Bobby Cairo's excellence. The Thick-ni Army stops and stares in between launching bludgeoning death blows at MAVERICK's Odinator army. The tide of the battle has already changed in favor of the Poon Guinean military as the result of mere words, mere sounds being projected from Bobby Cairo's mouth.
Cairo: So I think about what this military is doing tonight. I think at how our enemies shall fall at our feet and perish like so much decaying rubbish. I think about tag team contendership battle royals. The parallels are eerie. Men such as Dez Angel, Jayden Thunder, Zack Wild, The Original Gangster and Chris Davidson have all talked a good game about what they intend to do at ONE--
Cairo's tirade is cut off by Odin's unyielding laughter-- laughter that is so loud and forceful it is creating tidal waves that have already submerged thousands of fleeing Japanese citizens thousands of miles away.
Cairo: Odin, please, I know that's just about the shittiest list of shits to ever shit stain a WCF ring, but these men are our opponents. I think about those men and their claims and I think about MAVERICK and his claims, about how The Thickness should quiver and quake and hand over our mighty Poon Guinean soil to satisfy his evil whims and misdeeds. I spit loogies at MAVERICK. I spit loogies at the battle royal competitors. Why? It's simple. They fill my esophagus with hate and phlegm and utter disdain, like rancid cheese danish that was served to unsuspecting consumers.
Cairo cricks his neck into place, a scowl careening from side to side upon his face, the moon chasing rockets and drone aircraft in a spirited race, the poon growing moist while the thickness gives chase.
Cairo: They are cowards. We are the brave souls. We are the world leaders. We form the foundation of truth, honor and justice in this world. We listen to TOOL and Soundgarden and we bang our heads and play air guitar. The battle royal competitors know nothing about this. MAVERICK hasn't even heard of it, must less engaged himself in such free-spirited wheelin and dealin.
Rihanna and Reese sense that their cue is drawing near and they strip their panties and spread their legs.
Cairo: Look at the Riri poon. Look at the Reese "With Her Poon". This is why we fight. This is freedom. This is liberty. This is the Poon Guinean way. You know what you need to do, my children. Do not let the poon down. Do not let The Godfather and The All-Father down. FOR POON GUINEA!!
Cairo raises his arms like a manic-depressive mad man and rallies his people. Old men, pregnant women, crippled Asians and venture capitalists join forces, their spirits having been raised, their differences cast aside, Bobby Cairo inspiring them to greatness. Garden hoes, semi-automatic firearms, kitchen utensils, flame throwers, eighties sedans, they are all used as weapons. Anything the citizens can get their hands on are rallied and raised and formed into action as the people of Poon Guinea join forces with the Thousand Thick-ni Army to punish the invading Odinators and crush their formation without so much as breaking a sweat. The Poon Guinean masses are relentless, tireless, charged on emotion and resolute as if fighting their way to Heaven and those seventy-two virgins.
Cairo and Odin share a stare, a smile, a glimmer of levity. The outcome of this battle is now academic-- not that it ever was in doubt.
Odin: Bobby, my man. These bitch ass cyborgs think they got a shot against The Thickness, their minds just cannot comprehend. Those in the battle royal cannot comprehend. If cyborg terminators in my likeness cannot defeat us, what chances are there at ONE? No chance, a negative probability of chance. This is what we are, who we are. We are going to fuck up those who stand before us, glinting challengers to our gold with hopes and dreams meant to be crushed under our feet like the metallic skulls of so many Odinators. That is the best they can hope for. That is all their moments in the sun will be. To walk into the lion's den, king of the poon-vana, king of the jungle. One does not walk into WCF and claim victory over The Thickness just like one does not walk into Poon Guinea and claim victory. Such notions are ripe with unthick and uncalculated plans of attack that will fail before they even begin. I tell you Bobby- let it be known that what happens here is nothing compared to what we will do in the ring at ONE- to whomever we go up against.
Cairo: My man, there is no other way around it- no other way to say it. Tonight and at ONE, we will stand victoriously on top of the world, the world that we have set on fire with our words and actions. There is no JFB here. There is none of that Twilight anti-poon to speak of. Just hard fighting, hard smashing legendary Thick motha fuckas that are going to retain their gold and go back and smash that Reese "With Her Poon". First things first, let us go find MAVERICK.
Odin: Put such injustices to bed and then we can settle the unjust causes of all those battle royal entries with a series of choke breakers and power bombs. No one leaves alive.
Cairo: No one ever has. Because our will... is law. Ready or not, here we come.
Newport smoke crests the Poon Guinean skyline as thousands upon thousands of Odinators meet a merciless mechanized death at the hands of the Poon Guinean people and the Thousand Thick-ni Army. Bobby Cairo picks up the head of one decapitated Odinator and punts it into the first row of the Staples Center in Los Angeles, sending a firm message to all of the battle royal entrants.
Chapter X: "A Man In His Mind"
Odin sits on one of the only long wooden benches in the court room that still has legs to stand on. He sprawls out his massive frame and pulls out the necessary tools to craft himself a mighty blunt. Odin's facial expressions tell the story. Part anger, annoyance, sadness, confusion, and of course madness. The mad god licks the rolling paper and sparks the blunt. He takes a few puffs and lets that kush fill his lungs. He sits in the front row of the court room, closest to the retaining wall between the spectators and the official proceedings. Dead bodies are everywhere. A pool of blood soaks the floor in crimson sin under Odin's feet. Odin looks out towards the judge's seat and continues to ponder before expressing his thoughts.
Odin: Look around you, WCF. Look at what I do. At what I do to myself. Destruction, because there's a me out there that's just crazy enough to do it. You jobbers in the opener who think it will be a great experience to walk into WCF- into the biggest show of the year with the opportunity to take the tag team championship from myself and Bobby Cairo. Look upon all that you've seen. All of you that come up in here with this chip on your shoulder of inflated greatness from other companies. All of you may or may not know my name. Even less of you know of The Godfather, but you will. There is no training, no preparation, skills or knowledge that you think you possess that will be able to overcome a situation such as this. The match that you're in- those whose names I refuse to name- you're beneath me. That's not arrogance; that is truth. The truths of communism, pure and simple.
Odin takes a few more puffs before looking at his blunt.
Odin: This battle royal to pick my opponents is there for a reason. There are six other tag teams in WCF. That's not such a bad sum but if you look around this court room, you can see why none of those teams are fighting for the gold at the biggest pay-per-view of the year. We've destroyed them all. Whomever amongst you is unfortunate enough to emerge from this battle royal, will be no better off than the others. We've defeated three world champions. Let that sink in for a moment. Men who know each other, wrestled each other, get to watch themselves in that ring every week for over a year now, men who reap the praise of the masses. But what did it matter? What did it amount to when they stood toe-to-toe with The Thickness? It was if they were nothing. Look around and ask yourselves if you have the ability to top such a thing? A such thing that doesn’t come along very often in this business. It is to the point of frivolous bribes and bounties to be placed upon the heads of The Thickness, like a crown of thorns. We are not shaken by such attempts. We mock them.
Odin holds the blunt between his lips as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his massive wallet, exploding at the seams. He opens it and starts tossing money onto the floor; large sums of money that pile up in a substantial stack, Poon Guinean silverbacks.
Odin: Half a mill is nothing for me. I carry that around for lunch what most people would work their entire lives just to get. This is not a money thing but if such notions tantalize your brains like J. Alba on my cock, then dance those sugar plums right out of your head. We are the best, not due to lack of competition. There is no such thing. We are the best because it is our natural state. It's a feeling onto others that conjures up jealousy and hatred. Get used to it. Get used to where you are. None of you will make it out of that spot. That is not a challenge. Just another absolute truth of communism. This title is all I have ever wanted in my career. I have it and I have it with a man who is my kin. A man that I can ride with and know that he won't flake on me for reasons most unthick. Look around you and know that your fate is that of all these poor souls who perished in the crossfire of my life.
Odin tokes the potent strain of ganja that he wields in his hands, the aroma of the green filling the air, the smoke lofting to the ceiling, fire alarms being tripped, sprinklers casting their liquid-- Odin firing his Deagle to kill the sprinklers. He shakes his head, supremely dissatisfied with the opposition that has been placed in front of The Thickness at ONE.
Odin: Nothing. You have nothing that you stand for and yet you wish to step to The All-Father with his claims as if you were children playing pretend? Truly that's all that you are. Children playing pretend, compared to The Thickness. Such a challenge cannot and will not be taken with a heavy regard. NO, not if this match that you're in was just to satisfy the need for my belt to be “defended.” There is no defense. There is no offense. Just two jobbers lookin for a bone but getting the ax. Dreams are for dreamers. That's who you all are and that's what you're all in until you go up against Cairo and I; then that shit becomes a fucking nightmare. As it stands, I am the only threat to myself and even that will have come to a conclusion. You are no better individually or collectively than The Thickness, in part or whole. This match is mere formality, a contractual obligation set up by that dick hatin' bitch named Sarah Twilight but even she too... must end. Must end and will end in the most inglorious of ways, that all people like her do. She will not be remembered for any particulars but for lacking any particulars. Much like the rest of you-- lacking.
Odin takes one last puff of his blunt before running it along the edge of his boot to extinguish it.
Odin: Come at us with such jesting of talent, skill or a threat to our tag gold and you will be dropped without prejudice. Whatever else needs to be said, will be said in that ring and in a language that all can understand. The dominating power of The Thickness. From Ragnarok to the Security Breach. You will be put down under The Thickness and see why first hand we are the greatest tag team of the last three years- if not this company's history when WE walk out of ONE, retaining our tag team titles.
Our will is law...
and Ragnarok is in its wake.
Ready or not. Here we come.
Chapter XI: "Pressing Advantage"
An Yahvenhassle Hotel. Nuuk, Greenland.
A cozy bed and breakfast lies nestled quietly in the sleepy town of Nuuk in Greenland, one of the few hospitable and hospitality driven places in Greenland. The majority of the country is under a seven foot thick layer of permafrost, similar to that of Sarah Twilight's golden hood that no one has seen or touched- much like the arc of the covenant but with more Nazi melting power. The bed and breakfast's roof slopes like that of an IHOP but with a red roof and red walls and white wooden window shutters. This time of year, visitors are few as no one wants to visit the arctic circle in December. Why do you think polar bear populations have declined? They ain't dying, just gone south. Deep South. Beaver South.
MAVERICK sits at a small round wooden table, stirring a metal spoon around a brown ceramic tea mug. The spoon gently clinks against the sides of the mug, if ever so gently. He looks tired, worn out and weary, rung out from sleepless nights and showers that could not restore vigor to his soul. He wears a white terminal long sleeve and blue jeans- nondescript attire for a man who's trying to keep a low profile. As it is, mad scientists carry too much weight in the form of negative attention and with that crazy mofo John Stamos running around in a hockey mask, MAVERICK needs no such attention.
MAVERICK: Damn Odinator is destroyed. Fuck John Stamos, that Savate motherfucker. French foot fighting...
MAVERICK lets his thoughts carry his weight; his voice along with it.
MAVERICK: Am I the only one who considers the French to be cowards!? Gah, damn it Uncle Jesse! He could be anywhere, he could even be here now.
Suddenly a thin man with slicked back hair, sunglasses and a suit approaches MAVERICK from out of nowhere, appearing without so much as a sound as if an apparition or the figment of a paranoid mind.
Gentleman: It would seem as though you are having an internal struggle of mental anguish, no? Are you after the one called Odin Balfore?
MAVERICK gives rise to a bout of worry and issues the gentleman a confused look, but he eventually realizes that the man isn't here to harm him. His senses dull and he relaxes. A common cause is still a common cause, even amongst a mysterious stranger.
MAVERICK: He just...
MAVERICK slumps into his seat and shrugs his shoulders.
MAVERICK: He doesn't want to die.
MAVERICK looks at the stranger, studies him, observes his nondescript features and his manner.
MAVERICK: Tell me, stranger: How hard is it to kill an idiot savant?
Gentleman: Harder than one would think. Harder than it looks in the movies.
MAVERICK: And you are?
Gentleman: Just a man with a common enemy. You know what they say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. So what do you say, friend? May I take a seat?
MAVERICK nods as the gentleman takes the seat across from MAVERICK.
MAVERICK: And what do I call you, friend?
Gentleman: K. Mister K. will do for now. Best not to get involved with extended pleasantries. I'm sure that you understand.
MAVERICK: So what's your story? What did the Nordic oaf do to you?
Mr. K: It's not a matter of what he did. Rather what he can do for me. He has something I want. More precise, he knows the location of something I want.
MAVERICK huffs with laughter.
MAVERICK: Preposterous. He knows nothing of any possible value!
Mr. K: Such things are not a laughing matter. I can assure you that my reasons extend far beyond your petty desire for monetary gain.
MAVERICK: How do you know about that?
Mr. K: Because Mister Curtis, when you've been around this world as much as I have- you tend to pick up on these things.
Mr. K leans in and puts his elbow on the table. He slides his glasses down the bridge of his nose to reveal red irises surrounded by black instead of eye whites. He quickly yet slowly pushes the glasses back up on his face and lets a sly crack of a grin show between his lips.
Mr. K: Why go for this half a million when you can get Balfore where it hurts? His pride. The pride of The Thickness, Poon Guinea. Launch a full scale invasion while they are... distracted.
Mr. K reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a letter that's exactly the same as the letter that was given to The Thickness that sent them to Atlantis.
MAVERICK: What is this?
Mr. K: Insurance. In a manner of speaking. Just know that The Thickness is very. VERY far away from home and thanks to you, they are men divided between their houses. Your meager little exploits were not total failures. In fact, I could use you.
MAVERICK: I got it!
Eureka!
MAVERICK: While The Thickness is distracted, I'll attack their home base and force them into subordination and make them pay ME that half a mill on top of the half a mill from Scott Savage! Thus doubling my wallet! It's PERFECT!
Mr. K lets out a sigh in a facepalm moment as he speaks under his breath.
Mr. K: I should have just stuck with the lizard man.
MAVERICK creaks a brow and casts a sideways glance at Mr. K. MAVERICK feels as though he's floating on a body of water, floating on a body of breasts with nipples erect. He casts a glance down at Mr. K's groin, which is oblong, shaped like an almond.
MAVERICK: Say, you're not from around here.
Mr. K: That is correct... and incorrect. I am from many places and yet none. Why do you care about such things, Curtis?
MAVERICK: Why did you come here exactly? You seem to know so much about everything, including my plans. Why do you want me of all people to help you?
Mr. K. raps his obtuse knuckles on the table and casts a warning glance at MAVERICK.
Mr. K: You want to talk turkey, that's it? I aim to bring down Balfore. I aim to acquire this information that I require to do this work that I must do. I feel that you are, ostensibly speaking, a useful idiot. You do the job that I need you to do? Yes, you can take your pocket change, your crumbs from under the couch cushions. I require finances no more than Jorge Diaz requires poon- I have positively no use for it. It serves none of my interests.
The nails on K's rapping fingers appear insomuch as claws from some kind of hellish demon, a creature of the black lagoon perhaps. This hardly unnerves MAVERICK. He is accustomed to doing business with all kinds of freak show menaces and homicidal wraiths. It comes with the territory of being a mad scientist.
MAVERICK: The question is, how do we launch a full-scale invasion of Poon Guinea? Even with Odin and Cairo otherwise occupied, the Thousand Thick-ni Army is still an omnipresent force under the guidance of Five-Star General Zombie McMorris.
Mr. K: Oh you didn't know? Your ass better call somebody. The ZMAC Attack is otherwise occupied with cocaine, fat bitches, dumpster fires and Marco Valintine.
MAVERICK: Who the fuck is a Marco Valintine?
Mr. K: Jobber fodder, nothing overly disconcerting yet ZMAC has been obsessed with skewing the man's genitalia. Unimpressive rat-like genitalia at that. I'm told that McMorris has been simmering Valintine's testicles in a hearty stew along with carrot, potato, celery, moonshine and vaginal blood from a collection of deceased hookers.
MAVERICK: A balanced diet if ever there were. So the gourmet chef is distracted. The Thickness is on hiatus. All of this leaves Poon Guinea unguarded?
Mr. K: Truthfully speaking the Thick-ni Army is always on guard, but they are relatively compromised. This is the most opportune moment to strike that we are likely to see for several months, years even.
MAVERICK: Unfortunately my prototypes have been destroyed. I've lost contact with both The Odinator and The Gillinator. Goddamn it why did I think that a supersmart Odin Balfore cyborg could defeat the genuine article? Odin has always thrived on being a war-mongering neanderthal. To add intelligence to the mix is to humanize the beast. STUPID STUPID MAVERICK!
MAVERICK swats himself in the head while Mr. K. looks on.
Mr. K: Are you finished abusing yourself, Curtis? You swat your head and it's mere inches away from spanking your monkey. I don't want to see that. He don't want to see that either.
MAVERICK: WHoooo-WHAaa?
Standing behind MAVERICK, in fact towering over him, is none other than the reptilian being from the Caribbean Islands known as El Chupacabra. Chupacabra is dressed in white satin, fly pimp style gear that looks like it could be straight out of Steve Orbit's closet.
MAVERICK: Who the fuck are you?
El Chupacabra: AAARGHHHHHHHH!!!!
Mr. K. scolds El Chupacabra for his outburst.
Mr. K: Chupacabra! Use your words! Remember? We talked about this.
El Chupacabra stares at Mr. K. with those cold dead reptilian eyes. He turns his attention back to MAVERICK and clears his throat.
El Chupacabra: AHEM! Hello there, sir. My name is El Chupacabra. It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance. I believe that we can be of service to one another. You see, I have been stalking Bobby Cairo for months now. He owes me... let us call it, a debt from the old days. Do you mind if I take a seat?
Chupacabra takes a seat at the now exceedingly crowded coffee table.
El Chupacabra: You might be familiar with Bobby Cairo as a wrestling legend, but I know him on a more personal level. See, here in Greenland there aren't many of us chupacabras walking around, but in Puerto Rico? We're quite common. We work as judges and lawyers and some of us, take myself for example, work as pimps. Bobby Cairo? He was a major purveyor of my talent, the young ladies that would not walk the streets as prostitutes... no, no. These young ladies only dealt with the rich and famous clientele, men such as Cairo with deep pockets and a discreet nature. Cairo would call me and make his preferences known, large tits, bubble butts and shaved poon, and I would deliver. Bobby Cairo was a big fan of the Poonto Rican bitches as he called them, but a time came when Bobby Cairo decided to stop paying me the money that he owed me for my services and this left me...
Chupacabra rubs his reptilian paws together and sighs.
El Chupacabra: Let's just say that a chupacabra cannot survive on beer alone. This gentleman over here--
Chupacabra cranes his head toward Mr. K.
El Chupacabra: He offered me a deal. I help him track down this Balfore fellow whom I understand Cairo is friends with, and K. will make sure that I get my money from The Godfather.
MAVERICK nods his head.
MAVERICK: It seems as though we have common interests, gentlemen. Elimination of The Thickness and their Poon Guinean empire tops our list of priorities. The question becomes: How do we invade a nation that has proven itself capable of overthrowing dictatorial regimes? Even a compromised Poon Guinean military is a force to be reckoned with.
Mr. K: With our ambition and your technical savvy, Mr. Curtis, I believe that we are holding all of the cards to overthrow the Thickness regime. If you need funding to procure materials for these "terminators" that you've built, then I can assist you with that. But we need stronger machines, better machines, capable of launching a full-scale military attack on an unsuspecting nation. This is going to be Poon Guinea's Pearl Harbor, a national tragedy that will shake the very core of their nation.
MAVERICK grasps his hands together and laughs maniacally.
MAVERICK: AHA! YES! I'M BACK, BABY, I'M BACK!
MAVERICK sips his tea excitedly while discussing plans of attack with K. and Chupacabra.
Chapter XII: "The Motel 6 Championship"
It's a slug fest that's gone on for days. A battle of two gods over bragging rights. The Motel 6 Openweight Bedroom Star Championship. Current Champion: The Godfather Bobby Cairo. Five-time champion, edging Odin out by one. This time Odin is out for blood, drinking from the bath tub filled with Zombie Bombs. Paint thinner, Everclear and some Poonglourious for flavor. Two to three bitches apiece as they fight for pinfalls and submissions. John Stamos watches the door for any signs of Odin/Gillinators. Amongst the chaos there is banter. Not that of foreplay or arousing good times. NO. This shit is business.
Odin: Hey Bobby, what's the difference between the Bedroom Star Championship and the tag team battle royal?
Cairo: The Bedroom Star Championship is far more prestigious. To be fought over by gods- not boys or men who do not know how to handle the poon.
Odin: Absolutely right. That's why I'm winning!
Cairo: Like fucking hell you are!
Odin: Who do you think is going to win it? Based on what you've seen thus far?
Cairo: These mer-bitches because they know how to put up a fight. This mucus layer makes it a bitch-
Odin: That ain't no mucus.
Cairo: AH, you fucking son of a bitch!
Odin: It's the hopes and dreams and blood of all the jobbers in the battle royal. Fucking gone. Because they know they cannot step to us and our ways. They train for the match of their lives...
Cairo: And we battle it out for bragging rights here in motha fuckin Atlantis while those piss ass jobbers argue amongst themselves as to who's going to get massacred in that ring. Ain't that somethin about a bitch named Twilight?
Odin: Shit will be a massacre too. I love hitting Ragnarok on punk ass bitches. And my Mark on jobbers. Then my big ass combo on punk ass jobbers.
Cairo is furious as he slams the mer-bitch poon with a reckless yet calculated abandon, making the mer-bitch shriek in a pleasured alchemy of hatefuck.
Cairo: Unthick sons of bitches! I tell ya Odin, after all this shit – fucking jobberish bullshit with bitch Twilight throwin random ass bum-sucking shitbags at us and then this fuckin MAVERICK dipshit with his piece of garbage made in Taiwan ass bullshit Terminators, all the bullshit we gotta deal with and Barry Oak still runnin his fat fuckin mouth – we are still gonna retain these belts because our will is motha fuckin law!
Odin: And this Motel 6 title is mine!
Cairo: Nah you motha fucka it's mine!
Odin Balfore chokes a bitch while smashin the poon and Bobby Cairo smashes the poon while chokin a bitch. Contrasting styles that are equally effective.
Outside of the motel room, Poon Guinean Director of Security John Stamos stands guard at the door, armed to the teeth with the latest and best in Glock technology-- Glock being an official corporate sponsor of the Poon Guinean regime. Stamos is staring at an Atlantian mer-bitch who is wearing a skintight skirt and nothing else when he receives a call on his cell phone. He answers the call and listens intently for a moment, the information pouring into his ear drums: There is trouble in River City. River City, Poon Guinea. Stamos's eyes turn cold and dead. He hangs up the phone with a whole lot of shakin goin on in his soul, like that mer-bitch shakin her generous tatas and supple caboose. Stamos knocks on the motel room door before barging in.
Stamos: Ah, Bobby?
The Thickness pays no attention to their Director of National Security. This shit's neck and neck right now for the Bedroom Star Championship and even a slight distraction could prove the difference between victory and defeat.
Stamos: Bobby!
Nope. No response. The shit can wait. Finally, Stamos blurts the news out.
Stamos: Bobby! River City is under attack! That Odin guy- well the other Odin guy has invaded.
Cairo: What the shit?
Cairo is distracted for a brief moment but long enough for senior referee Stanley Moser to come in and make the three count.
1...
2...
3!!!
The time keeper rings the bell at a total time of 89 hours and 46 minutes.
Kyle Steel: HERE IS YOUR WINNER AND NNEWWW MOTEL 6 OPENWEIGHT BEDROOM STAR CHAMPION... THE ASGARDIAN ALL FATHER... ODIN BALFORE!
Cairo: Son of a bitch! What the fuck, John Stamos?
Odin: Don't cry because Uncle Jesse cock blocked your victory.
Stamos: The city is holding strong, but it cannot hold forever. With ZMAC away and you two away, the city does not stand a chance!
Cairo: That fuckin tweeked out zombie motherfucker... Well what about D-LO C-LO?
Stamos: He is not yet ready. He wears the TMNT footie pajamas but he does not wear them as a man wears them; he does not wear them as John Stamos wears them. We must return to Poon Guinea ASAP!
Cairo: See, motha fucka!? I told you.
Odin: No, I told you. I told you this would happen and what did you do- you bitched about some paternity suit that we easily could have gotten rid of with a big enough stair case.
Stamos: You might wanna get your things. We don't have much time.
Cairo: Really, Odin? You would go to war for half a mill?
Odin: It's the principle of the matter.
Cairo: Something doesn't smell right and it's not the decay of dead mer-bitch, either.
Odin: There's only one way to find out.
Cairo: You're goddamn right about that. And you're gonna pay. Well not you per se, but MAVERICK... the other you. HE'S going to pay!
Odin: Not likely. He's just as crafty as I am.
Cairo: Son of a bitch! Stop contradicting me! We're gonna go back to Poon Guinea, we're gonna smash that MAVERICK anti-poon, send that motha fucka back to the North Pole, make a man out of D-LO C-LO so we don't have to keep gettin called back to the office when we're on vacation, and I'm takin back my Bedroom Star Championship! This ain't over, Balfore!
Odin: Like hell! The belt is mine! You can keep the dead mer-bitch carcasses, but the belt stays with The All-Father!
Odin throws on his red leather pants and jean jacket. Cairo laces up his pinstripe suit and tie and those polished loafers. Reese Witherspoon rises from her seat, having spectated the entire Bedroom Star marathon without so much as speaking or moving a muscle.
Cairo: What do we do with Reese WitherPOON?
Odin: You mean Reese "With Her Poon"? Fuck, toss her to the wolves for all I care. Bitch don't have tits to speak of and the ass ain't much either.
Cairo: True but she's kinda cute. And she claims that she's been sent from the future to protect us. Isn't that cute?
Odin: Fuckin bitch is crazy. Lilith crazy. raYne crazy. You want to bring her, she's your responsibility. You feed her, you bathe her, you take her for walks.
Cairo: I don't know about all that. I'll slip her the thickness and then we'll take it from there. She does a good job I'll throw her some leftover Popeyes chicken and biscuits.
Odin: Not from my stash you won't.
Cairo: You're being awfully confrontational, my man. Why don't you save that Asgardian angst for your dystopian doppelganger?
Odin: Listen, man, it ain't you--it's the situation. Too much bullshit. The gods get cranky too from time to time. All I want to do right now is put this jobber ass clone MAVERICK in his place, roll into ONE and smash that clusterfuck battle royal poon, march into Twilight's office and shove my size twenty-two boot up her ass and take a well earned vacation to Valhalla.
Cairo: You keep with the program, Odin, the Bobby Cairo program and all that shit will be a reality. Let's keep our eyes on the prize.
Cairo polishes his Glocks and adjusts the scope on his AK.
Cairo: Time traveling cyborgs ain't shit. Jobber style battle royal ain't shit. MAVERICK the mad scientist ain't shit. And you know what? Sarah Twilight still ain't shit. I see Orbit and Fly talkin real big, gesturing wild with their hands-- I think they really think they're hot shit. I think they're popping for their own cause, popping like them old style clappers on the TV.
Cairo loads up his pockets with unshelled M&M's and tucks his guns into carefully placed holsters all about his person.
Cairo: People talk about immortality in this business. The Era of Fly. All of this childishness. We don't have to dream about being what they say. We're already there. We are livin it. We are not just immortal. We are impervious to attack from any and all forces. These jobber MAVERICK forces-- the terminator crew, whatever they call themselves. Let's think about it: Right now they think they're hot shit. They're making some in-roads against the Thick-ni Army-- an army that is presently without its leader. It's like who gives a shit? You think you're hot stuff, man? You think you're big timing The Thickness? You're playing kings of the castle but you don't even got the keys to open the door. Fucking childishness. Foolishness. Shootin fish in a barrel when all you got is a cap gun.
Stamos: Bobby, are you OK? Are you off the meds? Do you need booze?
Cairo: Nah, John Stamos. Bobby Cairo is fine. Bobby Cairo is just fired up. Tired of the bullshit, like my partner said. I look at Fly and Orbit. I look at Logan. I look at Twilight and Price. So much hype. So much fluff and bluster. I wish that The Thickness wasn't limited to one battle in the ring at ONE. I want to hurt all of these people. I want to make them suffer. Ain't none of them can hold a candle to what The Godfather brings, and that ain't even regarding The All-Father. I'm talkin about Bobby Cairo one on thirty against any WCF superstars that you want to throw into the mix, past or present. You want Logan? Torture? Corey Black? Slickie T? PC Cradle? Frank Motha Fuckin Bates? Line them up gauntlet style and Bobby Cairo will tear through them like this Bobby Cairo dick through a Copenhagen brothel.
The shoes are laced. The guns are cocked and loaded. Cairo looks at Odin. Odin looks at the heavens above. The skies are turning black. Blood and thunder are cast through the atmosphere. The Thickness rides again.
Chapter XIII: "River City Blitzkrieg"
The palaces of the city shine in silver moonlight. Flares of rocket tails light the night sky. The solid gold ubersleigh of death rides into town with Rihanna and Reese "With Her Poon" leading the charge. The Thickness has arrived with automatic weapons in tow. The thousands of futuristic Balfore cyborgs are planted in a flank formation, advancing upon the River City limits as a maelstrom of gunfire, grenades and missiles fills the air in a cacophonous militaristic onslaught of cataclysmic proportion. It's a mouthful, like the thickness on that "With Her Poon" tip, but it must be stated: all-out war has engulfed one of Poon Guinea's largest metropolitan areas, the base of Poon Guinean black market diamond trade and home of Poon Guinea's most lurid underground sex clubs. If River City falls then Poon Guinea almost certainly falls with it. This is an intolerable outcome and it shall not be tolerated.
Cairo: I want ZMAC on the horn, NOW! McMorris wants his blow and bitches? He needs to get his ass here NOW!
Stamos: It's already being handled, Bobby. ZMAC is en route to Poon Guinea. We chartered a private unmarked helicopter for his and D-LO C-LO's prompt arrival.
Odin: These bitches are gonna pay for interrupting Odin Balfore's Atlantian fuck-a-thon, I'll tell you that right now. Can't believe I'm wastin my time with this. Fuckin invading Poon Guinea with some pansy ass Odinators that I already slayed? MAVERICK must be on crack to think this half-baked bullshit scheme would work.
Odin chugs a gas can filled with turpentine and Everclear, a sort of bootleg Zombie Bomb. Cairo climbs on top of an elevated platform above the city and gets on the bullhorn. He barks orders at his military forces, that Thousand Thick-ni Army that has crushed so many opponents before it.
Cairo: MEN! LOAD THE FRONTLINES! NO MERCY! NO RETREAT! PRESS THE ADVANTAGE! NO OPPOSITION CAN DEFEAT US! WE ARE STRONGER, FASTER, BIGGER, BADDER, THICKER!
Cairo motions toward Rihanna and Witherspoon. They climb onto the platform, being pulled upwards by The Governor. The ladies situate themselves, straightening bosom and ass cheek while standing tall amidst the mass of Thick-ni soldiers, thousands upon thousands of Thick-ni warriors that form a sea of humanity. Spotlights flourish, air raid sirens sound their call, panicked citizens flee the city--but no. They stop in their tracks. Bobby Cairo is not letting them go anywhere.
Cairo: You. Are. Not. Leaving.
He says it just that way too, with the pause in between his words for added emphasis. This ain't no pussy ass Jonny Fly Bullshit (JFB for brevity's sake). This is the Bobby Cairo. The Governor of this great Poon Guinean land. When Bobby Cairo speaks his people listen.
Cairo: I speak loud. I speak with a force and a prime objective. I need this bullhorn to make you listen to me? No, no. Fuck this bullhorn.
Cairo punts the bullhorn into the 447th row of the Poon Guinean Grand National Coliseum. He speaks with the volume, the tone and the timbre of an inhuman dynamo, a hurricane of sophistication, dignity and intangible leadership. Winston Churchill is rising from his grave to take notes from this great Cairo, The Godfather. All fifteen million Poon Guinean residents listen keenly and acutely to Cairo, rising to the highest points in their respective places of residence and letting his words fill their brains with so much life-affirming wisdom.
Cairo: You think that we buckle under pressure? You think that we fall to their schemes, my people? Poon Guinea is under attack from the futuristic and altogether unthick forces of MAVERICK, an evil clone of our Poon Guinean Lieutenant Governor and my tag team partner Odin Balfore. This MAVERICK is not half the man that Odin Balfore is and he's got twice the brain that Odin Balfore has. What does this tell you? Sid Vicious was right all along. Sid Vicious taught us these soul-inspiring lessons long ago but we refused to open our eyes. The time has come, my children. Open your eyes, your ears, your mouths and your loins. Embrace this shit. Embrace what Bobby Cairo is feeding you.
Cold sweat drips from Bobby Cairo's brow as spotlights glisten, his blue eyes beaming and his lips contorting to form a prideful smile.
Cairo: This is the winter of our discontent, my children. Oh yes, we are being tested, but we do not fall. We do not quiver nor quake. We will win this battle because we cannot be defeated. Cormack MacNeill? Chase Michaels? Jayden Thunder? Jason Weslow? This is the challenge that The Thickness is faced with at ONE? All of this and so much less.
Cairo shakes his head, sweat droplets dropping onto the cold metal platform below his feet.
Cairo: Disappointment fills me because I want to be challenged. I truly do. I want to show the world that Poon Guinea will rise above all just as The Thickness has time and again. The fact of our truth remains that there is no challenge. There is no competition. I have to call out the entire WCF Hall of Fame and challenge them to a gauntlet style competition just to feign a foggy hint of opposition that you and I know shall never rear its head. Much as I crave a challenge I cannot fault our forces, our brave Thick-ni soldiers-- they are the reason that we will never be knocked from our perch of greatness. They are the reason why we stand tall. The Thickness stands tall inside of the ring as the Thousand Thick-ni Army stands tall on the battlefield of this great Poon Guinean soil.
Cairo spreads his arms like wings-- he flutters his muscular arms, causing his body to levitate from the platform beneath him. The citizens marvel at the wonder of Bobby Cairo's excellence. The Thick-ni Army stops and stares in between launching bludgeoning death blows at MAVERICK's Odinator army. The tide of the battle has already changed in favor of the Poon Guinean military as the result of mere words, mere sounds being projected from Bobby Cairo's mouth.
Cairo: So I think about what this military is doing tonight. I think at how our enemies shall fall at our feet and perish like so much decaying rubbish. I think about tag team contendership battle royals. The parallels are eerie. Men such as Dez Angel, Jayden Thunder, Zack Wild, The Original Gangster and Chris Davidson have all talked a good game about what they intend to do at ONE--
Cairo's tirade is cut off by Odin's unyielding laughter-- laughter that is so loud and forceful it is creating tidal waves that have already submerged thousands of fleeing Japanese citizens thousands of miles away.
Cairo: Odin, please, I know that's just about the shittiest list of shits to ever shit stain a WCF ring, but these men are our opponents. I think about those men and their claims and I think about MAVERICK and his claims, about how The Thickness should quiver and quake and hand over our mighty Poon Guinean soil to satisfy his evil whims and misdeeds. I spit loogies at MAVERICK. I spit loogies at the battle royal competitors. Why? It's simple. They fill my esophagus with hate and phlegm and utter disdain, like rancid cheese danish that was served to unsuspecting consumers.
Cairo cricks his neck into place, a scowl careening from side to side upon his face, the moon chasing rockets and drone aircraft in a spirited race, the poon growing moist while the thickness gives chase.
Cairo: They are cowards. We are the brave souls. We are the world leaders. We form the foundation of truth, honor and justice in this world. We listen to TOOL and Soundgarden and we bang our heads and play air guitar. The battle royal competitors know nothing about this. MAVERICK hasn't even heard of it, must less engaged himself in such free-spirited wheelin and dealin.
Rihanna and Reese sense that their cue is drawing near and they strip their panties and spread their legs.
Cairo: Look at the Riri poon. Look at the Reese "With Her Poon". This is why we fight. This is freedom. This is liberty. This is the Poon Guinean way. You know what you need to do, my children. Do not let the poon down. Do not let The Godfather and The All-Father down. FOR POON GUINEA!!
Cairo raises his arms like a manic-depressive mad man and rallies his people. Old men, pregnant women, crippled Asians and venture capitalists join forces, their spirits having been raised, their differences cast aside, Bobby Cairo inspiring them to greatness. Garden hoes, semi-automatic firearms, kitchen utensils, flame throwers, eighties sedans, they are all used as weapons. Anything the citizens can get their hands on are rallied and raised and formed into action as the people of Poon Guinea join forces with the Thousand Thick-ni Army to punish the invading Odinators and crush their formation without so much as breaking a sweat. The Poon Guinean masses are relentless, tireless, charged on emotion and resolute as if fighting their way to Heaven and those seventy-two virgins.
Cairo and Odin share a stare, a smile, a glimmer of levity. The outcome of this battle is now academic-- not that it ever was in doubt.
Odin: Bobby, my man. These bitch ass cyborgs think they got a shot against The Thickness, their minds just cannot comprehend. Those in the battle royal cannot comprehend. If cyborg terminators in my likeness cannot defeat us, what chances are there at ONE? No chance, a negative probability of chance. This is what we are, who we are. We are going to fuck up those who stand before us, glinting challengers to our gold with hopes and dreams meant to be crushed under our feet like the metallic skulls of so many Odinators. That is the best they can hope for. That is all their moments in the sun will be. To walk into the lion's den, king of the poon-vana, king of the jungle. One does not walk into WCF and claim victory over The Thickness just like one does not walk into Poon Guinea and claim victory. Such notions are ripe with unthick and uncalculated plans of attack that will fail before they even begin. I tell you Bobby- let it be known that what happens here is nothing compared to what we will do in the ring at ONE- to whomever we go up against.
Cairo: My man, there is no other way around it- no other way to say it. Tonight and at ONE, we will stand victoriously on top of the world, the world that we have set on fire with our words and actions. There is no JFB here. There is none of that Twilight anti-poon to speak of. Just hard fighting, hard smashing legendary Thick motha fuckas that are going to retain their gold and go back and smash that Reese "With Her Poon". First things first, let us go find MAVERICK.
Odin: Put such injustices to bed and then we can settle the unjust causes of all those battle royal entries with a series of choke breakers and power bombs. No one leaves alive.
Cairo: No one ever has. Because our will... is law. Ready or not, here we come.
Newport smoke crests the Poon Guinean skyline as thousands upon thousands of Odinators meet a merciless mechanized death at the hands of the Poon Guinean people and the Thousand Thick-ni Army. Bobby Cairo picks up the head of one decapitated Odinator and punts it into the first row of the Staples Center in Los Angeles, sending a firm message to all of the battle royal entrants.
