BIGGER BADDER THICKER: The Poonlantis Chronicles Part IV
Dec 22, 2013 10:33:22 GMT -5
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Post by Deleted on Dec 22, 2013 10:33:22 GMT -5
Chapter XIV: "The Captor, The Torturer, The Audience"
Thin silver pins prick at eyelids. An inhuman screeching can be heard. The hoot owl flutters its wings and flies away under cover of the snowy winter night. The forest is crowded with evergreen trees that stand a hundred feet tall if they stand an inch, their limbs capped by a sheet of white, illuminated by pale moonlight. In a modest clearing surrounded by the enormous ancient trees there stands a log cabin, a sturdy handcrafted lodging absent of decadence; shunning form for function, though elegant in its unique rustic splendor. The inhuman screeching harkens from the interior of the cabin, a place far removed from signs of "civilization" or a possible helping hand.
Limbs are harnessed by thick leather straps, stretched to their breaking point. Bruises appear pristine and translucent, shades of purple, yellow and blue upon a canvas of white skin. Pins and needles are injected into flesh seemingly at random but with a surgical precision, torturing their victim with wanton disregard for the threshold of human pain tolerance. Fingers, toes, eyelids, earlobes and genitalia are penetrated by the sharp, unyielding instruments while the screeching continues in heightened refrains of pain and desperation. There is no mercy, no relent from the abuse. The captive is providing a depraved form of entertainment for the captor, the torturer, the audience.
Focus shifts like panicked eyes from the body of the unfortunate tortured being to the body of its torturer. The piercing instruments are being hatefully guided into the supple Caucasian flesh by green reptilian hands bearing razor sharp claws. Further up the muscular arms of the reptilian creature, sleeves appear rolled above veiny bulging biceps, sleeves of a purple satin shirt... unmistakeable pimp attire. The face of the creature becomes visible next with a mouth that bears row after row of horrific snarling teeth, beady nostrils and cold dead eyes that appear entranced in a catatonic state. Taking in the full spectrum of horror, it quickly becomes apparent: this monstrous looking creature is none other than El Chupacabra.
The target of Chupacabra's torturous wrath is a man who bears striking resemblance to WCF Tag Team Champion Odin Balfore; however it is not Odin. It cannot be Odin. This man has blond hair instead of white and appears to be a few years younger than Odin. This is Michael H. Curtis better known as MAVERICK, the mad scientist, Odin's doppelganger from another dimension; the man who tried to conquer Poon Guinea with an army of futuristic cyborgs bearing the likeness of himself, the machines known as Odinators or "Odin Terminators".
MAVERICK's naked body is sprawled upon a cold metal gurney with no mattress, blood spattered about. His wrists and ankles are held in place by the leather straps, which are attached to metallic rails on either side of the gurney. Mister K. stands next to El Chupacabra, dressed in a black suit with a red tie and puffing on a Cuban cigar.
Mr. K: Are you comfortable, Mr. Curtis?
MAVERICK grunts before he snickers derisively.
MAVERICK: You consider this torture? Psh. This is just another Sunday night David Carradine Special for me.
K. glares at MAVERICK.
Mr. K: I see. Well your jokes, Mr. Curtis, shall not save you this time. This is simply gentle prodding, a coaxing as with candy to children, fine wine to loose women or power to the egocentric male. You will tell me what I wish to know and this whole, let us call it a process, can be expedited. What do you say, hmm? For posterity's sake? Lying will only delay the inevitable.
MAVERICK: What could you possibly need to know?
Mister K. leans in close to MAVERICK, pulling his sunglasses down to reveal his red and black eyes. He blows a puff of fine Cuban smoke in MAVERICK's face as he licks his teeth, which have transformed into fangs.
Mr. K: Mister Curtis, you are for all intents and purposes, the man I seek. I have provided you with the means to crush our common foe and you have failed me. Countless resources wasted on tomfoolery; an international incident, a debacle of epic proportion. You have failed me for the first and only time. So now the horrors that I was going to inflict on one Odin Balfore, shall be inflicted onto you, ten-fold. Now I am going to ask you the question and you are going to tell me the answer: Where is HE?
MAVERICK: Who?
Mister K. takes a step back and nods to Chuup, who begins to turn a crank at the base of the bed, which in turns pulls the straps and stretches out MAVERICK's already strained limbs even further.
Mr. K: Unless you wish to be drawn and quartered, I suggest you cooperate, Mr. Curtis. Now tell me, where is he!?
MAVERICK: Who?!
Mr. K: You know who! That damn son of a bitch Reginar!
MAVERICK: Reagan? You want Conrad, not me.
"URHHGG!!" MAVERICK groans as the straps tighten even more.
Mr. K: Reginar? Do you not know him? He is your uncle. Santa Claus.
MAVERICK: What the fuck do you want with Santa? You're not working with the Chinese, are ya?
Mr. K: What do you know about the Chinese?
MAVERICK: Look. I... I don't know what you think I know.
Mr. K: That's how you want to play this, Curtis? In that event I don't care what you know. I'm going to torture you regardless.
Mister K. takes off his glasses and tucks them into the front pocket of his jacket and then snaps his fingers. "Stuck In The Middle With You" by Stealers Wheel slowly creeps into audible tones from out of the void. There he was, MAVERICK; stuck in the middle of it all. Without a clue, without a hope. Think he'll make it? It'll take a miracle. A Christmas Miracle.
Mr. K: That fat mess gives joy every year. He encroaches upon my business. Do you know what that business is?
MAVERICK: Was it the Snuggie?
Mr. K: What? No! It was not that... shut up!
MAVERICK: Cuz I invented the Snuggie with the poop door in the front.
Mr. K: I'm really going to enjoy this. Chuup. The straight razor.
Suddenly the lights in the cabin go out.
Mr. K: What the--is that Winston’s and Old Spice I smell?
All that can be seen in the blackness is a small flowing ember, two feet off the ground and the sound of smoke being exhaled. A Christmas Miracle has arrived!
Chapter XV: "Big Titty Birthday Cake"
Around the draft table in the war room of the Poon Guinean Governor's mansion, Bobby Cairo and Odin Balfore sift through various plans for reCUNTstruction of River City, the city and its surrounding metropolitan area having been devastated in the battle between the Thicki-ni Army and the Odinators. Government resource offices estimate that it will cost in excess of one hundred billion rubles to repair the damage caused by the harrowing military conflict. Cairo and Odin take turns slugging back shots of Poonglourious whiskey while passing a bong back and forth amongst themselves.
Odin: Bobby, uh... I don't know how to say it so I'll just say it: These plans suck.
Cairo: What do you expect? D-LO C-LO drew them up. I thought we would humor him. Guess it was a waste of time.
Odin: Yeah they fuckin suck. Looks like a six year old drew these. Did he write these in crayon?
Cairo takes a closer look at the drawings, inspecting them with discriminating eyes and that brain that never stops churning with its schemes and inquisitions.
Cairo: Odin, these plans have your initials on them. See? The O that looks like an umbrella and the B that looks like Kim Kardashian's pooper.
Odin: Ah, well...
Odin holds the drawing up to the light and turns it a hundred and eighty degrees before slapping it back down on the table.
Odin: Ah, yes. I like it! Let's do this one!
Cairo: Seriously, my friend? It's a drawing of your massive clobbering paw dressed in the guise of a Thanksgiving turkey.
Odin nods his head with a spirited emphasis.
Odin: It's the perfect plan.
Cairo: That... makes little sense, my man.
Odin: It's not my fault that these plans suck. We got our titles to defend in a few days and we're here going over plans to rebuild River City, a city that was named as such because it is moist and flowing like the poon... indeed like the great Mississippi River or the Nile before her. My friend, we have too much work at hand. Defending our belts, fending off an army of me, smashing the poon, rebuilding a great city. These graphs, etchings and diagrams?
Odin scoops up the litany of papers with two armfuls and tosses them into a nearby trash can.
Odin: A waste of our precious time. We are not men of reason or well planned thoughts. We are men of action.
Cairo skews an eyebrow while picking wax from his ear with a pen knife.
Cairo: I like to think that I'm a rather cerebral gent, Odin. However, you are my friend and colleague. If you do not wish to focus your energies on these plans for the long and costly rebuilding process in River City, then what do you propose that we do?
Odin: Considering that today's my birthday, I say we go get blitzed.
Cairo deposits a slice of wax from his ear into the trash can and folds the pen knife, sliding it into the breast pocket of his mocha-colored dress shirt. Rihanna presses her mocha-colored fingers into Cairo's shoulder flesh, providing him with a stress-reducing massage.
Cairo: Isn't your birthday in May, and besides do Asgardians even have birthdays?
Odin stretches his massive arms and flexes them into titanic coils of well-defined muscle.
Odin: My birthday is whenever I damn well want it to be and today, TODAY is the day that I want it to be.
Cairo takes a loosey-goosey posture as Rihanna's fingers perform their magic craft, tantalizing and teasing but never going full bore with it... not yet.
Cairo: Well shit! How old are ya, my friend?
Odin: Old enough to drunk drive while getting a hummer in a Hummer from a hooker.
Cairo performs a clapping gesture with inverted palms, his boner swelling from Rihanna's touch, ganja smoke filling his brain, Poonglourious bourbon flowing through his veins as richly as the blood itself.
Cairo: That's all I needed to hear, my man. Let us ride. Our chariot awaits. We're going to get bombed. These plans--
Cairo gestures toward the trash can, which has been jammed full with several hundred papers - composites of the failed rebuilding plans.
Cairo: They can wait. Shit's givin me a headache anyway.
Rihanna's fingers work their way down Cairo's flesh and spine as The Godfather closes his eyes and savors the experience. Odin beckons to Reese WitherPOON, who is presently dressed in a Catholic schoolgirl outfit replete with pleated skirt and kneehigh socks.
Chapter XVI: "Rescue Me"
BOOM! A bomb goes off. The cabin shudders with the impact of the blow. The chimney crumbles; bricks thrown through the air appear as weightless as pebbles. Automatic gunfire can be heard while blackness gives way to the silver spikes of moonlight. The silhouette of a tiny figure holding a Bushmaster rifle can be seen in a killing stance while shooting in any and all directions. The figure moves forward into the greater specter of the moonlight. The figure reveals itself as the moonlight illuminates its facial features, yellowish eyes burning with a fire of hate and retribution, a black and white mask of fur surrounding the eyes, the ears piqued with rage and an ethos of relentless determination. This is Gilligan, raccoon and entrepreneur, the genuine article: Owner of Fort Suma Sanchez, a popular night club and strip joint. Friend of "The Maverick Elite" Odin Balfore. Friend of MAVERICK, the mad scientist, Odin's spitting image.
IED's devastate any and all remaining quarters of the cabin, exposing Mister K. and El Chupacabra as they shudder behind the remains of a canopy bed, Chuup's tail poking K. in one highly irritated red and black eye socket. Gil marches Rambo style with no shirt on, warpaint on his furry face and ammo belts strapped around his torso. The Bushmaster fires devastating round after devastating round of ammunition without relent as Gil indiscriminately ravages his surroundings while making his way to the gurney where MAVERICK is still strapped down.
MAVERICK: Gilligan!? I, but--how did you know?
Gilligan: ... .... .. ..... ..... ........ ... .... ... ... ......
MAVERICK nods his head, the words seeping into his genius mind and being devoured as if human flesh for the desperate and starving man turned cannibal. Gilligan slices through the heinous leather torture straps with a serrated hunting blade and casts the straps like whips into the direction of K. and Chuup, who remain huddled while plotting their escape.
El Chupacabra: Who is that? A damned raccoon? Where I'm from we eat the damned raccoon! What the hell is this, some amateur hour BS? RRRAWWWRRR CHUPACABRA SMASH!!
Mr. K : Silence, ingrate! That damn coon skinned midget is a friend and ally of both MAVERICK and Balfore. We need to extricate ourselves from this situation swiftly and delicately so that we may regroup and plan our next course of attack. This is mission ABORT, Chupacabra. Betray your murderous instincts and let's get the hell out of here while the getting is good.
El Chupacabra: CHUPACABRA WANT BLOOOOOOOD!!!!
Chupacabra charges into the line of gunfire from Gilligan's rifle, his reptilian body throttled by each shot, his muscles twitching and spasming while his internal organs begin to shut down -- the giant lizard beast performs a crude, improvised dance as the force of the rifle blasts thwart his body to and fro.
MAVERICK: Holy shit that lizard is twerking. Gil, we need to get out of here.
Gil throws a pair of grenades and scoops MAVERICK's massive frame onto his raccoon shoulder, diving out of harm's way as the ensuing blasts clobber the former cabin and all unfortunate souls who remain in its vicinity.
MAVERICK: FIRE IN THE HOLE!!
Chapter XVII: "Big Titty Birthday Cake (Reprise)"
Bobby Cairo and Odin Balfore cruise down the strip in Cairo's vintage '74 Caddy Eldorado dubbed "Tina Machina"; The Godfather's automotive pride and joy. Rihanna is knelt below the steering wheel, servicing Cairo's meatstick while bobbing her head in time to the medley of Rihanna songs that blare on the pimped out stereo system. Odin in turn sits in the passenger's seat receiving a similar treatment from the Reese "With Her Poon". Reese, the Hollywood actress who was sent back in time to protect Odin and Cairo from the war of the machines, is slobbing The All-Father's codpiece, providing him with that firm yet delicate touch that honors the thickness on this most gracious and splendid day of sunshine, joy and Odin's legendary conception upon This Island Earth.
Odin: Goddamn, I ain't normally a fan of this type of pop muzak but it gives a good kind of head.
Cairo: Don't it though, my friend? It seems to be like there's hardly a better music for fucking to or getting your Armor-All spitshined. Something gets into these bitches when they hear them electro beats, man. Good shit. Very good shit.
Odin: We're going to the Asgardian Steakhouse on Fifth and Madison, right? I need a prime rib. Several hundred pounds of prime rib. Need fuel for this fire inside of my belly. Man cannot survive on beer alone. We cannot survive on getting our Johnson polished either. Need the good food, the shit that don't quit and sticks to your ribs.
Cairo: For many thousands of years, through ancient battles and nuclear holocaust man has required sustenance to fuel him through these hard times. Yes, my friend. We will take our business to the Asgardian Steakhouse. They are worthy of our most thick patronage. These bitches get our jizz off in time to these chintzy dancefloor beats and we might even throw them some slivers of our scraps.
Riri and Reese bob and weave their heads, eager to taste the thickness loads, eager to taste the scraps of that prime rib.
Cairo: Indeed we are warriors, my friend. Worthy of the finest meats and ambrosias. Worthy of only the finest in fact. You see these scars upon my person? Wounds on my face, chest and hind quarters? Scars from battle. Scars from wars both on the plane of the soil and on the barren disposition of the squared circle. I understand battle. I understand that these scars are the only truth that tells our stories. Words, sounds, noises projecting from The Godfather's mouth. They are eloquent, yes? Eloquent but wholly irrelevant. I could go without speaking for a thousand or more years and it would not hold importance upon this planet, or the planets beyond.
The Godfather's face winces and tongue writhes; Rihanna hit him on that good spot at the base of his passion pump. He's about to give Riri a taste of the Jesus Juice and she's about to get soaked. Not yet though. It will wait. Cairo has thoughts that must be completed.
Cairo: Ah, yes. A man can be many things. A leader, an innovator, a warrior. Tag Team Champion of the World. Governor of this fledgling yet triumphant state. Mayor of the Big Apple, the city that never sleeps. Hall of Fame caliber goombah. Then I look to the Balfore and I see the Immortal Asgardian All-Father. So much wisdom. So much accomplishment.
Odin nods his head in rhythm to the cadence of Cairo's speech and it seems that both of these bitches are doing the same while performing their fantastical head job. The music has faded, replaced by gilded bubbles of dialog that weave in metaphysical form as if notions from a comic book gimmick. Indeed, The Godfather's speech hangs heavy and long and wise. The poison fog that once clouded so many lost minds is being lifted.
Cairo: These men rise to the status of gods. This is what the man can do. Our scars are what tell the story. Emblems of accomplishment, testament to our indefatigable spirit and legacy of dominance. So many challengers rise to meet us, or so they believe.
Odin: Yet time and again they find themselves as ants rising only to meet the soles of our boots.
Cairo: Precisely so, my friend. And such insolence and deviance has become commonplace, to the state where your intra-dimensional doppelganger felt confident in rising to attack Poon Guinea before being crushed as this same ant. The question is: Who? How?
Odin: Who funded his army of machines and how did he know that we had been lured out of town? It's inconceivable that he would have been able to pull off this feat of misdirection and military conquest on his own. He's a floundering failure of a Bond movie villain. No, no. Someone put him up to this stunt.
Reese spits out Odin's thickness long enough to speak.
Reese: Odin Daddy, MAVERICK was being bankrolled by--
Odin thwacks Reese in the face with that same thickness and shoves it back into her insolent mouth.
Odin: You speak to me?! Suck, damn you, suck!
Cairo: It's a conspicuous sequence of events for sure, my friend. Yet hardly something that we were unprepared or unequipped to handle.
Odin: Much as this half-baked notion of Sarah Twilight's tag team contendership battle royal.
Cairo pulls Tina Machina into The Governor's reserved parking space at the Asgardian Steakhouse and puts the car in park.
Odin: It is meant to intimate that The Thickness cannot think on its feet, cannot adapt and change a gameplan on the wing to meet an unexpected foe. Time and again we have shafted all who oppose us, challengers known and unknown, human and alien, men with muscles and women with gaping poon. One by one they fall, whether hostile or friendly. The scars of battle? Indeed, truths of our timeless and immortal victories over the unworthy and the unthick.
Cairo and Odin are carried on thrones by servant bitches through the giant palace doors that welcome guests to the Asgardian Steakhouse, Riri and Reese still performing their worship of the thickness on this holiest of holy days, the anniversary of The All-Father's birth.
Cairo: Scary things? Hepcat things? Hepatitis is more like it.
A waitress with giant knockers and firm buttocks approaches The Thickness and attentively transcribes their order: seven-hundred pounds of prime rib with additional mashed potato, loaded of course with bacon and the sour cream, and endless flow of Poonglourious-branded whiskey. For dessert: The Big Titty Birthday Cake, from which a strategically placed stripper bearing the namesake big titties will pop out, honoring Odin with song and intercourse.
A slap on the ass by The All-Father's hand sends the waitress on her way, her high heels clacking on the marble ballroom floor.
Odin: Our majesty is supreme, my friend. For the past hour this thickness has been indulged in the finest bout of transcendental worship and astral poon projection that I can recall in the last a day and a half, and yet still the Reese "With Her Poon" refuses to quit. This is gumption. This is a stronger competitive spirit than what we will face in that ring on Sunday.
Cairo: The Thickness strolls into ONE. The battle royal field scatters. They refuse to eliminate each other from the match. They eliminate themselves in a cowering fear. They wither and shake and seize up and spew blustering prose and beg off from this thickness onslaught, and what does it buy them? We are not taking no for an answer. When you signed your name on the contract, you assured your demise at these immortal loins of The Thickness. And yes, this is why we show basic courtesy to the Rihanna poon and the WitherPOON, because they show a greater tenacity than any challenger that we will face in a Wrestling Championship Federation.
A brilliant white light engulfs the proceedings, cutting off any further dialog from the reputable leaders of Poon Guinea and bringing a halt to all gesticulations and mannerisms inside of the steakhouse. A panicked frenzy runs afoot as diners and guests of honor spin their heads and turn heel and begin to pout and consider running, but The Godfather calms them with a gentle cooing while he and Balfore draw their weapons. Odin guides his Desert Eagles with a calm and steady hand while Cairo's Glock rises to the occasion much as the thickness. Professionals that they are, Rihanna and Reese have continued to serve their masters as if oblivious to the unwelcomed and unwarranted interruption.
Cairo: I'm getting awfully tired of motherfuckers thinking they can crash our party, Odin. We need to put these fuckers down, once and for all.
Odin: It does not matter who or what they are. They will tremble under our boot and find their fate as victims of merciless homicide. Show your faces, cowards. My dinner awaits and I am not to be kept waiting for my supper on this my day of birth.
"WAIT!" MAVERICK appears out of the thin, blue sky -- or rather the golden domed ceiling inscripted with its portraits of the gods. He falls to the floor in an awkward and ungraceful heap. Gilligan lands on top of MAV, with his Bushmaster still in hand.
Odin: MAVERICK! Gil! What is the meaning of this interruption?
Cairo grabs MAVERICK by the neck and pulls him to his feet.
Cairo: You son of a bitch, I'm going to strangle you!
Cairo chokes the life out of MAVERICK, who appears to be trying to communicate something to The Godfather while unable to do so because of his strangling -- and yes Rihanna is still smoking that Godfather pole.
Odin: Bobby, I think the idiot has something that he's trying to share with the classroom.
Cairo throws MAVERICK to the floor, giving him a chance to recover his breath, MAV gasping for air while nude on the floor.
Cairo: Where the hell are your clothes?
MAVERICK: I was... kidnapped and strapped to a gurney while tortured--
Cairo rips the tablecloth out from the table, yanking it out from under the glasses and the candelabra that sit upon the table without disturbing them.
Cairo: Cover yourself up, you disgrace. You will explain yourself in the immediate or you will die.
MAVERICK: OK, OK. Listen. I am culpable. I conspired to attack Poon Guinea. To invade. To overthrow. To make you beg for mercy. But I did it for the right reason: Because I am an evil mastermind.
Cairo: That's reasonable but it still doesn't explain why you're not wearing pants.
MAVERICK: I went into business with these two guys-- well, one guy and a lizard.
Cairo: El Chupacabra?
MAVERICK: Yeah. That's the lizard. I don't know the guy's name, not exactly anyway. I just know that he calls himself Mister K. and he's obsessed with Santa Claus for some reason. Anyway, this Mister K. guy bankrolled my Army of Odinators, said something about wanting to crush Poon Guinea so he could get at Odin. It was a brilliant plan. BRILLIANT!
MAVERICK thrusts his index finger into the air, exuding the mad scientist aura despite the fact that he's nude on the floor, covered only by a tablecloth.
MAVERICK: When the invasion failed, Mister K. and Chuup turned against me, blaming me for the failure. They tortured me... well, they tickled me is more like it, but anyway they tried to get me to snitch on Santa but before I had the chance Gilligan here rescued me.
Odin: Do you have any idea what you've done? You've gone into business with Krampus.
MAVERICK: Who the fuck is Krampus?
Gilligan: .... . ...... .... ..... .. .. . ......
Cairo: Indeed, Gil, who the fuck is Al Envy? Good one, my man.
Odin: Krampus is an evil motherfucker. Former companion of Saint Nicholas who used to punish the kids who were bad, while Nick would reward them with presents. According to the stories, Kramps would kidnap the kids and take them back to his lair. Real sick Ian Watkins type of shit. Santa put an end to all of that though. Started putting a lump of coal in the stockings of kids who were bad, and he snitched on Krampus to the feds. Got him shut down. Kramps did hard time for that. Now he's back for revenge.
Cairo looks disgusted, even while busting a humendous (humongous and tremendous) nut in Riri's supple and all-swallowing mouth.
Cairo: That's some of the sickest shit I've ever heard, Odin. So how do we handle this? Guns blazing type of shit? Track this queer pedophile mofo down and curb stomp his faggot ass?
Odin: Not necessary. He will be here soon. Krampus and El Chupacabra are both on their way. I can feel it in my bones. Speaking of which--
Odin busts his load off, instantly crushing Reese's skull and sending her body flying through the hand-carved ivory slab of wall fifty feet away from the table.
Cairo: They honestly think they can succeed where their army of cyborgs failed, invading Poon Guinea?
Odin: This ain't even gonna be about all of that. Just a couple of pusses gettin their shit pushed in by The All-Father and The Godfather.
With a semblance of order having been restored, the assemblage of prime rib is wheeled to the dining table of The Thickness, while Rihanna kneels with a humble spirit waiting to be tossed her scraps.
The Thickness dines.
Chapter XVIII: "Assemble. March. Destroy."
A pair of size fifteen combat boots march down a gravel path deep in the throat of the Poon Guinean Basin. Tattered blue jeans, a Ramones t-shirt and a white hockey mask complete the ensemble. A baseball bat wielding man trudges along the path, unaccompanied and unflinching, motivated to find what he is looking for, a pathway to another dimension. He sets foot into the wormhole. He is transported across the space-time continuum, realms where Richard Nixon never resigned and was named President for Life, where Limp Bizkit was not only revered and respected but hailed as "America's finest death metal export", where Sarah Twilight wasn't a completely incompetent twat, where tag title challengers earned their spot on a card instead of being tossed into a "who gives a fuck, Thickness gonna win anyway" battle royal.
The man travels through all of this craziness and chaos, only to wind up precisely where he began his journey: trudging along that same gravel path deep in the throat of the Poon Guinean Basin. This time it's different. He still walks with the purpose, but his stride is slowing, shortening, as if he's nearing his destination. Yes, this is the dimension that he's been searching for. He can feel it. And if he remembers correctly, and of course he does, he parked his Wrangler right behind that--
Another brilliant flash of white engulfs all that surrounds it, this time the specter of white is projected by a pair of headlights from that same Wrangler that the determined man had been stalking toward. Rain droplets course and dance and splash as the Jeep cruises along the strip, the same strip that Tina Machina navigated earlier in the day. It is now night. Scars bear their truths upon the man's body. His eyes steady with their course. Still unflinching. The focus never lost. The man has been here before. Driven these roads. Made this journey. Ten, fifteen, maybe a hundred times before. He's a veteran of the game. The scars tell their truths.
"Bobby. It's me. I'm on my way."
Cairo awakens in his bed inside of his master bedroom at the Poon Guinean Governor's machine, the ringing of his cell phone having awakened him. He picks prime rib from his teeth, Rihanna snuggled on his thickness, while listening to the voice on the other end of the line. Cairo appears stoic, attentive, the brain never losing its scheme, never falling from its inquisition.
Cairo: I already know the answer. I've already seen this play out, in my dreams, a thousand times over. You're sure that you want this? You're sure that you're willing to play this game? We can call it off. We can say that you weren't ready to jump back into the game.
Cairo steadies his nerve while receiving precisely the reply that he anticipated. He nods his head and smiles.
Cairo: This is Gucci, my friend. This is exceedingly Gucci... and thick.
The light on the nightstand next to Bobby Cairo's bed is turned out. Gargling sounds from his bottom bitch commence.
Chapter XIX: "Renewal Of Faith"
The combatants enter the arena. This is not the Staples Center in Los Angeles, California for the ONE pay-per-view. This is a far grander stage for a far grander spectacle. The Poon Guinean Grand National Coliseum plays host to this modern day Armageddon scenario while the man with the golden vocal chords, Skip The Slip, does the intros. It will be stated that the Master and Commander, "The Godfather" Bobby Cairo and "The All-Father" Odin Balfore, are entering the stage. It will be stated that there is none greater, none holier, none more just. It will be stated that their opponents, the men who attempted to steal Christmas, the men who attempted to invade Poon Guinea, the men who stand for all that is unthick are the most evil sons of bitches to ever walk the earth.
One of these "men" a pedophile demon. The other a hard-luck reptilian pimp. Neither exactly ripe with true blue brawling experience, but both men possessing a savvy of what it means to stand and survive. MAVERICK has long since been deported and sent back to Greenland, himself being added to his previous scrap of failed experiments. Will he ever again attempt to take over the world? It's almost a certainty.
MAVERICK: I've got it! A boy band consisting of clean cut faggy looking British teens! And the lead singer will date Taylor Swift and he'll break her heart and she'll write a song about it, but he'll become an even bigger sensation because of it and they'll sell millions of records to teenage girls and I'll be their manager, and I'll be rich, rich, rich, yes more funding for my experiments and the world will be mine!!
And the wheels are turning once again as MAVERICK makes that intra-dimensional jaunt from Greenland back to the Legion of Doom, his secret headquarters in some far removed galaxy of a blackhole of a starburst supernova in the eyes of a pizza pie in a song that Dean Martin once sang, and all that jazz, hallelujah. And EUREKA! he proclaimed.
And the gladiators Balfore and Cairo take their position and Krampus and El Chupacabra take theirs, and the only thing separating the two is air and opportunity but it doesn't take long for them to get started as Krampus goes for the rake of the eyes but Cairo blocks with his hand Three Stooges style and bops his rivals' heads together in syncopated rhythm and sends them into Odin who drops them with a double clothesline. The crowd roars and they love it, but the heels of clandestine origin don't play fair. They throw powder in the eyes and the ref lets it go because it's no holds barred, and that powder is some chili pepper powder but it doesn't matter, because the eyes of The Godfather and The All-Father see all. Chili powder gives way to gunpowder and a pull from the trigger but bullets stop in midair and reverse their trajectory.
Krampus and El Chupacabra take flight and the crowd boos the cowardly heels, but their path to escape is blocked... blocked by a towering man in combat boots, tattered jeans, a Ramones t-shirt and a white hockey mask who's wielding a baseball bat.
El Chupacabra: Are you John Stamos?
One deft swing of the bat takes Chuup's head clean off and sends it into that same 447th row the Cairo once sent a bullhorn. Chupacabra's body hits the ground with a wet thud. Krampus begs off Ric Flair style while the masked man stalks him. The masked man removes his mask and tosses it into the raucous capacity crowd.
Crowd: PHILLIP BAINES! PHILLIP BAINES! PHILLIP BAINES!
Baines feeds off of the crowd's energy and tosses Krampus over the ropes and into the ring. Odin grabs Krampus and sets for the pumphandle slam. Cairo runs and hits a Fameasser as the slam is coming down. The Thickness simultaneously place victorious boots on Krampus's chest while referee Simon Thunderplunk counts the pin.
ONE...
TWO...
THREE!!!
Skip The Slip announces the winners over the PA, but the cheers of the crowd drown him out. Odin lifts Krampus over his head and tosses him into the ravenous crowd. Krampus is ripped limb from limb, blood and organs being savored by as many audience members as can get themselves a taste, bones picked clean as if by vultures. The Thickness stands tall in the ring with Baines, the three warriors soaking in the adulation of the crowd and the galvanizing powers of victory. The faith is restored. River City is reborn in the image of The Thickness. Urban renewal... Communist style.
Chapter XX: "The Bonus Round"
Cairo and Odin celebrate their victory with whiskey and bitches, bubble butts pointing skyward as dubious deeds are done dirt right. The Thickness celebrates as The Thickness can and does, but their understanding is parallel and universal: The Work is never done. The Work is only beginning, even in the face of great victory and achievement. Their attention shifts from urban renewal and all that it guilds to their upcoming battle at ONE.
Cairo: As the game gains more pieces, it loses players. All of those that you see before you, my children, my beautiful bubble butt having bitches, participants in a tag team Battle Royale with Cheese are nothing more than Triple A talent. Bums that have been recruited by a ginger headed hag. Sorry shitbags lookin for a quick Franklin to slip into their bill fold. I'd be interested to know who among these vermin, if any, has the drive to stick around in Dub See Eff. It's not exactly the burning focal point of my thought process, but a whimsical little query nonetheless. By my estimation--
Cairo plows that ass crack with violent repeated thrusts of his thickness.
Cairo: There are one or two tops in my estimation, Cormack and Chase are the names that spring to mind just because they've been here for a little while. Then you got guys like Thunder and Fatel... although I'm not sure if that last guy is even in the match. Who can keep track of all these jobbers though, right? I'm sure that all of you have been something somewhere in your lives. You were the man in high school, the captain of the football team, a real "big man on campus", maybe even a World Champion and/or Hall of Famer in some other wrestling company. We've all been somethings somewhere. Except for me. I've been THEE thing, right fuckin here.
The bitch's ass is tightening up right around that thickness, taking it in deep all the way to the intestine. The Godfather likey this.
Cairo: Each one of you speaks of history. The blood of my opponents writes it. Each one of you speaks of talent. The WCF Hall of Fame is where I rest my head when I'm not pounding that Riri poon and droppin a bottle of Jameson while I'm on the treadmill. HA! I don't need no fuckin treadmill. The Godfather does not run. You see the thickness pounding this thick ass? The Earth knows its place beneath my feet. Just like all of you. Look at what The Godfather has done in a week's time. Whilst you all squabble amongst yourselves for big dick supremacy, the biggest of them all are out banging mer-bitches for the Motel 6 Championship, battling futuristic cyborgs, slaughtering demons and reptilians just because we can. What have any of you done? Drank a protein shake? Watched some of your Sons of Anarchy DVD box set for more gimmick ideas? Maybe you even hustled some schmuck for fifty bucks? Oh wait, I know... you signed a fucking contract? Yes, because greatness starts with a motha fucking contract.
Odin appears as if he's trying to outdo The Godfather, taking his thickness through the ass crack beyond the intestine and all the way into his bitch's heart valves.
Odin: Pft. I ain't even under contract. No one's got the balls to tell me otherwise, either, not even that cock and testes having tranny bitch Twilight. Is that what these guys think they are? Ballers? Shot callers? Otherwise players of the game? The game whose rules they cannot begin to comprehend?
Odin Balfore laughs while destroying the inner workings of this bitch's organs and forcing her entire body to shut down. He discards her corpse with the thickness and begins ravaging another big booty bitch.
Odin: Bobby Cairo, we are going to walk into ONE as WCF Tag Team Champions, the champions of the year after only carrying the straps for a month, and then walk out tag team champions of history. Of all time. Beating these jobbers ain't gonna prove that shit one bit. These nigs ain't special. The Godfather and The All-Father-- that's special. That's something to look at. This moment in time is where people are going to look back to and see the start and finish of the great tag team debate. You, Bobby, the most charismatic and influential mind to grace WCF, and Odin Balfore, the most destructive and hated force in WCF. No whiny little bitches gonna wake up from their dreams of delusions, walk up to The Thickness and take what is ours. These guys don't know Ragnarok... but they will. They don't know the men I've crippled, the careers I've ended. The company that I've destroyed and rebuilt in my likeness, the likeness of The Thickness.
Cairo chuckles while killing a big booty bitch of his own. She is instantly discarded and replaced by another.
Cairo: Shameless plug, but I'll take it. See, we are men steeped in history. Not that past, done and buried shit. No, we are living legends that still very much know how to go in that ring and ruin each and every single person who steps through those ropes. This battle royal sickens me, truly it does. However, I am a champion and I will defend my belt accordingly. S-PAC ducked out, opting to disband rather than fight The Thickness. S-PAC, the last of the stables war-- if you can call EP and Twilight mindfucking each other in the ass with Fly's cock a “war”. S-PAC were handed the belts on a platter and they treated it like hogs. Then The Thickness rolled up, put that nonsense to bed, snatched that shit up and we ain't looked back yet.
Odin: We fought them, beat them. Rematch. Beat them again. They were supposed to face us yet again on Sunday but Gable decides to twist his chicken wing ankles and Cash puts S-PAC on the line against what's his face?
Cairo: D-Day.
Odin: Yeah? Who's he beat?
Cairo: Tort?
Odin: No fuckin way? Really? Then what the fuck is this shit about? Do you know who he never beat? This guy right here. The All-Father. Do they understand that? Groups disband when The Thickness faces them. They don't form. No one rallies to fight The Thickness. Just like no one rallies around you half-a-dollar-having hobo-fisting motha fuckers right now. No one expects any of you to walk out of the Battle Royal clusterfuck, let alone survive it.
Cairo smacks them ass cheeks with his grapefruits while planting his fertile seed deep within her soil.
Cairo: You never know, we might just show up and take all of you's to school – become our own biggest threat officially since can't no one touch us, cept us. What we have gone through this week is not a joke. It is truth, borne by these scars. The virtue of Thick-ni communism, pure and simple. NO rookie, no vet, no legend who's been around for a decade and a half is going to walk up and stand toe to toe with this. You may think you can. You might even have a wet fucking dream bout that shit but reality is simple. You step in that ring against Bobby Cairo, that shit right there is going to be the Killing Joke. Any one of you fools laying up, looking at those lights. Paying for your transgressions against The Thickness.
Odin: Now isn't the time to “step up and overthrow the establishment”. Don't know what you motha fucka's are thinkin. We ain't the boys in the back. We aren't the team players. We fucking hate what this company has become and we will bring it back to what it was. Don't be thinkin that you're going to come and cause havoc. You ain't puttin anyone on notice. HA! Such tripe is suitable for your bus ticket back to Sheep Shit, Ohio. Most certainly you won't be putting The Thickness in part or whole on notice, lock, watch, NSA surveillance or on a mother fucking FBI most wanted poster. S-PAC put a half mill bounty on our heads and I left that and a legion of mer-bitches in my wake. I'll throw the two of you two million just to shut the fuck up about it. No one cares who you are or where you been. I don't. Bobby Cairo don't. No one cares where you're going either. Cuz you ain't goin anywhere. ONE will be the first and last time some of you will be seen in WCF. ONE will be be the crown jewel in your careers. But these belts just ain't one of them.
Cairo: Truth be told? This isn't an ill estimation of anyone. You bring this upon yourselves with your entry into this little contest. This Sarah Twilight plan to screw us over has gone back in her face like she wishes would happen with the jizzum of The Godfather. Her anti-poon gets wet with the fluids of lust at the thoughts of Bobby Cairo penetrating her. On the contrary, I already have. I am in her mind. I see her game-- this game. An estimation of skill of our would-be walking casualties that are our opponents has failed. It has failed because you all have failed. What X-factor is revealed? None. What hope for the future is revealed? None. Because there is no hope against The Thickness. Where do you wish to start your attack? Our unparalleled success? Do tell. Robert Cairo wishes to hear. No? How about our accomplishments? Do tell. The mere mention of The Thickness is not without accompanied praise. Do you wish to attack our political affiliations? Perhaps I shall pencil you in when you conquer your own string of island nations.
Cairo flashes a self-satisfied smirk.
Cairo: Or when you control the world's drug and sex trade? Perhaps then? I think not. At ONE, whichever two of you beat the piss out of each other to come get wrecked by us, you will have a very short time to recoup and lick your wounds. When you come up against us you come up against a style, a feel, an emotion, a mindset of devastation and decimation. If Sarah Twilight thinks that she can make a statement with her power with such assumptions that any team can up and challenge The Thickness, then we are ready and willing. Most certainly we ARE going to throw down the tone of a shimmering example that such things are not even feasible. I don't care which two of you are the ones. Chase and Cormack, Thunder and Zack – whomever and whichever. That shit makes no difference. An example will be made of you. For the rest of WCF's days, this day at ONE will be remembered for when The Thickness, Bobby Cairo and Odin Balfore, made this tag division which had zero worth before us and created it within our own likeness. You are just the afterbirth. The afterthought. Just two warm bodies in for the three count after we put you down with The Thickness.
Odin: ONE is coming, QUICK. ONE is coming, THICK. Our Will is law... and Our Law is absolute. Abashed the devil stood when he saw how awful goodness is... and so will you.
Cairo: Ready or not... here we come.
The ass is smashed... and that's just a preview of what's gonna happen at ONE.
Thin silver pins prick at eyelids. An inhuman screeching can be heard. The hoot owl flutters its wings and flies away under cover of the snowy winter night. The forest is crowded with evergreen trees that stand a hundred feet tall if they stand an inch, their limbs capped by a sheet of white, illuminated by pale moonlight. In a modest clearing surrounded by the enormous ancient trees there stands a log cabin, a sturdy handcrafted lodging absent of decadence; shunning form for function, though elegant in its unique rustic splendor. The inhuman screeching harkens from the interior of the cabin, a place far removed from signs of "civilization" or a possible helping hand.
Limbs are harnessed by thick leather straps, stretched to their breaking point. Bruises appear pristine and translucent, shades of purple, yellow and blue upon a canvas of white skin. Pins and needles are injected into flesh seemingly at random but with a surgical precision, torturing their victim with wanton disregard for the threshold of human pain tolerance. Fingers, toes, eyelids, earlobes and genitalia are penetrated by the sharp, unyielding instruments while the screeching continues in heightened refrains of pain and desperation. There is no mercy, no relent from the abuse. The captive is providing a depraved form of entertainment for the captor, the torturer, the audience.
Focus shifts like panicked eyes from the body of the unfortunate tortured being to the body of its torturer. The piercing instruments are being hatefully guided into the supple Caucasian flesh by green reptilian hands bearing razor sharp claws. Further up the muscular arms of the reptilian creature, sleeves appear rolled above veiny bulging biceps, sleeves of a purple satin shirt... unmistakeable pimp attire. The face of the creature becomes visible next with a mouth that bears row after row of horrific snarling teeth, beady nostrils and cold dead eyes that appear entranced in a catatonic state. Taking in the full spectrum of horror, it quickly becomes apparent: this monstrous looking creature is none other than El Chupacabra.
The target of Chupacabra's torturous wrath is a man who bears striking resemblance to WCF Tag Team Champion Odin Balfore; however it is not Odin. It cannot be Odin. This man has blond hair instead of white and appears to be a few years younger than Odin. This is Michael H. Curtis better known as MAVERICK, the mad scientist, Odin's doppelganger from another dimension; the man who tried to conquer Poon Guinea with an army of futuristic cyborgs bearing the likeness of himself, the machines known as Odinators or "Odin Terminators".
MAVERICK's naked body is sprawled upon a cold metal gurney with no mattress, blood spattered about. His wrists and ankles are held in place by the leather straps, which are attached to metallic rails on either side of the gurney. Mister K. stands next to El Chupacabra, dressed in a black suit with a red tie and puffing on a Cuban cigar.
Mr. K: Are you comfortable, Mr. Curtis?
MAVERICK grunts before he snickers derisively.
MAVERICK: You consider this torture? Psh. This is just another Sunday night David Carradine Special for me.
K. glares at MAVERICK.
Mr. K: I see. Well your jokes, Mr. Curtis, shall not save you this time. This is simply gentle prodding, a coaxing as with candy to children, fine wine to loose women or power to the egocentric male. You will tell me what I wish to know and this whole, let us call it a process, can be expedited. What do you say, hmm? For posterity's sake? Lying will only delay the inevitable.
MAVERICK: What could you possibly need to know?
Mister K. leans in close to MAVERICK, pulling his sunglasses down to reveal his red and black eyes. He blows a puff of fine Cuban smoke in MAVERICK's face as he licks his teeth, which have transformed into fangs.
Mr. K: Mister Curtis, you are for all intents and purposes, the man I seek. I have provided you with the means to crush our common foe and you have failed me. Countless resources wasted on tomfoolery; an international incident, a debacle of epic proportion. You have failed me for the first and only time. So now the horrors that I was going to inflict on one Odin Balfore, shall be inflicted onto you, ten-fold. Now I am going to ask you the question and you are going to tell me the answer: Where is HE?
MAVERICK: Who?
Mister K. takes a step back and nods to Chuup, who begins to turn a crank at the base of the bed, which in turns pulls the straps and stretches out MAVERICK's already strained limbs even further.
Mr. K: Unless you wish to be drawn and quartered, I suggest you cooperate, Mr. Curtis. Now tell me, where is he!?
MAVERICK: Who?!
Mr. K: You know who! That damn son of a bitch Reginar!
MAVERICK: Reagan? You want Conrad, not me.
"URHHGG!!" MAVERICK groans as the straps tighten even more.
Mr. K: Reginar? Do you not know him? He is your uncle. Santa Claus.
MAVERICK: What the fuck do you want with Santa? You're not working with the Chinese, are ya?
Mr. K: What do you know about the Chinese?
MAVERICK: Look. I... I don't know what you think I know.
Mr. K: That's how you want to play this, Curtis? In that event I don't care what you know. I'm going to torture you regardless.
Mister K. takes off his glasses and tucks them into the front pocket of his jacket and then snaps his fingers. "Stuck In The Middle With You" by Stealers Wheel slowly creeps into audible tones from out of the void. There he was, MAVERICK; stuck in the middle of it all. Without a clue, without a hope. Think he'll make it? It'll take a miracle. A Christmas Miracle.
Mr. K: That fat mess gives joy every year. He encroaches upon my business. Do you know what that business is?
MAVERICK: Was it the Snuggie?
Mr. K: What? No! It was not that... shut up!
MAVERICK: Cuz I invented the Snuggie with the poop door in the front.
Mr. K: I'm really going to enjoy this. Chuup. The straight razor.
Suddenly the lights in the cabin go out.
Mr. K: What the--is that Winston’s and Old Spice I smell?
All that can be seen in the blackness is a small flowing ember, two feet off the ground and the sound of smoke being exhaled. A Christmas Miracle has arrived!
Chapter XV: "Big Titty Birthday Cake"
Around the draft table in the war room of the Poon Guinean Governor's mansion, Bobby Cairo and Odin Balfore sift through various plans for reCUNTstruction of River City, the city and its surrounding metropolitan area having been devastated in the battle between the Thicki-ni Army and the Odinators. Government resource offices estimate that it will cost in excess of one hundred billion rubles to repair the damage caused by the harrowing military conflict. Cairo and Odin take turns slugging back shots of Poonglourious whiskey while passing a bong back and forth amongst themselves.
Odin: Bobby, uh... I don't know how to say it so I'll just say it: These plans suck.
Cairo: What do you expect? D-LO C-LO drew them up. I thought we would humor him. Guess it was a waste of time.
Odin: Yeah they fuckin suck. Looks like a six year old drew these. Did he write these in crayon?
Cairo takes a closer look at the drawings, inspecting them with discriminating eyes and that brain that never stops churning with its schemes and inquisitions.
Cairo: Odin, these plans have your initials on them. See? The O that looks like an umbrella and the B that looks like Kim Kardashian's pooper.
Odin: Ah, well...
Odin holds the drawing up to the light and turns it a hundred and eighty degrees before slapping it back down on the table.
Odin: Ah, yes. I like it! Let's do this one!
Cairo: Seriously, my friend? It's a drawing of your massive clobbering paw dressed in the guise of a Thanksgiving turkey.
Odin nods his head with a spirited emphasis.
Odin: It's the perfect plan.
Cairo: That... makes little sense, my man.
Odin: It's not my fault that these plans suck. We got our titles to defend in a few days and we're here going over plans to rebuild River City, a city that was named as such because it is moist and flowing like the poon... indeed like the great Mississippi River or the Nile before her. My friend, we have too much work at hand. Defending our belts, fending off an army of me, smashing the poon, rebuilding a great city. These graphs, etchings and diagrams?
Odin scoops up the litany of papers with two armfuls and tosses them into a nearby trash can.
Odin: A waste of our precious time. We are not men of reason or well planned thoughts. We are men of action.
Cairo skews an eyebrow while picking wax from his ear with a pen knife.
Cairo: I like to think that I'm a rather cerebral gent, Odin. However, you are my friend and colleague. If you do not wish to focus your energies on these plans for the long and costly rebuilding process in River City, then what do you propose that we do?
Odin: Considering that today's my birthday, I say we go get blitzed.
Cairo deposits a slice of wax from his ear into the trash can and folds the pen knife, sliding it into the breast pocket of his mocha-colored dress shirt. Rihanna presses her mocha-colored fingers into Cairo's shoulder flesh, providing him with a stress-reducing massage.
Cairo: Isn't your birthday in May, and besides do Asgardians even have birthdays?
Odin stretches his massive arms and flexes them into titanic coils of well-defined muscle.
Odin: My birthday is whenever I damn well want it to be and today, TODAY is the day that I want it to be.
Cairo takes a loosey-goosey posture as Rihanna's fingers perform their magic craft, tantalizing and teasing but never going full bore with it... not yet.
Cairo: Well shit! How old are ya, my friend?
Odin: Old enough to drunk drive while getting a hummer in a Hummer from a hooker.
Cairo performs a clapping gesture with inverted palms, his boner swelling from Rihanna's touch, ganja smoke filling his brain, Poonglourious bourbon flowing through his veins as richly as the blood itself.
Cairo: That's all I needed to hear, my man. Let us ride. Our chariot awaits. We're going to get bombed. These plans--
Cairo gestures toward the trash can, which has been jammed full with several hundred papers - composites of the failed rebuilding plans.
Cairo: They can wait. Shit's givin me a headache anyway.
Rihanna's fingers work their way down Cairo's flesh and spine as The Godfather closes his eyes and savors the experience. Odin beckons to Reese WitherPOON, who is presently dressed in a Catholic schoolgirl outfit replete with pleated skirt and kneehigh socks.
Chapter XVI: "Rescue Me"
BOOM! A bomb goes off. The cabin shudders with the impact of the blow. The chimney crumbles; bricks thrown through the air appear as weightless as pebbles. Automatic gunfire can be heard while blackness gives way to the silver spikes of moonlight. The silhouette of a tiny figure holding a Bushmaster rifle can be seen in a killing stance while shooting in any and all directions. The figure moves forward into the greater specter of the moonlight. The figure reveals itself as the moonlight illuminates its facial features, yellowish eyes burning with a fire of hate and retribution, a black and white mask of fur surrounding the eyes, the ears piqued with rage and an ethos of relentless determination. This is Gilligan, raccoon and entrepreneur, the genuine article: Owner of Fort Suma Sanchez, a popular night club and strip joint. Friend of "The Maverick Elite" Odin Balfore. Friend of MAVERICK, the mad scientist, Odin's spitting image.
IED's devastate any and all remaining quarters of the cabin, exposing Mister K. and El Chupacabra as they shudder behind the remains of a canopy bed, Chuup's tail poking K. in one highly irritated red and black eye socket. Gil marches Rambo style with no shirt on, warpaint on his furry face and ammo belts strapped around his torso. The Bushmaster fires devastating round after devastating round of ammunition without relent as Gil indiscriminately ravages his surroundings while making his way to the gurney where MAVERICK is still strapped down.
MAVERICK: Gilligan!? I, but--how did you know?
Gilligan: ... .... .. ..... ..... ........ ... .... ... ... ......
MAVERICK nods his head, the words seeping into his genius mind and being devoured as if human flesh for the desperate and starving man turned cannibal. Gilligan slices through the heinous leather torture straps with a serrated hunting blade and casts the straps like whips into the direction of K. and Chuup, who remain huddled while plotting their escape.
El Chupacabra: Who is that? A damned raccoon? Where I'm from we eat the damned raccoon! What the hell is this, some amateur hour BS? RRRAWWWRRR CHUPACABRA SMASH!!
Mr. K : Silence, ingrate! That damn coon skinned midget is a friend and ally of both MAVERICK and Balfore. We need to extricate ourselves from this situation swiftly and delicately so that we may regroup and plan our next course of attack. This is mission ABORT, Chupacabra. Betray your murderous instincts and let's get the hell out of here while the getting is good.
El Chupacabra: CHUPACABRA WANT BLOOOOOOOD!!!!
Chupacabra charges into the line of gunfire from Gilligan's rifle, his reptilian body throttled by each shot, his muscles twitching and spasming while his internal organs begin to shut down -- the giant lizard beast performs a crude, improvised dance as the force of the rifle blasts thwart his body to and fro.
MAVERICK: Holy shit that lizard is twerking. Gil, we need to get out of here.
Gil throws a pair of grenades and scoops MAVERICK's massive frame onto his raccoon shoulder, diving out of harm's way as the ensuing blasts clobber the former cabin and all unfortunate souls who remain in its vicinity.
MAVERICK: FIRE IN THE HOLE!!
Chapter XVII: "Big Titty Birthday Cake (Reprise)"
Bobby Cairo and Odin Balfore cruise down the strip in Cairo's vintage '74 Caddy Eldorado dubbed "Tina Machina"; The Godfather's automotive pride and joy. Rihanna is knelt below the steering wheel, servicing Cairo's meatstick while bobbing her head in time to the medley of Rihanna songs that blare on the pimped out stereo system. Odin in turn sits in the passenger's seat receiving a similar treatment from the Reese "With Her Poon". Reese, the Hollywood actress who was sent back in time to protect Odin and Cairo from the war of the machines, is slobbing The All-Father's codpiece, providing him with that firm yet delicate touch that honors the thickness on this most gracious and splendid day of sunshine, joy and Odin's legendary conception upon This Island Earth.
Odin: Goddamn, I ain't normally a fan of this type of pop muzak but it gives a good kind of head.
Cairo: Don't it though, my friend? It seems to be like there's hardly a better music for fucking to or getting your Armor-All spitshined. Something gets into these bitches when they hear them electro beats, man. Good shit. Very good shit.
Odin: We're going to the Asgardian Steakhouse on Fifth and Madison, right? I need a prime rib. Several hundred pounds of prime rib. Need fuel for this fire inside of my belly. Man cannot survive on beer alone. We cannot survive on getting our Johnson polished either. Need the good food, the shit that don't quit and sticks to your ribs.
Cairo: For many thousands of years, through ancient battles and nuclear holocaust man has required sustenance to fuel him through these hard times. Yes, my friend. We will take our business to the Asgardian Steakhouse. They are worthy of our most thick patronage. These bitches get our jizz off in time to these chintzy dancefloor beats and we might even throw them some slivers of our scraps.
Riri and Reese bob and weave their heads, eager to taste the thickness loads, eager to taste the scraps of that prime rib.
Cairo: Indeed we are warriors, my friend. Worthy of the finest meats and ambrosias. Worthy of only the finest in fact. You see these scars upon my person? Wounds on my face, chest and hind quarters? Scars from battle. Scars from wars both on the plane of the soil and on the barren disposition of the squared circle. I understand battle. I understand that these scars are the only truth that tells our stories. Words, sounds, noises projecting from The Godfather's mouth. They are eloquent, yes? Eloquent but wholly irrelevant. I could go without speaking for a thousand or more years and it would not hold importance upon this planet, or the planets beyond.
The Godfather's face winces and tongue writhes; Rihanna hit him on that good spot at the base of his passion pump. He's about to give Riri a taste of the Jesus Juice and she's about to get soaked. Not yet though. It will wait. Cairo has thoughts that must be completed.
Cairo: Ah, yes. A man can be many things. A leader, an innovator, a warrior. Tag Team Champion of the World. Governor of this fledgling yet triumphant state. Mayor of the Big Apple, the city that never sleeps. Hall of Fame caliber goombah. Then I look to the Balfore and I see the Immortal Asgardian All-Father. So much wisdom. So much accomplishment.
Odin nods his head in rhythm to the cadence of Cairo's speech and it seems that both of these bitches are doing the same while performing their fantastical head job. The music has faded, replaced by gilded bubbles of dialog that weave in metaphysical form as if notions from a comic book gimmick. Indeed, The Godfather's speech hangs heavy and long and wise. The poison fog that once clouded so many lost minds is being lifted.
Cairo: These men rise to the status of gods. This is what the man can do. Our scars are what tell the story. Emblems of accomplishment, testament to our indefatigable spirit and legacy of dominance. So many challengers rise to meet us, or so they believe.
Odin: Yet time and again they find themselves as ants rising only to meet the soles of our boots.
Cairo: Precisely so, my friend. And such insolence and deviance has become commonplace, to the state where your intra-dimensional doppelganger felt confident in rising to attack Poon Guinea before being crushed as this same ant. The question is: Who? How?
Odin: Who funded his army of machines and how did he know that we had been lured out of town? It's inconceivable that he would have been able to pull off this feat of misdirection and military conquest on his own. He's a floundering failure of a Bond movie villain. No, no. Someone put him up to this stunt.
Reese spits out Odin's thickness long enough to speak.
Reese: Odin Daddy, MAVERICK was being bankrolled by--
Odin thwacks Reese in the face with that same thickness and shoves it back into her insolent mouth.
Odin: You speak to me?! Suck, damn you, suck!
Cairo: It's a conspicuous sequence of events for sure, my friend. Yet hardly something that we were unprepared or unequipped to handle.
Odin: Much as this half-baked notion of Sarah Twilight's tag team contendership battle royal.
Cairo pulls Tina Machina into The Governor's reserved parking space at the Asgardian Steakhouse and puts the car in park.
Odin: It is meant to intimate that The Thickness cannot think on its feet, cannot adapt and change a gameplan on the wing to meet an unexpected foe. Time and again we have shafted all who oppose us, challengers known and unknown, human and alien, men with muscles and women with gaping poon. One by one they fall, whether hostile or friendly. The scars of battle? Indeed, truths of our timeless and immortal victories over the unworthy and the unthick.
Cairo and Odin are carried on thrones by servant bitches through the giant palace doors that welcome guests to the Asgardian Steakhouse, Riri and Reese still performing their worship of the thickness on this holiest of holy days, the anniversary of The All-Father's birth.
Cairo: Scary things? Hepcat things? Hepatitis is more like it.
A waitress with giant knockers and firm buttocks approaches The Thickness and attentively transcribes their order: seven-hundred pounds of prime rib with additional mashed potato, loaded of course with bacon and the sour cream, and endless flow of Poonglourious-branded whiskey. For dessert: The Big Titty Birthday Cake, from which a strategically placed stripper bearing the namesake big titties will pop out, honoring Odin with song and intercourse.
A slap on the ass by The All-Father's hand sends the waitress on her way, her high heels clacking on the marble ballroom floor.
Odin: Our majesty is supreme, my friend. For the past hour this thickness has been indulged in the finest bout of transcendental worship and astral poon projection that I can recall in the last a day and a half, and yet still the Reese "With Her Poon" refuses to quit. This is gumption. This is a stronger competitive spirit than what we will face in that ring on Sunday.
Cairo: The Thickness strolls into ONE. The battle royal field scatters. They refuse to eliminate each other from the match. They eliminate themselves in a cowering fear. They wither and shake and seize up and spew blustering prose and beg off from this thickness onslaught, and what does it buy them? We are not taking no for an answer. When you signed your name on the contract, you assured your demise at these immortal loins of The Thickness. And yes, this is why we show basic courtesy to the Rihanna poon and the WitherPOON, because they show a greater tenacity than any challenger that we will face in a Wrestling Championship Federation.
A brilliant white light engulfs the proceedings, cutting off any further dialog from the reputable leaders of Poon Guinea and bringing a halt to all gesticulations and mannerisms inside of the steakhouse. A panicked frenzy runs afoot as diners and guests of honor spin their heads and turn heel and begin to pout and consider running, but The Godfather calms them with a gentle cooing while he and Balfore draw their weapons. Odin guides his Desert Eagles with a calm and steady hand while Cairo's Glock rises to the occasion much as the thickness. Professionals that they are, Rihanna and Reese have continued to serve their masters as if oblivious to the unwelcomed and unwarranted interruption.
Cairo: I'm getting awfully tired of motherfuckers thinking they can crash our party, Odin. We need to put these fuckers down, once and for all.
Odin: It does not matter who or what they are. They will tremble under our boot and find their fate as victims of merciless homicide. Show your faces, cowards. My dinner awaits and I am not to be kept waiting for my supper on this my day of birth.
"WAIT!" MAVERICK appears out of the thin, blue sky -- or rather the golden domed ceiling inscripted with its portraits of the gods. He falls to the floor in an awkward and ungraceful heap. Gilligan lands on top of MAV, with his Bushmaster still in hand.
Odin: MAVERICK! Gil! What is the meaning of this interruption?
Cairo grabs MAVERICK by the neck and pulls him to his feet.
Cairo: You son of a bitch, I'm going to strangle you!
Cairo chokes the life out of MAVERICK, who appears to be trying to communicate something to The Godfather while unable to do so because of his strangling -- and yes Rihanna is still smoking that Godfather pole.
Odin: Bobby, I think the idiot has something that he's trying to share with the classroom.
Cairo throws MAVERICK to the floor, giving him a chance to recover his breath, MAV gasping for air while nude on the floor.
Cairo: Where the hell are your clothes?
MAVERICK: I was... kidnapped and strapped to a gurney while tortured--
Cairo rips the tablecloth out from the table, yanking it out from under the glasses and the candelabra that sit upon the table without disturbing them.
Cairo: Cover yourself up, you disgrace. You will explain yourself in the immediate or you will die.
MAVERICK: OK, OK. Listen. I am culpable. I conspired to attack Poon Guinea. To invade. To overthrow. To make you beg for mercy. But I did it for the right reason: Because I am an evil mastermind.
Cairo: That's reasonable but it still doesn't explain why you're not wearing pants.
MAVERICK: I went into business with these two guys-- well, one guy and a lizard.
Cairo: El Chupacabra?
MAVERICK: Yeah. That's the lizard. I don't know the guy's name, not exactly anyway. I just know that he calls himself Mister K. and he's obsessed with Santa Claus for some reason. Anyway, this Mister K. guy bankrolled my Army of Odinators, said something about wanting to crush Poon Guinea so he could get at Odin. It was a brilliant plan. BRILLIANT!
MAVERICK thrusts his index finger into the air, exuding the mad scientist aura despite the fact that he's nude on the floor, covered only by a tablecloth.
MAVERICK: When the invasion failed, Mister K. and Chuup turned against me, blaming me for the failure. They tortured me... well, they tickled me is more like it, but anyway they tried to get me to snitch on Santa but before I had the chance Gilligan here rescued me.
Odin: Do you have any idea what you've done? You've gone into business with Krampus.
MAVERICK: Who the fuck is Krampus?
Gilligan: .... . ...... .... ..... .. .. . ......
Cairo: Indeed, Gil, who the fuck is Al Envy? Good one, my man.
Odin: Krampus is an evil motherfucker. Former companion of Saint Nicholas who used to punish the kids who were bad, while Nick would reward them with presents. According to the stories, Kramps would kidnap the kids and take them back to his lair. Real sick Ian Watkins type of shit. Santa put an end to all of that though. Started putting a lump of coal in the stockings of kids who were bad, and he snitched on Krampus to the feds. Got him shut down. Kramps did hard time for that. Now he's back for revenge.
Cairo looks disgusted, even while busting a humendous (humongous and tremendous) nut in Riri's supple and all-swallowing mouth.
Cairo: That's some of the sickest shit I've ever heard, Odin. So how do we handle this? Guns blazing type of shit? Track this queer pedophile mofo down and curb stomp his faggot ass?
Odin: Not necessary. He will be here soon. Krampus and El Chupacabra are both on their way. I can feel it in my bones. Speaking of which--
Odin busts his load off, instantly crushing Reese's skull and sending her body flying through the hand-carved ivory slab of wall fifty feet away from the table.
Cairo: They honestly think they can succeed where their army of cyborgs failed, invading Poon Guinea?
Odin: This ain't even gonna be about all of that. Just a couple of pusses gettin their shit pushed in by The All-Father and The Godfather.
With a semblance of order having been restored, the assemblage of prime rib is wheeled to the dining table of The Thickness, while Rihanna kneels with a humble spirit waiting to be tossed her scraps.
The Thickness dines.
Chapter XVIII: "Assemble. March. Destroy."
A pair of size fifteen combat boots march down a gravel path deep in the throat of the Poon Guinean Basin. Tattered blue jeans, a Ramones t-shirt and a white hockey mask complete the ensemble. A baseball bat wielding man trudges along the path, unaccompanied and unflinching, motivated to find what he is looking for, a pathway to another dimension. He sets foot into the wormhole. He is transported across the space-time continuum, realms where Richard Nixon never resigned and was named President for Life, where Limp Bizkit was not only revered and respected but hailed as "America's finest death metal export", where Sarah Twilight wasn't a completely incompetent twat, where tag title challengers earned their spot on a card instead of being tossed into a "who gives a fuck, Thickness gonna win anyway" battle royal.
The man travels through all of this craziness and chaos, only to wind up precisely where he began his journey: trudging along that same gravel path deep in the throat of the Poon Guinean Basin. This time it's different. He still walks with the purpose, but his stride is slowing, shortening, as if he's nearing his destination. Yes, this is the dimension that he's been searching for. He can feel it. And if he remembers correctly, and of course he does, he parked his Wrangler right behind that--
Another brilliant flash of white engulfs all that surrounds it, this time the specter of white is projected by a pair of headlights from that same Wrangler that the determined man had been stalking toward. Rain droplets course and dance and splash as the Jeep cruises along the strip, the same strip that Tina Machina navigated earlier in the day. It is now night. Scars bear their truths upon the man's body. His eyes steady with their course. Still unflinching. The focus never lost. The man has been here before. Driven these roads. Made this journey. Ten, fifteen, maybe a hundred times before. He's a veteran of the game. The scars tell their truths.
"Bobby. It's me. I'm on my way."
Cairo awakens in his bed inside of his master bedroom at the Poon Guinean Governor's machine, the ringing of his cell phone having awakened him. He picks prime rib from his teeth, Rihanna snuggled on his thickness, while listening to the voice on the other end of the line. Cairo appears stoic, attentive, the brain never losing its scheme, never falling from its inquisition.
Cairo: I already know the answer. I've already seen this play out, in my dreams, a thousand times over. You're sure that you want this? You're sure that you're willing to play this game? We can call it off. We can say that you weren't ready to jump back into the game.
Cairo steadies his nerve while receiving precisely the reply that he anticipated. He nods his head and smiles.
Cairo: This is Gucci, my friend. This is exceedingly Gucci... and thick.
The light on the nightstand next to Bobby Cairo's bed is turned out. Gargling sounds from his bottom bitch commence.
Chapter XIX: "Renewal Of Faith"
The combatants enter the arena. This is not the Staples Center in Los Angeles, California for the ONE pay-per-view. This is a far grander stage for a far grander spectacle. The Poon Guinean Grand National Coliseum plays host to this modern day Armageddon scenario while the man with the golden vocal chords, Skip The Slip, does the intros. It will be stated that the Master and Commander, "The Godfather" Bobby Cairo and "The All-Father" Odin Balfore, are entering the stage. It will be stated that there is none greater, none holier, none more just. It will be stated that their opponents, the men who attempted to steal Christmas, the men who attempted to invade Poon Guinea, the men who stand for all that is unthick are the most evil sons of bitches to ever walk the earth.
One of these "men" a pedophile demon. The other a hard-luck reptilian pimp. Neither exactly ripe with true blue brawling experience, but both men possessing a savvy of what it means to stand and survive. MAVERICK has long since been deported and sent back to Greenland, himself being added to his previous scrap of failed experiments. Will he ever again attempt to take over the world? It's almost a certainty.
MAVERICK: I've got it! A boy band consisting of clean cut faggy looking British teens! And the lead singer will date Taylor Swift and he'll break her heart and she'll write a song about it, but he'll become an even bigger sensation because of it and they'll sell millions of records to teenage girls and I'll be their manager, and I'll be rich, rich, rich, yes more funding for my experiments and the world will be mine!!
And the wheels are turning once again as MAVERICK makes that intra-dimensional jaunt from Greenland back to the Legion of Doom, his secret headquarters in some far removed galaxy of a blackhole of a starburst supernova in the eyes of a pizza pie in a song that Dean Martin once sang, and all that jazz, hallelujah. And EUREKA! he proclaimed.
And the gladiators Balfore and Cairo take their position and Krampus and El Chupacabra take theirs, and the only thing separating the two is air and opportunity but it doesn't take long for them to get started as Krampus goes for the rake of the eyes but Cairo blocks with his hand Three Stooges style and bops his rivals' heads together in syncopated rhythm and sends them into Odin who drops them with a double clothesline. The crowd roars and they love it, but the heels of clandestine origin don't play fair. They throw powder in the eyes and the ref lets it go because it's no holds barred, and that powder is some chili pepper powder but it doesn't matter, because the eyes of The Godfather and The All-Father see all. Chili powder gives way to gunpowder and a pull from the trigger but bullets stop in midair and reverse their trajectory.
Krampus and El Chupacabra take flight and the crowd boos the cowardly heels, but their path to escape is blocked... blocked by a towering man in combat boots, tattered jeans, a Ramones t-shirt and a white hockey mask who's wielding a baseball bat.
El Chupacabra: Are you John Stamos?
One deft swing of the bat takes Chuup's head clean off and sends it into that same 447th row the Cairo once sent a bullhorn. Chupacabra's body hits the ground with a wet thud. Krampus begs off Ric Flair style while the masked man stalks him. The masked man removes his mask and tosses it into the raucous capacity crowd.
Crowd: PHILLIP BAINES! PHILLIP BAINES! PHILLIP BAINES!
Baines feeds off of the crowd's energy and tosses Krampus over the ropes and into the ring. Odin grabs Krampus and sets for the pumphandle slam. Cairo runs and hits a Fameasser as the slam is coming down. The Thickness simultaneously place victorious boots on Krampus's chest while referee Simon Thunderplunk counts the pin.
ONE...
TWO...
THREE!!!
Skip The Slip announces the winners over the PA, but the cheers of the crowd drown him out. Odin lifts Krampus over his head and tosses him into the ravenous crowd. Krampus is ripped limb from limb, blood and organs being savored by as many audience members as can get themselves a taste, bones picked clean as if by vultures. The Thickness stands tall in the ring with Baines, the three warriors soaking in the adulation of the crowd and the galvanizing powers of victory. The faith is restored. River City is reborn in the image of The Thickness. Urban renewal... Communist style.
Chapter XX: "The Bonus Round"
Cairo and Odin celebrate their victory with whiskey and bitches, bubble butts pointing skyward as dubious deeds are done dirt right. The Thickness celebrates as The Thickness can and does, but their understanding is parallel and universal: The Work is never done. The Work is only beginning, even in the face of great victory and achievement. Their attention shifts from urban renewal and all that it guilds to their upcoming battle at ONE.
Cairo: As the game gains more pieces, it loses players. All of those that you see before you, my children, my beautiful bubble butt having bitches, participants in a tag team Battle Royale with Cheese are nothing more than Triple A talent. Bums that have been recruited by a ginger headed hag. Sorry shitbags lookin for a quick Franklin to slip into their bill fold. I'd be interested to know who among these vermin, if any, has the drive to stick around in Dub See Eff. It's not exactly the burning focal point of my thought process, but a whimsical little query nonetheless. By my estimation--
Cairo plows that ass crack with violent repeated thrusts of his thickness.
Cairo: There are one or two tops in my estimation, Cormack and Chase are the names that spring to mind just because they've been here for a little while. Then you got guys like Thunder and Fatel... although I'm not sure if that last guy is even in the match. Who can keep track of all these jobbers though, right? I'm sure that all of you have been something somewhere in your lives. You were the man in high school, the captain of the football team, a real "big man on campus", maybe even a World Champion and/or Hall of Famer in some other wrestling company. We've all been somethings somewhere. Except for me. I've been THEE thing, right fuckin here.
The bitch's ass is tightening up right around that thickness, taking it in deep all the way to the intestine. The Godfather likey this.
Cairo: Each one of you speaks of history. The blood of my opponents writes it. Each one of you speaks of talent. The WCF Hall of Fame is where I rest my head when I'm not pounding that Riri poon and droppin a bottle of Jameson while I'm on the treadmill. HA! I don't need no fuckin treadmill. The Godfather does not run. You see the thickness pounding this thick ass? The Earth knows its place beneath my feet. Just like all of you. Look at what The Godfather has done in a week's time. Whilst you all squabble amongst yourselves for big dick supremacy, the biggest of them all are out banging mer-bitches for the Motel 6 Championship, battling futuristic cyborgs, slaughtering demons and reptilians just because we can. What have any of you done? Drank a protein shake? Watched some of your Sons of Anarchy DVD box set for more gimmick ideas? Maybe you even hustled some schmuck for fifty bucks? Oh wait, I know... you signed a fucking contract? Yes, because greatness starts with a motha fucking contract.
Odin appears as if he's trying to outdo The Godfather, taking his thickness through the ass crack beyond the intestine and all the way into his bitch's heart valves.
Odin: Pft. I ain't even under contract. No one's got the balls to tell me otherwise, either, not even that cock and testes having tranny bitch Twilight. Is that what these guys think they are? Ballers? Shot callers? Otherwise players of the game? The game whose rules they cannot begin to comprehend?
Odin Balfore laughs while destroying the inner workings of this bitch's organs and forcing her entire body to shut down. He discards her corpse with the thickness and begins ravaging another big booty bitch.
Odin: Bobby Cairo, we are going to walk into ONE as WCF Tag Team Champions, the champions of the year after only carrying the straps for a month, and then walk out tag team champions of history. Of all time. Beating these jobbers ain't gonna prove that shit one bit. These nigs ain't special. The Godfather and The All-Father-- that's special. That's something to look at. This moment in time is where people are going to look back to and see the start and finish of the great tag team debate. You, Bobby, the most charismatic and influential mind to grace WCF, and Odin Balfore, the most destructive and hated force in WCF. No whiny little bitches gonna wake up from their dreams of delusions, walk up to The Thickness and take what is ours. These guys don't know Ragnarok... but they will. They don't know the men I've crippled, the careers I've ended. The company that I've destroyed and rebuilt in my likeness, the likeness of The Thickness.
Cairo chuckles while killing a big booty bitch of his own. She is instantly discarded and replaced by another.
Cairo: Shameless plug, but I'll take it. See, we are men steeped in history. Not that past, done and buried shit. No, we are living legends that still very much know how to go in that ring and ruin each and every single person who steps through those ropes. This battle royal sickens me, truly it does. However, I am a champion and I will defend my belt accordingly. S-PAC ducked out, opting to disband rather than fight The Thickness. S-PAC, the last of the stables war-- if you can call EP and Twilight mindfucking each other in the ass with Fly's cock a “war”. S-PAC were handed the belts on a platter and they treated it like hogs. Then The Thickness rolled up, put that nonsense to bed, snatched that shit up and we ain't looked back yet.
Odin: We fought them, beat them. Rematch. Beat them again. They were supposed to face us yet again on Sunday but Gable decides to twist his chicken wing ankles and Cash puts S-PAC on the line against what's his face?
Cairo: D-Day.
Odin: Yeah? Who's he beat?
Cairo: Tort?
Odin: No fuckin way? Really? Then what the fuck is this shit about? Do you know who he never beat? This guy right here. The All-Father. Do they understand that? Groups disband when The Thickness faces them. They don't form. No one rallies to fight The Thickness. Just like no one rallies around you half-a-dollar-having hobo-fisting motha fuckers right now. No one expects any of you to walk out of the Battle Royal clusterfuck, let alone survive it.
Cairo smacks them ass cheeks with his grapefruits while planting his fertile seed deep within her soil.
Cairo: You never know, we might just show up and take all of you's to school – become our own biggest threat officially since can't no one touch us, cept us. What we have gone through this week is not a joke. It is truth, borne by these scars. The virtue of Thick-ni communism, pure and simple. NO rookie, no vet, no legend who's been around for a decade and a half is going to walk up and stand toe to toe with this. You may think you can. You might even have a wet fucking dream bout that shit but reality is simple. You step in that ring against Bobby Cairo, that shit right there is going to be the Killing Joke. Any one of you fools laying up, looking at those lights. Paying for your transgressions against The Thickness.
Odin: Now isn't the time to “step up and overthrow the establishment”. Don't know what you motha fucka's are thinkin. We ain't the boys in the back. We aren't the team players. We fucking hate what this company has become and we will bring it back to what it was. Don't be thinkin that you're going to come and cause havoc. You ain't puttin anyone on notice. HA! Such tripe is suitable for your bus ticket back to Sheep Shit, Ohio. Most certainly you won't be putting The Thickness in part or whole on notice, lock, watch, NSA surveillance or on a mother fucking FBI most wanted poster. S-PAC put a half mill bounty on our heads and I left that and a legion of mer-bitches in my wake. I'll throw the two of you two million just to shut the fuck up about it. No one cares who you are or where you been. I don't. Bobby Cairo don't. No one cares where you're going either. Cuz you ain't goin anywhere. ONE will be the first and last time some of you will be seen in WCF. ONE will be be the crown jewel in your careers. But these belts just ain't one of them.
Cairo: Truth be told? This isn't an ill estimation of anyone. You bring this upon yourselves with your entry into this little contest. This Sarah Twilight plan to screw us over has gone back in her face like she wishes would happen with the jizzum of The Godfather. Her anti-poon gets wet with the fluids of lust at the thoughts of Bobby Cairo penetrating her. On the contrary, I already have. I am in her mind. I see her game-- this game. An estimation of skill of our would-be walking casualties that are our opponents has failed. It has failed because you all have failed. What X-factor is revealed? None. What hope for the future is revealed? None. Because there is no hope against The Thickness. Where do you wish to start your attack? Our unparalleled success? Do tell. Robert Cairo wishes to hear. No? How about our accomplishments? Do tell. The mere mention of The Thickness is not without accompanied praise. Do you wish to attack our political affiliations? Perhaps I shall pencil you in when you conquer your own string of island nations.
Cairo flashes a self-satisfied smirk.
Cairo: Or when you control the world's drug and sex trade? Perhaps then? I think not. At ONE, whichever two of you beat the piss out of each other to come get wrecked by us, you will have a very short time to recoup and lick your wounds. When you come up against us you come up against a style, a feel, an emotion, a mindset of devastation and decimation. If Sarah Twilight thinks that she can make a statement with her power with such assumptions that any team can up and challenge The Thickness, then we are ready and willing. Most certainly we ARE going to throw down the tone of a shimmering example that such things are not even feasible. I don't care which two of you are the ones. Chase and Cormack, Thunder and Zack – whomever and whichever. That shit makes no difference. An example will be made of you. For the rest of WCF's days, this day at ONE will be remembered for when The Thickness, Bobby Cairo and Odin Balfore, made this tag division which had zero worth before us and created it within our own likeness. You are just the afterbirth. The afterthought. Just two warm bodies in for the three count after we put you down with The Thickness.
Odin: ONE is coming, QUICK. ONE is coming, THICK. Our Will is law... and Our Law is absolute. Abashed the devil stood when he saw how awful goodness is... and so will you.
Cairo: Ready or not... here we come.
The ass is smashed... and that's just a preview of what's gonna happen at ONE.
