Post by Odin Balfore on Jun 13, 2014 11:43:47 GMT -5
Chapter I: Endorsement
Governor's Mansion. Federal District. Poon Guinea. 12:35 PM STT (Standard Thick Time)
Bitches be all up throwin that ass, twerkin on that Poon Guinean white horse after glow. Overheatin from the game, overheatin from the fame. Overwhelmed by the thickness that thrusts upon them from the other room. This is your life, you skanky hoes. Your ass or your head- nine times outta ten it be both. The Godfather is in the next room, his personal office, dressed in a gold button up and black slacks. He puffs on a blunt, flipping through complicated schematics for a project that would change the world. All before lunch, too. This is how shit gets done. Barry Oak be off in the corner, scribblin notes in a composition notebook. Michelle on her knees, servicing the socialist anti-thickness.
Bobby Cairo: Now, what is this for again?
Bobby Cairo hands the documents back over to MAVERICK, the Odin Balfore from an alternate universe who takes profession as an evil mad scientist. MAVERICK looks the documents over and flips them around.
MAVERICK: It's an Anti-Time Travel Inhibitor Device. It will render all time travel from this planet and anywhere else in the Milky Way, completely impossible.
Bobby Cairo takes back the documents and looks at them again with intrigue.
Bobby Cairo: This interests The Godfather. Not sure how many more times I can stomach Pantheon going back in time to accomplish absolutely nothing. Leave it to Corey Black and Jonny Fly to use time travel for no purpose at all.
Bobby Cairo looks at Odin Balfore, who's sitting in a large leather chair by the fireplace, halfway between Bobby Cairo's desk and the dome rockin Michelle Obama. Odin has on a grey button down and black slacks with his signature black leather cowboy boots.
Bobby Cairo: What do you think, big man? Good idea worth investing our time in?
The All-Father ponders for a moment, taking a few hits from a blunt of his own.
Odin Balfore: I think it's just a matter of plot convenience for them. Correction, The All-Father knows it's just a matter of plot convenience. It's akin to children playing pretend in the backyard on a warm summer's day. What goes on there truly does not matter because in a few weeks, school will be back in session and they will be reminded that there are forces in this world far greater than they are. Time travel? BAH! That's a Johnny Reb exclusive, gifted to Pantheon by transitive properties that are shoddy at best. Bobby, not only should we fund this project but we should personally spearhead its operation. If I have to see Jonny Fly go back in time, it better be to double dick that Marilyn Monroe and Cleopatra poon. Too bad the combined anti-thickness of all the members of Pantheon doesn't reach beyond that of a child's pinky finger. Of course, not like my own.
The All-Father puts his right hand in the air and wiggles his pinky finger. The Michelle Obama poon tingles and writhes with pleasure, causing her to go deep on that Barry Oak socialist anti-thickness doctrine.
Odin Balfore: All of them aside from Orbit, of course. Orbit's so thick he's practically pushed himself out of Pantheon. Why do you think Pantheon won Trios? To get the belt off Orbit. Fly could not beat Orbit even if wore a white sheet over his face and Orbit changed his name to “Redheaded Stepchild.”
Bobby Cairo: That is an interesting theory.
Odin Balfore: Bah! When have The All-Father's thoughts ever been mere theories? Fly knows that he can't beat Orbit so he sent in the only guy in Pantheon who can possibly get the job done, Jayson Price. Price beats Orbit then Fly wins Ultimate Showdown and gets the belt for himself, the belt that he could have never honestly won from Orbit in the first place. This is Fly's angle. The whole of the Pantheon braintrust is focused upon the sixty-four thousand dollar question: “How does Jonny Fly get the belt?”
Bobby Cairo: Perhaps my would-be assailant was on to something with his Lerchuminati theory?
Odin Balfore: That conspiracy shit? The All Father tells you truly that there is no conspiracy concerning Seth Lerch and WCF. Seth Lerch couldn't conspire to get his dick wet with one of Steve Orbit's hoes, even if that ho got paid off by Steve Orbit himself. There are some things that a bitch just can't do and that Seth Lerch bitch... well, needless to say he can't get himself laid, let alone conspire on the part of Pantheon. If Seth could do such things, there is no way in hell that he would have allowed Sarah Twilight to run her ass-poon up and down WCF for a year, only to culminate in such lackluster feuds as 'The Jeff Purse Angle, Volumes One AND Two'.
The All-Father snorts in mocking derision.
Odin Balfore: Or how about the Eric Price angle that came to a head with a best of seven million falls match at ONE? How about that shit? So let me ask you something: Do you really think Seth Lerch has the mental fortitude to concoct such a plan? NO. But do you know who does? The Thickness that lost its way, blaming everyone and everything but the man in the mirror. Such is the plight of young D-LO C-LO. No, there is no Seth Lerch Illuminati bullshit. It's just Pantheon tryin to stay in the main event because ain't no one going to care about four jobbers suckin Jonny Fly's dick. Pantheon is just Sequitus with a castle in Denmark.
Slowly, insistingly, Bobby Cairo circles the rim of his “Denmark Destroy Button”.
Bobby Cairo: As always, my Nordic friend, you speak such wisdom beyond that of even myself.
Bobby Cairo turns toward MAVERICK.
Bobby Cairo: You will have your funding. And then, I will have Jonny Fly's Jew pecker on my mantel. Don't worry, I can say that. I'm half Jew. That's my mother's side. My Uzbek side.
Odin Balfore: Speaking of the pecker, don't we have a flight to Bangkok to catch?
Bobby Cairo: This is true, my Asgardian friend. XIII is in a few short days, best we get there early, get settled in. I haven't smashed me some Thai poon in many a moon, and them bitches get down with the thickness, if ya know what I'm sayin.
Chapter II: Bobby Cairo's Flyin' House of Whores
The Thickness steps out from their draconian luxury sedan, the Black Beamer of Death, onto a long stretch of recently paved road, the impromptu tarmac for The Governor's newly acquired jewel of the skies. The Malaysian Airlines Flight 370, believed to be missing by international government and media alike, has been spraypainted and rebranded as “The Bobby Cairo Flyin' House of Whores”. Not officially, of course. Officially, the plane is called Air-Poon 1. Two rows of topless women stand on either side of the stairs that lead up to the plane, eagerly and graciously awaiting the arrival of The Governor and The Lieutenant-in-Arms. Bobby and Odin walk toward them as Bobby turns his attention to Odin.
Bobby Cairo: This is flyin in style, my man. I found this beauty abandoned in the ocean while parasailing with the Alanis Morissette poon. Can you believe that? What kind of ingrate would abandon such a marvel of modern technology? Nevertheless, Bobby Cairo took it in and nursed it back to health with the loving warmth of his own bosom. This is pride, this is joy. This is a floating castle of drug-induced debauchery and sexual intercourse! This is, because Bobby Cairo wills it so.
Cairo gestures thusly with his immense, otherworldly hands.
Odin Balfore: Are these bitches going to put flowers on my neck like in Hawaii?
Bobby Cairo: The leis? Motha fuck, you'll be getting the real deal on this sex ship, not that 'aloha' bullshit.
The Thickness approach the women, just stopping short of the stairs. Bobby Cairo extends his arms and looks upon the women with a smile.
Bobby Cairo: Yes, my beautiful bitches! Welcome to Air-Poon 1. Now who's gonna suck The Godfather's dick!?
Bobby Cairo cracks his neck as he leads all sixty of the exotic women up the stairs, being trailed by Odin Balfore. Bobby sits on a long bench towards the back of the plane. Odin takes a seat adjacent to him. The Bobby Cairo thickness begins its usual ritual of getting pleasured by the supple and eager poon, as Bobby has one of the women fetch a manilla envelop and hand it to Odin.
Bobby Cairo: You will find biographical information regarding our teammates for XIII, my friend.
Odin opens the envelop and appears puzzled as he glances at the first document.
Odin Balfore: Tell me why, Stacy, again?
Cairo inhales a multitude of corkscrews and exhales in a knowing sigh. The Godfather's intuition guides him as he makes work with his fingers to bring the pleasures upon her person. He glances at The All-Father before diving headlong into a pair of heaving ass cheeks. His muffled speech is fully audible as if it were not muffled in the first place.
Bobby Cairo: I will tell you, my friend. Stacy Jones contains a wealth of potential, potential that she does not even realize that she possesses. She puts in solid work every week, both in and around the ring, and I've been pleased with what I've seen from her. Now I am giving her the chance at the big time, to be on the winning side of things for a change and not cleaning up my scraps in D-LO C-LO. At the very least she will provide a counter to the Jayson Allen Price side of things. Then we have Doctor Remus, our Jeff Purse combatant. Truly a mismatch, if you ask me. I still don't know how that BMX riding fruitcake won WAR XI?
Odin Balfore: Because I didn't care that year.
Bobby Cairo: Right, well, it's there. Remus is our ace in the hole. He's our go-to guy. Then we have ICE, who let's face it- future World Champ right there. He gets to step into Orbit's face and make him all sorts of shit his pants worried. Kind of like when Twilight made EP piss his pants, but people will actually want to see this. It won't take the majority of the year and it won't come to a limp dicked finale. That leaves CD and Fly for us. Which poses the eternal question:
The supple Jamaican poon speaks: "Which one of them unthick Pantheon bitches will be suckin The Godfather's massive thickness?"
Odin Balfore: What of this so-called injury to Fly? Supposedly he will be unable to compete at XIII.
Bobby Cairo: Yes. A most unsettling development. I was floored by the news. However, my Asgardian friend, I believe that it's all a smokescreen. Pantheon are known for their dastardly tricks. Those men possess zero scruples. Hell, Orbit and Fly tried to get each other locked up for murder only a few months ago. Now they're inseparable allies? It's a farce.
Cairo dismisses of the nonsense with a flick of his hand. A dozen large-breasted bitches commence upon his Johnson.
Bobby Cairo: Jonny Fly sprained his wrist while jerking his anti-thickness and now he claims to be too injured to compete. Let me tell you this, my Asgardian friend: If Jonny Fly doesn't compete in that ring on Friday, we're flying to his house in New York, beating his door down, eating his Hot Fries, fucking his skanks, taking a shit in his pool, and humping that Jonny Fly ass-poon. And oh yes, he will suck The Godfather's dick.
Odin's massive Asgardian thunder stick is serviced by a hundred or more bitches as he pours himself a glass of Poonglourious Whiskey.
Odin Balfore: A drink, my friend?
Bobby Cairo: Yes, my man. A drink and a toast to the glory of total victory against those unthick and unworthy capitalist Pantheon heathens. How dare they?
Cairo drinks of the 180-proof whiskey. Drinks until he's blind. Drinks until he sees again. The poon enveloping his face like the body of an Alien from the titular film.
Odin Balfore: Jeff Purse, "The Future". Jayson Price, "The Future". Jonny Fly, zooming around time and space in a Ford Ranchero. "The future". These men obsess over such things because of an immense insecurity, an extreme shortcoming in their masculinity. "In the future things will be different," they tell all who will listen. "We are not great men now but we will be, just give us time. See? In the year 2525, Diablo Calzone is a pizza salesman."
Cairo snorts the whiskey up through his nostrils as he chortles with laughter, the poisonous liquid further dampening the already impossibly soaked Indonesian poon that he wears as a mask.
Bobby Cairo: Such childlike tendencies, my friend. Pantheon are boys stepping into a man's world. They've got the entire world eating from the palm of their hand, all because of smoke and mirrors, dog and pony shows. Imagine what the world will look like when the house of mirrors comes crashing down at XIII? Imagine what excuses the members of Pantheon will proffer? Oh but we won't need a time machine to see that, my friend. This premonition is mere days away from becoming a reality.
A myriad of drunken WOOS! can be heard emanating from the cockpit of the jet. Odin raises his mighty Asgardian brow, a perplexed expression upon his face.
Odin Balfore: Is that... The Nature Boy?
Cairo nods his head, a delighted grin upon his face, which is visible through the multiple layers of poon.
Bobby Cairo: Indeed it is, my friend. The one and only. WOO!
The Nature Boy: WOO!
Bobby Cairo: WOO!
The Nature Boy: WOO!
Bobby Cairo: Hahaha. Great man. That's my main Caucasian right there.
Odin Balfore: Should he be flying the plane if he's drunk?
Bobby Cairo: Uh, well-
The plane begins to nosedive, causing a panic amongst the passengers and crew alike.
Bobby Cairo: Oh, this isn't good!
Odin Balfore: Damn it, Bobby! We're about to crash into the ocean and I didn't even bring my swim trunks!
The poon scatters about the aisles of the plane, scrambling for cover, as if 'cover' would shield them from the horrific calamity that awaits them.
Bobby Cairo: The blow! Where's the blow? The Nature Boy just needs to take a couple bumps of that pure, uncut Poon Guinea shit!
Cairo searches through his luggage and finds the bag with the kilos. He pulls a switchblade from his boot and slices that shit open before running toward the cockpit and kicking in the door.
Fade to black...
Cue the cheesy commercial voiceover...
"Will The Thickness make it to Bangkok in one piece or will Air-Poon 1 become the latest missing flight to make international headlines? Tune into XIII, Friday June 13th, exclusively on pay-per-view to find out!"
The Nature Boy: WOO!
