Post by switchfever on Mar 6, 2015 0:33:35 GMT -5
I landed in Philly about an hour ago and have just gotten into my illustrious room at the Super 8. Jesus, it's a goddamned shithole. I mean I'm not some kind of fancypants or an OCD brony or anything, but this room in particular is fucking disgusting. There's jizz on the tv for instance. -Just a generous spattering of dried sperm. Lovely. Sure, I'd certainly love to swap hotels, maybe one that isn't referred to as "Shitstained-Rape-Trap" on TripAdvisor, but I'm not calling the shots or writing the mah'fuckin' checks here. So, this dried pile of pickled vomit, just as you step out of the shower, is part of the job.
Two days ago I got a message from Switches. He sounded like he was having a blast. -Like really fired up on something. He asked me to meet up with him and that he would pay me to, like, chill and help him out. He couldn't tell me the details at the time, but said he had been recruited to fight in a show. -And that show would take place in Philly. I wanted to hit him with a quick Philly-Cheesesteak/Uncircumsized penis joke, but didn't come up with anything. So, I said "Cools! Thumbs-up! See ya there, dude." He didn't laugh, but I thought it was pretty funny and he knew what I was talking about.
I knew going into this how this could go. -My man Switches is eccentric as a motherfucker. -But he's been extra "outta his fuckin' mind" lately. I mean ever' since he killed himself by detonating a bomb inside his van. Totally fucked his shit up. His knock at the door was a playful little diddy that was surprisingly magical. I knew it was him, but completely surprised by it's... magicalness? Is that a thing? I'll go with "Magicalness". I ease open the door and there he is, smiling this wildly disturbing smile. -Looked like someone forcing him to smile at knifepoint. I dunno, maybe his face just looks like that. He's hard to read, in a lot of ways.
"Hiya, friendo." he said. He had a sixpack of beer and rolled up porn magazine called "Butt Stuff". I let him in and quickly warned him of the disgusting pratfalls that ailed the motel room. He wasn't surprised, as he says that he's been staying in the room off and on for a few days. "Don't watch the tv... it's broken." he warns. Switches plops himself down on the single bed and pops the cap on his beverage. "Wait, this is a single bed. I get my own room don't I?" I realized outloud. "Nah, bro. You take that chair over there." Switches points to the bathroom. "Are you talking about the toilet? -You're saying I'm supposed to sleep on the toilet?" I accuse with an outstretched arm toward the shit-smeared toilet. "Yuuuuuup." His word drags out in a tone of vast uninterestedness and crescendos into a long pull from his beer.
"Dude, fuck that man. Let's get another room. One with two beds, dude. C'mon." I say. He sits up from the bed and looks at me with that crazy smile/nightmare. "Fuck, dude. Fine. You can sleep on that side of the bed. -But don't get all handsy, bro. Don't touch my junk." Switches points at me and accuses me of being homosexual with a series of graphic hand gestures. Inexplicably, I agree to his compromise.
"What's the schedule look like? What's the plan?" I ask as I pluck one of the beers from his six-pack and twist its cap off. "Well, we'll get into a bunch of stuff in a little bit, but ultimately we're just gonna gear up for the fight at WcF's XIII." He quips, before draining the last of his drink. He stands and moseys over to the bathroom. He pisses without shutting the door. "The card announcement is on the table over there." He says over the roar of his stream of urine.
I walkover to the wall with the window and find the table flipped over on its side. -The obviously faxed printout lists the fights planned for XIII. "Jayson Price Presents? Has that always been a thing?" I ask as Switches exits the bathroom without washing his hands. "Nah, that's new, broski. This is the first iteration with Price at the helm." Switches joins me in reading through the matches. "Pretty sick lineup, aye?" He says as he thumps the bottom of the paper in my hands.
"Holy hell. House of 1000 Light Tubes Match? That's fuckin' murderous. How the hell do you train for that?" I ask while lifting the circular table off the floor and uprighting it to its proper position. He replys flatly and simply, "drugs". I nod in clear understanding.
Switches pushes open the blinds and looks out the window of the hotel room. We are on the ground floor, and are looking out to a scenic shot of just the front of Switches' rape-murder-van. There's a defaced plastic babydoll hanging from the grill by a noose. -Like when some truckers will put christmas wreaths on the grills of their 18 wheelers, buy ya' know, in this case its a deformed babydoll, and it's not christmas time, and I guess the noose too.
"We're gonna go out and get some food, so put on your jacket." Switches says as he checks his pockets for his keys. He produces a handgun and eyeballs it for a moment before replacing it back into his clown-pants. "Giddyup." he quips as my jacket hood is flipped skyward.
The Switchy-mobile whines, then roars to life. His grimey clown-hands click the radio on before easing us into the night. "What's your stance on Philly Cheesesteaks?" He asks as sporadic neon light whips over the van. "I'm Pro-Cheesesteak." I admit. "Awesomes. Let's do it." Switches sews in the voice from "Funky Cold Medena" as he says the "Lets do it" part. I wish Tone Loc had been playing on the radio as he said it. -That woulda been freakin' sweet, but it was "Walk like an Egyptian" by "The Bangles". -Which is great, but ya know, Tone Loc woulda' been more cinematic.
"These guys that you're fighting... are they like your enemies? Do you hate them and they hate you and all that jazz? Is one of them like the "Ivan Drago" to your "Apollo Creed"?" I ask. "Bitch, please. I'm Mah fuckin' Rocky mahfuckin' Balboa if I'm anything in this scenario. Shhhhyaat." He says mock-incredulously. "-But, really nah. I mean Oblivion and Greenfever have a past and were foes and friends and everything in between, but they're not like "arch-enemies" or anything.-And hell I never even heard of the others before today. So, nah We're not Rocky 4 or anything here." He replies. "Hey, was that a philadelphia reference or something? Ya know Philly's got a dang-ol' Rocky statue up in this muthafucka, right?" He asks while looking over from the drivers seat. I laugh and casually deny dropping the reference for some reason.
Switches' clown-finger clips the turn signal as he wheels the rape-van into a parking space alongside the street. Switches and I slide out and make our way over to a brightly lit storefront. We order up two sloppy delicacies and wait for them to be rendered before our eyes. The deli-style restaurant is relatively busy, with a dozen or so customers eyeballing me and my junkie-clown-friend. "Couple'a drinks too, yo." Switches barks to the guy at the griddle. A waitress intercepts the misfired request by producing two empty cups. "What kind?" She asks with an emotionless hip shift. "Do ya got Diet Coke?" Switches returns as he repositions himself toward the waitress. She nods affirmatively. "Then, do it up, baby gurl." Switches fires some playful finger-gun action her way to accompany his grimey epitaph/flirtation.
"And for you?" she asks with a vague motion, for which I reply with "Sames. Diet Coke." The bursting sound of fluids and carbonation erupts as she fills the cups.
We move down the counter to the register. We are met by our meal and drinks, which have been encased in a paper bag. Sustenance is traded for monies and we are out the door. "Want to walk the strip or eat in the van?" Switches asks as he delves into the greasy-meat heaven. "Sure, lets take in the nightlife." I say with an air of sarcasm.
That's when everything got fucked up.
Two days ago I got a message from Switches. He sounded like he was having a blast. -Like really fired up on something. He asked me to meet up with him and that he would pay me to, like, chill and help him out. He couldn't tell me the details at the time, but said he had been recruited to fight in a show. -And that show would take place in Philly. I wanted to hit him with a quick Philly-Cheesesteak/Uncircumsized penis joke, but didn't come up with anything. So, I said "Cools! Thumbs-up! See ya there, dude." He didn't laugh, but I thought it was pretty funny and he knew what I was talking about.
I knew going into this how this could go. -My man Switches is eccentric as a motherfucker. -But he's been extra "outta his fuckin' mind" lately. I mean ever' since he killed himself by detonating a bomb inside his van. Totally fucked his shit up. His knock at the door was a playful little diddy that was surprisingly magical. I knew it was him, but completely surprised by it's... magicalness? Is that a thing? I'll go with "Magicalness". I ease open the door and there he is, smiling this wildly disturbing smile. -Looked like someone forcing him to smile at knifepoint. I dunno, maybe his face just looks like that. He's hard to read, in a lot of ways.
"Hiya, friendo." he said. He had a sixpack of beer and rolled up porn magazine called "Butt Stuff". I let him in and quickly warned him of the disgusting pratfalls that ailed the motel room. He wasn't surprised, as he says that he's been staying in the room off and on for a few days. "Don't watch the tv... it's broken." he warns. Switches plops himself down on the single bed and pops the cap on his beverage. "Wait, this is a single bed. I get my own room don't I?" I realized outloud. "Nah, bro. You take that chair over there." Switches points to the bathroom. "Are you talking about the toilet? -You're saying I'm supposed to sleep on the toilet?" I accuse with an outstretched arm toward the shit-smeared toilet. "Yuuuuuup." His word drags out in a tone of vast uninterestedness and crescendos into a long pull from his beer.
"Dude, fuck that man. Let's get another room. One with two beds, dude. C'mon." I say. He sits up from the bed and looks at me with that crazy smile/nightmare. "Fuck, dude. Fine. You can sleep on that side of the bed. -But don't get all handsy, bro. Don't touch my junk." Switches points at me and accuses me of being homosexual with a series of graphic hand gestures. Inexplicably, I agree to his compromise.
"What's the schedule look like? What's the plan?" I ask as I pluck one of the beers from his six-pack and twist its cap off. "Well, we'll get into a bunch of stuff in a little bit, but ultimately we're just gonna gear up for the fight at WcF's XIII." He quips, before draining the last of his drink. He stands and moseys over to the bathroom. He pisses without shutting the door. "The card announcement is on the table over there." He says over the roar of his stream of urine.
I walkover to the wall with the window and find the table flipped over on its side. -The obviously faxed printout lists the fights planned for XIII. "Jayson Price Presents? Has that always been a thing?" I ask as Switches exits the bathroom without washing his hands. "Nah, that's new, broski. This is the first iteration with Price at the helm." Switches joins me in reading through the matches. "Pretty sick lineup, aye?" He says as he thumps the bottom of the paper in my hands.
HOUSE OF 1000 LIGHT TUBES MATCH
TO DETERMINE THE #1 CONTENDER FOR HARDCORE TITLE
OBLIVION vs MARK MAYHEM vs APOCALYPSE vs SWITCHFEVER
"Holy hell. House of 1000 Light Tubes Match? That's fuckin' murderous. How the hell do you train for that?" I ask while lifting the circular table off the floor and uprighting it to its proper position. He replys flatly and simply, "drugs". I nod in clear understanding.
Switches pushes open the blinds and looks out the window of the hotel room. We are on the ground floor, and are looking out to a scenic shot of just the front of Switches' rape-murder-van. There's a defaced plastic babydoll hanging from the grill by a noose. -Like when some truckers will put christmas wreaths on the grills of their 18 wheelers, buy ya' know, in this case its a deformed babydoll, and it's not christmas time, and I guess the noose too.
"We're gonna go out and get some food, so put on your jacket." Switches says as he checks his pockets for his keys. He produces a handgun and eyeballs it for a moment before replacing it back into his clown-pants. "Giddyup." he quips as my jacket hood is flipped skyward.
The Switchy-mobile whines, then roars to life. His grimey clown-hands click the radio on before easing us into the night. "What's your stance on Philly Cheesesteaks?" He asks as sporadic neon light whips over the van. "I'm Pro-Cheesesteak." I admit. "Awesomes. Let's do it." Switches sews in the voice from "Funky Cold Medena" as he says the "Lets do it" part. I wish Tone Loc had been playing on the radio as he said it. -That woulda been freakin' sweet, but it was "Walk like an Egyptian" by "The Bangles". -Which is great, but ya know, Tone Loc woulda' been more cinematic.
"These guys that you're fighting... are they like your enemies? Do you hate them and they hate you and all that jazz? Is one of them like the "Ivan Drago" to your "Apollo Creed"?" I ask. "Bitch, please. I'm Mah fuckin' Rocky mahfuckin' Balboa if I'm anything in this scenario. Shhhhyaat." He says mock-incredulously. "-But, really nah. I mean Oblivion and Greenfever have a past and were foes and friends and everything in between, but they're not like "arch-enemies" or anything.-And hell I never even heard of the others before today. So, nah We're not Rocky 4 or anything here." He replies. "Hey, was that a philadelphia reference or something? Ya know Philly's got a dang-ol' Rocky statue up in this muthafucka, right?" He asks while looking over from the drivers seat. I laugh and casually deny dropping the reference for some reason.
Switches' clown-finger clips the turn signal as he wheels the rape-van into a parking space alongside the street. Switches and I slide out and make our way over to a brightly lit storefront. We order up two sloppy delicacies and wait for them to be rendered before our eyes. The deli-style restaurant is relatively busy, with a dozen or so customers eyeballing me and my junkie-clown-friend. "Couple'a drinks too, yo." Switches barks to the guy at the griddle. A waitress intercepts the misfired request by producing two empty cups. "What kind?" She asks with an emotionless hip shift. "Do ya got Diet Coke?" Switches returns as he repositions himself toward the waitress. She nods affirmatively. "Then, do it up, baby gurl." Switches fires some playful finger-gun action her way to accompany his grimey epitaph/flirtation.
"And for you?" she asks with a vague motion, for which I reply with "Sames. Diet Coke." The bursting sound of fluids and carbonation erupts as she fills the cups.
We move down the counter to the register. We are met by our meal and drinks, which have been encased in a paper bag. Sustenance is traded for monies and we are out the door. "Want to walk the strip or eat in the van?" Switches asks as he delves into the greasy-meat heaven. "Sure, lets take in the nightlife." I say with an air of sarcasm.
That's when everything got fucked up.
