Post by David Sanchez on Sept 24, 2015 3:37:21 GMT -5
Guess Who?
When the camera transitions in from the eternal pitch black of nothingness we are greeted by a scene of the simplest sense. A cubic room, no bigger than a glorified pantry or walk-in wardrobe is the setting. The furnishings simplistic and straight to the point. All that meets the eye is a small table containing a popular family board game, two leather padded, wooden seats and their occupants. On one side is Lady Knives, her hair dyed a deep red that makes the emerald green of her eyes pop in contrast. Sitting directly opposite her, we see David Sanchez, his own aquamarine eyes staring down at the nostalgic pastime in front of him. He thinks of how simple it was being a child compared to the vast social minefield that life soon thrusts upon any adolescent and ponders his own hands; he wasn’t wrinkled yet. He was thirty-one, nine years away from forty but to his own delight he was happy with what he had achieved in his time outside of the womb. Sammantha studies her game board, its plastic base displaying thirty or forty postage stamp sized faces, not the standard issue faces displayed on the box though, far from it. This board game had been doctored at David’s request to show the Wrestling Championship Federation roster in its entirety. Each little plastic square represented a different superstar entering into the War match and contained only their face and a small name beneath the mugshot.
David sips from a small glass on the side of the table, his scotch; fresh from the decanter. He savors the taste in his mouth and gulps it down, feeling the alcohol warm his throat all the way down to the pit of his stomach. He runs his fingers across the tops of the squares on his own game board, studying them in rows rather than as individual squares before finally looking up at his wife who glimpses back at him with a mild hint of innocence upon her face, secretly wishing to play a genuine round of this long-forgotten family classic and not just use the imagery as a creative way for David to insult his opponents. She loved the wrestling business and loved David’s commitment to the industry even more, after-all it was the passion he had for the sport, his competitive nature and refusal to stay down which had caught her eye in the first place all those years ago. She swallows her desire to engage in juvenile activities and meets her husband’s serious gaze before drawing a card from the top of the pile and glances at it quickly before setting it face-down upon the table as her husband does the same.
“Shall we begin?”
“Certainly my dear.”
Sammantha looks almost excited upon David’s response. She would never let him see it but secretly she missed a simple life of board games, cheap wine and family movies. It was something David would never understand, a lifestyle he had never known. It wasn’t that he didn’t spend time with her and their son; Kayden. Rather that he neglected to visit, mention or even acknowledge the existence of his own parents with whom he had emancipated from at the tender age of sixteen. When she thought about it for greater lengths of time, she almost pitied him for it. He hated that. Every time she had brought the subject into the light David was quick to veil his feelings in darkness and answer in simple monotonic responses. Complete with a perfectly choreographed series of nods and sighs. His childhood was a mystery, and that way it would remain until the grave she feared if he even opted to be buried. Sometimes how little she knew of her husband worried her but mostly the mystery just made him all the more endearing.
“Are you a badly acted, late-eighties cop drama loving, second-hand Spaniard?”
“No my love. I am not Jackson White. The Fenix… the fucking Fenix… of all the stage-names in the world Jackson has to refer to himself as the majestic phoenix; a mythical bird famed for rising out of its own ashes born anew after death. This is perhaps the biggest display of false advertising we have here, a man claiming he can rise from his own ashes when he can’t even rise out of the lower midcard without threatening to take his ball and go home. That little stunt bought you a couple more weeks of hanging out with the cool kids though didn’t it? I’m sure that’s a decision you would agree has perhaps not run the course that you thought it may. I can see the gears turning in that greasy fucking head of yours Jackson. You can’t even win a match against one man, how do you expect to survive this battle? This is two-thousand and fifteen Jackson, if you want to be taken seriously then you better damn well take life by the under-carriage and squeeze it until it bends to your will. You don’t make any sense though… that’s my biggest concern with you. Why the fuck are you on a wrestling show trying to work out answers to a murder mystery? Have you ever stopped to think that maybe dear old dad just slipped a few bullets through himself to save the humility of watching you try to speak English on national television? There we go, mystery solved. Shit, I’d blow my grey matter against the wall too if I had to watch you go out there and get dominated week after week, after week, after month, after match, after match. You’re a fucking liability in the industry today Mr. White, a candle burnt at both ends. You can’t wrestle and you’re not vaguely entertaining. This isn’t Taggart, or any other fucking daytime soap opera. It’s D-Day kid, and this Sunday we approach the banks of Normandy. There isn’t going to be any Saving Private Jackson though I’m afraid, you won’t even make it off the boat before you become cannon fodder. Maybe if one of us is nice we’ll send your mutilated body back home to Portugal for a proper burial. I’m sure that would mean a lot to mum and d… oops! Haha. Almost shot myself in the foot with that one… pun intended. Listen up son, you don’t mind if I call you son, do you? The only good things to come out of Portugal are Christiano Ronaldo and Nelly Furtado. Infact, almost just to highlight how mundane and pointless your country is, here’s a quick fact for you all: Did you know that Portugal is the world’s biggest manufacturer and importer of corks? Me neither. Did I care? Certainly not. Does anybody? I doubt it. Viva las bottle caps, bitch.”
At these words, Lady Knives flips the hinged-plastic flap containing Jackson White’s face on it down and begins to search for her next guess.
“Are you a fantasist, magician, time-traveling yet somehow stereotypical upper-class white guy?”
“No, my love. I’m not Jay Omega, and we have all seen quite enough of him thank you very much. This is a man who I faced a few weeks ago in a match well, the first match that I lost in over two months. At least that’s how it’s going to look in the record books anyway, to anybody watching it, the events just looked like I got a little carried away and caved your skull in with that belt of mine. I don’t understand though Jay so please enlighten me; why didn’t you simply alter time so that this was never even a possibility? If you are indeed some type time-lord it seems that you’ve dropped the ball quite a lot recently haven’t you? I mean aren’t we currently trying to find your friends killer? Who killed Scarecrow? Simple, Jay Omega killed Scarecrow when he decided he could make better use of the ability to time travel by playing fucking backgammon with Nikola Tesla. You are a murderer Jay, you killed your own friend by way of gross negligence, well done. We didn’t see it coming… but you did, bravo. This whole thing with Pantheon right now doesn’t seem right to me. Its four guys with nothing in common but a terminal inability to grab the brass ring. Sure a couple of you held the big strap once upon time when the world was flat but not you Jay, you didn’t really do shit did you? You just try to talk a big enough game that people take you seriously, and it works, to a certain extent because they haven’t thrown your ass out just yet. Then what would you be? You’d be fucking pointless, that’s what. You’d be out in the fucking trenches, cluster-fucking with the rest of these nuggets. You are essentially a well endorsed, glorified midcarder with a microphone. Trust me I would know, I’m just a better endorsed, glorified midcarder with a championship… and a microphone. It’s time for a real battle now though Omega Man, let’s just see if you can last a little longer this time than you did in Ultimate Showdown, because that shit was pathetic. I mean don’t get me wrong… it’s nothing to shoot yourself over but still, pun-intended. Also Torture said your mom sucks in bed. So that too. Suck it, cunt.”
With that being said, Sammantha points at the small plastic place-holder with the face of Jay Omega and focuses all of her concentration on trying to uses telekinesis to flip it face-down. Of course, nothing happens because this isn’t a Jay Omega promo and the boundaries of reality apply. Disappointed, she flips the tile down with her finger and asks her husband the next question.
“Are you a bearded, shuffling, cheeky Nandos eating, mick-lickarse?”
“Incorrect again my dear. I am certainly not J.P. Caliban and yes I know he’s injured. I don’t give a fuck, I just don’t like the guy so allow me to continue... If I was however, this man. I’d probably be better at it than Caliban is himself. The fucking Artful Dodger of Professional Wrestling, at least this nickname is a touch more apt than Jackson’s. You are certainly a dodger Jordan: you’ve dodged relevance, success and the glass-ceiling for as long as I’ve been watching you. We all get it; you were here before. It’s not that we don’t want to take you seriously, it’s simply that you haven’t done anything noteworthy in either of your stints with this company. Oh wait, fuck you held the Internet Championship for a couple of weeks, so yeah… there’s that. Well done, that totally gives you the right to come out and whine like a bitch about being booked incorrectly right? Didn’t you get beat down by Adam Young a few weeks ago? That seems to sound about right. I could sum up your career in three simple words kid: Needs. More. Talent. All you are is a throwback to a time when the talent pool was but a shallow puddle and you could win a belt just by walking in the front door. Things aren’t so easy anymore are they? Competition’s got a little bit stiffer than it was once upon a time, hasn’t it? It shows in everything you do Caliban, that stupid fucking look of self-entitlement on your face in the ring week after week as you knock off the wrestling equivalent of a gazelle one week only to be fed to a lion the next. This isn’t Belfast sunshine, this weekend we won’t be fighting with petrol bombs and the IRA are nowhere to be found, all you’ve got to rely on is that dim-witted, Trinity Ashby sounding butter-faced cunt following you down to the ring. Don’t worry though, you won’t be there long, so you can get back to playing fucking Counterstrike with your online clan whilst claiming to be the only intelligent man on the Emerald Isle. I hope your entire family dies in a car-bombing you orange flag-waving empty box of a man.”
“Are you a minuscule, train-wreck, Jersey Shore extra that’s seen more cocks than John Wayne’s shotgun?”
“No my dear, I’m not Sandy Coconutz. I didn’t even know who Sandy Coconutz was until about three hours ago. I tend to skip the opening match of the show you see. Sandy though, what in the actual name of all that is righteous were you thinking in even coming to the WCF, let alone heading into War? Surely there’s a married gentleman in a dimly lit parking structure with his fly unzipped waiting for you to finish the job somewhere. I get it, I really do… #BeachKrew needed a bit of diversity to prove that you don’t have to be a man to be a complete and utter waste of DNA. Well played. You my dear, are exactly why nobody takes women’s wrestling seriously in this Federation. A poorly enacted stereotype of a college slam-pig. I won’t even be touching you in this contest, filth like that simply doesn’t wash off and you seem like the kind of chick to spit in a guy’s mouth without him asking first. Not cool Sandy. Herpes is for life sweetie, sadly your career in professional wrestling has an expiration date and it’s rapidly approaching. Here’s hoping Thomas Bates finally snaps and torture fucks you on the commentary table whilst Zach Davis and Freddy Whoa hold your arms down… and somewhere Denise D’Evil laughs. That scene is quite possibly the only hope you have of even vaguely entertaining us. I’d suggest you maybe stick to being passed around your little congregation of burn-outs and space cadets like a pornographic magazine between twelve year old boys, because if you do step into the squared circle for War, all the vaginal reconstructive surgery in the world is not going to repair that revolving door of a slice you’re packing from the fucking it will surely receive. There’s a reason we don’t know you honey, I bet even your own family claim you died in a car accident the second you left home. You ma’am are a fucking embarrassment.”
“Seeing as we’re covering the excess baggage; are you the token black-guy?”
“D’angelo Hall?”
“No, the smaller one. I think he’s in jail for shooting Q-Ball”
“Who the fuck is Q-Ball?”
“Nobody knows David. Nobody knows….”
“Ah! I see what you were getting at. No my dear, I am not Andre Aquarius. What the fuck is it with all of these random people? I mean is this guy actually picking up a salary? Because I’m pretty sure I’ve only seen him in the ring one time. There’s something suspicious about a black man who just sort of looms around in the background during #BeachKrew vignettes. It’s another obvious ploy to show how diverse they can be but still, having their token cotton-picker be a non-active shadow to his white brethren might not be the most racially friendly way to have put him across. I’m sorry Andre, I really wish I had more to say about you but fuck, not even your own manager wants anything to do with you. Maybe it’s time to hang up the spandex and go back to living at home with your parents. Van Wilder was a shit movie, and that’s pretty much how I feel about you. You’re like the older teenage guy at the party who nobody invited or really speaks to but simply hangs out because his fake driver’s license is legitimate enough to buy a crate of Mike’s Hard Lemonade. Also, can I just say that your name is fucking ridiculous? Of course I can, it’s my promo. Andre Aquarius… What the fuck man? I honestly hope that’s an alias because you sound like a second-rate fortune-teller from a psychic hotline. Please, take the same advice I gave to the surplus whore of your little faction and phone in sick on Sunday, because if you step into the ring. I’m going to give you the kind of beating that will make what happened to Rodney King look like a simple misunderstanding.”
With three more names proven to be wrong, Lady Knives flips their faces down on the little plastic board and gives her husband a thoughtful look. David in turn licks his lips, letting the venom he is spewing dance upon his taste buds for a brief second before drowning it in fine scotch.
“Are you a failed musician with the physique of a twelve year old boy?”
“Wrong again sweetheart. I most certainly am not Dustin Beaver. That we can all be thankful for, one abortion at a time thank you very much. This guy though… This fucking guy. What does he want with us? Were we even provided with some sort of explanation as to why he thinks he can just lace up some boots and call himself an athlete? No instead we’re just expected to believe that some fifteen year old looking motherfucker is a genuine threat to any of us. Dustin, I don’t have much in the way of fuel for you either. The truth is I don’t need to verbally dissect everything about you to make it clear to the world that you do not stand a chance in this match. Fuck me, you butcher the character enough yourself. If you even make the final fifteen I will buy one of your albums though, boosting your total record sales for the year up to a staggering twelve. Shouldn’t you have a paper-round or something? I mean I’m all for giving the youth of today an opportunity but it’s almost like Seth Lerch was kneeling at your mother’s gaping axe-wound during childbirth with a catcher’s mitt, waiting to snatch you up and disappear into the night. What was it like in Fritzel’s basement though? I’ve always wanted to know? You have that sort of look about you that just screams out victim. If it wasn’t Josef then an uncle perhaps? I don’t know, I’m just grasping at straws here. The punchline is that you were molested as a child, so you know… like 3 weeks ago. I know they don’t tend to broadcast the hard hitting news on Cartoon Network you little shit though so pay close attention to what I’m about to say. You don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of winning this match, why don’t you go form a support group with Macauly Culkin and compare sodomy scars? I suggest you do it soon though because if you leave it until after Sunday there’s going to be nothing left of you but the timeless echo of your screams on auto-tune.”
“Are you a… fuck you’re going to love this. Are you a painted-up weirdo posing as a children’s entertainer?”
“Well seeing as I’m pretty sure I turned Isaiah Chavis into a vegetable, I’m going to assume that you’re talking about the standard issue substitute clown we’ve had thrust down our throats in his absence. So, no my dear; I am not Riddlebox. Another stupid fucking name, I’m actually quite certain some of these guys let retarded children pick their monikers. So let me get this straight, you sir, are a clown, correct? A failed clown at that. How the fuck do you even fail at being a clown? At least Isaiah had some sort of reasoning for dressing the way he did, a stupid fucking reason but a reason nonetheless. So, from what I gather you basically just couldn’t get people to laugh at your jokes in the circus anymore. So now you’re out for revenge against the fans who shunned you. Wrong fucking fans man, wrong fucking venue and wrong fucking form of entertainment. In what world does it make sense to make wrestling fans suffer because some snot-nosed kids didn’t find it funny when you shoved your pie their face? Pun-intended. Is that the real reason Mr Box? Get a little too attached to some of the kiddies? Parents don’t want you around their fucking hell-spawn’s birthday parties anymore? Well, my dull-bulb of a friend you’re in luck! Here we all laugh at you. Not because you are remotely funny though, but because you are so tragic it’s pretty much a case of if you don’t laugh you’d have to cry. In addition to this you have a split personality disorder it would seem! How interesting! So, like what? Does one half of you think it’s a clown and the other half just know it’s a terrible, dated excuse for a gimmick? G-I-M-M-I-C-K. Gimmick. Look it up you fucking amateur, I’ve seen more originality in a Vengeance promo, and those were fucking awful. All you have done is recycle a concept that hasn’t been entertaining in over a decade and start spewing out the kind of riddles we could expect to find in a children’s book… and yet, you still have a job whilst a vast amount of the population can’t scrape two cents together. I hope your fucking proud, because of you some wrestler on the independent circuit is having to explain to his wife why they can’t make rent payments this month. Just do the right thing and pull a multi-colored handkerchief out of your pocket, tie it into a noose, sling it over a sturdy tree and hang yourself so someone with actual talent can take your spot, you fucking non-entity.”
“Are you better than a blind man at I-spy?”
“No I’m not Kyle Kemp, but I am better than the blind. All of them, at everything. Fucking Stevie Wonder included. Kyle, what the fuck happened man? For months I watched you with a sort of kindred admiration while we went about our respective rivalries with Teo and Spencer. Sure, you lost the final battle while I was out there stealing the show but that’s no reason to go sell your soul for a few ecstasy tablets and sloppy blowjob from Miss Coconutz. What the fuck man? The day you decided to join that little gathering of punks that peaked in high school you lost every single ounce of my respect. I thought you were better than everybody? How does the whole #BeachKrew thing fit into that? Like are you better than everybody else besides them or are they included in your mantra? These are the thoughts that keep me up at nights Kyle. I suppose it must be nice to have people covering your back though, wouldn’t want everybody to see all those cracks and blemishes in façade of yours, I mean yeah, you won the People’s Championship from Adams, but you couldn’t really get the win when it mattered most, could you Kemp? I bet all the gold in the world won’t fix that crushing blow to the ego. Can I just say for a minute here as well, excuse me while I break keyfabe. How the fuck can a heel be the People’s Champion? You need to pick an alignment and stick with it you fucking failure at life. Either the people love you and therefor you are face, or the people hate you and you are heel. You can’t be both, in this business that’s called a tweener, and you look more twink than tweener I’m afraid son. I’ll try to make this as simple as possible for you Kyle, because due to your recent life choice I’m pretty sure that right now the only thing you’re going to be better than me at is catching chlamydia from a college girl of questionable age. Don’t worry though bro! Planned Parenthood’s got your back! Also… stop fucking tweeting Thomas Bates, it’s not going to happen. You might think you’ve scaled up the ranks some because that’s what they tell you in your little social circle. Deep down though we all know the truth, you’re just a poor man’s David Sanchez with a paper championship that you’ll be losing to Del Sol the minute your little puppet-master Tiburones gets done removing his TV title. You can bet on that! Oh wait… no you can’t! Gambling must still be a little bit of a touchy subject for you I guess. Ah well! Don’t worry, I’m sure Wade and Jared can carry you to a respectable twelfth place this Sunday, enjoy it slugger; its seven places higher than you’ll deserve to be.”
Her husband having informed her that her latest three choices were incorrect, Sammantha flips down the three tiles. The first containing a picture of Dustin Beaver, then Riddlebox, and lastly Kyle Kemp. Clan Sanchez smile at one another as they look deep into each others eyes. It was such a simple concept; taking one of Kayden’s board games and using it to satisfy their own egos. Yet they were both evidently enjoying it. As David turns the crystal glass of Scotch in his hands a few times and sniffs the smoky noted from the Isle of Skye in Scotland his senses are warmed around his icy heart.
“Did you eat all the pies… the burgers, and the fries?”
“Haha. No my dear I most certainly did not. Although now that you mention it, I could fucking murder a bacon double cheeseburger right about now. We should head down to Burger King when we’re done here but no... I am not Billy, thankfully. Now this guy is clearly just a parody. I mean seriously what other possible reasoning could there be for him becoming a part of the main roster. Seth must have misunderstood the small print and thought he was re-signing John Barber. Instead we got the grotesque blob that ate John Barber. Billy, you fucking sicken me. As the United States champion I feel it’s my duty to represent this country and I can’t think of a better example of what is wrong with America, than you. Look at you, you fat son of a bitch. It’s fucking disgusting and an inconvenience to the rest of us. You haven’t known pain until you’ve been stuck next to somebody of your fucking size on a long-haul flight or had to pretend you aren’t physically cringing whilst making love to a larger woman as the sweat glistens on every fold of fat on their body. It makes me want to vomit just thinking about it. The thing that gets me the most though is not just the actual mass of your body though, it’s the fact that you’re okay with it. You poke fun at it yourself and it’s not funny! It’s a horrific, unsightly disease that should be quarantined like polio. I’m in favor of a world where all the fat-camp dropouts are locked in a cage together until the cannibalism kicks in. The world would honestly be better off if all of you abominations just ate each other. Think of the malnourished kids in Africa Billy! You could save a small village of them just by skipping lunch for a couple of days. You are probably walking into this War thinking it’s going to be beneficial for you to bring all that junk inside your trunk huh? The bigger you are, the harder it’s going to be to keep you down, something like that? It’s not going to work. The second you waddle down that ramp dough-boy, you become the prime target and every set of eyes in the ring fall upon your beefy frame. We eliminate the fat one. Why? Simple. One of these things is not like the others, one of these things is not the same. The future is bright William, the future is thin.”
Sammantha looks down at the game board once David has finished talking and flips two side-by-side tiles face down, as Billy’s abnormally large body would not fit on the one tile and was therefor stretch across the two.
“Are you luchadorable? Even though you can’t seem to win when it matters?”
“No my love, I’m a luchadoormat. I’m only here to make other people look good. Kidding, of course not. I am not, nor will I ever be Teo Del Sol. Ah Teddy, we haven’t spoken in a little while have we? I’d like to say a lot’s changed, and I mean if you really look into it, I guess a lot has done but here I am; still speaking down to you from oh so many plateaus above. It’s been emotional Theodore, truly. Just think, it was only a few short months ago that I kicked your face into an unrecognizable condition while you begged me to stop. It also means that it’s been around six weeks since you kicked that poor, helpless fan in the face and broke his nose. For shame Sunshine, for shame. It seems though that everything has pretty much unfolded exactly as it should have, exactly as I predicted before we went into Ultimate Showdown for the final battle. Here I stand today; a champion, the name on everybody’s lips, having not been pinned in thirteen weeks and counting, looking fine as all hell and feeling fucking fantastic. Where are you Teo? Where’s your belt? What about the fans Teo? TEO… YOU’RE LETTING EVERYBODY DOWN!”
“Maybe he likes the pity.”
“Is that it Teddy? Are you just a one-trick pony? Can you only get them to cheer for you as the ultimate underdog? What a hack. You haven’t even done anything or changed in the slightest since we met in the ring. Wrestling is a sport of evolution Teo. You are meant to adapt and survive with the changing of the times. Yet here you are, still stuck in a fruitless series of matches with a one-percenter college kid in a fucking mask, I mean… I don’t get it? You had nothing to fucking gain from this, are you retarded? I hope you see where you went wrong… when you look across the ring at Jared, I hope you see it, because I do; clear as day… If only you dropped this pathetic, lecherous act of kindness and false promises to people whose names you will never know. You could have been special Teo – but you dropped the fucking ball, and now you’re not even the best dick in a mask around here anymore. Now the only potential you have is to be Teo “the guy who got beat-down by the top two up-and-coming superstars” Del Sol. Tiburones is going to keep your belt on Sunday and then I’m going to hand you a reminder of exactly where you rank in the food chain around here… not unlike how Jonny Fly handed you that TV title in the first place."
Sammantha notes that David has finished speaking and carelessly flicks Teo’s plastic tile down with her finger. As she moves onto the next square she smiles an almost juvenile grin at her husband before pursing her lips and letting out a wolf’s howl.
“Awooooooooooooooooooooooooooo?”
David looks perplexed for a moment at his wife’s sudden outburst but after the gears in his mind are left to turn for a second he makes the connection, smiles and returns the gesture.
“Awooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!”
"Awoooooooooo!”
“A-woooooooooooooo-ooooooooo!”
“Well that was fun for a little while, what next?.”
“Yes… yes it was actually beautiful, but those words that just left your lips pretty much sum up exactly how I feel about him. Neat catchphrase, have fun jerking the curtain. So no… I’m afraid I’m not Wolf.”
“Fair point. Ummmm… let’s see. A few stabs in the dark coming up here, but humor me. I just want to make sure I’m covering all my bases. Are you ultimately old, and rather angry about it?”
“Oh dear lord. No I’m not, I am neither the Ultimate Destroyer, nor Bad News Benson. I didn’t actually think Seth would be throwing the whole jobber roster into this match; apparently Bobby Cairo and Steve Orbit left a pretty big hole to fill. What is it Seth? Are we not good enough for you? Anyway; Ultimate Destroyer… What the fuck even are you? I swear to god I watched a promo a few weeks ago where you ate a live pigeon and traveled days to the show in the back of a truck just to get stomped, like every other week. Are we really that desperate for talent that we can’t let this guy go? I mean come on now. Benson… I’m not going to lie. I didn’t even waste much of my time looking into you. By much I mean any. So yeah… don’t get your hopes up.”
“Do you: Despite talking, looking, dressing and acting like a man, insist that you are not a man and instead bring death?”
“Only on a Tuesday… I jest, no. I’m afraid that I am not Denise D’Evil. I’d mock the pronunciation or rather the failure of we as a human race to lack the understanding required to correctly pronounce that surname, but alas; it would appear as though everybody else has the obvious covered. Seriously though, what the fuck is your deal? I get it, if Logan can pretend to be a woman, then why can’t you do the same, it’s understandable. I just don’t know how you’ve gotten away with it for so long. I mean, does Night Rider know? Is that the attraction there? Women don’t look like you Dennis. Women look like Sammantha here Dennis, take notes. You’ve been around for a while though dude, way to hang in there! Seriously, from one bro to another; you’ve excelled yourself. The tolerance and endurance it must take to thrive in the lower midcard for so long without looking at a bottle of bleach and thinking about drinking it back eludes me. I will never know your pain man… and for that you have my deepest sympathies. Take some free advice though Dennis, this Sunday why don’t you leave the prosthetic vagina at home, there will be no advantage granted when I see your supposedly delicate features in front of me on Sunday. Make no mistake, Thomas Bates might not agree with hitting a woman but a) I’m not Thomas Bates, and b) You sir, are not a woman. I will kick a pregnant woman in the stomach if it means getting even the slightest bit higher up in this business. Fuck I’ll beat the shit out of you for free if that’s really what you’re into. Just call me dude, I’m not into the whole femdom thing but I’ll happily kick the shit out of you in a dimly lit room for three hours whilst Night Rider masturbates and cries.”
“Are you Betty Adams’ fuckbuddy, slash-WCF’s resident Russian stereotype?”
“Fuck you buddy, I no Petrov. This fucking guy though, is he even Russian or just the brainchild of a white kid with a poorly displayed understanding on the Soviet Union? It’s like he’s watching Rocky Four every night in an attempt to somehow transform into Ivan Drago. I sometimes find myself questioning if this man is even real, it’s like he walked straight out of a Dr Seuss book, only with more swearing and a lot less comprehension. He’s equally as funny though, I won’t take that away from him but somehow I don’t think that’s what he’s going for. Maybe I’m just being a dick though, I mean, the guy did phone it in during my first match with this company, stupid motherfucker just upped and left me while he brawled with another jobber. Way to cost us the match cunt! Not like it’s been my only pinfall loss here or anything…. Oh wait. It fucking has. I know what you’re thinking though, I’m not the type to hold a grudge? Wrong. Die Petrov, and these words come from the nicest, warmest place in my heart. May Betty’s wilting flower seize up like a vice with you inside and castrate you. May you bleed out on a sheepskin rug in the center of an old lady’s living room.”
“Are you a fat, bald man in dungarees? Is it still socially acceptable to wear a flannel shirt? Why are there so many fucking hillbillies in this thing?”
“I have absolutely no idea my dear. Either Seth is really a son of the South or we must be hiring on a budget these days. Probably the latter of the two given this week’s newcomers but the first option would explain the whole Thomas Bates world title push.”
“That’s pretty true, I mean didn’t you hand him his own ass in a picnic basket the week before he supposedly earned that shot?”
“Why yes, I think I did! It’s annoying when things manage to sneak out from under the rug they’re being swept isn’t it?”
“Indeed my love, but we seem to have strayed from the point.”
“Right you are, but not with your guess. For I… am not Cletus T. Clyde. Another fucking moonshine drinking, tobacco chewing redneck-wreck of a man. That’s just what we needed, at a time where we’re already having to spray the arena with pesticides every night to stop Adam Young’s fifty-seven cousins using the building for Klan meetings. I’m sure you’re totally different though, right? I see you’re also fat. Cool gimmick man. The Fat Hillbilly… I’m sure you’ll stand out from the illiterate hillbilly, the comatose and painted hillbilly, the giant hillbilly, the Rob Zombie illustrated hillbilly and the hillbilly that couldn’t handle his shit and went to rehab. You’ve set yourself quite a challenge Cletus, have fun trying to be relevant in such a saturated market. If you manage though, remember: you can always change your outlook on life! Yet, you’ll still always be a fat useless cunt. It’s genetic you see; the father was a farmer, the son was only a jobber. Maybe if you get real lucky in three or four generations a relative of yours might actually finish high school!... or attend high school… or be able to spell high school. There is no hope for you in this match I’m afraid Mr Clyde. I firmly suggest that you spend the day lying in an empty, inflatable paddling pool outside of your trailer drinking fucking Pabst Blue Ribbon and threatening minorities who come too close to your mailbox. You know, like you do every other fucking day.”
“Well, I touched on it already. I guess it’s time to find out… Are you the seemingly impassable mountain?”
“Dammit, you got me. Okay, okay. I’m Thomas Bates and I’m going to win War!”
“Hahahahahaha.”
“Hahahahahaha.”
“Oh babe, stop… You’re killing me here.”
The couple takes a moment to compose themselves after David’s hilarious claim that Thomas Bates would win War. Sammantha holds her sides to keep them from splitting whilst David muffles his laughter with the palm of his hand before taking a sip and trying his best to keep himself together as he continues.
“Right… Okay, I’m calm. Baby, don’t be so silly. I’m not Thomas Bates, were I Thomas bates I’d have blown my brains out like Jay Omega by now. These last few months have been terrible for you, haven’t they Thomas? You see, if I had made the above statement in June, people might have at least acknowledged the fact that you were in the match, maybe even in the shortlist of potential winners! You had a streak dude, and you’d picked up a couple of titles. Things were looking good. Then all of a sudden, pow! Outta nowhere. The thick smog lifts and we can see what’s really happening. I only need to go down to the bookstore and pick up a copy of Howard Black’s How to Sodomize Thomas Bates for Beginners to have enough fuel to burn your entire career to a cinder. I won’t do that though Tommy. I mean, I would… but I won’t. You are simply not worth my time anymore. Doesn’t that sound familiar? Maybe not in actual words but it must be funny to think that a month ago you probably looked at me as a mere tune-up match before Dune. You underestimated me TUB, and I knew you would. That’s why I’m the smartest man in professional wrestling and you’re nothing but an afterthought. In a few months the only time we’re going to hear your name is when fans reminisce fondly about the time you hit a bout of ‘roidrage and threw Gemini Battle thirty feet into the crowd. That was funny shit. Now though, it’s just depressing to watch you ambling around in a pointless feud with a bunch of sadist idiots. I think I hit the nail on the head last month Thomas. You are a dancing, fucking bear in a cage of your own creation. You pushed yourself too hard, too fast and you crashed into the sun. Better to burn out though than to fade away! That’s the theory isn’t it? Statistically T-bone… you are now on the very bottom of the mountain looking up. Oh, the fucking irony. I’d say challenge for the People’s Championship next but you can only pick up votes in a murder investigation apparently. Not to worry though, I guess it saves another disappointment. You’d only lose it within a week anyway. I never did get the chance to thank you properly though for everything that match did for my career. Thanks Bates, thanks for being so mundane, predictable and boring that I was able to follow this book word for word and still came out with the belt. It was a well-deserved week off for me. I wouldn’t blame you if you just lay down in this match you know, throw War. It’s not a bad idea for you really, is it? I mean… how desperate are you to get back in the ring with Dune after he made you look so profoundly stupid? You don’t even have the gangbang belts anymore, congratulations. Now you really are just a guy in a motorbike gang. Ever see Sons of Anarchy? Cool show… In no way related of course because that would surely be intellectual property theft or gimmick infringement right? I don’t know, I’m just speculating Clay… I mean Thomas. Maybe you should gather round your little table before War on Sunday and just agree to help Gemini get as far as possible, he’s the only one of you with a shred of talent and without you and that retarded kid he’s just as disposable as your curriculum vitae will be in January when you’ve finally abandoned all hope of making it in this industry and beg for your teaching job back.”
Sammantha flips down the plastic holder representing Thomas Bates, as she has done a sizable chunk of the roster already and looks back at her husband who is smiling like a child. David’s genuine emotion radiates across his complexion for a few seconds before fading back under the empty mask of lies. He takes another sip of his drink and looks down at his own game board, flipping down every face and name that has so far been shot down.
“Isn’t it just cross-dressing when somebody other than a Scot wears a kilt?”
“I think so. I mean I’m sure it’s okay if you have some Scottish blood in your veins, but I’m talking about a decent enough quantity of it, you know like your granny is Scottish or something. Are they Scottish? I haven’t the faintest clue. They get billed from Canada and use an Irish drinking song as entrance music. To answer your question though. No I am not a member of Clan Macneill. Cormack and Conall Darrow Macneill. What a pair of helpless idiots. So… Essentially what we have here is two Canadians in tartan drag. They should team with Dennis and go for the Trios before Pantheon sacrifice them to Corey Black as some sort of offering or whatever it is they do to please their master. I’ve got nothing against the Macneills personally. I mean, truthfully neither of them, nor them as a unit are even close to being in my league so it seems silly to consider them a blip on my radar. My prediction? The tag-team division needs jobbers too! I don’t really see either of these men making even the slightest impact on Sunday. I mean, yeah sure the old one has been around for a while but by that logic so has Ultimate Destroyer. As for Conall, I consider him to be not but cannon fodder.“
“Are you currently spoon-feeding your brain-dead tag-team partner creamed corn?”
"No my love, I am not Derek Moreno. The fucking Redeemed One. You’ve got some redeeming to do kid. I’ll admit, when Mejor Redemption came into this company I saw something, not in them as a tag-team. Mitch Morales has all the appeal of a hot-coffee enema. I saw something in Derek and for the briefest of seconds. I thought I could make something out of this young man. He had the talent, and the look, fuck he could actually wrestle, which apparently isn’t even a necessity in this sport anymore but regardless he had the makings of being the complete package. With the right guidance perhaps you could have been somebody Derek… But no. what do you do instead? You go and get yourself bodied by Tiburones and immediately lose all that lovely momentum you’d been building. Tough break son. So you lost a match, I mean, personally I’m not too used to this occurrence but one would assume that life goes on. It seems that for you however, life just stopped at Revenge. Maybe it’s all that time you have to spend in the hospital visiting Mitch, is that what’s holding you back? You can tell me Derek, by all means. I hate to be wrong about something, and I hate to admit it more than that but on this day I can honestly say that I was wrong about you. When I first seen you I witnessed only what you wanted me to see, smoke and mirrors. When Jared drove your partner into the floor like a lawn-dart I watched you break in the middle of that ring and it wasn’t a man possessed I that I saw that night, no. It was but the shadow of a child whose only friend on the block had just been grounded for a couple of months. Now who will you play with Derek? You are a lost soul. Be careful, those are treacherous waters. If you float around in obscurity for too long you’ll wake up one day with a Dark Riders Gang cut on your back and Doug Murdock’s three-inch dick in your ear. Don’t be too offended though, that’s just how they so hello. Ask Spencer, he was their resident cumrag for so long that a black-light on his bare flesh would light up like Aurora Borealis. That’s your future Moreno, it’s written in the stars. You have a horrific showing at War, but don’t worry big daddy Bates will make it all better later on when he makes you his little spoon.”
“Haha, okay… Are you currently competing to become the tossed salad in a Pantheon sandwich? All the while boasting about your underwhelming penis?”
“No my dear, I’m afraid I am not Dexter Radcliffe, and furthermore I must openly confess that I don’t really understand this whole competition. I mean is it the winner or the loser that gets to join Pantheon, because to me that sounds like a punishment. What is there to say, I don’t know single fucking thing about Gunther Blythe other than the fact that he openly wants to join the biggest pile of over-rated bullshit this company has to offer. Pantheon… Motherfucking Pantheon. Aren’t you guys supposed to be like the elite force in this business? Yet here you are letting two fucking nobodies’ battle for a spot in your little gathering. It’s almost distressing to watch, I mean do Dexter and Gunther even know what’s at stake? Or is that being saved for the big reveal. Like oh, congratulations, bend over. The punchline here is that you can both feel free to knock seven shades of shit out of each other on Sunday, call it a silver lining. I say this confidently as I know the two of you will have a lot of spare time after you are both eliminated in the opening few minutes of this match. What you do in your free time is no concern of mine, by all means; have at it.”
“Are you Sarah Twilight? Be honest!”
“Wrong again dear. I’m not Sarah Twilight, and nor am I Logan. Fucking Logan, what a waste of a man. It’s sad to see how far his career has fallen. He’s won this fucking thing three times, can you believe that? Now he can’t even last three minutes in a match. Logan, I beat you a few weeks ago and proved already that you can’t survive in this new era with your rusty old style and your recycled catchphrases. It’s the dawning of a new day; a day where people don’t put a wig on and call themselves a woman… well, most of us. Sorry Dennis, I’d have done you last if I knew this was going to come up so much. This man, nay. This shell of a man is perhaps the farthest thing from the conqueror he once was. There was a time when hearing his name in this match would inspire fear and genuine dread. Not it just contracts a minor hotdog pop and gets taken as a joke. Well done Logan, you essentially committed career suicide, and you managed to drag it for over a decade before you finally bit the bullet. I’m glad you had the decency to at least lose to me before you became a complete failure though, that was very sporting of you. Next time when I piss on your hall of fame statue I’ll be sure not to aim for the eyes so much. This isn't your world anymore relic, this match belongs to the young and the hungry. Not the fossilized remains of a man who was something way back when. Step aside, it’s time you retired before somebody with less tact than myself steps into the ring with you and does some permanent damage. Skip this match, I beg of you. At least have the common human decency to give an individual talent the rub before you kick the bucket. Me? No thanks, I still feel dirty from the last time I touched you.”
Dis-heartened. Sammantha flips down a few more tiles and examines her board in greater detail. With more or less half of the superstars faces now pointing down at the table she speaks again to her husband, this time with two more serious questions.
“Hmmmmm… are you homeless? I want to say that you’re homeless but that doesn’t seem like an insult to you.”
“I was wondering when this guy was going to come up. It’s been something I’ve been looking forward to for months now. No sweetheart I am not Zombie McMorris. Z-Mac… The Honey Badger… The Coked-Up Mad Man. The man of three million ridiculous self-proclamations. So Zombie, you’re pulling double duty? I’d just stick to focusing on that piece of shit paper championship. You know better than anyone how disappointing it can be to throw it all out there only to be met with disdain. Nobody wants to see you here anymore. The whole entire act is getting old, honestly you dress and act like you just won the first ever Bumfights tournament and made yourself a shiny quarter. Also, what’s with all the buzz around cocaine? What are you, some kind of pussy? Bitch please, at least have the balls to shoot some tar before you start running around like the resident drug aficionado. You know, a man’s drug. Not something aimed at supermodels and frat boys. Unless that’s where this is heading. You’re not thinking about joining #BeachKrew are you McMorris? I think they’ve already got the dirty gypsy field covered with Wade. I’ll admit though, I’d be a bit threatened by your involvement in this match if only you had some real talent. Instead though as the weeks have rolled by we’re just made to watch time and time again as Z-Mac comes down the ramp, tries his hardest and falls flat on his face. Another victim of the changing of the guard. You haven’t been relevant in a long time though have you? I guess it’s nice of Seth to keep you around, I mean admittedly it’s nice to have a veteran around to give people the rub. Except that you can’t even do that right, can you? For weeks you made Raymond Hatcher look like a force to be reckoned with, getting your ass served up to you on a plate. Then what happened? They thought poor Raymond was ready for the spotlight, so they put him in a match with me. Long-story short… no more Raymond Hatcher. Way to waste your effort pushing dead-weight! We’ve seen you in some big matches this month though, against both of the men who will fight for the World Championship on Sunday. I mean you lost both matches, but don’t worry I’m sure you can claim to have now revived the division… or whatever bullshit it is you like to spew out in your broken English. I have to ask though Z-Mac, if your so desperate to get yourself noticed, so adamant to find something to do with yourself… then why didn’t you come to me? I could have dangled my belt in front of you like a carrot on a stick. You are a former champion after-all. It’s something to consider after Sunday when you come up just short… again. I’m giving you an opportunity Zombie. The opportunity to get bodied by somebody who actually deserves the credit for a change.”
As David finishes his sermon on Zombie McMorris, Sammantha flips down his place-holder and looks up at David with a restlessness in her eyes.
“Okay… this is taking longer than I thought but that’s about halfway. I’m going to go get a bottle of wine, would you like anything?”
“You could freshen my glass while you’re up please beautiful.”
David hands Sammantha his empty whiskey glass and slouches into the chair as she gets to her feet. Only to see her turn around just before her exit and walk back across to the table.
“Fuck it, there’s a lot of clutter that needs to be addressed if you want to cover all your bases. Let’s play the word association game for a few minutes. I’ll say a potential superstar’s nam, you respond with a sentence, understood?”
“But… my glass.”
“Yes David, it’s empty but it’s not going to refill itself until you deal with a few of these non-starters. I don’t want to spend the next hour listening to you talk shit about cameramen."
“Very well then, as you were.”
“Jeff Danger.”
“Vaguely resembles something shit out by nineteen ninety-nine”
“Biohazard.”
“Parody. Not a threat.”
“Tyler Walker.”
“Same response. More steroids, less talent.”
“The Topgunners”
“Aren’t there like fifty of these guys?”
“Forty-nine. I think one of them died or something.”
“Regardless, they all suck balls.”
“Freddy Whoa.”
“The black commentator? Really? Sure, why not. He should stay on Wednesdays.”
“Bubba Jones.”
“Are you just saying names that you know now? I’m pretty sure he doesn’t work here anymore.”
“Bubba fuckin’ Jones.”
“’MURICA.”
“Damn straight.”
..TO BE CONTINUED..
