I Fucked Corey Black

[Steve Orbit]

"Corey, your complaints have been recieved. And noted."

Orbit tapped the ash from his Black & Mild. Earlier, he tapped the ass of a Black & Wild. Woman. He was sitting on the porch in the back yard of her house-- small, fenced in with a shed in the corner. We hear the neighbors fighting, glass breaking. Orbit felt comfortable in the Oakland ghetto-- actually, he felt more comfortable here than the white neighborhood he called home in the Oakland Hills. He smiled as he thought about his upcoming bout against his former friend and ally, Corey Black. He spoke, although no one was around to hear him.

Steve Orbit: This time tomorrow night, it'll be a God damn celebration.

Orbit closed his eyes.

==

FRIDAY MORNING
Lockwood Gardens Housing Projects

The sun had risen. The sounds of neighbors fighting and furniture being tossed about had been replaced by those of children playing, car horns from the street. The atmosphere of a regular housing project. The camera panned around the neighborhood-- crackheads slumped over in alleys, homeboys hanging out shooting dice. Dope men hanging out on the corner. We came back to Orbit, who was awoken by the touch of this fine, young, dark chocolate female named Salisha. She's wearing a XXL white t-shirt that, although loose fitting, still gives us an idea that her D-cups are firm and her body is tight.

Salisha: You finna sleep all day out here?

Orbit rubbed the sleep from his eye and stretched, exhaling.

Steve Orbit: Damn, I passed the fuck out. Came out for a smoke, never made it back in.

Salisha: Too bad...

She smiled, running her manicured nail across her plump bottom lip. Orbit reared back and SMACKED her ass, grabbing a handful.

Steve Orbit: Don't worry, I'ma break you off again soon as you fix me some mother fuckin' breakfast.

The young woman took Orbit's hand and led him inside the house, directly into the kitchen. Chicken was frying on the stove, a stack of waffles on the table.

Steve Orbit: Now that's what I'm talkin' about.

She began to share his food into a plate.

==

An hour later, we're in the bedroom. Salisha is under the covers, passed out. Orbit has just stepped out of the shower as his cellphone rings. A towel wrapped around his waist, he exits the bathroom and answers the call, taking a seat on the bed.

Steve Orbit: What's up brother man?

...

Steve Orbit: Nah, I'm just kickin' it at this bitch's house. ... Don't worry about it, just some chick from the 'hood. ... Friends? Yeah, she got friends-- she got a sister but, put it this way, the gene pool wasn't as kind to her if you know what I'm sayin'. Anyway, she ain't your type. ... Her friends ain't your type neither, my nigga.

...

Steve Orbit: This is why you called me, tryin' to scam some pussy?

...

Steve Orbit: You already know, of course I'm ready. I ain't scared of no mother fuckin' Corey Black. Just 'cuz y'all used to be BFFs and jerk each other off-- ... Yeah. Watch the elbows, don't let him trap my arms or my legs. Got it. ... Fly, I said I got it. Who the fuck are you to be givin' me tips anyway? I done whooped your ass so many times I lost count. ... Relax, bro. Hit me up when you're back in Cali, aight? ... Aight.

Orbit ends the call. Fly was out of town, but kept in close contact. That's what brothers do. Orbit began to gather his clothes off of a chair in the corner of the room. He reached into his pants pocket and grabbed his money clip, peeling off a few hundred dollar bills. He dropped them on the night stand next to Salisha. Now, don't get the wrong idea-- she's not a hooker. Just a friend. Somebody Orbit could be himself around. That was valuable to a celebrity superstar status type of mother fucker like Steve Orbit, not to mention a man who's income is partially derived from surrounding himself with fake bitches who can't cook a hot dog or pour a bowl of cereal, let alone some chicken and waffles and collard greens. So yeah, he might drop a few dollars on her nightstand to help pay her bills. She was worth it.

==

FRIDAY - NOON
Oakland Hills

The sweat drenched Orbit's white tank top as he finished his eleventh lap around his neighborhood. The California sun beat down on his black skin as he slowed his pace from running, to a jog, to regular walking speed. He waved to his closest neighbor, a single, middle-aged widow who was watering her garden. She'd had all of the normal California plastic surgery-- eyes, nose, lips and of course tits, which were on full display in her bikini top. The job was decent-- Orbit had certainly seen worse, the amount of strippers he had been around. But it was no Hollywood job. It was an Oakland special, done by the Indian guy on the back of the phone book. She had imagined herself as some sort of LA, Hollywood socialite. In reality, she was barely making her bills off of her inheritance from her dead husband, she had no friends, and her only physical connection was with her neighbor-- who broke her off on a regular basis, long-dick style. It was the highlight of her existance. So yeah, Orbit waved back. He knew what his dick meant to her. It was a reason to get out of bed every day-- a reason to live.

She yelled as Orbit passed by.

Neighbor: You coming over this afternoon, handsome?

Steve Orbit: Not today, baby. I got too much goin' on.

She pleaded with him, visibly upset-- but Orbit kept it moving. He'd make it up to her by fucking her in the bathroom, up on the sink with his hands wrapped around her neck. He visualized it. He visualized her half-decent boobs swinging back and forth like pendulums in unison as he blasted her from behind, doggy-style.  He remembered how she meticulously shaved his balls the last time they were together.  He shook his head and thought to himself, it would have to wait. He turned to offer her an explaination.

Steve Orbit: I got a match tonight!

He grinned, flexing his arms. He could practically hear the splash inside her panties. He arrived at the gate in front of his house, and entered the code into a small keypad. The gate opened. Orbit began to walk up his driveway, towards his home.

==

Steve Orbit worked out religiously. Meaning, he never missed a workout. Maintaining his physical condition was paramount in his life for many reasons-- not the least of which, he was always ready to step into the ring if the timing was right, if the money was right. On top of that was his deeply held belief that a man should look good at all times. It was a principle he lived by, as much as it was expected from him AS a mother fuckin' pimp. He had to be attractive. He needed to be attractive in every way.

He grunted as he pushed up on the weights, pressing his back against the bench. He rested the bar and slowly sat up. He looked at himself in the mirror-- the walls in his basement gym were entirely mirrored, so no matter where he looked, he saw himself. No undefined muscle, no blemish could hide from him down here. He wiped the sweat from his face and upper body with a white towel and threw it into a basket in the corner. He stood up and walked towards the stairs.

==

Orbit drank a protein shake right out of the blender. Raw peanuts were a secret ingredient, along with the usual raw eggs and whatever lifetime supply of whey protein he felt like using this particular month. He also put one bottle of Guiness stout into the mix-- Jamaican tradition, Guiness was purported to give a man heightened sexual ability. "Strong back" the natives called it. Orbit just knew it tasted good and he believed in what little bits and peices of Jamaican tradition that he learned from Violet as a child. Islanders had such a higher quality of life, he though, they must be doing something right. They don't get cancer and all these other man-made (or at least, man-worsened) diseases that are prevelant in the United States. They do everything all-natural. Shit, everybody has ten kids down there. They must be doing something right.

His thought was interrupted by a notification on his cellphone. He had neglected his phone since he went out for a run a bit earlier. He picked it up-- 47 notifications. He shrugged, swiping the screen. A number of texts, missed calls from people he had no intention of calling back. His time away from the ring had been a time away from the spotlight. A time away from the glad-handers and the yes-men and the people who constantly wanted something from him. A time for Steve Orbit to get back to being himself, on his own time, in his own way.

The hoes were still demanding but he had been dealing with that for his entire life. It was second nature. It was these grown men, begging him for favors-- do this commercial, make this appearance, sign this autograph-- Orbit had grown weary of these types of people. "Businessmen". Even after years in "the business", he struggled to adapt and overcome his annoyance, these people were like bugs to him. Constantly buzzing around, and all he wanted to do was swat them away with a Pimp Slap. Orbit's natural habitat is in the street and in the street, people don't act like that. You get beat the fuck up for acting like that, for acting like a bitch. For being a dick rider.

He continued to scroll through his phone. One number stood out. A text.

"[12:28] picking u up in an hour flight is at 2:30"

Orbit looked at the time. Almost 1:15.

Steve Orbit: Aw, fuck.

Orbit took another long sip of the protein shake, or "power punch" as the Jamaicans called it. He moved quickly through the house, into the bedroom and undressed for a shower.

==

The limosuine was a custom Cadillac Escalade. It rolled away from Orbit's property, the gate closing behind them. In the back of the limo we find Orbit, dressed in full pimp gear from the gold to the 'gators. Across from him sits his long-time friend, former girlfriend (although he would never admit it), adult film star Havana Ginger. She wore a black cocktail dress and heels, with some diamonds of her own. The two had grown apart in recent years, but with Orbit spending more time at home in 2015, their friendship had become rekindled. They had reconnected on the same level that they had originally connected on-- a couple of hood mother fuckers who had achieved success, stardom, and perhaps notoriety, in ways that most people from their humble beginnings never could imagine or even dream of.

Havana dug into a small vial of cocaine with her pinky fingernail, scooping some up and bringing it to her nose, inhaling sharply. One more for good measure. She offered it to Orbit.

Steve Orbit: Nah, I'm stayin' clean today. I got a match tonight.

Havana laughed.

Havana Ginger: Never stopped you before.

Steve Orbit: Well I ain't doin' that type of shit no more, not when I'm workin'. You know I'm tryin' to cut back anyway.

Havana Ginger: Suit yourself.

She took another bump before putting the vial away, tucking it into her bra.

Havana Ginger: You look good.

Steve Orbit: Ain't gotta tell me that, I know I look good.

There was a moment of silence. Orbit looked down at his phone, and then back up at Havana.

Steve Orbit: I appreciate you comin' out to Minnesota with me. Fuckin' cold out there. I'ma need that warm body of yours.

Havana Ginger: Nigga please. Don't act like you ain't tryin' to spend some quality time with me.

Steve Orbit: What?

Havana Ginger: Nothin'.

She smiled to herself and crossed her legs, placing both of her hands over her knees.

Havana Ginger: You still ain't told me why we goin' to Minnesota.

Steve Orbit: What? 'Course I told you. I got a wrestling match. Don't you fuckin' listen to anything?

Havana Ginger: Wrestling? You told me you was done with all that-- then again, you said you was done with me a couple years ago, but here we are.

Orbit chuckled. It was true.

Steve Orbit: I said I was done with the company, WCF. I said I needed to take a break from the mother fuckin' business, which I have. This is a one-time thing. The event is called Thirteen... this nigga Corey Black runs a show every Friday the Thirteenth.

Havana Ginger: Word, so you workin' for him now?

Steve Orbit: Am I workin'-- bitch, Steve Orbit works for Steve Orbit. Corey asked me to do the match, I been itchin' to get back in the ring on my own terms-- it's convenient, so I'm doin' it. The shit ain't got nothin' to do with WCF, I ain't returning to the wrestling business-- I'm just doin' a match.

Havana Ginger: Ok... against who?

Steve Orbit: Corey Black.

Havana appears confused.

Steve Orbit: Yeah, he's a wrestler. Guess I didn't mention that. Might as well stick to promoting with his gettin' old ass, but he's still wrestling. He's 'bout the longest running mother fucker in WCF, right there with Logan and Gravedigger. Day one niggas, or just about. That says a lot about the boy too if you think about it-- Logan's in and out, damn near lost his mind. Gravedigger sits behind a table and talks shit every week. Corey Black's the only one who still tryin' to be an active wrestler. Notice I said tryin'.

Havana Ginger: He must be good if he got that much experience, how long has WCF been around?

Steve Orbit: Shit... 2000, right around then. 'Bout fifteen years, so he been at it for half my damn life. Stubborn ass nigga, he'll never quit. They'll be wheelin' him out in the fuckin' chair, he'll still be tryin' to throw elbows and drop mother fuckers on they head and shit.

Orbit chuckled at the thought.

Steve Orbit: And I gotta say, I been a fan of WCF for a long time-- it ain't never been as fucked up as it is right now. They got these #BeachKrew retarded ass mother fuckers runnin' shit because Seth lost control of the company for the seventeenth time, I mean really? Again, mother fucker? Talent is bailing left and right, mother fuckers are just peace-ing out. Some of 'em not even saying anything, no fuckin'... what is it, two weeks notice, nothin'. Just bouncing because the whole company is a bunch of fuck shit right now, for real. I even been thought about going back over the Summer, and then I said I'll go back for War, but... the shit is just too clownish right now, for real. Too many suckas. I can't breathe around that much bullshit-- maybe if my brother wanted to go back with me, and we tear through the whole fuckin' place, but I ain't goin' back. Not without him. And Corey Black... calls himself such an integral part of WCF, a fuckin' pillar of the company and whatever else-- he's the Avenger, he's Creeping Death and he's this and he's that, yet he's sittin' back not doin' a God damn thing about it-- matter of fact, he's just being buried underneath all the new guys. His phony rebuilt Pantheon, gone for the most part. The boy is lost, he's gotta be lost.

Havana Ginger: Ok... so... why you? Seems like he would have enough to deal with. Y'all got beef?

Steve Orbit: Man, I ain't got no fuckin' beef with nobody. The boy called me out, talkin' reckless and talkin' greezy, he's mad at my brother and myself-- so fuck it, let's do it. I don't give a fuck. I wanna whoop somebody's ass and he's stepping up to the plate with his personal issues, I'm good with that. I'll Pimp Slap his fuckin' face backwards. Yeah, you'd think he'd use HIS OWN SHOW to try to embarass #BeachKrew with how much they been embarassing his ass-- and maybe he will, though-- but it won't be in the ring. Because he's too busy diggin' up his hurt feelings about me.

Havana nods, she's following along.

Havana Ginger: I mean, you said he was promoting the event-- maybe he just wanted a dope match. You been gone for a minute, you know people gonna be buyin' tickets to see you fuck some shit up. Especially if things in WCF are as bad as you say they are.

Steve Orbit: Oh, they bad. They real fuckin' bad, 'Vana. I turned on Slam the other week and I had to turn the shit off after ten minutes. There ain't no real stars on the show no more. The roster is fuckin' pathetic, and it goes all the way to the top with the chump ass World Champion called Wade Moor. I remember when that title meant somethin'. Now it seems like any God damn body can show up and take it-- Seth won't stand in their way, but he's never stood in anybody's way. If Seth did anything, it was with help from the wrestlers. It was up to the mother fuckin' locker room to maintain order, to maintain a heirarchy. If I was up in there, you best believe I'd snatch that World Title from Wade Moor just on principle.

Havana Ginger: So why you talkin' about it if you not gonna do it?

Steve Orbit: 'Cause I don't really give that much of a fuck. I love the business but you know what else I love? My city. My life at home. I'm barely thirty years old and I feel like I'm retired, baby. I don't ever have to work another match, go on another tour, OR pimp another bitch in my life. Anything else I do in my life-- from here on out, I do it 'cause I wanna do it. The highest form of pimpin' is pimpin' that bitch called LIFE. So excuse me if I don't feel like saving Seth Lerch's company from a bunch of fuckin' surfer dudes on Ecstacy and mushrooms and whatever other shit them weird white folks be takin'. I'll leave that to mother fuckers like Corey Black who just can't let it go. He lives to be Corey Black the wrestler. He lives for the mother fuckin' ring-- win or lose, he's there. Might not wrestle for six months, but he's there, he's in the locker room, he's choppin' it up with the young dudes. I suppose that deserves to be respected on some level. But that's not what Steve Orbit is about. I'm in business for myself, always have been, always will be.

Orbit reaches into his mink coat and pulls out a Black & Mild cigar. He lights it and puffs.

Steve Orbit: And that's why I don't give a fuck about what nobody says about me, or what nobody feels about me, so long as it don't fuck with my business, you feel me. Fuck these young niggas. I figured shit out on my own and I was better off for it.

Havana nods. She might not be paying attention any more. She digs into her bra for her coke vial.

Steve Orbit: And that's one thing I resent about Corey. He fucked up Pantheon's good name and he did it for his own selfish bullshit, his own pride. Again, because he can't let go. I ain't buying that bullshit about "the best and the brightest". Me and my brother left the company, Jayson Price is off doin' whatever the fuck he's doin'. I hear Jeff Purse is around but you know, he's never really around. Corey was left with nothing but a brand name, so he slapped that brand name on a bunch of rag tag mother fuckers and tried to relive the glory days of Pantheon incarnations of the mother fuckin' past. Shit, everybody but him knew how that would end up.

Orbit puffs his cigar, thinking.

Steve Orbit: Pantheon was great because we moved as a unit, but also because we could hold our own when it was time to hold our own. We all had great stand-out achievements. I ask you this, Havana-- did Corey have any standout achievements, the entire time he was in Pantheon? From then 'til now?

Havana looks up, realizing she's been asked a question. She obviously doesn't know the answer. Nor did she hear the question.

Havana Ginger: Uh...

Steve Orbit: Hell no he didn't. The best he could do was a couple of Tag Title runs with a man who is ten times the wrestler and a hundred times the human being that Corey Black could ever aspire to be in THIS LIFE. What's that? Cruiserweight title? I'm being serious, this is grown folk talk. I don't wanna hear about no fuckin' Cruiserweight belt for suckas. I'm talkin' about real achievements. Not giving Adam Young a Burning Hammer just to fuckin' show off on some ego trippin' shit.

Orbit's train of speech is interrupted by one thought.

Steve Orbit: If Corey think he gon' toss me around like that, he 'bout to find out what's really fuckin' good.

Orbit shakes off the thought, the disgusting thought of being compared to Adam Young, and continues speaking his mind.

Steve Orbit: Corey never stood out in Pantheon-- as a matter of fact, he was a weak link in Pantheon. The world knows what the fuck I'm talkin' about. Look through the archives, count how many Pantheon losses ended with Corey Black on his fuckin' back eating a pinfall. He spent more time on his back than some of my hoes-- and this was back when Pantheon was hot. We ain't lose that often. But every time Corey was in the match, I had that feelin' in the back of my mind. I know Fly had it to. Everybody had the feeling. "Aw fuck, we'll be aight so long as Corey don't end up on his fuckin' back." And that's how it was. Most of the time we could work around him but sometimes we just couldn't salvage his little spitcracker, Napolean complex havin' ass. So it's funny to me that now, the weak link of Pantheon has decided to recreate Pantheon with a bunch of other weak mother fuckers.

Orbit chuckles.

Steve Orbit: It's like, he thinks just by naming it Pantheon that it's gonna be just like we was back in the day-- dominating the shit out of everybody. I'll give props where it's due-- that first Pantheon group was straight fire. You had the Phantasm, you had Fly and you had Purse when he gave a fuck. Corey was a tagalong then and he was a tagalong when I was in the group. He was never a fuckin' star, and I don't wanna hear that veteran shit. "I stepped aside to let the young guys hit." No, nigga, you was pushed aside by mother fuckers who were and ARE greater than you.

Havana has just finished a couple more bumps of coke. She's back in the conversation.

Havana Ginger: Word up, fuck that nigga. He ain't shit.

Steve Orbit: Ain't shit indeed.

Orbit rests his thoughts for a moment, killing the cigar in an ashtray built into the seat of the limo. He breaths a deep sigh.

Havana Ginger: You still ain't said why he's mad at you for.

Orbit considers her question... although it was not formulated as a question, there is a question in that sentence. Get off me.

Steve Orbit: Jealous, mostly.

Havana gives him the look. You know the look.

Steve Orbit: What?! Look at these boots-- Mauri alligators. This mink cost 100 grand, I'm the flyest mother fucker who ever spent ten minutes in the wrestling biz. I got pussy runnin' hot and cold on tap. What's Corey got except a cold, spooky-ass castle in a country-- a country where nobody speaks no God damn English, found that out the hard way. Try buyin' 2 million plastic balls and a spinning bed from mother fuckers who don't speak English, that was an adventure.

Havana Ginger: 2 million... you know what, I don't even wanna know. He didn't call you out for a match because of jealousy. Don't George W Bush me, mother fucker.

Orbit got the joke-- Corey wanted to go to war with Orbit just like the terrorists want to go to war with the US, but jealousy had nothing to do with either cases.

Steve Orbit: That might be the smartest God damn remark you ever made.

Havana Ginger: What, you think I don't pay attention to geopolitics just because I fuck for a living?

Steve Orbit: Nah, that ain't even...

He denied it, but of course he thought that. Exactly that.

Steve Orbit: Aight, you want the truth? I fucked Corey Black. I looked him right in the eyes and fucked him.

Wink wink.

Steve Orbit: I was tired of carrying the fuckin' weight in Pantheon so I turned on Corey, I turned on Fly-- which I do regret, peace to my brother-- and it just so happened that Corey Black took the worst of it. Yeah, he took a couple of chair shots, bad ones. I fucked his ass up. And you know why, you know why he got it the worst? You know why he was the first one I hit? Because I was tired of him not pullin' his fuckin' weight. I was sick of it. I made up my mind to leave the group, I was ready to move on to bigger and better things-- which I did, I made the right decision to join Vapor Kings-- so I figured, finally I can crack this mother fucker over the head and let him know how I really feel. So that's what I did, and he been whinin' about it ever since.

Havana Ginger: If you had a problem with him, why didn't you just confront him? Why sneak attack him?

Steve Orbit: Why? So I could see the look in his eyes while I fucked him.

WINK WINK.

Steve Orbit: Eye contact is very important. But I ain't gotta tell you that, you know you sell with your eyes just as much, if not more than your ass and your titties.

She nods.

Steve Orbit: And then there was Trios. An annual tournament made up of three-man teams. This year, my brother wanted to enter the tournament, and he wanted me to roll-- so obviously, I fuckin' rolled. What I didn't agree with from the JUMP was his choice for the third man... Corey mother fuckin' Black. From the jump, I was like... "Fly, Corey don't like me. Corey ain't gonna be able to work with me." Surprisingly though, he signed up and he fuckin' showed up and we made it allll the way to the finals keepin' Corey off his back... but in the finals, it finally happened. Corey ended up on his back once again and we fuckin' lost the tournament.

Havana Ginger: Damn.

Steve Orbit: I know. So Fly realized what I been tellin' him all along, that Corey Black is a punk and he's soft, and my brother turned his back on Corey for the first time since they became homeboys. So now we got Corey... super fuckin' emotional about Fly. I mean, I think this mother fucker is sitting in his castle watching buddy comedies and crying his fuckin' eyes out every night over it, and naturally he blames me because... why not, I'm his brother.

Havana Ginger: Plus the other shit you did to him.

Steve Orbit: Yeah, plus that old shit. So he's got a beef with me. A few beefs with me, and I'm fine with that. I would have been OK to live the rest of my life without ever settling up with this mother fucker. It don't mean shit to me, it is what it is. But I have the sneaking feeling in the back of my mind... the feeling that Corey thinks that he can maybe beat me in the ring. And that I can't fuckin' stand for. I can't deal with that shit, no. I can't. I need to make sure this mother fucker KNOWS for a FACT that if you put the two of us opposite each other in a wrestling match-- standard, no holds barred, caged shark match on the moon, whatever-- Steve Orbit is gonna put Corey Black on his fuckin' back every time. On his back where he is so familiar with and comfortable.

Havana Ginger: So it's personal to him... but it's business to you.

Steve Orbit: Hot damn. You ARE payin' attention.

Orbit reaches down at his side where there is a mini-fridge. He opens it, revealing bottles of champagne.

Steve Orbit: You want somethin' to drink?

Havana smiles.

Havana Ginger: Fuckin' right.

Orbit grabs a bottle and stands up. He begins to look around the limo.

Steve Orbit: I know I seen some glasses around here...

He turns his back to Havana. With the bottle hidden in front of him, he shakes it up.

Steve Orbit: By the way, I ain't drinkin' before my match. This is all you...

He spins around and pops the cork. Champagne sprays all over Havana, soaking ninety percent of her. She hops up, horrified.

Havana Ginger: What the fuck, asshole?!

She is about to take a swing at him but he grips her shoulders, keeping her still.

Steve Orbit: I'm just playin' around, damn.

She's not happy.

Steve Orbit: Damn, look what I did. We gon' have to get you out of this dress now.

Havana shakes her head... but goes along with it. Orbit begins to undress her, kissing on her neck.  The camera angle switches to outside the Escalade limousine, speeding down the freeway.  Fade out.