Post by Bobby Cairo on Dec 25, 2015 15:08:30 GMT -5
"The Memory... (Prologue)"
"I remember her face. Think I heard her name a time or two as well. What was it. Alexis? Alexis Chung. I remember her. She was... BIG." Cairo gestured thusly with his thick as a means of accentuating the female's girth. "A full-figured gal. Ass like an old-fashioned porcelain bathtub." The smoke coiled, ceiling-bound, from Cairo's Newport cigarette. Menthol Country had invaded his lungs. He'd tried to quit before. Tried so many times to quit. Like something else he'd tried to quit? What was it. Oh yeah: #DubSeaEff. Certain things were just written in your DNA, one should suppose.
The children, The Godfather's children, were circled around Cairo's bronzed, steely legs. Their ears were rapt with anticipation. It was Michael Jackson's wet dream. But Cairo was not here for lawless shenanigans. NO. Such shenanigans awaited him in the afterlife in the form of seventy-two virgin whores*.
(*Trademarked by Al Kayduh)
The Fadduh of Gawd was here to enlighten his children. To adorn them with tales of Communistic glory, victory over Capitalistic heathens and a Zombie named DickMorris. That was the tr00 meaning of Christmas, along with the celebration of James Willis Hey-Zeus' birth. The rising. The rising. The rising of The Holy Son, His rod and staff in hand.
"Indeed, the rising of the rod and staff, my children. She was... Alexis was an expert in such dealings. One would--" Cairo rap rap rapped upon the mahogony coffee table in front of him as he regaled the children. "One would rap upon her door in the middle of the night, any given night, and she would appear like a vision in the fog on Christmas morning. Thin white silky gown that covered her mammoth form. We would joke-we would often say about her 'Alexis? Dat bitch built more like a Buick!' And she were. And she wudd. But she could have also been a Hummer, because boy did she give a mean one."
The children laughed and clapped and applauded. Cairo took another drag from his Newport and chased it with a hearty glass of Poonglourious Whiskey, that vintage shit. There were no secrets this time of year. Cairo slid the tip of his index finger around the perimeter of the glass. "Alexis-- or? No. That wasn't her name. Who am I thinking of?"
The years and the abuse, both chemical and physical, had taken their toll on Cairo's noggin. One poon had lapsed into the other so as to make all such poon indecipherable. It was... she was a vicious cycle. "That wasn't her name. Alexis was the Indian girl from that Indianapolis Starbucks. So, who am I thinking of? WAIT."
The glass slipped from Cairo's massive Poon Guinea clobbering paw. It would have fallen, would have shattered and spilled its contents, if not for the intervention of a tiny thing with Double D's, couldn't have been older than nineteen. His child. Indeed, his child.
"Sheiky Did a Bad Bad Thing"
"You shouldn't have done that, Sheiky. That was a mistake, my manz." Robert Cairo's voice hung in the air of that dry dusty Motel 6 hallway. His words jabbed, jabbed, stung, poked, prodded, peppered the conscience of The Iron Sheik circa 1985, that legendary Bob Backlund-dethroning Iranian strongman that he be, coked up madman that he be.
The Iron Sheik, 'Sheiky' to his friends, had exercised poor judgment on this night. Motel 6. That dry dusty Motel 6 in that dry dusty hamlet of a Roswell, New Mexico. Of course, this was always supposed to be a free-wheelin', picaresque jaunt, a road trip among rowdy friends: Cairo, Sheik and The Asgardian All-Father Odin Balfore. A road trip from Cairo's Kush-laden ranch in Boulder, Colorado to that #DubSeaEff version o' duh Super Bowl known as ONE. The Black Beamer of Death had provided transportation for the three rasslin legends, because fuck tryna get through airport screening with an Iranian en tow. That was... that was bound to be anything but Smoove Sailing in Donald Trump's ZMURRICA.
And so that long drive through the night, that cocaine-fueled journey from a Rocky Mountain High to La-La-Land was undertaken, and them hoe-hoe-hoe!'s (in keeping with the holiday spirit) were more than willing to accomodate three thick muddafukkas who had made bodyin' foo's a way of life.
Sheik had been smashin' poon since Odin was but a tingle in his Poppa's thick, and that was saying something. Oh sure, the public had speculated as to whether Sheiky had gotten a little too big for his britches in recent years. That red, white and blue bandana. The Kurt Angle t-shirt. The wholefangled embrace of profanity and general crass. Who was Sheik trying to impress? No one. That was who. The Iron Sheik did not give a fuck about your thoughts, your opinions, or your way of life. Sheik did what he pleased, when he pleased, and to whom he pleased. Pure and simple Communism.
And so it was at McDonald's earlier in the night, when Sheik was ordering that Ayria Adams McMuffin (withhold the sausage) and a side of hashed browns, that he met a certain young poon. She was wearing a slit skirt and knee-high boots, a suicide blonde with huge funbags and a penchant for Iranian thick. That was a notion that Sheiky just could not shake.
"You sucks the thick? Yes? SUCKS THE THICK YOU MUDDA FUKKA YOU!" This was Sheik's way of flirting and he swept the poon right off of its feet. That young thang was bound, gagged and stuffed into the trunk of the Beamer of Death before Sheik could even pepper down his hash. Sheik had wasted no time in making his move. Let that be a lesson to you youngins out there: If you like a girl, just let her know. There's no point in stressing over such matters. Either she's willing to be a sacrificial lamb led to slaughter or she isn't. #GitRDun
Sheik rode shotgun inside of the Beamer, fuckin Amurrican rock and roll music blastin' like the Berlin Wall had just cum down. Cairo manned the steering wheel. Odin was stretched out in the backseat with Jennifer Lopez's surgically enhanced poon, his Asgardian codpiece getting polished by J-Lo's fallopian tubes.
"Bobby. Bobby. QUES-CHUN:" Odin proffered. "Why didn't you just murk ZMAC when you had the chance? Not that I don't enjoy... this." Odin was simultanously invading every orifice of J-Lo's anatomy with his Fifty Shades of Goo. Once impregnated, the Puerto Rican female of advanced breeding age was big booted and jackknife powerbombed onto the freeway outside of the speeding vehicle. THAT was the money shot. "The All Fadduh always be down for a road trip with the boys. Yet I cannot help but wonder why you didn't kill dat foo."
Cairo's eyes were glazed like doughnuts. The chemicals that he'd ingested with that swath of Jamaican whores earlier in the evening were paying their dividends. The Beamer swerved violently upon the highway as Cairo nodded OFF and ON and OFF and ON again.
"You ask me questions, my friend? Very good. This will help me stay awake." Cairo's eyes locked upon the road. His steering suddenly steadied. "What SeaMac, that urchin from the great blue deep, fails to realize, is that everything, EVERY THING that's happened is precisely as Jam Willy prophesized. Why the fuck yew think we havin ONE on Jam-Will's BDay weekend in his adopted hometown of HolyWood? That shit ain't a coincidence, my manz. Th-think-think-- jus think about it."
Cairo shook his head in the negatory as Limp Bizkit blasted upon the stereo system. The drugs were within Cairo's grasp now. He was not within theirs. Cairo was feeling his royal oats. His brill-YUNT Jewbrainium was a pincushion for wisdom and knowledge without interference. That was the difference that a dollop of Daisy made.
"I was not summoned on that fateful day at the Kush-bloomed ranch by A Zombie McMorris. I was summoned by our Lord and Saved-ya. When ZMAC cold cocked me with that big boot, and she sent me hurtling toward the dirt, I was not afraid. I was not caught off guard. I knew that my redemption would cum at ONE. I knew that my moment to crucify a scoundrel and a traitor to our nation would be delivered in short order. This is why I lied in wait, Odin.
"Now you think about it from ZMAC's perspective. We have wutt-- we have a man, a supposed 'man', who claims to be Mister Twenny-Five-Eight, Three-Sixteeee-Six. Never taking a week off. Never turning down a fight. Well that's not such good news for ZMAC. Because it means that his mind and body have been dulled to the pain of so many beatings, so many defeats, much as the whores who are unworthy to suckle our thicks. But see, unlike those whores, ZMAC holds within his possession something that I desire, a Christmas gift to myself.
"You see that HorrorCore belt, well that's something that should've been retired when my child, the spawn of my loins, Phillip Baines left this business to become HolyWood's greatest porn star."
"PHILLIP BAINES FUCK POONS WITH THE BIG DICK!!" The Iron Sheik bellowed to anyone who would listen from within earshot.
Odin reacted with a nonplussed expression, which was quickly doused by A Danish brew of Asgardian provenance. "So that's what this match is really about, Bobby? You fightin' Baines' battles for him? That don't seem much like your style. We always imposed OUR WILL and OUR LAW because it's what we wanted. Not because some other cat who couldn't be bothered to take up arms was feelin' a lil light around the waist." Odin made the universal 'title belt gesture' in the vicinity of his thick to emphasize his point.
Bobby glared into the rearviewmirror. Was his longtime friend and comrade seriously questioning his motives? How could this be? Cairo wasted no time in reTORTing. "You misunderstand my words, Odin. Allow me to rephrase: I am not doing this for Baines or even for Lord Jam Willis; I'm doing this for Numero Uno. I'm doing this for me, my manz. It ain't even about capitalistic greed. This is about justice. This is about righting a wrong.
"Think about it, Odin. McMorris has been riding the gravy train for far too long. He's been riding that big duck dong based on the hard work that true men, real men, gods among men with thicks to boot, built and innovated in this #DubSeaEff joint. And when you think about it-- I know that SeaMac claims that he don't rep #BitchKrew. He claims to be an independent thinker. Nothing more than an interloper who pledges allegiance only to blow and Bee-Bee-Dubs. But how is SeaMac gonna get a free pass from #BitchKrew week after week, match after match, if he ain't reppin they colors?
"That's suspect, dude. You think about that. It is a conspiracy. A Godfather-damned conspiracy against the Jews and the working class all across this planet. ZMAC- she is, uh, conspiring against my people. And I know ZMAC, She-Mac, whatever her name is-- she's looking at this match as that Powerball jackpot winning lottery ticket. Just stepping into a ring with Robert Cairo is more than she's deserving of."
Cairo's train of thought was abruptly intruded upon by The Sheik. "SHE-MACK IS NO FAWKIN TESTICLE! SHE-MACK IS THE CAITLYN JENNERS!"
"This is true, Sheik," Cairo repied. "She-Mack is not who we thought she was. She-Mack once stood proud and strong, someone we could honor and salute. This man, well, formerly a man, was someone that we could look Tort for leadership and fortitude. Somewhere along the way, Zombie McMorris traded in victory for Dick-tory. Decided to embrace the role of midcard shoeshine boy. Decided to take up the ass end of them Vaypuh Queenz.
"How many times did me and my lil brova man Kaz Mazy massacre dem Queenz? Less see: We beat them for the Numbuh One Contenduhshit. We beat them for the Tag Strapz. We beat them when I took the Whirleds Strap off-a Bonkman. Many victories. Many resounding victories. And I feel like every time the Vaypuh Queenz took an L, it was because Zombie Hack was gettin' laid out by her latest clientele."
"Yo, Bobbo." Odin was pointing toward the trunk with the Jimmy thumb. "Speakin' o clientele."
THUMP THUMP THUMP
THUMP THUMP THUMP
THUMP THUMP THUMP
Cairo wrinkled his Jewbrainium as to ponder the sauce of the audio intrusion. "Odin, you was eatin Chipotle for dinner again?"
"LET ME DA FUCK OUTTA HURR!" Crazy bitch screamed from the trunk.
"FUCK YOU STUPID WHOREZ!" Sheiky rebutted. "I FUCK YEWR ASS BREAK BACKS MAKE HUMBULL!"
The unrest. Oh the unrest. Whoa.
"You shouldn't have done that, Sheiky. That was a mistake, my manz." Robert Cairo's voice hung in the air of that dry dusty Motel 6 hallway... only to be drowned out by the sound of that klaxon.
EEON! EEON! EEON!
EEON! EEON! EEON!
EEON! EEON! EEON!
Sheik had smashed the poon. Smashed it the only way that a proud Iranian strongman knew how: Smashed it so vigorously that the poon reacted defensively in the only way that it knew how: That poon reached out and pulled the fire alarm.
WHIRR! WHIRR! WHIRR!
WHIRR! WHIRR! WHIRR!
WHIRR! WHIRR! WHIRR!
"FIVE-OH! FIVE-OH!" Odin forewarned. But it was too late. They were surrounded.
