lOVE bYTES( bUT sO dO i)

[Tiffany White]

PROMO #8 - lOVE bYTES( bUT sO dO i)

Another match against Chance von Crank, and the fucker still can’t pin me.

It’s hilarious. All this shit he talks, all his braggadocio, all the times he claimed to be superior to me, and yet he’s never gotten a pinfall or submission on me personally. This past match he can’t even claim he got the deciding pin for his team. Nope, Dustin Beaver did. And yet time and time again, he says “I’m better than you.”

After the nine-man-tag match on Slam, I made my way back to my locker to get ready to head out back to the hotel. Before I got there though, I was stopped by Hank Brown, cameraman and microphone already set to go. He could probably sense the annoyment in my voice.

Tiffany: Do we really have to do this now, Hank?

Hank: I need to get something out on the web before the night’s over tiffany, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Slam’s been bone dry for content this week, throw me a bone here.

Tiffany: Fine, but make it quick. I smell like sweat and trailer park and I’d get to get this shit off before midnight.

Before you could even say “Tiff’s Sweet Ass” the camera was already ready to go, red light blinking and all.

Hank: Hank Brown here in a WCF.com exclusive interview, I’m standing here in the back with Tiffany White after an absolutley chaotic tag match, Tiff, what did you think of what transpired in the ring just now?

Tiffany: I’m not surprised at all by the shit that went down tonight. Chance wanted to get one on me a week before it mattered, and in the end it didn’t mean shit cause he still couldn’t seal the deal. Now he’s gassed out before the biggest match he’ll ever have the luck of being in, while I’ll be fresh and rarin’ to go.

Hank: You and Hank have been at each other’s necks since you two debuted almost two months ago. Do you think this Cage match will be the final meeting between Chance von Crank and Tiffany White?

I scoffed at Hank, catching him somewhat off guard.

Tiffany: Do I think? Bitch I’m gonna MAKE this the last time we face off. I never want to see this fuckboy ever again after Timebomb, I’ll make sure of it after I smash his ribs in with the Pocket Queens and shred his face on the cage like a fucking cheese grater. And if he comes back after all that? I got another steel chair with his name on it. Believe that.

Hank: Strong words from the queen of Diamonds folks. Before I let you go, do you have any parting words for the other six competitors in the Trilogy Cup?

Tiffany: Words? Yeah, I got a couple. Kemp, Occulo, Atreyu, I hope you motherfuckers enjoy your brief time in the spotlight cause after you three get eliminated from the cup, it’s back to the midcard with the likes of ya. Dune, you’ll be a tough motherfucker, that’s for sure, but you’ll find out soon that this ain’t the same mediocre level of talent that allowed you to win last year. New blood like me, we’re not intimidated by your cheap scare tactics. Jared Holmes, you better be thankful you’re good at indoctrinating a helpless, weak and impressionable girl like Thursday, cause homie, you ain’t getting SHIT from Twilight on Sunday. She’ll fuck you up and pin you before you even have a chance to cry for help from the #Krew.

Hank: So does that mean you think it’ll be Twilight v. White at Aftermath?

Tiffany: It’d be the best possible Finals, I can tell you that. Twilight, that bitch has all my respect for doing what no other woman has done so far in Wrestling Championship Federation history. But as big a fan as I am, even I gotta admit her time has come to finally just fade away quietly for good, and what better way than to pass the torch to the NEW best female wrestler in WCF history…

Pause for dramatics…

Tiffany: ...Tiffany fuckin’ White.

Hank: Wow! Dramatic boasts from Trilogy Cup contender Tiffany White, you heard it here folks. We’re out of time, but we’ll see you soon, WCF Galaxy! Hank Brown out.

The red light on the camera flickered off, the camera man relaxing his hold on the device.

Camera Man: We’re good, boss.

---

Pixie: We got something in the mail just now, Tiff.

It had been a few days since the go-home Slam, and Pixie and I were comfortably stationed at the Dallas Holiday Inn. Pixie was seated at the end of one of the two queen sized beds in the room, a tiny bump finally beginning to show itself on her abdomen. While we hadn’t been able to get her proper maternity wear, so far we had been lucky and had not needed. But as her stomach began to poke out a bit from her custom designed tee, I knew it would only be a matter of time before we’d have to go shopping.

In her hands was a hastily addressed envelope, the stamp sloppily placed in the corner, with the handwriting of someone who seemed damn near illiterate. I had just come back from the gym, spending as much time as I could to get ready for Timebomb. Now instead of being able to shower and freshen up for the press event later that day, I now had to deal with whatever this shit was. I couldn’t help but let out a sigh of disappointment.

Tiffany: I can already tell I’m gonna like whatever this shit is.

Pixie: Me too. Let’s just get this over with.

Slowly, she began dragging her finger along the open edge of the envelope, tearing it open. Inside was a folded up piece of loose leaf paper, Pixie took only a short glance at the paper before letting out a massive groan.

Pixie: He’s not giving up, is he?

Tiffany: Is it…?

Pixie: Unfortunately

She got up and handed me the short letter. Written in cut up magazine letters like a ransom note, it read…

“pIxiE, u BeTTeR LeAVe tiFFaNy 0R i’ll kiLL U BOTH”

While Pixie reacted with annoyance, I straight up guffawed at the letter, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all.

Tiffany: Chance Chance Chance...of all the stupid shit you’ve done in your time here in WCF, this has to take the cake. At the very least I’m thankful he used cut outs so we wouldn’t have to be subjected to more of that doodle handwriting of his.What a fuckboy, am I right Pix?

Pixe: Yeah...what a fuckboy indeed.

Her gloomy tone surprised me a little. I could tell something was worrying her, and I couldn’t let that happen. The last time I let her worry to herself, she followed me to Fifteen and nearly died after trying to negotiate with Chance about the pictures on her phone. I had learned my lesson that night, that Chance von Crank was not a man you could negotiate with. Words were useless to uneducated men like him. I wasn’t going to bother with words on Sunday, only actions. And my first action was going to be getting to the bottom of what was fucking with Pix.

Tiffany: You alright homegirl? You seem down.

Pixie: I’m fine, just...annoyed, is all.

Tiffany: Pixie...homie, you and I both know that ain’t the case. I can feel it, you’re getting worked up over something, and I’d rather you clear the air right now then let it linger and have something happen to you.

Pixie didn’t say a word, just looked at me quietly. She knew I was right, and nodded me over to the bed to sit with her. I obliged.

Pixie: I haven’t told you about this yet, and I’m sorry I waited so long to do it, but...ever since that night I followed you and Chance, and he....did what he did, I’ve been having nightmares.

Tiffany: Nightmares of what?

Pixie: Lots of things. The thing I dream of the most, the thing that keeps me awake at night, is Chance, coming up to me and beating me. I always ask him to stop, crying as I beg, yet he never listens. He just keeps hitting me. But do you know what scares me more than anything else?

Tiffany: What, hun?

She looks away from me, gazing down to the floor as she rubs her belly.

Pixie: Every time I have that dream, I can feel it. My baby, kicking around in me. Almost as if he knows what’s happening, and it terrifies me, the idea of losing it. I don’t even know what gender it is yet and I’m already picturing my life with it. My beautiful baby and I…

Tiffany: ...and no Chance von Crank to hurt either of you.

Tearfully, she nods.

Pixie: I had thought the thing at the V-Day show would help me get over it, beating him with that chair. But ever since then the dreams have been getting worse and worse. And it’s just...it’s just freaking me out, Tiff.

Her head collapsed into my shoulder, her tears mixing with my sweat into a disgusting cocktail of fear and sadness. I held her as best I could, rocking her gently back and forth.

Tiffany: There there, hun. It’ll be okay. Everything is going to be fine. Everything is going to be okay.

Pixie: I’m just scared, Tiff. I think he’s actually going to try and find us.

Tiffany: I booked us in this hotel for a reason, Pix. All the other wrestlers are at the Marriotte, we’re away from them...away from Chance. If Chance really wants to find us it’ll take him a while to figure out where we are. And even if he did come in here, you know how to defend yourself now, don’t you?

Pixie: I-I suppose.

Tiffany: I know you do. Besides, who cares if he gives you nightmares? Cause what? I’m the one who gives HIM nightmares.

A small smile finally spreads on Pixie’s lips. A beautiful thing if I do say so myself.

Tiffany: Now I’m sorry, but I have to head out for that press shit., and they won’t let me bring you with me. Can you stay here and be safe for me?

She sniffled, trying to regain her composure.

Pixie: I can...yeah.

Tiffany: Good. I promise I won’t be long. If you feel in danger at all, lock the door and call security immediately. You can do that, right?

Pixie: Yeah.

I smiled, then gave a quick, reassuring kiss on her forehead. Protecting this girl and her child had been my mission for weeks now, I wasn’t about to let that stop any time soon. I got up and made my way to the door, but before I closed the door behind me, I shot Pixie one last look.

Tiffany: I’ll be back soon. Promise.

---

I immediately regretted my decision to do this without showering beforehand. It was unbearably warm in the shitty little recording studio I had gotten myself. As I got myself situated at my seat, a rolling office chair, a familiar, grating voice screamed across the table from me.

Hugh Jazz: WELCOME TOOOOOOOOOO...LOVE BYTES! With the one and only...HUGH JAZZ!

Hugh, exfoliating an excess of testosterone as always (BARF), pushed a button on the soundboard in front of him. Through our headphones, I could hear the sounds of canned audience applause. Of course it was just the two of us, Hugh could never be able to get a crowd to cheer for him anywhere, not even for a shitty little internet segment.

Hugh Jazz: That’s riiiiiiiight WCF Galaxy, we are LIVE only a few short days away from WCF Timebomb! One of my personal favorite events if I’m being honest, and joining me today is one lucky participant in the Trilogy Cup, the one and only Queen of Diamonds herself...Tiffany White!

Another push for the applause button. Yawn.

Hugh Jazz: Tiff, how are you doing today?

Tiffany: I’m good Hugh, glad to be here. Not like I was doing anything important. Yknow, like training?

Hugh Jazz: I was about to ask, you look like you just stepped out of a sauna, you’re sweating so much! We had thought you would have...yknow, freshened up a bit?

Tiffany: Listen here Hugh...when you’re wrestling in a high profile match like I am on Sunday, you don’t just sit around eating Cheetos and jillin’ off to Pornhub, you actually go out and TRAIN for your match. Of course you’d have known that if you’d actually been a good wrestler.

Hugh Jazz: Now now, before we make this all about me (although I do appreciate the sentiment,) let’s actually get to business here. I’m sure you’d agree with me on this Tiff, but you would consider yourself a master of doin it, correct?

Tiffany: What?

Hugh Jazz: The ultimate hankey-pankey artist?

Tiffany: What?

Hugh Jazz: The third degree black belt of making love and not war?

Tiffany: What?

Hugh Jazz: YOU’RE GOOD AT FUCKING, AREN”T YOU?

He screamed this at the top of his lungs, not amused at my attempts to troll him. I couldn’t help but laugh.

Tiffany: Well when you put it that way, I suppose so, yeah. Hehe.

Hugh Jazz: Well then...we here at WCF.com thought it would interesting to apply your knowledge of…*ahem*...relations, by answering the questions of lovestruck members of the WCF Galaxy. Sound like a plan?

Tiffany: I suppose so. Doesn’t sound too bad.

Hugh Jazz: Then let’s begin!

Hugh pushed another button on his sound board, this time holding it down for a bit.

Hugh Jazz: Caller #1, you’re on the air!

A voice played through my headphones, that of a guy, who by the sounds of it was roughly mid twenties.

Caller #1: Hi Tiff, I just wanted to ask your advice on this, it’s a problem my girlfriend and I are having, and I don’t know how to breach it to her. Oh god, this’ll sound silly, but here it goes. I like to go down on my woman. I am not ashamed of it. But lately her lady parts...well, let’s just say it’s not the most pleasant smell out there. How do I let her know about this without grossing her out.

Tiffany: Well first off, props for going down in the first place. I’m always surprised more men don’t do it, but of course what the fuck do I know? Secondly, just tell her straight up, there’s no use dodging the issue, doing that’ll only piss her off more when she DOES eventually find out. Now granted, she’ll likely be embarrassed when you tell her, I mean who wouldn’t, but in the end she’ll be really grateful you told her.

Caller #1: Gotcha, thanks Tiff! And go fuck up Chance on Sunday, will ya?

Tiffany: You say that like I wasn't already gonna fuck up his world, ha! Good one.

Hugh pressed down on another button on the soundboard, loading up another caller.

Hugh Jazz: Alright, next caller, you're on the air!

The caller this time was a woman, also sounding rather young, as well as a little nervous.

Caller #2: Hey Tiffany, so glad to finally be able to talk to you, I’ve been a huge fan since the night you debuted.

Tiffany: Well thank you, it means a lot for me to hear something like. What’s your question.

Caller #2: Well, it’s about this guy. He’s been interested in me for a while now, and don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice guy and all, but he just seems...I dunno, creepy I guess.

Tiffany: Hun, before you go any further, I just have one question for you. If you think he’s creepy, do you have reason to believe he has a shrine of pictures of you on his wall, fleshlight to the side smothered in cum?

Caller #2: Umm...I don’t think so, why?

Tiffany: Well then congratulations, your guy isn’t nearly as creepy as the guy I have to deal with. In fact, unless your guys name happens to be Chance von Crank, you should count your lucky stars, cause lemme tell you somethin about Cha-

Hugh Jazz: Now now Tiff, let’s try to keep this whole thing lighthearted now, I believe the lady hadn’t finished asking her question.

Tiffany: *sigh* You’re right, I’m sorry hun, what were you about to say?

Caller #2: I just want to know how I should tell him I’m not interested in his advances.

Tiffany: Well it’s like I just told the previous caller, the best is to just be up front about it. In the end, you have the power to make the final call, not him. And if he can’t respect that, then that’s his fucking problem. If you really need an excuse to get away from him though, what I recommend is to say you already have a boyfriend. Sure it’s a fucking meme at this point to say “I have a boyfriend/girlfriend” but it’s fucking EFFECTIVE at weeding out the fuckboys in your life. I hope that helps.

Caller #2: Me too. Thank you Tiff, you’re the best.

As Hugh got the next caller ready to go, a sort of nervous energy overtook me. I was under the impression I would be given time to shit talk Chance, not take part in a shitty ripoff of Loveline, and I began to chomp at the bit, just waiting to let loose.

Hugh Jazz: Next caller is up! Whatchu got for us?

This voice had a deep, almost unintelligible southern accent to it. I knew instantly I wasn’t going to like where this was going.

Caller #3: Howdy there Ms. Dyke...I mean White. White White White. Thas whud I said, White.

Tiffany: *Sarcastically* Sure you did.

Caller #3: Now I was jus’ wunderin if you done ever taken a gander at your….lessay thurd or fourth cuzzin-

Tiffany: Oh for GOD’S SAKE do I even have to respond to this fucker?

Hugh Jazz: Now now Tiff, we here at Love Bytes listen to all our callers-

Tiffany: FUCK THE HELL OFF with that nonsense Hugh. I was told this would be a normal sit down interview with Hank, so unless he’s waiting outside I’ll be taking over this little shit show.

Caller #3: Now lissen here Missy-

Tiffany: GOODBYE, ASSHOLE!

I forced Hugh’s hand off of the sound board, thus ending the call with...whoever the fuck that was. He looked rather offended at this.

Hugh Jazz: TIFFANY! Why I never!

I didn’t even bother saying anything, I just grabbed him by the back of his mullet, pulled his head back and smashed it full force onto the table, destroying his nose and knocking him the fuck out. Now it was just me, alone in the studio. After adjusting my mic a bit, I began to go…

BALLS...

TO THE WALL.

Tiffany: Now then...if no one else has any plans to interrupt me, I’d like to speak a little more directly to...oh, you know who.

Some people think I have the toughest challenge of my career so far. A Steel Cage Match, against one of the most dangerous men in the company today, with a chance, a sliver of hope at a shot for the World title on the line. You’d say this to most down-on-their-luck jobbers out in the back, men like Mr. Jazz here, and they’d be shittin themselves just thinking bout getting beaten and humiliated on live Pay-Per-View. Casual fans that aren’t in the know take one look at this match, don’t even bother to read up on it at all, before deciding “Yeah, Chance is gonna fuckin murder this dyke. No question about it.” I know this, because I’ve seen it from bits of the WCF Galaxy lately. To those people...well, all I can tell you is that you shouldn’t jump to conclusions. If AAAAAAANY of you had done even a spec of homework, you’d know that I have this shit on fucking LOCKDOWN.

On the surface you look at a guy like Chance, and everything about him just screams “bad mothafucka.” A give-no-fuccks attitude, a willingness to do anything to get what he wants, ethics be damned, a (mostly sorta kinda) winning record, and you’ve got yourself a potential main eventer, ladies and gents. Put that same man under a microscope though, and you’ll find what I’ve always known Chance Von Crank to be. THE BIGGEST BITCH IN THE ENTIRE WCF.

Chance, I know you’re listening to this. You’ve scoured the internet trying to find any trace of me so you can grow your perverted little altar of White. Fuck, you’re probably jacking off right now just listening to the sound of my voice, since I took away the only pussy you’ll ever get in your life and you have the social skills of a fucking gorilla. Listen close Chance. I know you already are, but pay close attention in between strokes, cause I’m about to drop some fucking truth here.

That first night we shared a ring together I broke your fuckin nose and made you bleed because I knew that in this business, moreso than any other business, that you never get another first impression. And what better first impression then drawing blood with the first punch you throw in your entire professional career. I made you my bitch with that first punch, and in doing so I put the entire WCF Galaxy on notice. When people look back at us years from now, what will their earliest memories of you be? Getting the shit beaten out of you while I end another man’s entire career before it even starts.

That should’ve been the extent of our in-ring interactions. One and done. But I had other plans. I saw the way you treated the women you supposedly loved, and it made me sick to my stomach. I couldn’t do nothing, so I intervened. You like to say you made me, and that you are the reason my name is so high up on the card. Bitch, you’re only this high up on the card this early in your stay in WCF cause I fuckin LET you. I personally set up our match at Fifteen to stop this cancer before it even begins to spread across the WCF. I didn’t need to do this, Chance. I could’ve ignored you entirely and faced anyone else, and I can guarantee you I’d STILL be in the TEA cup, Chance or no Chance. Without me carrying your ass you’d still be stuck in lower card hell facing people like Nagasaki and fuckin Greybeard. Quite frankly, without me, Chance Von Crank doesn’t fucking exist.

At Fifteen, that should’ve been the end to everything, just like how that first Slam was supposed to be. I should’ve pinned you right then and there, one two three, and kept Pixie to myself, help her raise that kid you’ve worked so fucking hard to kill the past few months. And yet again we find another reason why you’re whole “honey badger” shtick holds you back. You can say you do whatever the fuck you want, but when you actually make good on that promise, you get fucking arrested. MID FUCKING MATCH. Not only are you a fucking idiot, getting busted like that for making a bunch of trailer park hicks angry, but you’re also the most delusional man I’ve ever met in my life. How the FUCK you were going to kick out of the fuckin BAD BEAT, how you got it in your little drug addled brain that you would’ve won, I’ll never know. In hindsight you should be GRATEFUL that the law has made you relevant for at least a month longer then you should’ve been, you really should.

You wanna talk about how you beat me two Slams in a row, motherfucker? Roll back both of those tapes, cause unless I’m getting a contact high from your meth breath, I don’t recall you ever getting the pin on me. The first week you pinned Vengeance, the second week you didn’t even get the pin for your team. Dustin Beaver did. DUSTIN. BEAVER. Got the pin over you. Just to put that into perspective, you wanna know where exactly Dustin Beaver is on the Timebomb card? Why, he’s the third match of the night. OUT OF FIFTEEN. You were distracted with taking me out, blinded by your OBSESSION with me, that you let a fucking LOWER CARDER get the pin over you, although I suppose it’s appropriate considering you’re just a glorified jobber at this point. I mean, it’s only because of me that you’re not joining your brethren in the dark matches where you belong.

In between all of this though, I took advantage of your stupidity and fucking CATFISHED YOU on national TV. As soon as that segment hit, people all over twitter, members of the WCF Galaxy, all collectively tweeted out in unison “DAMN SON, CHANCE JUST GOT MANTI TE’O-D UP IN THIS BITCH!” I made you look like the fucking IDIOT you are, and scrambled your fucking brains with a steel chair before letting Pixie get her licks, and lemme tell ya, watching her ram that folded piece of metal into your crotch made me so proud, you have no idea. IT’s funny how I don’t see you bringing up THAT little bit of info anytime soon.

Nevertheless Chance, at Timebomb I’m laying it all out on the line. As soon as the door to that case closes, you are going to realize just how badly you fucked up by letting this match happen. Oh you’ll try to weasel your way out, I know you will. That’s what you always do, isn’t it you fuckin pussy? You can climb all you want, you can hide all you want, but no matter what you do Chance, I WON’T LET YOU LEAVE. Police could be outside the fucking cage calling for your second arrest in a row and I wouldn’t give a shit. Your time in the spotlight is coming to an end on Sunday. I’m tired of letting you get a spot on the card you clearly don’t fucking deserve. By the time I’m done with you you can forget about jerking off to my smooth, smooth voice, you’ll have enough trouble bringing the spoon up to your lips to eat hospital tapioca. CVC vs. WHITE IV will never happen, there won’t be a need for it. After Timebomb it’ll be clear who the superior one is.

And as you lay in bed, food finally being pumped into your stomach through a feeding tube, you’ll look up at the TV screen. It’ll be tuned to Explosion, and you’ll see me dominate whoever I face next in the tournament, getting even higher up on the card as I do so. And you’ll be able to do nought a DAMN thing about it as Aftermath rolls along and I take the tournament win and shove it in your face. Finally, it’ll be May. The doctors aren’t hopeful for your recovery. Your heart could stop at any moment. And you look on your TV screen. The last thing you hear before you go into a shock induced heart attack is Kyle Steel’s voice through the TV…

“Here is your winner. and the NEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEW...WCF WORLD CHAMPION...TIFFANYYYYYYYYY WHIIIIITE!”

If I’m feeling kind I may even visit your funeral. After all, you’ll need somebody to attend, don’t you? I’ll even bring the belt with me to show you before they put you six feet under.

I hope you’re ready for all of this, Chance. I know I am. I’ll be seeing you on Sunday.

---

Still no reply from Pixie. I had sent her an excited text talking about the Love Bytes segment. Apparently when it aired on WCF.com it generated the highest known traffic to the entire website in over a month. It was being viewed so much the site had been crashing under all the weight. It had made me very proud, almost to an irrational level, and I wanted to share the news with Pix.

But still, no reply. And I started to get concerned.

Finally, I get to our floor. The 15th floor. Not a damn person in sight.

Tiffany: PIXIE! You there Pixie?!

No reply. I get closer to our room. Room 1517. I had told Pixie to lock the door before I left. I was hoping it would still be closed, but alas, not only was it open when I finally got to it...but it looked like it had been kicked in.

Tiffany: No...NO…

I ran inside the room. There appeared to have been signs of a struggle. Both beds had been overturned. The TV was lying face down on the carpet floor, broken beyond repair, as if someone’s face had been through. It looked like the place had been bombed. On the cabinet in the kitchen, the note Chance had mailed to us was on full display. It was torn up, but still legible.

Sadly, despite every hope that I was imagining things, there was no Pixie.