Blasting The Post-Blast Hangover

[Deleted]

{{Sunday afternoon. Hartford, Connecticut. Crimson House Dojo. This is the much-heralded training facility where young Phillip Baines began honing his craft as an aspiring pro wrestler last October, little more than five months before he debuted in WCF and became a champion. This is where the now reigning WCF Hardcore Champion Phillip Baines continues to bust his ass to improve himself, to climb ever further up the ladder of WCF superstars.

For many rookies, winning a championship in their very first match in WCF would be reason enough to rest on their laurels. For even more rookies, winning the WCF Classic in their very first month as a pro would fill their head with delusions of grandeur, make them think that they have nothing left to learn. It takes a rare breed, a special breed to understand that there is ALWAYS something more on the horizon, education for a young brotha's mind, a morsel of knowledge that can take a promising young grappler and turn him into one of the truly elite competitors in this sport.

Baines has made that commitment, a continued commitment to excellence. He refuses to take a breather, to rest on his laurels, to stop and smell the roses. There are no roses in the rarified air that Baines occupies, only a growing collection of skulls on a solid oak mantel that protrudes from a cobblestone wall. Of course that wall is not located here at the Dojo. No, no, Crimson House is an altogether different animal. This is where a man puts in his work, to become a champion, to become a superstar, to achieve what few will in a sport where all dream of becoming World Champion.

The appeal of Crimson House is obvious: There's a staff of world class trainers who offer classes in a variety of different striking and grappling arts, headed by Bolts Quackenbush who trained former WCF World Champions Bobby Cairo and Chad Evans. There's more than a dozen regulation size wrestling and boxing rings and MMA cages spread out over the three floor facility. There's enough state of the art exercise equipment to fill any gym in the world. There's even a cafeteria where all who train at Crimson House congregate to enjoy organic foods and beverages that are prepared by a staff of in-house gourmet chefs.

Yet none of these selling points are the reason why a crowd has gathered in the main training room on the ground floor at Crimson House Dojo on this Father's Day Sunday. No, this crowd of at least a hundred people has gathered to watch a grown man perform cock push-ups on one of the gym mats. This man is six-foot-five inches if he stands an inch, and two-hundred and thirty-two pounds if he weighs a pound. This man is familiar to WCF viewers because this man is... Phillip Baines! Adorned in a t-shirt and shorts, Baines is performing push-ups with ease using just his cock, no hands, lifting his body a clear ten inches off the ground with each push-up.

There is an air of uncertainty among the men who find themselves in the crowd that has gathered to watch Phil's remarkable feat. Could they perform this task if called upon? Do they have the heart for it? What about the penis for it? It matters not. All of the ladies in the crowd have their eyes set to Baines, and what a show he's putting on for them. A fine black honey in a tight spandex leotard counts off with each push-up that Baines executes, "Seventy-five! Seventy-six! Seventy-seven!" Baines made a pledge to that fine black honey before he began that he would reach one-hundred, and he'll be damned if he and his penis fall short of that goal. His beefy slab of manhood has never let him down before, so why should it start now?

As Baines reaches the home stretch, his final ten push-ups, he begins clapping his hands between each push-up, and the crowd follows suit. "Come on, Phil! You can do it! Push that cock, baby!" says one overly enthused chica in the crowd. The fine black honey continues her count, "Ninety-two! Ninety-three! Nine-four!" Nothing can stop him now. Nothing! Suddenly a pair of pink sneaker enters Phil's view, followed by a familiar voice. "Phil! What the hell are you doing? Get up from there! You're causing a scene!" Phil doesn't even have to raise his head. He knows that this perturbed female voice belongs to his significant other, his girlfriend Gina.

"Hang on just a second, babe. I'm almost done," Phil replies without lifting his head or breaking his focus. The count continues: "Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine... ONE HUNDRED!" The crowd explodes with cheers as Phil completes his one-hundredth cock push-up. Phil pushes himself up with his cock one more time, and this time rises to his feet. He accepts a towel and a bottle of water from the fine black honey, who also winks at Phil. Phil flashes a hesitant smile at her, not wanting to flirt with another woman in front of his girlfriend, who is already annoyed by his antics.}}

Gina: "What the hell was that all about, Phil? I'm upstairs sharpening up my boxing skills in case I run into any more of those Vixen bitches, and I come down here to find you making a fool of yourself in front of a crowd of people. How do you think that makes me feel?"

{{Phil wipes the glistening beads of sweat from his forehead, face and heaving man-chest with the towel.}}

Phil: "Like punching me, I suppose?"

{{Gina nods her head emphatically.}}

Gina: "Uh-huh. That's right, Phil. I feel like punching you!"

{{Phil takes a large gulp from the bottle of water.}}

Phil: "Babe, first of all, let me assure you that I was thinking about you the entire time. How do you think my cock stayed hard for the duration? Secondly, this was important work, Gina. I was building my strength and my endurance by doing those cock push-ups!"

{{Gina looks skeptical, to say the least.}}

Gina: "I'm no prude, Phil, but really? Building your strength and endurance? Is that what you were doing? Is that why that fine black honey was looking at you with bedroom eyes?"

Phil: "I have no control over how the opposite sex reacts to my workout regimen, baby doll. I possess what the Latvians refer to as the Kavorka, or "the lure of the animal". Unfortunately this makes me irresistible to anyone with a vagina."

{{The look on Gina's face says that she isn't buying it.}}

Phil: "It's what attracted you to me!"

Gina: "No, what attracted me to you was when you punched out the largest Hispanic dude that I've ever seen just to impress me, right here in this very gym."

{{Phil smiles proudly in recollection of his handiwork.}}

Phil: "That was pretty damn awesome, wasn't it?"

Gina: "That was. This, these cock push-ups... ugh. They are not awesome, Phil. They are so not awesome."

Phil: "They kind of are when you really think about 'em."

{{Phil tries to reassure Gina, but she hangs her head in shame.}}

Gina: "I can't believe this is how you're spending your last day of training before we head to PA for Slam. What would Bolts say? Where the hell is Bolts anyway? That George Carlin-lookin' mofo is supposed to be runnin' the show around here."

Phil: "He went to the cafeteria to grab a guava wrap, and a guava smoothie. He's been on a real guava kick lately."

Gina: "The cafeteria, huh? That's where I'm going until the heat dies down from your little publicity stunt. Are you coming with?"

Phil: "I'd love to but I really need to get outside, get me some fresh air."

Gina: "You can't fool me, Phil. You just want to get away so that you can cut a promo for WCF."

Phil: "Once again you have read me like a book. Say, uh, you're not going to tell Bolts about what I did here, are you?"

Gina: "No, I'm going to let you do that, Phil, and I know that you will because that's what a grown man with integrity would do."

{{Phil pumps his fist in celebration.}}

Phil: "Woo-hoo! He'll never find out!"

{{Gina rolls her eyes as Phil bounds for the door.}}

{{It's a sunny day outside the Dojo, a beautiful day for a promo. Phil is wearing his street clothes now, a Faith No More "Angel Dust" tee, faded blue denim shorts, and a pair of black Dickies. He strides confidently down the sidewalk while running a hand through his long, black hair.}}

Phil: "It was quite a night last Monday in Salt Lake City. Blast lived up to its name as a litany of explosive developments took place. We saw a new United States Champion crowned in the form of the awesome Odin Balfore, a man who I've come to look up to as a role model of sorts in this company. We saw Jason Kash get his ass handed to him, which was awesome because that guy is a prick. We learned that Logan has a long lost son and that son is in fact... Roy Speede? Which is just weird. Let's move along, shall we?"

{{Baines crinkles his brow as he does just that.}}

Phil: "Of course I was able to successfully defend my Hardcore Championship in one of the most violent matches ever contested in or around a WCF ring. I freely admit that I'm still wearing the physical and mental scars of that match against two of the baddest dudes in WCF history. I took everything that Oblivion and Reckless Jack could dish out, but I gave it right back to 'em ten-fold. When it was all over they had no answers for the indomitable riddle that is Phillip Baines. I even managed to win a match with the State of Emergency for the first time! Hurrah! Normally people kick out of that shit at two-and-three-quarters. I guess performing it off of the ring apron and down onto the hard concrete floor outside of the ring helps, heh."

{{Baines grins while reminiscing.}}

Phil: "Of course the greatest and most important highlight from Blast was when Donald "D-Day" Deruty defeated Jay Williams to capture the WCF World Championship! That's my boy! You go, D-Day! You do that work, son! Yeeeeeaaaaah, booooy!"

{{Phil pumps his fist triumphantly and turns that shit into a bicep flex.}}

Phil: "I want to make an announcement right here and right now: I will not be cashing in my title shot that I earned by winning the WCF Classic for so long as D-Day is World Champion, and believe me when I say that D-Day is going to be champion for a VERY long time! Why would I make such a pledge? Well you can consider this my declaration of integrity in an age of deceit. Sure, I might lie about some things. I might hide certain things from my trainer, like for example spending the afternoon doing cock push-ups when I was supposed to be sparring with a team of muscle-bound, all-American wrestlers who want to rip my head off, but I don't lie about the important stuff. Donald Deruty is a man that I respect. He's earned the right to call himself WCF World Champion, and I ain't gonna front on his shit."

{{Phil has a serious look on his face as he nods his head in the affirmative. His concentration is suddenly broken when a pseudo-feminine sounding voice with a Spanish infliction beckons to him: "It's Wednesday, right?" Phil cocks his head toward the source of this bizarre question. He spots a scantily clad tranny with poofy black hair wearing a low-cut top, short skirt and heels. She is surprisingly attractive, possessing a distinctive Latina flair. Still, Phil does not appreciate having his promo interrupted by someone who is clearly hopped up on smack.}}

Phil: "Wednesday? What the fuck kind of shit are you on? It's Sunday, you know, Father's Day. Are you a father?"

{{The tranny nods her pretty head.}}

Tranny: "Sí. I have dos niños at home. I used to be their papá, but now I'm their mamá. Their real mamá left when they were pequeño, very young--"

{{The tranny's words are cut off as she nearly falls to the ground. Phil catches her and helps her get steady on her high-heeled feet as she comes to.}}

Tranny: "Oh gracias, señor!"

{{She smiles at him.}}

Tranny: "As I was saying before I slipped out of consciousness, their real mamá left when they were young. I began dressing up as a chica to fill the void for them. Then one day it hit me... I realized that I wanted to be a chica! So I became one!"

{{The tranny beams with proud.}}

Phil: "Wow, that's quite a story. I guess you get to celebrate both holidays then. By the way, what's your name, baby doll?"

{{The tranny looks at Phil with a drugged out haze in her eyes.}}

Tranny: "Gina."

{{Phil raises an eyebrow.}}

Phil: "Wow again. That's pretty weird. My girlfriend's name is Gina."

Gina (The Tranny): "You have a chica? Take your hands off of me then, gringo!"

Phil: "Hey, I'm just trying to keep you from falling down."

{{Phil promptly releases his grip on the tranny's breasts and ass. She turns and struts away, her ass bouncing with each step that she takes... that thick, tranny ass. Phil can hardly pry his eyes away from it.}}

Phil: "Mmm... I wouldn't mind getting me some of that ass. I'm not the type of guy who typically ogles the ladies, mind you. After all I'm in a relationship with the woman of my dreams, but... DAMN!"

{{Phil finally manages to look away from the alluring tranny posterior.}}

Phil: "Let me give my dick a minute to settle down. I need to think about something nonsexual, like my upcoming match. Yeah, that's it. Let me rap about Tek. That's one of the reasons why I came out here in the first place. I don't think that Tek is anything special, but he is TECHnically my opponent this week and I shall address him. Get it? A little play on words there. Tek, technically. Yeah. It's one of those weeks. I'm competing against an opponent whom I have absolutely no respect for. I could beat this guy while unconscious and jerking off in the shower with both hands tied behind my back."

{{Phil flicks the tip of his nose with his thumb. He suddenly appears to be in a very foul mood.}}

Phil: "In the days leading up to a wrestling match it is customary for the participants in said match to say things, things with words, words that hurt, words that demean, words that cut at their opponent's confidence and swagger. I don't hear those words coming out of your mouth this week, Tek. I tried to give you the first word, tried to be a good sport toward a guy who hasn't had the best run of luck in WCF, but you didn't bite. Now it's my turn. The last time that you did speak, in the lead-up to your match against Michael Santiago at Blast, you expressed a desire to face tougher competition. I'm not sure why you would want that since you haven't won a match in WCF to the best of my collection, and of course you went on to be soundly defeated by Mr. Santiago at Blast, but nevertheless your wish has been granted! You're facing the Hardcore Champion on Slam this Monday night in the birthplace of WCF, albeit in a non-title match!"

{{Phil does a slow, sarcastic hand clap, his foul face unflinching.}}

Phil: "I don't know a whole hell of a lot about you, Tek. I do know that you call yourself "The Legend Thriller". That's a strange combination of words, but what I'm guessing that you mean to say is that you're a legend and a thriller. Now listen, I know that the word "legend" gets tossed around an awful lot in this business, and most of the time it's used haphazardly, but if you're what passes for a legend these days then the word has finally lost all meaning and it should be dropped from the English lexicon. There are a few legends here in WCF. Logan is one of them. My manager Bobby Cairo is another. Creeping Death and Reckless Jack are--"

{{Phil actually cuts himself off this time.}}

Phil: "Never mind. My point is that you're not even a WCF-caliber wrestler, much less a legend. You're not even good at what you do, which is going out there in the opening match of every show and getting your ass kicked by the up-and-coming talent. You perform a disservice to that up-and-coming talent by failing to provide them with even a slight challenge. You don't push them, force them to dig deep within themselves and find out if they have what it takes to compete in this company. You just lie down and die. What's legendary about that? Nothing. What's thrilling about it? Even less."

{{Baines dispenses a large gob of saliva to the paved ground below.}}

Phil: "According to the preview for our match on WCFWrestling.com, Tek is looking to quote "gain some footing" unquote when he faces Baines. Let me tell you something, asshole: It's hard to gain your footing when you can't walk. In fact, it's impossible! You're looking to gain traction, but you'll be IN traction when I'm done with you. Hell, I've already confirmed your reservation with the staff at Oley General Hospital. They're happy to have ya! Very hospitable people at that hospital! I know that you think you're a bad dude. You claim to be from Stockton, California, home of the Diaz Brothers, Nick and Nate. Now those, THOSE are bad dudes. Not you though, Tek. You're a chump, a fake, a phony. You're not from Stockton anymore than I'm from Pluto, which is no longer a planet by the way."

{{Phil strokes his smooth, clean-shaven chin with the tips of his fingers.}}

Phil: "I'm going to make a man out of you, Tek, if it's the last thing that anyone ever does to you. I can feel it percolating inside of me, an ass-whooping the likes of which your daddy should have given you a long time ago. You claim to be a street-wise, ring savvy veteran of this sport. You're nothing of the sort. You're a scared little boy huddled in a closet, praying that the big, scary man who wishes to violate you will go away. That's why you've been AWOL this week and haven't appeared in any promos to deliver pre-match hype talk. Here's the problem, Tek: You can hide in your closet and pray from now until show time on Monday night, but it won't do you any good. God is dead. I killed him at XIII. I'll either make a man out of you on Slam, or I'll kill you trying. Sunday is Father's Day, but on Monday you'll be calling me daddy, boy."

{{Baines flares his nostrils as he casts a stern glare in YOUR direction.}}

Phil: "This promo is finished. I'm not trying to spend all afternoon rapping about Tek of all people. That poor S.O.B. is gonna find out what it's like to step into the ring with the realest and the illest on Monday night. Right now, I'm about to get my grub on. Peace, wigga!"

{{Baines flashes a peace sign before turning and walking away. Our perspective pans down to the sidewalk pavement and then fades.}}