You Gotta Call Paul To Get His All Mall
Oct 13, 2021 21:33:58 GMT -5
Trey Bouchet, Max f'n Daemon, and 4 more like this
Post by Paul Mall on Oct 13, 2021 21:33:58 GMT -5
There was only about four hours left in the haul back home from a hard-fought battle against Tsukiko. Fortunately, none of the scenarios from the week’s #8 bestsellers list in Sports Fiction had come true despite PAUL: The Game being a surprising hit. He neither had suffered a defeat nor a decapitation in the real match, but the Natural American Spirit had still departed Des Moines with lingering battle wounds. Tsukiko’s stellar offense coupled with the sneak attack from a newly-formed axis of evil would take its toll in his preparation for the Eliminator Tournament finals.
Thankfully, the road to northwest Arkansas was less than a half-day drive from his Memphis apartment. Paul would have a much needed few days of rest before mashing the clutch and firing his engine towards Execution. He would certainly need it if he wanted to overcome Masuda Teijin. Both of them had been on an absolute hot streak since All-In, and the trucker knew he was in for the fight of his life.
If victorious, it would be Paul’s first opportunity at a major singles championship, which should have been plenty of motivation to succeed. However, as his mind wandered in between checking his side mirrors to merge across the dotted white lines, Paul knew he needed another advantage. In addition to Teijin’s tactical tenacity, Kitsumi would most likely make her presence felt: either in the flesh or as an invisible parasite sinking her teeth into the back of his anxiety-riddled brain. It was time for a secret weapon.
Cigarettes.
Just kidding, although his beloved tar darts would be in the back cheering for him. But even their throaty voices combined with the Action fanbase were not enough to get that coveted title shot. He’d need all the encouragement he could get, even from people who didn’t really know about wrestling. It would be the diesel to help make that motor roar.
And he knew exactly how to do that.
“Nice. This will definitely help me make some new amigos.”
Just outside of St. Louis, Paul had pulled his rig into one of the several rest areas along I-55. It was there that he’d strolled into the bathroom with a red marker concealed in the back pocket of his Wranglers. It wasn’t the camera tech’s favorite location that he’d ever filmed, but he did the best he could to slowly zoom out from the white stall to heighten the drama of the reveal.
Paul grins, extremely satisfied with his handiwork, and yet to comprehend how this may have been his worst idea since a flip book.
“I know I could have just written my number regularly,” he explains, “but I really want to make sure people feel comfortable calling me. To let them know I’m just a regular man who wants to be their pal. I had to call AT&T and get my number changed so the acronym would fit, though. So anyone who had my old number and is watching this, go ahead and update your contacts since I can’t text everyone until I get back home.”
A little embarrassed by the fact that he’d drawn attention from the other patrons of the restroom, Paul motions for the crewman to follow him outside.
“I do feel a little guilty, though. I’m offering friendship for my own selfish reasons, but I really want to win this match,” Mall admits, his innocence now getting to the point where it may be psychologically damaging. “But I do promise that anyone who supports my efforts, I will return the favor for them anytime they need it. Day or night, rain or snow, in a dark alley or in broad daylight, I swear this credo: Paul Mall will bend over backwards to be of service to anyone that reaches out and touches me.”
“Just leave a message if you happen to call next Sunday night, though,” he instructs. “I’ll be a little busy giving my ALL MALL against Teijin, and with the help of you dudes, I might just crawl through the hole to sweet, sweet glory.”
Thankfully, the road to northwest Arkansas was less than a half-day drive from his Memphis apartment. Paul would have a much needed few days of rest before mashing the clutch and firing his engine towards Execution. He would certainly need it if he wanted to overcome Masuda Teijin. Both of them had been on an absolute hot streak since All-In, and the trucker knew he was in for the fight of his life.
If victorious, it would be Paul’s first opportunity at a major singles championship, which should have been plenty of motivation to succeed. However, as his mind wandered in between checking his side mirrors to merge across the dotted white lines, Paul knew he needed another advantage. In addition to Teijin’s tactical tenacity, Kitsumi would most likely make her presence felt: either in the flesh or as an invisible parasite sinking her teeth into the back of his anxiety-riddled brain. It was time for a secret weapon.
Cigarettes.
Just kidding, although his beloved tar darts would be in the back cheering for him. But even their throaty voices combined with the Action fanbase were not enough to get that coveted title shot. He’d need all the encouragement he could get, even from people who didn’t really know about wrestling. It would be the diesel to help make that motor roar.
And he knew exactly how to do that.
“Nice. This will definitely help me make some new amigos.”
Just outside of St. Louis, Paul had pulled his rig into one of the several rest areas along I-55. It was there that he’d strolled into the bathroom with a red marker concealed in the back pocket of his Wranglers. It wasn’t the camera tech’s favorite location that he’d ever filmed, but he did the best he could to slowly zoom out from the white stall to heighten the drama of the reveal.
FOR A GOOD TIME
CALL PAUL MALL
(336) 4-MANPAL
(462-6725)
Paul grins, extremely satisfied with his handiwork, and yet to comprehend how this may have been his worst idea since a flip book.
“I know I could have just written my number regularly,” he explains, “but I really want to make sure people feel comfortable calling me. To let them know I’m just a regular man who wants to be their pal. I had to call AT&T and get my number changed so the acronym would fit, though. So anyone who had my old number and is watching this, go ahead and update your contacts since I can’t text everyone until I get back home.”
A little embarrassed by the fact that he’d drawn attention from the other patrons of the restroom, Paul motions for the crewman to follow him outside.
“I do feel a little guilty, though. I’m offering friendship for my own selfish reasons, but I really want to win this match,” Mall admits, his innocence now getting to the point where it may be psychologically damaging. “But I do promise that anyone who supports my efforts, I will return the favor for them anytime they need it. Day or night, rain or snow, in a dark alley or in broad daylight, I swear this credo: Paul Mall will bend over backwards to be of service to anyone that reaches out and touches me.”
“Just leave a message if you happen to call next Sunday night, though,” he instructs. “I’ll be a little busy giving my ALL MALL against Teijin, and with the help of you dudes, I might just crawl through the hole to sweet, sweet glory.”