Post by Stephen Singh on Jan 23, 2022 14:58:29 GMT -5
Congrats on your first non-loss in Action Wrestling.
Romeo Finet presses the sixty pound dumbbells toward the ceiling. Sweat drips from his exposed torso, beads sting his eyes beneath the mask.
When do you think they’ll put you in the Hall of Fame? Plaque should read “Didn’t eat a fuckin’ pin to Punchline Jobber #47 of the loserweight roster!”
He snorts in frustration and effort, pressing the bells again. It wasn’t a win, it wasn’t a loss. It was…nothing. Which is what he worried his career here might shape up to be.
Careful not to put on too much muscle there, boy, Digger said you’re only allowed to wrestle these loserweights. Put on too much girth and you’ll be just another jobless loser. As opposed to now when you’re just a jobbing loser.
Finet drops the dumbbells to his sides and sits up from the incline bench. He leaves the bench to grab a spray bottle and a rag. A fit, 20-something redheaded woman approaches the bench and sees it glistening with sweat. She glances disdainfully at Finet who appears to just be walking away.
Boomer freak in here lifting with a mask on…can’t even wipe down his equipment.
She says it loud enough for him to hear and Finet stops short of the spray bottle he was headed for.
Go tell that cunt you’re going to fuckstart her skull.
Finet is still a moment and seems to twitch back toward the bench but shakes his head and instead leaves the weight room.
Jesus, you’re a pussy.
He rolls his neck and takes out his phone. He self-shoots his weekly missive for Action Wrestling.
“Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, difficulty.” That’s the Teddy Roosevelt I’ve become partial too. I’ve never obliged his more famous “speaking softly” advice, but I have always been toting a….*ahem*...big stick.I digress. The point is that I’m here to hoe a long road, not an easy one. A double count-out against Bolas is a failure by most standards but it doest represent to me some marginal improvement over prior performances here, however sad that may be.
So with that in mind, the powers that be have our names across each other again. This time, however, they’ve decided I should lose. I wouldn’t doubt my friend Gravedigger made a call to Joey Bunghole to make sure the deck’s stacked on the proper side for my next match.
“Hola, Bunghole? Me llamo la Puta Gravedigger. Si. Give Finet a tag partner who PROBABLY won’t be on the roster in a week and give Bolas a partner who is a five-time CW Tag Champ. Que? Si, es injusta. That’s the point. Hasta lluego.”
Just kidding, the conversation didn’t go that way, Digger barely speaks Spanish because he’s a colonizing fraud. Let’s stay focused though, I’ve got some semblance of a chance to actually catch my first Dub here in the Du–Nope, wrong place–in the A-Dub. Bolas is a half-wit, fully-baked, cockroach of a competitor whose reach exceeds his grasp both physically and mentally. Give me him in the ring alone one more time and I put him down with ease.
Jenson, on the other hand, Jenson is no joke. Well, he is a joke. He loves being a joke. Just like Bolas, that seems to be half his fucking thing: some unending, idiotic desire to be more punchline than punch. Still, he’s a proven tag winner and that accounts for something…Right? Let’s say it does.
Luckily I stand shoulder to shoulder with the talented and criminally underrated…Salem Croft!
Okay, so maybe I’ll be out there alone. I don’t give a flying fuck.
Nothing in the world is worth doing or having unless it means pain, effort, difficulty. Well the match might be difficult, and I’ll exert plenty of effort, but pain? Well I’m saving that for you guys. Who knows, maybe I can pull this off with a little luck and a lot…of finesse.
