GET GOOD ~ OR ~ GET LOST
Nov 25, 2022 15:38:26 GMT -5
Lissie Hope ♥, Gerard Angelo, and 1 more like this
Post by Odin Balfore on Nov 25, 2022 15:38:26 GMT -5
Get Good or Get Lost
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Gentle raindrops tapped on the window of Adele's London Penthouse. Blackout curtains were half drawn with oily body imprints left glinting from the London skyline. Our boi was putting in that Spleen-damaging work. The Motel 6 Open-Weight Bedroom Star Championship was taken out of retirement and defended; now slung on a bedpost. Adele was asleep with those thigh-shaking dreams. Odin, our boi, was wide awake and still looking out into the darkness. The Bedroom Star didn't speak to him in the darkness, unlike the others which allowed Odin's thoughts to manifest in the darkness.
We could see Adele, reassuring Odin, as he holds the back of his head and marches into Torture's office after the US title match- Ghosts of the previous week. They disappear as Torture appears, his voice Echoing in the darkness with a mocking viciousness.
[ What, are you not yourself; do you not want me to come to work? ] - Torture
“ Yah. Something like that.” Odin muttered in the darkness.
[ Get good or get lost. ]
Torture's voice slipped into the silent darkness as the rain continued to gently strum on the window. Odin looked over to the Bedroom Star Championship as it faded into blackness. He looked over at Adele, who looked like she was never there at all. The mammoth tree trunks that are Odin's legs slip him out of bed. His forearms rest on his thighs. We sit with him in silence for a moment before he grabs his cellphone off the nightstand and heads into the bathroom.
The light is blinding. Our eyes, they cant adjust right away. We can hear Odin's thumbs taping on the screen. Once our eyes adjust, we watch as Odin turns on the water and spits phlegm into the sink. He reaches over for some Brute aftershave and splashes it on his face and chest.
The faucet is turned off.
Miley Cyrus’s cover of “Jolene” plays from Odin's smartphone. He is quick to silence it on the counter as he reaches over to get a white undershirt and puts it on.
[ You up? ]
Reads Odins Text.
[ Yeah, LOL. where you at? ]
[ London. ]
[ LOL SAME. I’ll call you. ]
Odin snatches his phone back off the counter as he walks back into the bedroom, snagging his jeans and putting them on with a quick and forceful tug of his belt. Socks go on.One go on. He looks over at Adele, whos still just barely visible.
He hesitates.
He looks over at the Bedroom Star Championship.
The other boot goes on.
This time, when he gets off the bed, it creaks. Adele rolls over and rubs the warm spot where Odin once was.
She's smiling.
Odin was not.
You can tell she's happy.
Odin was not.
He pops the snaps off the Bedroom Star belt and puts it on his shoulder.
Odin's boot-fallen footsteps wake Adele.
“Baby, where you going? Are you Alright?”
“Yah. I’m good. I just need some air.”
She doesn’t notice the Bedroom Star Championship.
Odin unlocks and opens the apartment door.
“Okay, be safe. I love you.” Says a half-asleep Adele in a trusting and loving voice; unaware of what's happening.
Odin looks back. This time, he sees total darkness. Yet all he heard was Torture's voice.
“Get good. Or get lost.”
“Yah, Something like that,” Odin muttered in the darkness once again before closing the door; leaving Adele behind yet again.
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A Newport is screwed tightly into his lips and smoldered in the rain. The pack, crushed in his boot. A few blocks away from Adele’s apartment, Odin stands and waits for Miley outside a closed cigar shop.
“My son. Nay. My bruddah in THICK justice.”
Odin turns and looks into the window and sees The Gawd Fuddah of Pro Wrazzlin in his fur coat made from the pelt of Odin's sworn enemy, Fenrir. The Bob-bert Fah-dert flashed a toothy grin of pearl whites. His reflection faded and melted into Odin's reflection.
“You, my brother. I feel you. In solidarity. I am with you. Is this be a low or doesn’t your dick swang into the abyss. Laughing at Godzilla and Cthulhu alike. Don't pay these jobbers no mind and don’t pay the hangman no slack. That fat glob is a snake, my friend. there is no doubt. He, however, was right. You done be who you always done went and been. HON-EST-LEE, you dont need no pep talk from no ghosts either. Let that shit go, my G. They are afraid of you. They don’t understand you. Those young cats that rip around on the Heelys screamin around corners about social injustice - BAH! Spit right in their fuggin’ eye with that boo-sheeit. I know eggzacklee who you are and yet here you are still fuckin talkin to me. Listen with ears that don’t hear because that answer aint in no violent hands or in some belt that talks to you. Christ, my brother, Switches ain't talkin back. The Whurlds title is right there in the cross hairs of your THICK. Now how fuggin THICK would it be for you to thump that fat pimple dick Italian busboy on his fuckin jobbah skull as you scoop that World Championship up with your own two hands. They ain't violent. They THICK with it. Wise and premeditated. Violence just came with the territory. Aint nuttin personal but the nuttin’, G. This is just THICK business. Communism. Plain and fuckin simple. Full circle like the wheel of power that chu always been weildin with that unparalleled precision. They, THEY make goofballs like Dion and Kidsgrove Champions, or soccer moms of little importance, taking up power trips at the PTA meetings. You come in and you shut that shit down like you always done did. You think people paid to see you talk to your fuckin hands. Its like you said, the power vacuum exists cuz there aint no one to come in and sweep up aftah you gone.
Dandy? Nah, son, he ain't it.
CD? He’s still shoppin at Baby Gap.
There are company-picked champions and then there is champions that pick the company. Fuck Tort, I ain't got no respect for Tort. He’s political. He’s out for himself. The God-Father and the All-Father were for the people. We ain't bite the hands that fed us cuz we fed us. We fed them. You held that shit up when everyone bounces and it is no longer advantageous for CD or Price to puff piece them stats. Homebois off makin hats in the mall, tryin to fuck that chick at Cinnabon.
You honestly think Anyone is picking Kidsgrove or Dion or Vorhees? We got enough of those would-be cereal killahs who cower over the snap, crackle and pop. Milk makes them bitches faint. They cant handle the real sauce. Gah-hey Angelo ain't gone know how to handle it. He dont know the THICK of the matter. Be the Elder Statesman. Trash these goons like green bean turd casserolli. Straight in the fuckin trash.
My Brother, keep that pimp hand strong, G.
Ur_Welcum.exe
Cairo's reflection fades from Odin's reflection as Miley pulls up in the rain in a black beamer with yellow underglow. The door opens. Odin gets inside.
The Beamer of Death awakens.
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“Big Ol’ Reagan Saggin, Sand-Baggin, Vorhees. As I live and breath, and Lord, am I livin and breathin the Ol’ Dirty air, rich with the stank of Menthols and pussy sweat. You got cha self the finest of Kay-nun-drums up in this bitch. You gotta make for up what, like ten weeks of medium rare roasts? All ready to cross the epidermal highway with that steel horse razors edge because shit just aint goin ya way.
Fuckin’ Trey-chic (Tragic) that you gone all this way to get slump lorded by the biggest slump lord in AW. Spencer Adams? Fuck that goon. He got a silver spoon up his asshole so deep, he calls his large intestine Gary Coleman. But I mean, gal, you hung your lips on and I’ll quote you on this: O’ Great Ruler of shit.
Like those words fell from your cunt mouth and you were like: Yah, fuckin satisfied with that shit. No need for take two. Clint Eastwood eatin his own fuckin soul on that one.
You wanna talk about a Sophmore slump like you had a freshman Pop. Like you gettin finger blasted under the bleachers by half the football team makes you popular. Nah, bitch, it makes you like all the rest that came before you and got nowhere fast. Yet now you find yourself in the thick of it, going nowhere, fast, with the All-Father, bobbin your head for attention hopin that somethin busts off fast but there ain't no fast movin pressure with me. Nah, see. It's cold. It's calculated. It deliberated. You went from wanting the plane to crash to this-Bah!
You gone cum for the big strap held by the big [ insert Italian slur ]. It’s not time yet.
The class is English vernacular 101. How to dismantle and disintegrate ya opponent. Blowin the back out with the verbal kidney punch that leaves you pissin blood and throwing your phone in the river. Prayin to God that the Sewer Monster eats that shit so you don't have to log on to Al Gore’s internet ever again.
You want a measure of the big time that you cannot handle nor can you imagine. To conjure up in that pink brain stem of yours what fame and fortune looks like. You were the flavor of the month and got jealous when no one else wanted a fucking taste anymore. Well, happy Thanksgivin’ cuz I’m comin for all that fucking pie. I’m going to shatter you into a million little pieces so that for the rest of this year and ALL of next year, you question everything you say and do inside and outside that ring. I’ve been put through the ringer for years and to watch you turn to Bah-lee-mick dust when just the smallest amount of pressure is applied is both laughable and offensive. You want a world title when you cant bare up a world that doesn't have you in the title. You fuckin Gen Z cunts with your main character syndrome. That Chinese TikTok fuckin sold you lies and you bought those wolf tickets with interest.
Face the facts, babygurl. You can't fucking hang. You can't even hold your own feet to the fire. The spotlight is hot. You found that out and everyone else found out that you cannot bare it, even for your own success. The truth is, no matter what you say from this point out you have shown everyone that you aren't made for this. You are not ready for this and you do not have what it takes to get the job done.
Reagan Vorhees. a year of a career. Phew. I was sweatin bullets over here ( LOL fuck you.) This time you opened your mouth and showed the world your fuckin ass.
You’re gonna get wrek’t this week babygurl and the All-Father aint sorry about it.
You ain't cute enough for me to pretend. It just shootin facts at a feral pig whos too afraid of the lipstick. You can't even pretend to be a wrestler and that's legit what half of you get paid to do. Pretend. Work your little gimmicks and go home.
Go home and ice that ego again, Reagan. There aint no gimmicks here. Only world champions.
But who knows, maybe Jill Park or her boyfriend can come save you.
The truth is, ain't no one coming to save you. That shit musta hurt when they ain't come for you to beat Spencer. Cuz you can't even save yourself from drownin on dry land. Enjoy what time you got left cuz it ain't long nor will it be fruitful.”
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The Beamer of Death cruised on a low purr, stalking the street lamps. Odin took a drag of his Newport while Miley drove in her leather micro skirt and top. She looked over and chastise him for smoking in the car.
“Hey! Could you not?” She says.
Odin hits the button to roll the window down to throw it out but holds it between his fingers. It watches it burn for a moment that seemed like an eternity, replaying the entire internal conversation he had with himself before crushing it in his palm.
“Bitch, you speak to me?” He sneers through his teeth.
“Excuse me, what did you just call me?” She asks with an attitude.
Odin opens his hand at chest level and looks at it.
“What, are you going to ht me with those violent hands?” She mocks. Adele wouldn't have mocked.
“A lesser man - a lesser me- would. Yet my words, they hurt. When the All-Father speaks, the world it does listen. So let all with ears hear. The Almighty All-Father, the Elder-statesman of Action Wrestling- Nay, of pro wrestling itself, has returned.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Miley, you have been the bottom bitch for years, longer than all of the other bitches. You have rode and rhode. To ride but yet your allegiances and philosophy have not blossomed into true thick-ni nature. Do you remember a few years ago when we went to Everest; when I fought TFK at EVO?”
“Odin, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She replied.
“Just as I thought. Pull over here. I was going to blow your back out in an opium den for the rest of the night, however, I can see that you are not worth defending this Bedroom Star Championship. Perhaps you never were.”
“You’re still on that ‘Thick’ shit?”
“Aint evah gone stop. It is a philosophy that I created. Plagiarized by many. Adopted by few. Either you get thick with it or you die trying and bitch, right now, you’re on your last breath. So pull over before the lesser of my manly virtues teaches you an unforgettable lesson.”
The Beamer of Death pulls over. Odin gets out and collects the Bedroom Star Championship. No sooner does he shut the door does Miley drive off going zero to sixty faster than Dion fumbling the bag. Odin turns towards the direction of Adele’s apartment to see the light on, standing out in the glass sea of darkness. A beacon to return to yet Odin didn't feel worthy, not yet. Not until the World Championship was around his waist. He reaches into his pockets and pulls out some ear buds. He puts them in as he fidgets with his phone for a moment, no doubt finding some killer death metal. He adjusts the Bedroom Star Championship on his shoulder and walks in the opposite direction of Adele’s apartment.
“ Action Wrestling,
Odysseus has a few more journeys to embark on before returning to you at Turmoil. It should be The Elder-statesman with the US Championship on his shoulder right now instead of the Bedroom Star but Jake Paul wanted to stick his nose where it didn't belong. He saved Jill Park but know that he nor Kidsgrove, or Dion or Reagan cannot save you from me. Angelo, you meatball, get your fuckin shine box, cuz I’m sending you all the way back to the beginning of your career when you were pickin up Sandwiches and pizza boxes, tryin tah win you brownie points with the boys.
Just know that I am the Elder-statesman and all that it implies. Kidsgrove, I would apologize but this is a multi-year story arc that is worthy of a few awards. One that you lack the creative breath to think of off your own dome piece or even speak the words out of your peasant mouth. No mistake that Downfall and Spencer brought all of you to me but know that I’m up here and the rest of you are at my feet.
Dion, you were once a WCF World Champion and I want to know what happened to that man, if’n you were that man to start with. That's the man that I want to see at Turmoil.
Dion, you were once a WCF World Champion and I want to know what happened to that man, if’n you were that man to start with. That's the man that I want to see at Turmoil.
I want The Sam Kidgrove that keeps fleecing the front office that he is anything greater than the Shadowlove ballboy, who films the Massamoto sex tapes with one hand and the other jerkin the Southwest meat frank. Now, you might thinking that there is no shame in being the best Supporting man.
The Hoffman, Ledger, Hardy tropes of the world, just grateful that they get to eat but let me tell you something: That's some limp dick loser energy that the All-Father just doesn't have time for. Yet I want that guy. I want the guy that you convinced the world of being.
I want that Alfluenza. I want to Sneeze and seize that white girl privilege. I want the hungry bitch ready to ravage the world, avenge her loss, her friend and go after a championship that is lightyears outside her grasp.
The All-Father demands the very best from each of you so that when this is all said and done and you’re all thrown all over the arena, to the further corners, and lowest depths of your career, there is no cryin. There are no excuses. There is your place and then there is mine.
I came into Action Wrestling as a World Champion. Shitting all over another world-famous Wrestler slash actor and now I see more pretenders in my path, trying to climb a mountain who think they are worthy to climb just because they paid the price of admission. Each of you thinks that you need this more than the other. A slippery eel is the need verse the want. It wriggles through your hand. People want to eat for the day. People need to eat for the day. Many people go hungry. They starve in Jill Parks America. They starve in Angelos America and that boi bleeds meatsauce marinara. The All-Father sees the predicament that each of you is in and nay, it phases me not. Everything you tell the people is surface-level.
That brings us to now and the reality of what each of you can do to fix it, better it- what are you bringing to the table on this Thiccsgivin. Bah, bring ya own starvin bellies with your hands held out. Careers dyin in the corner like Tiny Timothy. Crutch in arm, limpin around because your career's nose dive, and none of you know how to take control. So please, whisper those lies into muh ear. Tell the All-Father your ingenious plans to capture that whurlds championship.
Each of you has to make a case to the world- the entire planet Earth as to why you’ll make a champion- let alone a good one. I’ve been a Champion with every breath I take. You could strip me down muscle and bone and they would be gilded with all the Championships that I won. There is a reason I’m in a championship match every week. My children, you done missed the plot. You done missed the boat. If at this point in any of your careers you’re still making the case to be world champion then guess what- it aint you.
Period. End of discussion.
You scramble to convince the world that you’re world title material.
The world scrambles to convince itsself that I’m not.
The pro wrestling landscape fears my very existence.
The pro wrestling landscape doesn't even know you exist.
We are not the same.
I’m sorry my children. Torture was right. Get good or get Lost.”
Odin cracks his neck and looks back at Adele's apartment.
“I used to pray for weeks like these where I could line up the so-called best in the company so I could mow them down without even a second thought. It feels good. That no matter the obstacle, I’m still punchin down on all you fuckin’ geeks and all you can do is look up with your jimmy jawns open waiting to take the full brunt of my fist and get fired off into the mother fuckin sun. I’m sorry my children, but this is the way it has to be. Respect will be put on my mother fuckin name when the three of you talk about me. Every time you say that ‘Odin Balfore was great-but’ that's still more than either of you will ever have in this business cuz aint a soul poppin off about how great any of you are. No matter your varying levels of success.
Tag success,
Shallow world title success
Rookie wrestler of the year success.
Action Wrestlings hall of fame is filled to the fuckin brim with geeks just like that- just like you. If you want that mediocrity. Good fucking luck. I aint here to stop you. More so, I’m just here to help push that fucking process along.
The last time ya’ll fought me, I dont even recognize that man anymore. An impastah austimo skinwalker, creepin with a limp and a twitch. At Turmoil, you will fight the very essence of what men, women, and children revered as the true All-Father, he who has become the Elder-statesman of Action Wrestling.
I want you to watch me, Jimmy Italia. I want you to watch as I take what Action Wrestling considers to be their top tier (LOL) and trounce them and as you're sitting with that AW World title, I want you to notice your shoulder getting colder. That chest gets heavier. I want you to know what's coming for you in that ring. I got time, Angelo. To stomp that jobber shit on my boots and tracking it into your house and beat you to death. I can add your skull to my throne and that belt to the pile.
Call this full circle. Call this an end to the madness. Torture fucking insulted me once and trust ya boi when I say that I aint forgot it. Yet for all his fuccboi words and scroat thoatin’ he’s still payin my goddamn checks. I cash them shits too. Each and every fuggin week.
Top that off with weekly title matches and you got to start to question why. You’re a smart guy. You got a week. You’ll start questioning why and you’ll start to figure it out. Dion's figured it out. He knows. He’s got stories. Kidsgrove will lie to you. He’ll tell you about all the times he pinned me and yet I still haven't seen production out of him. He’s still on the ‘prove them right, prove them wrong’ train that's been rolling in circles under the Christmas tree since 1987. Gonna Alan Rickman that poor fuckin soul.
Reagan is so damn brand new, much like yourself, you’re sitting there scratching your head as to why I’m in this match.
* Odin does a shotty valley girl accent to mock Reagan.*
This old man, right, who like got depression and like, CTE and drinks too much - how's he in a world title match?
* His voice returns to normal. *
She don’t want to be the one to let this old man slip up and beat her like prom night. Throw a cunt down the stairs cuz the maxi-pad is dry and that's disastrously bad.
And you Angelo,
You don’t WANT to be the guy that's gonna hand me World title number twenty-fucking-eight. But you fucking will be.
I’ll see you and them at Turmoil. While you're biting your nails and watching the clock, I'm punching into work.
Get good or get fuckin lost you fuckin nerds.
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