Crossing Party Lines: NOWHERE > NOW HERE
Apr 27, 2019 17:12:50 GMT -5
T.F.K. and Lissie Hope like this
Post by Guillotine (QDT) on Apr 27, 2019 17:12:50 GMT -5
It’s Q-U-I-X-O-T-E. Quixote, dildo-squatters!
The security booth neanderthals scan their list and see my name, courtesy of the uber hot heiress who suffered swollen vulva syndrome watching me wrestle. Gates swing open and I drive through the leafy trail illuminated by multi-coloured lanterns. I pull up alongside bigger vehicles, attracting derisory ogles by the yuppy fags hanging by the pool, but I get out so fucking Genghis Khan they bow apologetically. I could go straight to the heiress’ boudoir to provide a deep dicking but first let’s soak in the party on her Daddy’s dime.
I enter the opulent mansion and simply observe. Diamond chandeliers and B-Listers don’t impact me. I prefer to survey social dynamics and human idiosyncrasies. I snake through the crowd, head upstairs and find a sweet spot in the corner at maximum vantage. Acutely aware that eyes are too intimidated to linger upon me, intuitively the highest value alpha in the place, I enjoy casting out my most brazen, predatory stare.
Most latecomers to a party storm in like a bat outta hell, bounce on the dancefloor like a jack in the box or swiftly suck the teet of the It-Crowd. Me? I watch. I find my corner to dominate. Then, when the fog of intoxication pervades, the stench of their desperate desire is most potent, the façade of their social contracts and hierarchies fall… THAT’S when I take my throne.
I look behind me. A group of needy bitches and orbiting dweebs have swarmed into my aura like validation vampires. Some cockalorum tries to befriend me, flaunting his new Tourbillon. He’s lucky I no sell else he flies over the bannister.
The only contention against my triumph of the Havoc Rumble and subsequent decimation of Ryan Lockhart for the World Title at Evolution 2 is that I’m a “big fish in the small pond of 201”. Firstly, I’m more of a Balaenoptera Musculus or a Great White, (Hashtag Casual Racism). This argument’s currently true but the extrapolation I’ll somehow sink down the food chain into the jaws of the Shark and his Big Bad #BeachKrew is patently ludicrous. Havoc’s my first real swim outside MY waters, admittedly, but that’ll make the pirates all the more sea sick when I loot their treasure. I’m having FUN in 201; repeatedly ragdolling the likes of Spicy, Rose, Maddox and soon my new pal Derrick Vayden – more on him another time. It’s hilarious to verbally and physically lacerate these little jizzmongers and rule as their King. But as their Highness, they should serve me in the Rumble. I’ve been elevating the prestige of their Kingdom; putting dearly needed food on the anorexic worms’ tables. They can’t even dream of victory so, if they had any sense, they’d commit everything to facilitating my inevitable conquest.
Wade Moor questioned why I’m in 201. Simple – to revitalise the wasteland, bypass boring midcarders like Holliday, Kidsgrove and McMorris, then come out from FUCKIN’ NOWHERE to the summit of the mountain. I prefer to leap than to crawl. What higher hurdle than tossing out over 50 tossers to win the Havoc Rumble?!
The freaks and geeks eagerly vie for my attention but my focus drifts downstairs to those of loftier social status.
The supposed elite of Action Wrestling continue to disappoint. Jared Holmes primarily. IWC nerds are prostate massaging themselves silly over his promo. “Ooh, Six Inch God rage-banged the whole roster”. Except he didn’t, LOL. There’s a fundamental flaw in his argument. He said he knows the entire company like the back of his hand, yet rendered that claim null and void in saying he “doesn’t give a shit about QDT”. Appears the back of his hand is too far up the back of his side. DON’T YOU PERCEIVE MY MAGNIFICENCE, SIX CUNT?! Another spoilt rich kid in wrestling, woo unique. Spoof names? Sick burn kid. Did you learn that art form in pre-school? Money can’t buy sense, I see. Newsflash - you’re a 26 year old part timer crawling out of the woodwork of managing people better than you in the faint hope of fresh fluking a big Havoc catch. Finally put your head back above the parapet? The Guillotine will cut it off. You better pray to your Savior Neptune it’ll be a clean severance deal.
Let’s face it, you hardly exhibit desire and work ethic in spades… that’s OK. Jaice Wilds personifies these qualities but I’ve left him chasing shadows multiple times. Unlike Wilds, you’re mildly accomplished but, like him, you’re dependent. Reliant on your sailor boys, riches, the mythical fear factor you’ve conned the industry into buying. You seek your “successor”? You’re a one time World Champion during the dying embers of WCF, toppled by Dion Nobody. What a legacy to succeed! At Havoc, you’re truly ALONE. Do you really think Wade or Pasternack will allow you to be anything other than their fluffer?
Through peripheral vision, I see a hipster twat hovering around regurgitating the same story that once garnered a giggle. Doesn’t seem to realise he’s back among the same social group he started on.
Speaking of Wade Moor, you set a template on how to win the Rumble last year. I studied your tactics and movements. Waydago buddy! I was impressed until I saw the obvious echoes in this year’s build up. Holy stagnation Gawdnilla! You say you left WCF because you were too comfortable? Shit Broseidon, seems you’re back in your slippers again… but good news, QDT’ll sweep you off your feet. In a non bumboy manner, of course. Your template this year won’t work because of 1) diminishing returns and 2) the landscape low-key shifted on 22nd October 2018 when I penned my contract. A modest deal; maybe a few zeroes less than yours. You ascended fast, granted, but everyone could see you coming a mile off and you had a lot of help along the way. My curve will be a sharper incline, trust me, and if ours intersect, yours will plummet just as suddenly. We’ll need to swap contracts when your rectum prolapses out 54 pounds of trauma turd on Sunday. Wrestler X and Carlos Lopez a-wade you in 201 Fun!
As for you Alex P, lesser spotted Siberian Rat, il Picciotto, wannabe Made Man in waiting. Now, I utterly abhor all my Papa Giacomo’s indoctrination of valour and virtue but his quests inculcated one thing that separates you and I - discipline. You’re a sloppy, coke addled waster. If you had any focus, you’d be the crème da la crème of #BeachKrew but you waste time with copious substances and lowlifes like Mr. Scars and Jana Horvat. My only hope is when you find out Lockhart’s diddling Jana, the sperm war gets your dick hard enough to put that adequate talent you have to proper use. Then maybe we’ll lock horns after Evolution 2 when I puncture the bull that’s cucking you.
#BeachKrew, this isn’t WCF where your circle jerk can hot potato around our World Title like a bukkake whore. I’m easily capable of navigating your gangbang warfare. There’s a reason the WCF sunk and it’s not because y’all abandoned ship. It’s ‘cuz it was never as good as you convinced yourselves.
A melee breaks out between drunken oafs. Bouncers pounce on them like lions and brutally hurl them outside.
Ah, the mass exodus. The talk of the wrestling biz. Which WCF alumnus should we expect next? Flash? Fly? Sanchez? Orbit? Doesn’t matter one iota with me ready to knock them back into obscurity over that top rope. Odin Balfore arrived to fart in church fanfare. When were you last relevant, All Father? Tag Champ 6 years ago? If you indeed have ever been a legend, it must’ve been a pre-internet age. Your boasts tower far above your accolades. You position yourself as a pervasive patriarch, ruling over the whippersnappers. Tall man complex, methinks. Call yourself an “unmovable object”? Agreed, that’s literally your only friggin’ asset in this Rumble. You barely can move yourself; never mind getting close enough to hit your “dreaded” KO punch. Think you can keep up with me? How exactly when you’re still stuck in 2013, senile phallus? Before you’ve even realised you’re in the ring, I’ll dropkick your bell-end so hard you’ll go through puberty in reverse.
I see the weatherman I watched on this morning’s local news slumped drunkenly against the side of a sofa.
Likewise Alex Richards, still surviving on the tourniquet of a win over an unmotivated Dune in 2015… UCI plastic participation awards and WCF ghost town “World Titles” don’t count. Drinking from the same Zim-Quila as Jaice Wilds. Reckless and “eXtreme” but ultimately harmless.
I see a man fail to woo a floozy with a joke… but least it makes himself chuckle uproariously.
A court jester archetype, you might say. So painfully inadequate and insecure, they use “humour” to pretend they’re laughing with the hecklers; blissfully unaware they’re being pissed on from a great height.
Chase Jackson and his merry band of Sesame Street characters exemplify this a fuck-ton too. Chase, your name is apt because that’s all you’ll ever do, duder. You wank yourself senseless over gay toads, your opponents and your new wonky faced wench Lindsey… but you’ll never pump a worthwhile load. Meanwhile your Talent Enhancers, Bert and Ernie, might draw great numbers in the 6 year old boy demographic but Havoc will be the only time they actually get over – over the top rope. See, I can do “HAHA” too.
Some nearby arsebadger laughs. Shut your mouth. I see a gaggle of Plain Janes shooting daggers at the hot broads on the dancefloor.
Another top rope HAHA coming up – the Rumble won’t be the first time the slags of AW get their legs over… but Quixote’s happy to provide the assist. Less than 3 months ago, I was too much of a “gentleman” to batter anyone of the homogametic variety but guess I’m all woke and shit now. Proper third wave feminist, me. Now you have equality of annihilation, my gloves are off… so pack your bags for the women’s refuge.
Casey Holliday, Miss UCI… literally. Everyone important gave the company and division a miss. Probably the only belt more maligned than 201. Still scorching the earth with your clichés, I see? Sorry, haters gonna hate. I blame Mr. Riley; churning out attack of the clone fembots like you, Salinas, Hayley and Bianca. Except you’re like sooo totes emossshhhh with your perma-PMT and unbridled narcissism. Can’t dispute the stats though. Your record’s fine and the calibre of opponents wasn’t too awful – not top tier, mind, but passable. We’re both flat track bullies to date and it’s fair to say we share some Daddy issues but the similarities end there. We’re tipped as Dark Horses but the difference is I’m a stallion riding bareback into the mane event while you’re a one-trick pony saddled with a colt of personality on a weak rein. I wonder what reward Torture has for you at Havoc. Probably his dick in a box, BOOYA! I can’t wait to see you finally exposed in the Rumble… ugh, and not in THAT way, dem gnarly bee sting titties can stay encasey in your holliday home please.
She’s the only ho worth minimal contemplation in AW but I’ll humour the rest. I hear Lissie Hope, the new darling’s “strong, sexy and tough”. Ooh you go girly! You identify as “pansexual”? Meaning you fuck bedpans? Or Peter Pans, boys who won’t grow up? Or your sex life has gone down the pan? How radical. Another oppressive Daddy and another too scared to do anything about it apart from living in pathetic reaction… unlike moi who perforated Papa’s spleen, thrashed his skull and disowned him and his dumbass, only-good-for-her-womb wife. You flap your face labia about being this free spirited wild flower yet you’re still deep in the bosom of your brother and parents? Yeah, no, hype’s not congruent.
Your new flame Estrella Luiz might beg to differ. Mexican Royalty. There’s a reason most of America want to build a wall and that’s to prevent your moniker of “Girl Next Door” coming to fruition. The Luiz family name might be feared in some shanty town in Mexico City occupied by flea bitten mongrels and a few old nacos and viejas but all it’s renowned for here is La Princesa of failure.
My my, there’s a shitload of insignificant wrestling dynasties here. How appropriate that the apples of the Luiz and Matthews families’ eyes would pear together. Kennedy, not even mythical God can save the Queen at Havoc. At your core, you’ve realised no one gives a shit about the Matthews’ name yet you remain so eager to have any status inside you that you’ve pounced on all three inches of Jaice Wilds’ thickness. He clearly convinced you of his great acclaim in this industry despite the fact he’s won NADA. I’ve wrecked him repeatedly; it’ll be so romantic to give you matching His and Hers lesions.
QDT gonna pummel you Red White and Bruised. OH HAI THERE KARLIE NASH! Last year you predicted a rigged Rumble. Wrong! Your tea leaves were a year premature. 2019 spoiler alert – QDT is going to Evolution 2. Karlie, you’re guaranteed to be thrown out quicker than you can count to ten. 1… err 3… err 7… err 5. Least you’ll outlast your buddy Nikki, the PerfectFour; so awful the bookers gave every cockwomble on the roster a place in the Rumble but her.
Hazel Overton, another promiscuous LGBT bitch with a special “lineage”. Whoopee. It’s an open secret that Camila Gonzalez handed her the TV belt to force rigor mortis upon that division. 201 has gotten so bigtime with a blockbuster champ that it’s far superseded the TV Title so Overton represents its unofficial death knell. Pretty soon it’ll become defunct… then maybe Casey Holliday can win it!
What about Claire Hawkins, I hear no one cry? While my 201 bout against Derrick Vayden at Havoc will be my warm up for the Rumble, Hawkins will be lethargy incarnate after her slap-fest with Hazel. Little underappreciated Metal Witch looks weary right now, no? Poor Claire, or is it Annette… or Mary? Call them the Void or multiple personalities or whatever the fuck, the same rationale still lurks behind. Multiple personalities are a bullshit trick to avoid responsibility; something Hawkins has made a career from. Another bullshit trick is witchcraft. I recently debunked Magic Maddox’s chicanery. Only difference between magic and witchcraft is the latter has a sexy subculture, though regretfully Claire’s perpetuating the archaic ugly nose wart, cackling she-beast stereotype.
The Divine Femme, Sandy Coconutz, #BeachKrew’s virtue signalling valet. A pitiful PR stunt designed to make them seem less obnoxious to the sponsors. Even her raging drink problem can be justified as Hashtag My Body My Choice. Not sure she can swerve the cultural appropriation outrage as a Polynesian jabbering like a sistah. Regardless, she’s a pimple on BK’s arse and I can’t wait to pop her.
I see an affluent but socially retarded punk barely conceal nerves as he enters the mansion late. He overcompensates his anxiety by gesticulating as though he rocks the body that rocks the party.
Guy’s acting as if he’s won the jackpot, the last to arrive, but deep down knows he’s coming in cold and limp. And so it goes with Lincoln Kuechly. Final entrant, Linc (clap… clap). This is a new problem for you; one of the OGz of this company. Your career has been defined by coming in early, jacking your shaft and never quite poppin’ a firm boner. You targeted Spencer Adams as your aphrodisiac but flipped out when he couldn’t carry your flaccid wang. At Havoc, the story’s reversed and you finally get to come in last; a change from the big boys invading your playground and pushing you over. How will you respond? My guess is… exactly the same. You’ll never get going. You’ll merely be afforded less time to drown.
I see a biker gang fronting up to the DJ as Sepultura starts to blare from the speakers to bewilderment from other revellers. Despite their puffed chests and synchronised mean gaits, their threat level’s more Village People than Hell’s Angels.
How can anyone vaguely “tough” roam in packs? I grasp the weak concept of power in numbers but stables auto negate any claim you have of possessing a solid pair of stones. I mentioned #BeachKrew; what of #FightSmart? Or what’s left of it? Spencer Adams, you’re a sentimental fool and it lands you in trouble ad nauseam. Your old pal Kevin slayed your Mommy and Robbie like insignificant lambs. Kuechly ripped another tear in that shattered heart of yours and effectively killed your supposed answer to #BeachKrew. Everyone you love either gets hurt or hurts you. Ever stopped to think why that is? Perhaps it’s the universe’s cruel hand of course correction; Final Destination stylee. Your success in wrestling is clearly causing some rift in the space/time continuum given the sheer farce of a man of your inferior size and ability winning World Championships. Every upset victory you score builds up a correlating debt in your karmic bank account; repaid randomly in pain, betrayal and heartache. Maybe that’s it? No, just fuckin’ wid ya. People turn on you because you’re a lamb chop. You lose loved ones because you’re too stupid to recognise the wolves at your door.
Kyle Kemp’s playing the long game. He’s next to plunge the dagger into your back; you’d better believe it. You need to beat him to the punch, Spence. Havoc Rumble’s your perfect moment. Kemp’s a lanky sumbitch anyway. 6 foot 5 and 208 pounds? Somebody give the dude a steak! Kemp, for someone supposedly better than everyone, your career really hasn’t ignited in AW, has it? Sole highlight being Clash10 when you assisted Spencer to his one and only World Title. You don’t show anything better than being a “steady hand”, a tag specialist maybe, a collector of obscure WCF Titles at best. Your biggest talent is perpetual promise – never quite flailing but continually whispered in the same breath as the special ones. It’s proper Ode on a Grecian Urn unravished bride frozen in time shit. That’s Keats by the way, you culturally deficient frat boy fuck. Spencer is your safety net, preventing you from baring your arse, but eventually you’ll be too prideful to accept that, in the vain pursuit of a potential that doesn’t exist beyond the ether of unwarranted hype.
I see a fugly couple passing by. Both swear like sailors at decibel levels higher than anyone else in the party.
Aw, ain’t that a happier union? A perfect dynamic like those lovable scamps, Cowboys from Hell. Two crap spewing cunts crowing their holes louder than everyone. No ambition except for destruction, no individual aspirations except survival and shit stirring. I admire the honest small time vibe of it all. Z-Mac’s well past his Honey Badger prime, playing out a homoerotic bromance with his kindred spirit Beau Blaze; guzzling the cock of his youthfulness. There’s no pretentious grandiosity of personal glory unlike most of these other inadequate fecal felchers. It’s a much healthier alliance than Dat Hot American Darkness because Beau knows his place and makes Zombie feel appreciated. Mikey eXtreme's lost in hopeful abandon; showing up yearly for his big shot only to be disposed of like a bag of spuds. I respect the Cowboys… But yeah, they’re going to be eliminated sickly early.
I see two musclebound nobodies conversing by the bar area. One wears ridiculous twelve year old boy jean shorts, a black cap barely concealing a queer sweeping hairstyle and a pink t-shirt bearing the words “Never Give Up”. The other is a mixed race baldie with an arched eyebrow. IIRC they’ve been in movies and sometimes grapple in an indie backyard fed called WEE. Or something.
Hey look, wrestlers who fancy themselves film stars… or even worse, the other way around. As Conor McGregor and Joel Embiid will discover, you need to be all consumed with the squared circle to make it here; especially in the Rumble; the toughest match of the year. That’s why Sam Kidsgrove and Thaddeus Franklin King are perennial US Champions. They offer mainstream crossover appeal but ultimately keep flopping in the ring. This isn’t scripted and phony like Hollywood…
Suddenly I execute a shooting star press off the top of the staircase and land on my feet in the centre of the dancefloor. All eyes are on me.
… See? Real recognise real.
I see two solid 8s whose panties submerge in wetness at the very sight of me. I could bang them both like bongos here and now but I’d rather save myself for my new HB10 heiress friend.
Hot… but not ABLAZE. A bit like Shadowlove and Dandy DiVito. Dandy, congrats on learning your alphabet. Wasn’t sure you could go beyond “DD” so good going, sport! I have a soft spot for you, Winston the Wigga. Maybe I can relate to having a controlling Father sculpturing you into an identity that makes your skin crawl. I am not a Gentleman and you are not an Affluent Dogooder, Dandy. You need to fight back viciously. Fuck family attachments and trust funds; you’re enough on your own. I even think you’ll do a sterling job as first entry at Havoc. You might even outlast one or two jobbers.
I’m less optimistic for the Half-Blood Prince or whatever Harry Potter book he’s named after. Goblin of Fire? Who-fuck-knows? Shadowlove, you’ve some style but it takes substance to win Havoc; not just finishing 9th in the calmer seas of War 16. Havoc ain't your Renaissance, you're staying in the Dark Ages.
Finally, I see guests ushered off the premises by security at the behest of the 19 year old socialite stunner. From a distance, she eye-humps me and I read her blowjob-ripe lips mouthing the words “he can stay” to her bouncers. Party’s over but there’s enough time for quick-fire verbal assassination of the Rumble no-hopers.
Nathan von Liebert – anti-climax, cumming disappointingly once a year. Bishop – TV Title’s his ceiling, icon of necrophilia porn. Harry Diderot – blacksploitation movie reject. Dream Daddy Wesley – first and worst ever 201 Champ. Bobby Rage – roided shrink-dick blowhard protected by management until now where he can’t hide. Baz – obscure oddball. Titan Jax – unrefined quitter. Eamon MacAteer – eternal victim. Lance Walker – giant cookmuncher. Alex Kincaid – strap-on fodder. James Wolf – 1990s Nu Metal misfit. Matt Draven – crash test dummy.
It’s morning and I’m lying in satin sheets beside the sleeping beauty; radiant in the afterglow of my ravaging with sex-messed hair, flushed cheeks and a slumbered smile.
We’ve established that I’m not the early bird… but I do wield the biggest worm. I’m enjoying my last few days of relative 201 obscurity because, come Monday morning, I’ll be plastered over the front pages, breakfast news and trending number 1 worldwide in supremacy as the hell of the Havoc Rumble leaves only one soul intact. Behold, the one to knock that mangy twat Ryan Lockhart off his fucking perch at Evolution 2; not his #BeachKrew or Spencer or Casey or Richards or SJW… but QDT; the GOAT 201 & Fun Champion, The Guillotine, the parent brutalising, hedonistic, nihilistic, global revelation, emerging from dust to become your NEXT Action Wrestling World Champion. This is how my story unfolds, children. Study how it’s written for generations. No conventional step by step character arc; my journey’s far more intriguing. The Guillotine lands when and where he wants…
I rise from bed with a coin in my hand.
And Heads…
I flip it into my palm.
Will…
I unclasp my fingers.
Roll.
A glance down at the coin – Heads. See you on the flipside when I’m a big deal, fucks.
The security booth neanderthals scan their list and see my name, courtesy of the uber hot heiress who suffered swollen vulva syndrome watching me wrestle. Gates swing open and I drive through the leafy trail illuminated by multi-coloured lanterns. I pull up alongside bigger vehicles, attracting derisory ogles by the yuppy fags hanging by the pool, but I get out so fucking Genghis Khan they bow apologetically. I could go straight to the heiress’ boudoir to provide a deep dicking but first let’s soak in the party on her Daddy’s dime.
I enter the opulent mansion and simply observe. Diamond chandeliers and B-Listers don’t impact me. I prefer to survey social dynamics and human idiosyncrasies. I snake through the crowd, head upstairs and find a sweet spot in the corner at maximum vantage. Acutely aware that eyes are too intimidated to linger upon me, intuitively the highest value alpha in the place, I enjoy casting out my most brazen, predatory stare.
Most latecomers to a party storm in like a bat outta hell, bounce on the dancefloor like a jack in the box or swiftly suck the teet of the It-Crowd. Me? I watch. I find my corner to dominate. Then, when the fog of intoxication pervades, the stench of their desperate desire is most potent, the façade of their social contracts and hierarchies fall… THAT’S when I take my throne.
I look behind me. A group of needy bitches and orbiting dweebs have swarmed into my aura like validation vampires. Some cockalorum tries to befriend me, flaunting his new Tourbillon. He’s lucky I no sell else he flies over the bannister.
The only contention against my triumph of the Havoc Rumble and subsequent decimation of Ryan Lockhart for the World Title at Evolution 2 is that I’m a “big fish in the small pond of 201”. Firstly, I’m more of a Balaenoptera Musculus or a Great White, (Hashtag Casual Racism). This argument’s currently true but the extrapolation I’ll somehow sink down the food chain into the jaws of the Shark and his Big Bad #BeachKrew is patently ludicrous. Havoc’s my first real swim outside MY waters, admittedly, but that’ll make the pirates all the more sea sick when I loot their treasure. I’m having FUN in 201; repeatedly ragdolling the likes of Spicy, Rose, Maddox and soon my new pal Derrick Vayden – more on him another time. It’s hilarious to verbally and physically lacerate these little jizzmongers and rule as their King. But as their Highness, they should serve me in the Rumble. I’ve been elevating the prestige of their Kingdom; putting dearly needed food on the anorexic worms’ tables. They can’t even dream of victory so, if they had any sense, they’d commit everything to facilitating my inevitable conquest.
Wade Moor questioned why I’m in 201. Simple – to revitalise the wasteland, bypass boring midcarders like Holliday, Kidsgrove and McMorris, then come out from FUCKIN’ NOWHERE to the summit of the mountain. I prefer to leap than to crawl. What higher hurdle than tossing out over 50 tossers to win the Havoc Rumble?!
The freaks and geeks eagerly vie for my attention but my focus drifts downstairs to those of loftier social status.
The supposed elite of Action Wrestling continue to disappoint. Jared Holmes primarily. IWC nerds are prostate massaging themselves silly over his promo. “Ooh, Six Inch God rage-banged the whole roster”. Except he didn’t, LOL. There’s a fundamental flaw in his argument. He said he knows the entire company like the back of his hand, yet rendered that claim null and void in saying he “doesn’t give a shit about QDT”. Appears the back of his hand is too far up the back of his side. DON’T YOU PERCEIVE MY MAGNIFICENCE, SIX CUNT?! Another spoilt rich kid in wrestling, woo unique. Spoof names? Sick burn kid. Did you learn that art form in pre-school? Money can’t buy sense, I see. Newsflash - you’re a 26 year old part timer crawling out of the woodwork of managing people better than you in the faint hope of fresh fluking a big Havoc catch. Finally put your head back above the parapet? The Guillotine will cut it off. You better pray to your Savior Neptune it’ll be a clean severance deal.
Let’s face it, you hardly exhibit desire and work ethic in spades… that’s OK. Jaice Wilds personifies these qualities but I’ve left him chasing shadows multiple times. Unlike Wilds, you’re mildly accomplished but, like him, you’re dependent. Reliant on your sailor boys, riches, the mythical fear factor you’ve conned the industry into buying. You seek your “successor”? You’re a one time World Champion during the dying embers of WCF, toppled by Dion Nobody. What a legacy to succeed! At Havoc, you’re truly ALONE. Do you really think Wade or Pasternack will allow you to be anything other than their fluffer?
Through peripheral vision, I see a hipster twat hovering around regurgitating the same story that once garnered a giggle. Doesn’t seem to realise he’s back among the same social group he started on.
Speaking of Wade Moor, you set a template on how to win the Rumble last year. I studied your tactics and movements. Waydago buddy! I was impressed until I saw the obvious echoes in this year’s build up. Holy stagnation Gawdnilla! You say you left WCF because you were too comfortable? Shit Broseidon, seems you’re back in your slippers again… but good news, QDT’ll sweep you off your feet. In a non bumboy manner, of course. Your template this year won’t work because of 1) diminishing returns and 2) the landscape low-key shifted on 22nd October 2018 when I penned my contract. A modest deal; maybe a few zeroes less than yours. You ascended fast, granted, but everyone could see you coming a mile off and you had a lot of help along the way. My curve will be a sharper incline, trust me, and if ours intersect, yours will plummet just as suddenly. We’ll need to swap contracts when your rectum prolapses out 54 pounds of trauma turd on Sunday. Wrestler X and Carlos Lopez a-wade you in 201 Fun!
As for you Alex P, lesser spotted Siberian Rat, il Picciotto, wannabe Made Man in waiting. Now, I utterly abhor all my Papa Giacomo’s indoctrination of valour and virtue but his quests inculcated one thing that separates you and I - discipline. You’re a sloppy, coke addled waster. If you had any focus, you’d be the crème da la crème of #BeachKrew but you waste time with copious substances and lowlifes like Mr. Scars and Jana Horvat. My only hope is when you find out Lockhart’s diddling Jana, the sperm war gets your dick hard enough to put that adequate talent you have to proper use. Then maybe we’ll lock horns after Evolution 2 when I puncture the bull that’s cucking you.
#BeachKrew, this isn’t WCF where your circle jerk can hot potato around our World Title like a bukkake whore. I’m easily capable of navigating your gangbang warfare. There’s a reason the WCF sunk and it’s not because y’all abandoned ship. It’s ‘cuz it was never as good as you convinced yourselves.
A melee breaks out between drunken oafs. Bouncers pounce on them like lions and brutally hurl them outside.
Ah, the mass exodus. The talk of the wrestling biz. Which WCF alumnus should we expect next? Flash? Fly? Sanchez? Orbit? Doesn’t matter one iota with me ready to knock them back into obscurity over that top rope. Odin Balfore arrived to fart in church fanfare. When were you last relevant, All Father? Tag Champ 6 years ago? If you indeed have ever been a legend, it must’ve been a pre-internet age. Your boasts tower far above your accolades. You position yourself as a pervasive patriarch, ruling over the whippersnappers. Tall man complex, methinks. Call yourself an “unmovable object”? Agreed, that’s literally your only friggin’ asset in this Rumble. You barely can move yourself; never mind getting close enough to hit your “dreaded” KO punch. Think you can keep up with me? How exactly when you’re still stuck in 2013, senile phallus? Before you’ve even realised you’re in the ring, I’ll dropkick your bell-end so hard you’ll go through puberty in reverse.
I see the weatherman I watched on this morning’s local news slumped drunkenly against the side of a sofa.
Likewise Alex Richards, still surviving on the tourniquet of a win over an unmotivated Dune in 2015… UCI plastic participation awards and WCF ghost town “World Titles” don’t count. Drinking from the same Zim-Quila as Jaice Wilds. Reckless and “eXtreme” but ultimately harmless.
I see a man fail to woo a floozy with a joke… but least it makes himself chuckle uproariously.
A court jester archetype, you might say. So painfully inadequate and insecure, they use “humour” to pretend they’re laughing with the hecklers; blissfully unaware they’re being pissed on from a great height.
Chase Jackson and his merry band of Sesame Street characters exemplify this a fuck-ton too. Chase, your name is apt because that’s all you’ll ever do, duder. You wank yourself senseless over gay toads, your opponents and your new wonky faced wench Lindsey… but you’ll never pump a worthwhile load. Meanwhile your Talent Enhancers, Bert and Ernie, might draw great numbers in the 6 year old boy demographic but Havoc will be the only time they actually get over – over the top rope. See, I can do “HAHA” too.
Some nearby arsebadger laughs. Shut your mouth. I see a gaggle of Plain Janes shooting daggers at the hot broads on the dancefloor.
Another top rope HAHA coming up – the Rumble won’t be the first time the slags of AW get their legs over… but Quixote’s happy to provide the assist. Less than 3 months ago, I was too much of a “gentleman” to batter anyone of the homogametic variety but guess I’m all woke and shit now. Proper third wave feminist, me. Now you have equality of annihilation, my gloves are off… so pack your bags for the women’s refuge.
Casey Holliday, Miss UCI… literally. Everyone important gave the company and division a miss. Probably the only belt more maligned than 201. Still scorching the earth with your clichés, I see? Sorry, haters gonna hate. I blame Mr. Riley; churning out attack of the clone fembots like you, Salinas, Hayley and Bianca. Except you’re like sooo totes emossshhhh with your perma-PMT and unbridled narcissism. Can’t dispute the stats though. Your record’s fine and the calibre of opponents wasn’t too awful – not top tier, mind, but passable. We’re both flat track bullies to date and it’s fair to say we share some Daddy issues but the similarities end there. We’re tipped as Dark Horses but the difference is I’m a stallion riding bareback into the mane event while you’re a one-trick pony saddled with a colt of personality on a weak rein. I wonder what reward Torture has for you at Havoc. Probably his dick in a box, BOOYA! I can’t wait to see you finally exposed in the Rumble… ugh, and not in THAT way, dem gnarly bee sting titties can stay encasey in your holliday home please.
She’s the only ho worth minimal contemplation in AW but I’ll humour the rest. I hear Lissie Hope, the new darling’s “strong, sexy and tough”. Ooh you go girly! You identify as “pansexual”? Meaning you fuck bedpans? Or Peter Pans, boys who won’t grow up? Or your sex life has gone down the pan? How radical. Another oppressive Daddy and another too scared to do anything about it apart from living in pathetic reaction… unlike moi who perforated Papa’s spleen, thrashed his skull and disowned him and his dumbass, only-good-for-her-womb wife. You flap your face labia about being this free spirited wild flower yet you’re still deep in the bosom of your brother and parents? Yeah, no, hype’s not congruent.
Your new flame Estrella Luiz might beg to differ. Mexican Royalty. There’s a reason most of America want to build a wall and that’s to prevent your moniker of “Girl Next Door” coming to fruition. The Luiz family name might be feared in some shanty town in Mexico City occupied by flea bitten mongrels and a few old nacos and viejas but all it’s renowned for here is La Princesa of failure.
My my, there’s a shitload of insignificant wrestling dynasties here. How appropriate that the apples of the Luiz and Matthews families’ eyes would pear together. Kennedy, not even mythical God can save the Queen at Havoc. At your core, you’ve realised no one gives a shit about the Matthews’ name yet you remain so eager to have any status inside you that you’ve pounced on all three inches of Jaice Wilds’ thickness. He clearly convinced you of his great acclaim in this industry despite the fact he’s won NADA. I’ve wrecked him repeatedly; it’ll be so romantic to give you matching His and Hers lesions.
QDT gonna pummel you Red White and Bruised. OH HAI THERE KARLIE NASH! Last year you predicted a rigged Rumble. Wrong! Your tea leaves were a year premature. 2019 spoiler alert – QDT is going to Evolution 2. Karlie, you’re guaranteed to be thrown out quicker than you can count to ten. 1… err 3… err 7… err 5. Least you’ll outlast your buddy Nikki, the PerfectFour; so awful the bookers gave every cockwomble on the roster a place in the Rumble but her.
Hazel Overton, another promiscuous LGBT bitch with a special “lineage”. Whoopee. It’s an open secret that Camila Gonzalez handed her the TV belt to force rigor mortis upon that division. 201 has gotten so bigtime with a blockbuster champ that it’s far superseded the TV Title so Overton represents its unofficial death knell. Pretty soon it’ll become defunct… then maybe Casey Holliday can win it!
What about Claire Hawkins, I hear no one cry? While my 201 bout against Derrick Vayden at Havoc will be my warm up for the Rumble, Hawkins will be lethargy incarnate after her slap-fest with Hazel. Little underappreciated Metal Witch looks weary right now, no? Poor Claire, or is it Annette… or Mary? Call them the Void or multiple personalities or whatever the fuck, the same rationale still lurks behind. Multiple personalities are a bullshit trick to avoid responsibility; something Hawkins has made a career from. Another bullshit trick is witchcraft. I recently debunked Magic Maddox’s chicanery. Only difference between magic and witchcraft is the latter has a sexy subculture, though regretfully Claire’s perpetuating the archaic ugly nose wart, cackling she-beast stereotype.
The Divine Femme, Sandy Coconutz, #BeachKrew’s virtue signalling valet. A pitiful PR stunt designed to make them seem less obnoxious to the sponsors. Even her raging drink problem can be justified as Hashtag My Body My Choice. Not sure she can swerve the cultural appropriation outrage as a Polynesian jabbering like a sistah. Regardless, she’s a pimple on BK’s arse and I can’t wait to pop her.
I see an affluent but socially retarded punk barely conceal nerves as he enters the mansion late. He overcompensates his anxiety by gesticulating as though he rocks the body that rocks the party.
Guy’s acting as if he’s won the jackpot, the last to arrive, but deep down knows he’s coming in cold and limp. And so it goes with Lincoln Kuechly. Final entrant, Linc (clap… clap). This is a new problem for you; one of the OGz of this company. Your career has been defined by coming in early, jacking your shaft and never quite poppin’ a firm boner. You targeted Spencer Adams as your aphrodisiac but flipped out when he couldn’t carry your flaccid wang. At Havoc, the story’s reversed and you finally get to come in last; a change from the big boys invading your playground and pushing you over. How will you respond? My guess is… exactly the same. You’ll never get going. You’ll merely be afforded less time to drown.
I see a biker gang fronting up to the DJ as Sepultura starts to blare from the speakers to bewilderment from other revellers. Despite their puffed chests and synchronised mean gaits, their threat level’s more Village People than Hell’s Angels.
How can anyone vaguely “tough” roam in packs? I grasp the weak concept of power in numbers but stables auto negate any claim you have of possessing a solid pair of stones. I mentioned #BeachKrew; what of #FightSmart? Or what’s left of it? Spencer Adams, you’re a sentimental fool and it lands you in trouble ad nauseam. Your old pal Kevin slayed your Mommy and Robbie like insignificant lambs. Kuechly ripped another tear in that shattered heart of yours and effectively killed your supposed answer to #BeachKrew. Everyone you love either gets hurt or hurts you. Ever stopped to think why that is? Perhaps it’s the universe’s cruel hand of course correction; Final Destination stylee. Your success in wrestling is clearly causing some rift in the space/time continuum given the sheer farce of a man of your inferior size and ability winning World Championships. Every upset victory you score builds up a correlating debt in your karmic bank account; repaid randomly in pain, betrayal and heartache. Maybe that’s it? No, just fuckin’ wid ya. People turn on you because you’re a lamb chop. You lose loved ones because you’re too stupid to recognise the wolves at your door.
Kyle Kemp’s playing the long game. He’s next to plunge the dagger into your back; you’d better believe it. You need to beat him to the punch, Spence. Havoc Rumble’s your perfect moment. Kemp’s a lanky sumbitch anyway. 6 foot 5 and 208 pounds? Somebody give the dude a steak! Kemp, for someone supposedly better than everyone, your career really hasn’t ignited in AW, has it? Sole highlight being Clash10 when you assisted Spencer to his one and only World Title. You don’t show anything better than being a “steady hand”, a tag specialist maybe, a collector of obscure WCF Titles at best. Your biggest talent is perpetual promise – never quite flailing but continually whispered in the same breath as the special ones. It’s proper Ode on a Grecian Urn unravished bride frozen in time shit. That’s Keats by the way, you culturally deficient frat boy fuck. Spencer is your safety net, preventing you from baring your arse, but eventually you’ll be too prideful to accept that, in the vain pursuit of a potential that doesn’t exist beyond the ether of unwarranted hype.
I see a fugly couple passing by. Both swear like sailors at decibel levels higher than anyone else in the party.
Aw, ain’t that a happier union? A perfect dynamic like those lovable scamps, Cowboys from Hell. Two crap spewing cunts crowing their holes louder than everyone. No ambition except for destruction, no individual aspirations except survival and shit stirring. I admire the honest small time vibe of it all. Z-Mac’s well past his Honey Badger prime, playing out a homoerotic bromance with his kindred spirit Beau Blaze; guzzling the cock of his youthfulness. There’s no pretentious grandiosity of personal glory unlike most of these other inadequate fecal felchers. It’s a much healthier alliance than Dat Hot American Darkness because Beau knows his place and makes Zombie feel appreciated. Mikey eXtreme's lost in hopeful abandon; showing up yearly for his big shot only to be disposed of like a bag of spuds. I respect the Cowboys… But yeah, they’re going to be eliminated sickly early.
I see two musclebound nobodies conversing by the bar area. One wears ridiculous twelve year old boy jean shorts, a black cap barely concealing a queer sweeping hairstyle and a pink t-shirt bearing the words “Never Give Up”. The other is a mixed race baldie with an arched eyebrow. IIRC they’ve been in movies and sometimes grapple in an indie backyard fed called WEE. Or something.
Hey look, wrestlers who fancy themselves film stars… or even worse, the other way around. As Conor McGregor and Joel Embiid will discover, you need to be all consumed with the squared circle to make it here; especially in the Rumble; the toughest match of the year. That’s why Sam Kidsgrove and Thaddeus Franklin King are perennial US Champions. They offer mainstream crossover appeal but ultimately keep flopping in the ring. This isn’t scripted and phony like Hollywood…
Suddenly I execute a shooting star press off the top of the staircase and land on my feet in the centre of the dancefloor. All eyes are on me.
… See? Real recognise real.
I see two solid 8s whose panties submerge in wetness at the very sight of me. I could bang them both like bongos here and now but I’d rather save myself for my new HB10 heiress friend.
Hot… but not ABLAZE. A bit like Shadowlove and Dandy DiVito. Dandy, congrats on learning your alphabet. Wasn’t sure you could go beyond “DD” so good going, sport! I have a soft spot for you, Winston the Wigga. Maybe I can relate to having a controlling Father sculpturing you into an identity that makes your skin crawl. I am not a Gentleman and you are not an Affluent Dogooder, Dandy. You need to fight back viciously. Fuck family attachments and trust funds; you’re enough on your own. I even think you’ll do a sterling job as first entry at Havoc. You might even outlast one or two jobbers.
I’m less optimistic for the Half-Blood Prince or whatever Harry Potter book he’s named after. Goblin of Fire? Who-fuck-knows? Shadowlove, you’ve some style but it takes substance to win Havoc; not just finishing 9th in the calmer seas of War 16. Havoc ain't your Renaissance, you're staying in the Dark Ages.
Finally, I see guests ushered off the premises by security at the behest of the 19 year old socialite stunner. From a distance, she eye-humps me and I read her blowjob-ripe lips mouthing the words “he can stay” to her bouncers. Party’s over but there’s enough time for quick-fire verbal assassination of the Rumble no-hopers.
Nathan von Liebert – anti-climax, cumming disappointingly once a year. Bishop – TV Title’s his ceiling, icon of necrophilia porn. Harry Diderot – blacksploitation movie reject. Dream Daddy Wesley – first and worst ever 201 Champ. Bobby Rage – roided shrink-dick blowhard protected by management until now where he can’t hide. Baz – obscure oddball. Titan Jax – unrefined quitter. Eamon MacAteer – eternal victim. Lance Walker – giant cookmuncher. Alex Kincaid – strap-on fodder. James Wolf – 1990s Nu Metal misfit. Matt Draven – crash test dummy.
It’s morning and I’m lying in satin sheets beside the sleeping beauty; radiant in the afterglow of my ravaging with sex-messed hair, flushed cheeks and a slumbered smile.
We’ve established that I’m not the early bird… but I do wield the biggest worm. I’m enjoying my last few days of relative 201 obscurity because, come Monday morning, I’ll be plastered over the front pages, breakfast news and trending number 1 worldwide in supremacy as the hell of the Havoc Rumble leaves only one soul intact. Behold, the one to knock that mangy twat Ryan Lockhart off his fucking perch at Evolution 2; not his #BeachKrew or Spencer or Casey or Richards or SJW… but QDT; the GOAT 201 & Fun Champion, The Guillotine, the parent brutalising, hedonistic, nihilistic, global revelation, emerging from dust to become your NEXT Action Wrestling World Champion. This is how my story unfolds, children. Study how it’s written for generations. No conventional step by step character arc; my journey’s far more intriguing. The Guillotine lands when and where he wants…
I rise from bed with a coin in my hand.
And Heads…
I flip it into my palm.
Will…
I unclasp my fingers.
Roll.
A glance down at the coin – Heads. See you on the flipside when I’m a big deal, fucks.