Post by Reece Stapleton-Shaw on Mar 13, 2018 8:47:14 GMT -5
I.
ArchbishopOfBanterbury is current broadcasting!
The blurry, bouncing face camera view of Reece’s phone reflected the slightly bloody and battered but still smiling face of our delightful protaganist as he stood above the fallen Lincoln Kuechly.
“So fans, how was that. I-”
The referee was motioning for him to leave the ring so the physicians could tend to the injured vanquished foes of Reece Shaw. What a silly twat, Reece thought - I am definitely not leaving without rubbing the losers faces in it. He shoves the weedy referee away before the large lumbering lummox that had a front row seat at his triumph, Philly, grabbed the referee and tossed that silly little wanker out of the ring.
“Only went and did it didn’t I? Absolutely fucking rinsed them. See that’s what happens - let it be a warning eh? I told you didn’t I?”
Philly barged his bulbous head into the frame, huffing and puffing with the slight physical exertion.
“CHAT SHIT - GET BANGED!”
Reece shot a look of revulsion at the man next to him.
“Who the fuck are you?”
ArchbishopOfBanterbury has ceased broadcasting!
II.
The man, as it happens, was called Phil. He was as enigmatic as he was large. Did he have a surname? What were his goals? What were his desires. Well, Reece found out one of his desires pretty quickly as he dragged the unwitting Reece to McDonalds after the final curtain of Clash.
“So…” Philly was slobbering over his third Grand Big Mac. The very sight of watching this man consume food was stunning to Reece. Never had he seen such an insatiable voracious appetite for sustenance, he watched in awe as Philly shoved a handful of fries into his mouth before chasing it with a huge chomp down on the burger. “...are we tag partners now? What should we be called?”
What the fuck? First this portly fucker comes out of nowhere to ‘aid’ him in a match he was comfortably winning and now he thinks we are a tag team? For fucks sake. How do I placate this simpleton?
Reece gave him a warm smile and the fakest laugh possible.
“Hah! Good one mate. Great idea but I think I’d rather concentrate on singles and building my-”
“Reece’s Philly Cheesesteak - how about that?!” Philly slobbered as a globule of semi masticated meat dropped onto his shirt. Reece had to suppress his gag reflex and then find the words to answer that fucking terrible idea.
“What?” Reece attempted placation.
“Maybe we could be ‘Team Top Bitten off an Oreo’ you know because you’re dark and I’m white and I think that’s a pretty deep metaphor.” Philly looked proud of this absolute toss.
“Mate. I know you mean well but I think it’s probably best we compete separately for now. I can already tell you’re a fine athlete!” Well I can hardly say ‘Useless fat fucker can I?’ “And I reckon you could definitely have it in you to make an awesome singles run. Besides as you saw in that fight there I’m capable of handling myself pretty damn well”
“Oh...I didn’t think that at all. Actually it looked like you were getting your ass kicked!” Philly chuckled, Reece seethed.
“Actually they were falling right into my hands mate. I was playing the old rope a dope, I was wearing them out before I was gonna spring a match winning assault. You clearly lack seasoning if you didn’t see that mate. That’s why we need to compete alone - so you get that level of experience before we take down the tag division.” Reece lied. A light seemed to go on in Philly’s head as a big smile crossed his face.
“I get it now. You’re pretty smart Reece” Philly beamed.
How would you like to be a lackey that I belittle, demean, take advantage of and boss around while using you as a scapegoat for any failures I ever have in my career?
“How would you like to be friends?” Reece asked with a smile.
“Well gee Reece. I sure would like that. I would like that very much!”
III.
Reece fumbled in the dark for the key to his hotel room, 113 in the Marriott - his base of operations for last weeks training in the lead up to Clash. Finding the notch in the lock and clicking it open Reece stepped inside. He was exhausted. He was exhausted and hurt. His lip had been busted and swollen and he was pretty sure he had some moderate damage to his orbital bone; a constant throbbing around his eye was the only blinking light he needed but when he finally got to see the grossly sized haematoma that encased his right eye he finally got confirmation. Reece removed a pillowcase from one of the goose feather pillows on his barely used bed and raided the room’s complimentary fridge freezer for ice - dumping two scoops of it inside the pillowcase before pressing it against his grotesque eye. He gave a pained exhale and winced.
This is what victory feels like huh?
He didn’t know what to expect. Before he stepped through the curtains his stomach’s butterflies were dancing a tango in a tornado. By the time he had gotten to the ring he was already beginning to feel an adrenaline dump, by the time the bell rang he knew that he had not prepared enough for this match. He was getting clipped and hurt with shots and holds throughout. You can train all you like, but this...man this was something else entirely. Both Lincoln and Max had built a sweat on to the point where even if he wanted to Reece wasn’t able to grab any of the rudimentary holds he knew. Meanwhile bone dry dickhead over here hadn’t so much as gotten the blood pumping. Professional wrestling was no joke. He was almost certain that Lincoln would be coming for him after this. Did he have enough to hold off the savagery of someone who had been beaten done dirty two weeks in a row? Objectively he would look at his situation and say ‘no’.
He had to get better, he had to improve. When watching the rest of the card from the back, Reece had been in awe of the skill and athleticism on display in every single match. Six months of training and you expect to keep up with wrestling savants who have being doing this their entire life? Reece launched the iced pillowcase across the room, it gave a crack against the wall.
A notification rang up on his phone.
Hobo. Can this man beat me? I know nothing of him...and yet - why am I trembling? Am I that scared of stepping back into the ring?
“I am Reece Shaw. I am Reece Shaw.” he whispered to himself as he lowered the phone to the bed. “Why am I thinking like this? Stupid.”
He punched himself in the stomach.
“Fucking stupid.”
Again.
“Don’t…”
Again.
“...be…”
Again.
“WEAK!”
A slap round the face. Reece stood and staggered towards the full length mirror in the room. He saw a disfigured gargoyle of a handsome rugged young man looking back at him as he pressed his forehead against the glass.
No, this man cannot beat me. No one in Action Wrestling can defeat me. This place is full of weak men. Only a hive of scum and idiocy would coronate men like Roy Speede and T.F.K. Only the desperate and convoluted could make a hero of Bull or Maloney. Imperfect people. Fucking caricatures with no sense of understanding of the flaws which bleed them. They will never achieve what they strive for lacking in such fortitude of mind. Trinkets instead of legacy. Ten seconds of thrills instead of a lifetime of fame. Instead, people like Hobo; people who represent the very antithesis of competition and strength resort to crude weapons or death-wish camera flashing leaps from balconies. And the people who cheer them are the ones who wish to see them fail: a misplaced step which leads to disaster. A gruesome injury. It’s death. People cheer you because they want to see you die.
Hobo is a good man who does this shit for the cheers, does this for the fans. Death is a natural conclusion for men of such persuasion. Those who fight for order in chaos. Those who struggle for reason in the irrational. Seekers of beauty in negative spaces. Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill. The morally bound are damned to their own personal hells when their breathing ceases and they find only empty blackness.
That at the end of it all, it never meant a drop whether or not you were a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ person. Whether you ate your vegetables or got your eight hours of sleep. Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. We were all born to die; yours comes sooner and at your own hand.
So long as you walk a tightrope of decency, you lead a handicapped existence. You a dreaming a lie. You are a robot. Reality is artificial, and with the singularity around the corner, there can only be liquid distraction and intravenous violent culture. Vapidity? It’s the key to indulgence. And indulgence is the key to fulfillment.
This is why.
I am not bound by your morals. Your laws. Your traditions. Your cheers do not sate me. I fight because I like the sound of bone on bone and rendering a man unconscious. To stand above them as the superior human, to make them know in no uncertain terms that they have faced off with a ravenous alpha beast that will savage anything it wants and take anything it wants. Hobo...you are just another fucking meal - I will indulge in your pain. Only then will I be fulfilled.
“I am Reece Shaw” he spoke softly to himself. “Fuck wrestling. I don’t need it. I can beat them. I can beat them all. I am the best fighter in the world. I am the best fighter in the world. I am the best fighter in the world…”
He repeated this mantra of ego placation until sleep took him. The lies he told himself in the dark depression of his own company would becoming grinning confident truths in front of the cameras tomorrow.
IV.
The cameras were out as Reece Shaw landed at Salt Lake International. He wore a dark charcoal hoodie with the hood pulled over his head; large Beats headphones played Lil Boat 2 on repeat underneath. Stonewash 501’s and his old faded Tims rounded out the outfit topped off with some cheap airport sourced aviators to hide his eye injury. It wasn’t the amazing celebratory celebrity arrival he had hoped for. Philly stood waving with a large ‘twat of a tourist’ camera and was joined by the official Action Wrestling interview team with down on his luck Z-Lister Shia LaBeouf.
Philly: Hey there Reece! Did you get my messages?
He ignored the tubster and made his way toward the fumbling Shia who was preparing his notes.
Reece: What’s up fambo?
Shia collected himself.
Shia: Welcome to Action Wrestling in Action with one of our newest superstars: Reece Shaw! Hello Reece, I see that you-
He checks his notes.
Shia: -got a win in your debut last week. Tell us about it!
Reece: You kidding me fam?
Shia: Excuse me?
Reece: Just shush and let me speak. Basically what happened was I chin checked both those losers and came out looking peng as ever didn’t I? I mean look at this face.
Reece rubs his hand along his jawline and gives a wide toothy grin.
Reece: This is one handsome man. Unlike that ugly skinny tiny hipped deluded wasteman Shadowlove this is what true. I’m essentially a mortal creation of Ganymede himself.
Shia: Who?
Reece: Fucking hell you yanks are stupid aren’t you? Should I just dumb my promos down to single syllable grunts? That would probably make big bucks over there though wouldn’t it? Honey Boo Boo and that.
Shia: Sir that is a reference over a decade old and-
Reece: Shut up ya silly twat.
Reece slaps the shit out of the unexpecting Shia, dropping him to the ground. Reece shoots Philly a glance.
Reece: Keep that knob still for a bit.
Philly: Yes sir!
Philly, with all his might went completely dead weight on top of the prone LaBeouf knocking the wind out of him and leaving him gasping for breath. Philly taps Shia on the head.
Philly: Just be quiet for a bit while my friend talks.
Reece: Ta mate.
Reece gave a tentative high five to an excited Philly.
Reece: So yeah. Where was I? Oh yeah I just cracked the jaw of two fucking losers. Look at this shit. This is what an A-List fighter looks like. In one week I am already the most discussed and most talked about superstar in this business. All these other spackers doing shitty run ins and stuff with no class or charisma. Maybe even a dull segment everyone else will use as a piss break. Then again it’s not like I’d care about any of you gimps anyway, you’re all going to get your chins checked eventually. It’s just dependant on how I feel really isn’t it? I mean I sort of feel like kicking the shit out of an Action Wrestling backstage interview type lad right now for essentially no reason...So I guess I will.
Shia: DO IT!
Reece: Happily, ya bean headed bastard.
Reece stomped the ever loving shit out of Shia LaBeouf until the softlad was unconscious and bleeding while being slowly crushed by the girth of Philly. The horrified onlookers of this pretty busy boarding area at the airport were staring silently aghast at the ongoing assault.
Reece: It’s okay folks, he’s just doing one of those ‘in character while in the public eye’ type of things again. We are filming for his next project don’t worry.
That absolute bullshit seemed to work as the ongoers continued about their day.
Reece: So this week I have to chin check some homeless person. Don’t get me wrong I don’t mind homeless people, I love when they try to get you to buy those fucking joke magazines.
‘Do you want to buy one of these magazines?’
‘No’
‘Do you have a sense of humour son?
‘Nah mate’ then BOSH stick the nut on the cunt. Don’t get up in my business. There’s even this one silly twat who holds a sign saying ‘I am deaf’. As if that is supposed to make me want to just empty my bank account for him I mean for fucks sake. Don’t get me wrong I called a smelly cunt behind his back just to see if he was telling the truth and the fucking guy turned round and started swearing at me! Fucking cheek of the lad. Had to sit him down and take the money he’d saved up during the week didn’t I? Bought myself a Subway and a nice medium Latte with that.
I don’t know what the deal with this Hobo guy is. Are American homeless any different?
Philly: Not really.
Reece: Great. Well on the plus side I will probably be able to get a nice workout on a human heavy bag at least. You’re the perfect example of what not to aspire to in this business, a man who makes no ching, who sacrificed his body for a crowd who doesn’t care about him. You’re like a fucking parody mate, why are Action Wrestling letting a legitimate homeless man compete? Where are his training credentials, where is his medical history? All the shit I had to submit to even pass the first level of screening here. Yet Bumfuck McGee can just waddle in off the street and HERP DERP his way to a contract. Fuck sake.
Then again we have blokes like that Galactic Warrior guy and whatever that Bull twat is. I tried reading his bio on the official webpage this morning and didn’t know if I was reading a wrestling webpage or a twelve year olds terrible self published science fiction work. You folks on the official site need to either proofread this shit or stop trolling. Anyway what was I doing? Oh yeh, chatting shit to Hobo Joe. Listen mate, I don’t know what you’re hoping to achieve in Action Wrestling, I don’t know what drew you to this business as a whole if I’m honest. I can tell you what’s going to make you leave.
Left hand, hospital.
Right hand, morgue.
When this talented lad sticks these on you son you’re going out. I’ll give you one those disrespectful foot pins because you know...you are likely riddled with multiple diseases and have the person hygiene of Philly on a hot summers day.
Philly: Yessir!
Reece: I’m gonna punk you out and then chuck you back to the waste pile where you belong. Easy win yet again for the boss man.
With consummate fucking ease. I’ll write on your chalkboard for you when I’m done picking your teeth out of my boots.
ArchbishopOfBanterbury is current broadcasting!
The blurry, bouncing face camera view of Reece’s phone reflected the slightly bloody and battered but still smiling face of our delightful protaganist as he stood above the fallen Lincoln Kuechly.
“So fans, how was that. I-”
The referee was motioning for him to leave the ring so the physicians could tend to the injured vanquished foes of Reece Shaw. What a silly twat, Reece thought - I am definitely not leaving without rubbing the losers faces in it. He shoves the weedy referee away before the large lumbering lummox that had a front row seat at his triumph, Philly, grabbed the referee and tossed that silly little wanker out of the ring.
“Only went and did it didn’t I? Absolutely fucking rinsed them. See that’s what happens - let it be a warning eh? I told you didn’t I?”
Philly barged his bulbous head into the frame, huffing and puffing with the slight physical exertion.
“CHAT SHIT - GET BANGED!”
Reece shot a look of revulsion at the man next to him.
“Who the fuck are you?”
ArchbishopOfBanterbury has ceased broadcasting!
II.
The man, as it happens, was called Phil. He was as enigmatic as he was large. Did he have a surname? What were his goals? What were his desires. Well, Reece found out one of his desires pretty quickly as he dragged the unwitting Reece to McDonalds after the final curtain of Clash.
“So…” Philly was slobbering over his third Grand Big Mac. The very sight of watching this man consume food was stunning to Reece. Never had he seen such an insatiable voracious appetite for sustenance, he watched in awe as Philly shoved a handful of fries into his mouth before chasing it with a huge chomp down on the burger. “...are we tag partners now? What should we be called?”
What the fuck? First this portly fucker comes out of nowhere to ‘aid’ him in a match he was comfortably winning and now he thinks we are a tag team? For fucks sake. How do I placate this simpleton?
Reece gave him a warm smile and the fakest laugh possible.
“Hah! Good one mate. Great idea but I think I’d rather concentrate on singles and building my-”
“Reece’s Philly Cheesesteak - how about that?!” Philly slobbered as a globule of semi masticated meat dropped onto his shirt. Reece had to suppress his gag reflex and then find the words to answer that fucking terrible idea.
“What?” Reece attempted placation.
“Maybe we could be ‘Team Top Bitten off an Oreo’ you know because you’re dark and I’m white and I think that’s a pretty deep metaphor.” Philly looked proud of this absolute toss.
“Mate. I know you mean well but I think it’s probably best we compete separately for now. I can already tell you’re a fine athlete!” Well I can hardly say ‘Useless fat fucker can I?’ “And I reckon you could definitely have it in you to make an awesome singles run. Besides as you saw in that fight there I’m capable of handling myself pretty damn well”
“Oh...I didn’t think that at all. Actually it looked like you were getting your ass kicked!” Philly chuckled, Reece seethed.
“Actually they were falling right into my hands mate. I was playing the old rope a dope, I was wearing them out before I was gonna spring a match winning assault. You clearly lack seasoning if you didn’t see that mate. That’s why we need to compete alone - so you get that level of experience before we take down the tag division.” Reece lied. A light seemed to go on in Philly’s head as a big smile crossed his face.
“I get it now. You’re pretty smart Reece” Philly beamed.
How would you like to be a lackey that I belittle, demean, take advantage of and boss around while using you as a scapegoat for any failures I ever have in my career?
“How would you like to be friends?” Reece asked with a smile.
“Well gee Reece. I sure would like that. I would like that very much!”
III.
Reece fumbled in the dark for the key to his hotel room, 113 in the Marriott - his base of operations for last weeks training in the lead up to Clash. Finding the notch in the lock and clicking it open Reece stepped inside. He was exhausted. He was exhausted and hurt. His lip had been busted and swollen and he was pretty sure he had some moderate damage to his orbital bone; a constant throbbing around his eye was the only blinking light he needed but when he finally got to see the grossly sized haematoma that encased his right eye he finally got confirmation. Reece removed a pillowcase from one of the goose feather pillows on his barely used bed and raided the room’s complimentary fridge freezer for ice - dumping two scoops of it inside the pillowcase before pressing it against his grotesque eye. He gave a pained exhale and winced.
This is what victory feels like huh?
He didn’t know what to expect. Before he stepped through the curtains his stomach’s butterflies were dancing a tango in a tornado. By the time he had gotten to the ring he was already beginning to feel an adrenaline dump, by the time the bell rang he knew that he had not prepared enough for this match. He was getting clipped and hurt with shots and holds throughout. You can train all you like, but this...man this was something else entirely. Both Lincoln and Max had built a sweat on to the point where even if he wanted to Reece wasn’t able to grab any of the rudimentary holds he knew. Meanwhile bone dry dickhead over here hadn’t so much as gotten the blood pumping. Professional wrestling was no joke. He was almost certain that Lincoln would be coming for him after this. Did he have enough to hold off the savagery of someone who had been beaten done dirty two weeks in a row? Objectively he would look at his situation and say ‘no’.
He had to get better, he had to improve. When watching the rest of the card from the back, Reece had been in awe of the skill and athleticism on display in every single match. Six months of training and you expect to keep up with wrestling savants who have being doing this their entire life? Reece launched the iced pillowcase across the room, it gave a crack against the wall.
A notification rang up on his phone.
“HEY THERE REECE! YOU ARE BOOKED AGAINST HOBO. HE’S LIKE A CRAZY HARDCORE TYPE GUY. GOOD LUCK. THIS IS PHILLY BY THE WAY. DID YOU GET MY LAST TEXTS I DON'T THINK THEY ARE SENDING!!!”
Hobo. Can this man beat me? I know nothing of him...and yet - why am I trembling? Am I that scared of stepping back into the ring?
“I am Reece Shaw. I am Reece Shaw.” he whispered to himself as he lowered the phone to the bed. “Why am I thinking like this? Stupid.”
He punched himself in the stomach.
“Fucking stupid.”
Again.
“Don’t…”
Again.
“...be…”
Again.
“WEAK!”
A slap round the face. Reece stood and staggered towards the full length mirror in the room. He saw a disfigured gargoyle of a handsome rugged young man looking back at him as he pressed his forehead against the glass.
No, this man cannot beat me. No one in Action Wrestling can defeat me. This place is full of weak men. Only a hive of scum and idiocy would coronate men like Roy Speede and T.F.K. Only the desperate and convoluted could make a hero of Bull or Maloney. Imperfect people. Fucking caricatures with no sense of understanding of the flaws which bleed them. They will never achieve what they strive for lacking in such fortitude of mind. Trinkets instead of legacy. Ten seconds of thrills instead of a lifetime of fame. Instead, people like Hobo; people who represent the very antithesis of competition and strength resort to crude weapons or death-wish camera flashing leaps from balconies. And the people who cheer them are the ones who wish to see them fail: a misplaced step which leads to disaster. A gruesome injury. It’s death. People cheer you because they want to see you die.
Hobo is a good man who does this shit for the cheers, does this for the fans. Death is a natural conclusion for men of such persuasion. Those who fight for order in chaos. Those who struggle for reason in the irrational. Seekers of beauty in negative spaces. Sisyphus pushing a boulder up a hill. The morally bound are damned to their own personal hells when their breathing ceases and they find only empty blackness.
That at the end of it all, it never meant a drop whether or not you were a ‘good’ or ‘bad’ person. Whether you ate your vegetables or got your eight hours of sleep. Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust. We were all born to die; yours comes sooner and at your own hand.
So long as you walk a tightrope of decency, you lead a handicapped existence. You a dreaming a lie. You are a robot. Reality is artificial, and with the singularity around the corner, there can only be liquid distraction and intravenous violent culture. Vapidity? It’s the key to indulgence. And indulgence is the key to fulfillment.
This is why.
I am not bound by your morals. Your laws. Your traditions. Your cheers do not sate me. I fight because I like the sound of bone on bone and rendering a man unconscious. To stand above them as the superior human, to make them know in no uncertain terms that they have faced off with a ravenous alpha beast that will savage anything it wants and take anything it wants. Hobo...you are just another fucking meal - I will indulge in your pain. Only then will I be fulfilled.
“I am Reece Shaw” he spoke softly to himself. “Fuck wrestling. I don’t need it. I can beat them. I can beat them all. I am the best fighter in the world. I am the best fighter in the world. I am the best fighter in the world…”
He repeated this mantra of ego placation until sleep took him. The lies he told himself in the dark depression of his own company would becoming grinning confident truths in front of the cameras tomorrow.
IV.
The cameras were out as Reece Shaw landed at Salt Lake International. He wore a dark charcoal hoodie with the hood pulled over his head; large Beats headphones played Lil Boat 2 on repeat underneath. Stonewash 501’s and his old faded Tims rounded out the outfit topped off with some cheap airport sourced aviators to hide his eye injury. It wasn’t the amazing celebratory celebrity arrival he had hoped for. Philly stood waving with a large ‘twat of a tourist’ camera and was joined by the official Action Wrestling interview team with down on his luck Z-Lister Shia LaBeouf.
Philly: Hey there Reece! Did you get my messages?
He ignored the tubster and made his way toward the fumbling Shia who was preparing his notes.
Reece: What’s up fambo?
Shia collected himself.
Shia: Welcome to Action Wrestling in Action with one of our newest superstars: Reece Shaw! Hello Reece, I see that you-
He checks his notes.
Shia: -got a win in your debut last week. Tell us about it!
Reece: You kidding me fam?
Shia: Excuse me?
Reece: Just shush and let me speak. Basically what happened was I chin checked both those losers and came out looking peng as ever didn’t I? I mean look at this face.
Reece rubs his hand along his jawline and gives a wide toothy grin.
Reece: This is one handsome man. Unlike that ugly skinny tiny hipped deluded wasteman Shadowlove this is what true. I’m essentially a mortal creation of Ganymede himself.
Shia: Who?
Reece: Fucking hell you yanks are stupid aren’t you? Should I just dumb my promos down to single syllable grunts? That would probably make big bucks over there though wouldn’t it? Honey Boo Boo and that.
Shia: Sir that is a reference over a decade old and-
Reece: Shut up ya silly twat.
Reece slaps the shit out of the unexpecting Shia, dropping him to the ground. Reece shoots Philly a glance.
Reece: Keep that knob still for a bit.
Philly: Yes sir!
Philly, with all his might went completely dead weight on top of the prone LaBeouf knocking the wind out of him and leaving him gasping for breath. Philly taps Shia on the head.
Philly: Just be quiet for a bit while my friend talks.
Reece: Ta mate.
Reece gave a tentative high five to an excited Philly.
Reece: So yeah. Where was I? Oh yeah I just cracked the jaw of two fucking losers. Look at this shit. This is what an A-List fighter looks like. In one week I am already the most discussed and most talked about superstar in this business. All these other spackers doing shitty run ins and stuff with no class or charisma. Maybe even a dull segment everyone else will use as a piss break. Then again it’s not like I’d care about any of you gimps anyway, you’re all going to get your chins checked eventually. It’s just dependant on how I feel really isn’t it? I mean I sort of feel like kicking the shit out of an Action Wrestling backstage interview type lad right now for essentially no reason...So I guess I will.
Shia: DO IT!
Reece: Happily, ya bean headed bastard.
Reece stomped the ever loving shit out of Shia LaBeouf until the softlad was unconscious and bleeding while being slowly crushed by the girth of Philly. The horrified onlookers of this pretty busy boarding area at the airport were staring silently aghast at the ongoing assault.
Reece: It’s okay folks, he’s just doing one of those ‘in character while in the public eye’ type of things again. We are filming for his next project don’t worry.
That absolute bullshit seemed to work as the ongoers continued about their day.
Reece: So this week I have to chin check some homeless person. Don’t get me wrong I don’t mind homeless people, I love when they try to get you to buy those fucking joke magazines.
‘Do you want to buy one of these magazines?’
‘No’
‘Do you have a sense of humour son?
‘Nah mate’ then BOSH stick the nut on the cunt. Don’t get up in my business. There’s even this one silly twat who holds a sign saying ‘I am deaf’. As if that is supposed to make me want to just empty my bank account for him I mean for fucks sake. Don’t get me wrong I called a smelly cunt behind his back just to see if he was telling the truth and the fucking guy turned round and started swearing at me! Fucking cheek of the lad. Had to sit him down and take the money he’d saved up during the week didn’t I? Bought myself a Subway and a nice medium Latte with that.
I don’t know what the deal with this Hobo guy is. Are American homeless any different?
Philly: Not really.
Reece: Great. Well on the plus side I will probably be able to get a nice workout on a human heavy bag at least. You’re the perfect example of what not to aspire to in this business, a man who makes no ching, who sacrificed his body for a crowd who doesn’t care about him. You’re like a fucking parody mate, why are Action Wrestling letting a legitimate homeless man compete? Where are his training credentials, where is his medical history? All the shit I had to submit to even pass the first level of screening here. Yet Bumfuck McGee can just waddle in off the street and HERP DERP his way to a contract. Fuck sake.
Then again we have blokes like that Galactic Warrior guy and whatever that Bull twat is. I tried reading his bio on the official webpage this morning and didn’t know if I was reading a wrestling webpage or a twelve year olds terrible self published science fiction work. You folks on the official site need to either proofread this shit or stop trolling. Anyway what was I doing? Oh yeh, chatting shit to Hobo Joe. Listen mate, I don’t know what you’re hoping to achieve in Action Wrestling, I don’t know what drew you to this business as a whole if I’m honest. I can tell you what’s going to make you leave.
Left hand, hospital.
Right hand, morgue.
When this talented lad sticks these on you son you’re going out. I’ll give you one those disrespectful foot pins because you know...you are likely riddled with multiple diseases and have the person hygiene of Philly on a hot summers day.
Philly: Yessir!
Reece: I’m gonna punk you out and then chuck you back to the waste pile where you belong. Easy win yet again for the boss man.
With consummate fucking ease. I’ll write on your chalkboard for you when I’m done picking your teeth out of my boots.
‘Hobo 2018-2018
Smelt like shit, got banged’