Post by Quixote Della Torre on Jan 18, 2020 17:20:28 GMT -5
We reconvene shortly to learn how to stop perpetrating microaggressions. But now, piss break.
I MUST LEAVE. Flop’s sniffing me, Kabukii salivating green mist. I ain’t enduring two more hellish hours of Goldstein’s gender equality lecturing.
Adieu loonies. Heading out to score sweet punani.
They follow me. NO! FRICKIN’ NO.
NAHUH. I ain’t babysitting.
Kabukii death grips the back of my neck.
FINE! Come along. But don’t cramp the Champ’s style.
We depart the hotel into busy city streets. Flop dials up the freakiness, walking ridiculously. Kabukii traumatises passing wenches; smiling derangedly through his mask. I gotta lose these two. But wait…
CAN WE HAVE YOUR AUTOGRAPH?
Three obscenely gorgeous girls approach, waving pens, pointing to their cleavages to sign.
Certainly.
Actually, we meant Flop.
Sick. Truly sick. As they flaunt their bosoms, he scribbles on each - “Graham Baker”, “Bolas de Arana” and “JC Keeton”. They gaze at each other’s autographs, perplexed.
Enough distractions. We must strategise.
Kabukii speaks?!
Simple. Keep QDT in ring. You stay out. I win. Fait accompli.
Ominously, Flop talks too...
We should know our enemies. Feel them. Get a handle on them.
His hand wriggles down one of the girls’ tops, cleavage signature reading “J.C. Keeton”, and gropes her tits. Don’t think we learnt this at the AW Gender Equality Conference. Strangely, she approves. Kabukii’s either hella aroused or fixing to kill us.
Firm. Tight edges. Creamy soft centre.
What in the baboon rectum’s he doing?!
He’s metaphorically personifying these women’s mammilla to derogatorily denote aspects of our forthcoming opponents.
… Shouldn’t I be the one translating for YOU, Kabooks?! OK, we run with it. Proceed, Floppydick.
No - your promo, your turn. Silence your mind, caress generously and utter all deep truths of our foes emerging in your soul.
This is stupid. But he won’t let me refuse, maneuvering my hand down the blouse.
I’m sensing… nothing. Just hard nipples.
TRUST THE PROCESS.
I fondle meekly. Kabukii claws a pressure point on my neck. SHIT that hurts! But, wait… I... see things... clearly now.
J.C. Keeton’s loyalty blinds him. PARALYSES him.
Profound.
His brush with death cocooned him in a perpetual guilt trap. Because he cheated the Grim Reaper, now all he reaps is equally grim. He keeps crawling back to that Staci Jo bitch like a suffering glutton. A drunk still chugging from a pint of puke. Can’t move on, eternally fellating his father’s legacy rather than forging his own. Deep down, he blames himself for his mother’s overdose... and so he should. He leeched her time, her freedom, while Papa Jake traveled the road in his successfully mediocre career. Alas, success is JC’s greatest fear… so he always self-sabotages. I saw it at the Rumble - incredible eliminations… Then, ANTI CLIMAX. Effortlessly, he flopped out, courtesy of yours truly.
Flopped?
Kabukii moves my hand to different boobs, marked “Bolas de Arana”.
What do you intuit?
The tit gods say this one’s… smaller, saggier, pokier. Always poking his nose where it doesn’t belong, like his stupid seagull. How long he gonna hang round MY division, drooping, wrinkling, sinking?
HEY! Harsh!
I’m talking about Bolas, not your funbags. But, like said chest missiles, he’s putty in my hands. He endlessly creams over Quixote. How nauseating. Must hurt not to be by my side this time after drawing the lucky straw to be on Team QDT at Turmoil. The infatuation’s real, indeed, but also tactical. He thinks playing the fangirl card makes me go soft on him. But just ask Vayden how that turned out.
I proceed towards a bar in the distance, leaving the remaining girl disappointingly unfondled.
You didn’t get a reading on Baker.
No need. Fake tits no fun to feel up. Artificial Aviator's like Instagram influencers; spreading names and legs around like syphilis. He parades his showoff titles and underground acclaim. He thinks he scared me in the Rumble... he thought he dented The Fortress on CruiserClash... but I DISMANTLED the hype machine. At Revolution, he can flaunt his implants all he fancies but I'll pop the shit out of them.
We approach the bar.
Let’s kill it, boys.
(N.B. No boobies were harmed in the filming of this promo).
I MUST LEAVE. Flop’s sniffing me, Kabukii salivating green mist. I ain’t enduring two more hellish hours of Goldstein’s gender equality lecturing.
Adieu loonies. Heading out to score sweet punani.
They follow me. NO! FRICKIN’ NO.
NAHUH. I ain’t babysitting.
Kabukii death grips the back of my neck.
FINE! Come along. But don’t cramp the Champ’s style.
We depart the hotel into busy city streets. Flop dials up the freakiness, walking ridiculously. Kabukii traumatises passing wenches; smiling derangedly through his mask. I gotta lose these two. But wait…
CAN WE HAVE YOUR AUTOGRAPH?
Three obscenely gorgeous girls approach, waving pens, pointing to their cleavages to sign.
Certainly.
Actually, we meant Flop.
Sick. Truly sick. As they flaunt their bosoms, he scribbles on each - “Graham Baker”, “Bolas de Arana” and “JC Keeton”. They gaze at each other’s autographs, perplexed.
Enough distractions. We must strategise.
Kabukii speaks?!
Simple. Keep QDT in ring. You stay out. I win. Fait accompli.
Ominously, Flop talks too...
We should know our enemies. Feel them. Get a handle on them.
His hand wriggles down one of the girls’ tops, cleavage signature reading “J.C. Keeton”, and gropes her tits. Don’t think we learnt this at the AW Gender Equality Conference. Strangely, she approves. Kabukii’s either hella aroused or fixing to kill us.
Firm. Tight edges. Creamy soft centre.
What in the baboon rectum’s he doing?!
He’s metaphorically personifying these women’s mammilla to derogatorily denote aspects of our forthcoming opponents.
… Shouldn’t I be the one translating for YOU, Kabooks?! OK, we run with it. Proceed, Floppydick.
No - your promo, your turn. Silence your mind, caress generously and utter all deep truths of our foes emerging in your soul.
This is stupid. But he won’t let me refuse, maneuvering my hand down the blouse.
I’m sensing… nothing. Just hard nipples.
TRUST THE PROCESS.
I fondle meekly. Kabukii claws a pressure point on my neck. SHIT that hurts! But, wait… I... see things... clearly now.
J.C. Keeton’s loyalty blinds him. PARALYSES him.
Profound.
His brush with death cocooned him in a perpetual guilt trap. Because he cheated the Grim Reaper, now all he reaps is equally grim. He keeps crawling back to that Staci Jo bitch like a suffering glutton. A drunk still chugging from a pint of puke. Can’t move on, eternally fellating his father’s legacy rather than forging his own. Deep down, he blames himself for his mother’s overdose... and so he should. He leeched her time, her freedom, while Papa Jake traveled the road in his successfully mediocre career. Alas, success is JC’s greatest fear… so he always self-sabotages. I saw it at the Rumble - incredible eliminations… Then, ANTI CLIMAX. Effortlessly, he flopped out, courtesy of yours truly.
Flopped?
Kabukii moves my hand to different boobs, marked “Bolas de Arana”.
What do you intuit?
The tit gods say this one’s… smaller, saggier, pokier. Always poking his nose where it doesn’t belong, like his stupid seagull. How long he gonna hang round MY division, drooping, wrinkling, sinking?
HEY! Harsh!
I’m talking about Bolas, not your funbags. But, like said chest missiles, he’s putty in my hands. He endlessly creams over Quixote. How nauseating. Must hurt not to be by my side this time after drawing the lucky straw to be on Team QDT at Turmoil. The infatuation’s real, indeed, but also tactical. He thinks playing the fangirl card makes me go soft on him. But just ask Vayden how that turned out.
I proceed towards a bar in the distance, leaving the remaining girl disappointingly unfondled.
You didn’t get a reading on Baker.
No need. Fake tits no fun to feel up. Artificial Aviator's like Instagram influencers; spreading names and legs around like syphilis. He parades his showoff titles and underground acclaim. He thinks he scared me in the Rumble... he thought he dented The Fortress on CruiserClash... but I DISMANTLED the hype machine. At Revolution, he can flaunt his implants all he fancies but I'll pop the shit out of them.
We approach the bar.
Let’s kill it, boys.
(N.B. No boobies were harmed in the filming of this promo).