Areola Grande - Calm Yo' Tits, Get Born Again
Mar 22, 2020 17:22:54 GMT -5
The Papa John's Pizza Man likes this
Post by NATE on Mar 22, 2020 17:22:54 GMT -5
A torturous drip taps incessantly in the centre of a windowless room, emanating from a ceiling crack in rustic brickwork. Dirty large, yet juvenile bare feet bathe themselves in the ensuing pool; toes scrunched together as if thirsty for moisture. The silhouette, though physically impressive, carries a hopeless posture; slumped, heavily respiring with metallic bitterness of blood coating their tongue. As a singular thud bellows from the door, reverberating around the room, the darkness is punctuated by the opening of bright sclera; radiating intense trauma. The figure retreats to the far corner of the room like a threatened animal.
Boy! Take this, QUICK!
Crawford Munroe's otherwise gentle face is blemished by a large scar tracing from his right temple, all the way down to his jawline. Hands trembling, he swings open a hatch in the door and offers a plate of mutton with buttered cassava. The shadow retreats further into the wall; lacking ability to judge danger, possessed by sheer terror.
He'll be back soon. Eat. Please! PLEA...
Crawford drops the plate at the sound of a slammed door above. The food scatters and is instantly seized upon by vermin. Crawford swiftly slides shut the hatch as we linger on his tragic eyes.
… Same sad eyes, different time and place. Crawford fakes a smile, betraying the no nonsense curtness his mother modelled so perfectly in their native Barbados. 'But that's a lifetime away now', he pondered and justified to himself. Butler duties have dulled his disagreeable edge, he ruefully accepts. He stands adjacent to Percy MacRostie, mid 40s former wild child frontman of Abbadon's Ancillery; still rebellious at heart, though predominantly borne in reaction to years of 'gingerist' abuse rather than radical societal nonconformity.
They admiringly observe Alma Zapatero, tragic Bolivian widow (though she does not let that define her), and her stoic ability to feed delusion for the greater good. The elderly maid, garbed in nurse gowns, appears to be delivering a baby from aggressive young uber-hottie Traw Ma ("Kate Traw" RIP). Her "son" NATE grips her hand tightly, totally oblivious that he appears to be causing more pain than the supposed labour.
Dats It Ma Poosh U Kan Do It Da Bay Bees Cumin
She uses her free hand to scratch the hand he's gripping her with, drawing congealed crimson.
Get off me, you big gonad!
As she notices the camera, her demeanour softens with an insincere grin filling her cheeks.
Even though he's my son, The ImpregNATEor has struck again! Not only is he his own father, he's his brother's daddy! He's probably yours too. The Father of All, breeding nightmares once more. His seed is potent and CAN NEVER BE STOPPED. Ladies, this man ain't a gentleman but he's always at your cervix!
Anthony Leonhart, up until Clash and my son's big debut, you are in the preNATEal stage... but he is pregnant with anticipation and he's ready to abort your ass!
But you're familiar with abortion, aren't you, Anthony? You've aborted more gimmicks than a Somali witchdoctor with a coat hanger. First, you were a European playboy with no game, a fashionista with no style, then a tycoon with no capital and now you're a hellraiser with a limp dick and even more flaccid fists. Simply put, you're a mistake and ImpregNATEor will cut your cord and finally separate you from the patient mother known as your Action Wrestling career.
I notice you've returned with plenty of egg on your face but no Eleanora Adares by your side. I can exclusively reveal to the people that her absence can be explained henceforth. The ImpregNATEor has only gone and knocked her up... just like he's gonna get on top of you and knock you DOWN! I'm sorry but these are the facts of life. My boy will induce a labour of hate within you and the pains of birth will be like death. Call the Midwife because your fucking period drama is gonna get a whole lot bloodier!
Traw Ma's baby boy doesn't care about carrying you to a 5 star match. He'll miscarry you to a stinker and your stinker's about to get real raw. The ImpregNATEor is unsafe, you are unprotected and all his moves will penetrate you. You're overdue a womb kicking, Leonhart. When he locks you in his clutches; his eCLAMPSia if you wiiiiill, you'll be left marred with the vilest stretch marks.
Nothing will prepare you for the postNATEal depression you'll suffer. Your morning sickness will last an eternity as you choke on the placenta that currently cocoons you. As you face this, your greatest testes, it will make your never-ending losing streak look like an embryo compared to the giant monstrosity he inseminates within you. The Bankers Life Fieldhouse in Indianapolis, Indiana will be fertile land for the fruit of my loins. You'll keep shooting blanks as your barren career continues to remain celibate and dry.
You'll rue the day you became broody about locking horns with my son. Close the gate of sorrow now, you illegitimate surrogate. As he climaxes all over you, 123, he'll ejaculate you out of the arena like the miserable STD you are. It's time for you to enter prophylactic shock as he terminates you. Perhaps you can't conceive this now but, I assure you, you can take it to the bank! The sperm bank BWAHAHAHAHA! BWAHAHA...ARGHAHHHHH WAIT, HE'S COMING!
With the cries of an infant newly exposed to this cruel world, a baby is born. He bares the face of one Anthony Leonhart.
WAA WAA I SUCK!
It crawls over to do just that - suck on Traw Ma's chest missiles (nickname: Areola Grande). She swats him away, sending him rolling somewhere on the floor.
Aww Nooo I New I Shooda Worn A Tamp On
A condom, you moron. Not a tampon!
No, NATE's bleeding. Look!
Crawford points to scarlet trickling along NATE's endless pants, leading to a puddle by his boots as we end on a cliff-hanger. The end. Full stop. Period.