Please, Disinfect. (999 words)
Jan 13, 2021 15:16:16 GMT -5
Ned the Intern, Reo Raijin, and 1 more like this
Post by Downfall on Jan 13, 2021 15:16:16 GMT -5
"Would you like a mask?" the too-young girl asks as he enters the door.
She's wearing gloves, a face-shield and PPE and still attempting to look sexy. And he peers past her as he puts on the paper mask. Into the desolate, depressing sight that is a strip club in the year of COVID. This is what Andrew Stone rhapsodized about for two straight fucking promos.
The chugging dad-rock riffs of "Pour Some Sugar On Me" are present, as is the garish lighting. Everyone at the bar is masked. The seating is spaced out so that the only patrons are sat in partitioned booths ten feet away from each other. The only patrons, are incredibly dejected, slovenly men who look at home in the comments section of Youtube rabbitholes about Belle Delphine. The dancers making their rounds have spray bottles and wipes, cleaning every surface.
He's speechless for a second. And then he sighs, knowing this is what he signed up for.
But he can't stand to be in this setting anymore. He beckons the camera to follow him back out, pays the cover charge, and walks back out the door.
But he, and the camera, look back in on the sad scene within as a sex-worker begins disinfecting the pole before her routine, all while all of three sad weirdos throw dollars that will also have to be sprayed before the night is over, to a sad, joyless, sexless rhythm of pure commerce, all pretense of intimacy stripped away.
"This is, to put it mildly, fucking pathetic."
He rips his mask off, eyes piercing into the camera.
"Dunno what clubs you claim to frequent, Andrew, but the reality is even sadder than the act you rape our senses with weekly. Every other sentence is about getting your dick wet in places like this, which isn't advisable or even smart in today's age. But you don't care, do you. You're "the Filth Lord". Fact is, nobody is impressed or even bemused by your out-dated, grimy act."
"You have the sensibilities of either a sixteen-year-old boy or a forty-year-old failure to launch. But this year only highlighted the type of people who still flock into strip clubs... losers in life who can't form a meaningful attachment or life skill."
He looks back on that empty, lifeless dance from the doorway.
"But your laughably limp pursuit of a girl to form a special hug with is eclipsed by the sheer mediocrity which you take on this, the job you signed up to do. Fuck Andrew, in your first match, you spent so much time letting us know you know the names of all the strippers that you couldn't be bothered to learn the name of your opponent. And I bet you're the idiot that thinks that because you pay them, they like you, too."
"You spent so much time filling us in on your uninteresting backstory about working there that you left yourself three sentences to bitch about the man who signed your contract - and you even tried to insult him, as if it was his fault that he gave you a job."
"And maybe it was."
"God knows, I'm sorry he inflicted you on us."
Standing in the parking lot, leaving the club in his rear-view. His voice is rising.
"You win one match. And that's probably going to revert you from your despaired internal monologue (which we could inexplicably hear berating you), you're probably going to feel confident again. You're probably going to ask who is ___ Fall, throw some shockingly third-grade trash talk my way and think you're on my level. I want you to know, Andrew, that is not, never will be the case. I'm not Stuart or ... anyone you've faced, rookie. I am the best in the fucking WORLD."
"And you're never going to understand that until I'm caving your skull in so hard that your retinas detach. You, delusionally, thought that because I took thirty minutes out of my day to engage your pedantic Twitter that you were... winning. That you got inside my head. I used reason, logic and our stations in life; you continued to think you won something off of a Twitter feud."
He snorts derisively, shaking his head.
"Again, only the type of thinking a socially-backward little man who lives off Mountain Dew and attention would subscribe to. I'd welcome you to the School of Punishment, but honestly... you won't have learned anything."
"You're going to think you're winning this up until the last second before the lights go out. But it's true. You have no path to victory. You have no hope of looking good. You're going to slink back to your club, which is probably going to get shut down for violations by the Health Department, and you're going to leave with nothing. Never achieving anything against an opponent who shows up until finally, management decides it's a better investment to hire two janitors than to cut you a fucking paycheck."
And now, comes the fire, the supremely focused passion in his voice.
"The Television Title is riding a wave of main event potential. The former champion is going for the World title right now, and I, who beat her, have crushed a string of opponents, every one of whom was more deserving than you, Andrew. I'm not going to let you tear down everything I've worked so hard to build."
He crushes the paper mask in his hand as if in call-and-response.
Then he points back to the club.
"You belong in that world, the sad, embarrassingly low-rent sleaze that contains no more eroticism, passion or craft in this world. You're a fucking germ that people scrub hard to wipe off the partitions."
"At Clash, you're getting disinfected."
He throws the mask down into the gutter outside of the club. His heavy boot comes down, stomping on it forcefully, splashing it into a puddle, where it floats in the dingy water, as he steps off it and walks away.
She's wearing gloves, a face-shield and PPE and still attempting to look sexy. And he peers past her as he puts on the paper mask. Into the desolate, depressing sight that is a strip club in the year of COVID. This is what Andrew Stone rhapsodized about for two straight fucking promos.
The chugging dad-rock riffs of "Pour Some Sugar On Me" are present, as is the garish lighting. Everyone at the bar is masked. The seating is spaced out so that the only patrons are sat in partitioned booths ten feet away from each other. The only patrons, are incredibly dejected, slovenly men who look at home in the comments section of Youtube rabbitholes about Belle Delphine. The dancers making their rounds have spray bottles and wipes, cleaning every surface.
He's speechless for a second. And then he sighs, knowing this is what he signed up for.
But he can't stand to be in this setting anymore. He beckons the camera to follow him back out, pays the cover charge, and walks back out the door.
But he, and the camera, look back in on the sad scene within as a sex-worker begins disinfecting the pole before her routine, all while all of three sad weirdos throw dollars that will also have to be sprayed before the night is over, to a sad, joyless, sexless rhythm of pure commerce, all pretense of intimacy stripped away.
"This is, to put it mildly, fucking pathetic."
He rips his mask off, eyes piercing into the camera.
"Dunno what clubs you claim to frequent, Andrew, but the reality is even sadder than the act you rape our senses with weekly. Every other sentence is about getting your dick wet in places like this, which isn't advisable or even smart in today's age. But you don't care, do you. You're "the Filth Lord". Fact is, nobody is impressed or even bemused by your out-dated, grimy act."
"You have the sensibilities of either a sixteen-year-old boy or a forty-year-old failure to launch. But this year only highlighted the type of people who still flock into strip clubs... losers in life who can't form a meaningful attachment or life skill."
He looks back on that empty, lifeless dance from the doorway.
"But your laughably limp pursuit of a girl to form a special hug with is eclipsed by the sheer mediocrity which you take on this, the job you signed up to do. Fuck Andrew, in your first match, you spent so much time letting us know you know the names of all the strippers that you couldn't be bothered to learn the name of your opponent. And I bet you're the idiot that thinks that because you pay them, they like you, too."
"You spent so much time filling us in on your uninteresting backstory about working there that you left yourself three sentences to bitch about the man who signed your contract - and you even tried to insult him, as if it was his fault that he gave you a job."
"And maybe it was."
"God knows, I'm sorry he inflicted you on us."
Standing in the parking lot, leaving the club in his rear-view. His voice is rising.
"You win one match. And that's probably going to revert you from your despaired internal monologue (which we could inexplicably hear berating you), you're probably going to feel confident again. You're probably going to ask who is ___ Fall, throw some shockingly third-grade trash talk my way and think you're on my level. I want you to know, Andrew, that is not, never will be the case. I'm not Stuart or ... anyone you've faced, rookie. I am the best in the fucking WORLD."
"And you're never going to understand that until I'm caving your skull in so hard that your retinas detach. You, delusionally, thought that because I took thirty minutes out of my day to engage your pedantic Twitter that you were... winning. That you got inside my head. I used reason, logic and our stations in life; you continued to think you won something off of a Twitter feud."
He snorts derisively, shaking his head.
"Again, only the type of thinking a socially-backward little man who lives off Mountain Dew and attention would subscribe to. I'd welcome you to the School of Punishment, but honestly... you won't have learned anything."
"You're going to think you're winning this up until the last second before the lights go out. But it's true. You have no path to victory. You have no hope of looking good. You're going to slink back to your club, which is probably going to get shut down for violations by the Health Department, and you're going to leave with nothing. Never achieving anything against an opponent who shows up until finally, management decides it's a better investment to hire two janitors than to cut you a fucking paycheck."
And now, comes the fire, the supremely focused passion in his voice.
"The Television Title is riding a wave of main event potential. The former champion is going for the World title right now, and I, who beat her, have crushed a string of opponents, every one of whom was more deserving than you, Andrew. I'm not going to let you tear down everything I've worked so hard to build."
He crushes the paper mask in his hand as if in call-and-response.
Then he points back to the club.
"You belong in that world, the sad, embarrassingly low-rent sleaze that contains no more eroticism, passion or craft in this world. You're a fucking germ that people scrub hard to wipe off the partitions."
"At Clash, you're getting disinfected."
He throws the mask down into the gutter outside of the club. His heavy boot comes down, stomping on it forcefully, splashing it into a puddle, where it floats in the dingy water, as he steps off it and walks away.