Post by Warbird on Oct 19, 2017 9:13:56 GMT -6
Some fleabag motel off Highway 94 in Blairstown, New Jersey, the sunlight creeps through the curtains...
Warbird sits up as he smashes the alarm clock. With a snarl and a groan, Warbird sat up and rubbed his head...
“Fuuuuuuuck... I hate hangovers...”
Standing, he stumbles naked to the bathroom and takes care of business. On the way out, and no, he didn’t wash his hands, Warbird grabs a can of PBR from the ‘desk’. Cracking it open, the man downs it, wading through the many empty cans on the floor as he makes his way back to bed...
Ring...
Ring...
Ring...
Warbird grabbed the hotel’s phone and spoke half asleep into the receiver. “What?”
Warbird listened to the caller on the other end, “Look, I’m just here to fight and kick ass. Gold and glory await, but I’m not going to just sit around and get fucked over like before...”
Standing, the Rising Stars competitor began to gather his clothing, sniffing each to find the freshest.
“Yeah, ok, I’ll meet this interviewer, but I’m not gonna kiss any ass.
Yeah, fuck you too...” Slamming the phone down, he sighs and now dressed, heads for the lobby and the continental breakfast of champions.
***************
Later that afternoon, at the entrance to Camp Crystal Lake, a shit box Dodge Stealth pulls in.
There waiting is UCI interviewer Bobby Zee. As the Stealth comes to a stop, Warbird pokes his head out, “Hey, Cub Scout! Where do I find Cabin #7?”
“Mr. Warbird, I’m Bobby Zee, your agent said I was to interview you this afternoon?”
Warbird sighs, “Get in and show me to the cabin, and I’ll let you ask questions.”
A few minutes later, Warbird is unloading his duffle bag and looking at the cabin in disgust. “Jesus Christ, I wonder just how many leaders ‘made men’ of young boys in there. Fucking Chesters...”
Bobby was standing just behind Warbird. “Mr. Warbird, this is your first match in the UCI and already your in for a shot at the Rising Stars Championship. Do you really think that is fair to the other competitors?”
Warbird reaches into the car and opens a can of PBR, and swigs it. “Gah, I’ve slept in better places while getting shot at by goat fuckers...”
“Wait, are you saying you serv...”
Warbird continued on as if he was alone. “What fucking genius decided this country ass, broke dick molehill was a great place for a pay-per-view?”
“That would be your boss, Mr. Adams... I thought you said I could ask you questions?”
Warbird turned and looked the young man up and down. “I didn’t say I would answer them did I?”
Bobby shook his head, “Well, I guess...”
“No, once you get some hair on your ass and your nuts drop, then come expecting answers. I’m not just some new punk that was hired to put on a show, boy. You see when Spencer came to me with promises of gold, and a chance that I never had from the Addams Family butler, I knew it was because he actually recognizes talent. That talent has been lacking in the Rising Stars division. There isn’t a single one in this match who is worthy to hold the belt, and that is stretching it...”
“Well the best of the bunch are in your ma...”
Warbird just looked at Bobby like a dog looking at it’s own pile of shit, “I rest my case. Karlie Nash for instance, you call her the one of the top? Let’s see, failed hockey player turning to another sport. Where have I seen that bef... oh, yeah. What you have here in iKarlie is some wannabe bulldyke out hunting for old washed up puss... wait, can I say pussy on air?” He Pauses to point to the camera over Bobby’s shoulder.(goodbye fourth wall)
Bobby shrugged, “I think they’ll jus...”
“Eh, fuck it. Where was I? Oh, right, an even more lesbian Wayne Gretzky on estrogen got tired of pucking around on ice and fingered that she would dip her toes into the warm snatch that is professional wrestling. Hey, I’ll hand it to her for hanging with they guys, but really, would you expect any less from a card carrying vaginatarian? I guarantee every other guy in the back dines at the Y.”
“I didn’t know that the YMCA served food...”
Warbird looked at Bobby deadpan. “Fuck a duck...” He reached into his duffle bag and pulled out a bottle of Hennessy, “I need the good stuff now, Jesus, I’m gonna re-earn my V card if I’m around your ass too long.”
Warbird continued on, “Look, little Karlie Gilmore here thinks that because she is good at slip sliding around, and letting her tongue lap at a record speed means she’ll be some new Ellen of the wrestling community. Look, I’m sorry, but in this ring, she won’t be able to just ‘tap it’ in. Honey, your gonna have to go elbow deep with your fist to even have a chance. This isn’t some pussyfooted little on ice scrap that will get you a five minutes in Lee Major’s penalty box. Don’t worry though, I’ll make sure you get nice and wet as your tossed over the ropes into the dark, fishy waters of the Lady of the Lake...”
“Mr. Warbird those aren’t very nice things to be saying abo...”
Warbird just Gibbs’ slapped Bobby upside the back of the head.
“Nice? You want nice, go watch a fucking Barney tape. This is wrestling and by default, war. Take a lesson from Sun Tzu, who said...”
Warbird thought a second, “Something intelligent and wise, but that’s neither here nor there. This fight will be a good old fashioned melee. Mikey eXtreme will be my biggest threat. Seriously the dude is 6’4”, and 225. ‘Rawr, I’m a big monster! Rawr! I’m the King of Doom and Gloom! Rawr! Suck my egodick!’”
Warbird just shook his head and headed for the bathroom leaving the door open, “Dude, seriously, going around trying to channel DMX in an attempt to be relevant, this ain’t the 2000 whatever. ‘X gon’ be a bitch’. Good lord what a pile of shit in a mask...” To accentuate this, we hear an unmistakeable sound as the smell washes over Bobby who turns green.
”The only things worse I’ve seen named X was, well, Hell I don’t know... Xzibit? No. X-Factor? No. eXtreme Ironing? No. eXtreme Egg Throwing? Hell no. The XFL? No, that was at least entertaining to watch and could pose an actual threat to me in this match. Seriously, dude, your not winning this one, because your a fucking moron.”
“Mr. Warbird, your forgetting two oth...”
“Damn boy, your still here? Fuck do me a solid and had me that can of Champale in there.” Warbird belched, “Look, I’m not forgetting Ginger Angel, I mean come on, we have a ‘fire crotch’ daisy duke wannabe, and some punk ass X games reject.
Gingie, look hon, there isn’t any moonshine around here... Wait is there any moonshine Bobby?
Anyway, this isn’t some sucky sucky, fuck fuck incest orgy. I know you were excited. Well just relax, your not really Karlisto’s type, not enough wrinkles and crotchwebs. X might give you a go, who knows what his turn-ons are, well, other than being a gimp... I know Ginger claims to be resilient, hard to knock down, but damn girl this is a wrestling ring, not a three hour tour with Mary Ann.”
Warbird flushed, didn’t wash his hands and walked out downing the Champale. “Oh, the magic man Matt Angel thinks his Tiggeresque abilities will be a help. Normally, hopping around like a bad version of Yoda might be a plus, but seriously dude. With almost 1000 pounds of moving wrestlers in the match, the ring will be rocking more violently than Michael J Fox’s dick while jacking off in an earthquake. I don’t care who you are, that shit is going to be harder to stick a landing than Samir Ait Said’s attempt at the Vault in Rio.
Seriously though, if it wasn’t for Spencer having a bright moment of clarity, this cluster fuck of a match idea wouldn’t be worth the Charmin Ultra Soft he wipes his ass with. X the sex slave gone bad, Anne Heche on skates, Matt help me I’m falling Angel and the inbRed Queen just don’t have the chutzpah to deserve a shot at the Rising Stars Title. I mean come on, it’s a belt held by some fucking space robot reject. This ‘MAX’ is nothing more than a failed science fiction project almost as big as Scientology...”
Warbird grabs Bobby by the collar and steads him towards the door, “Time to go my boy, you came for what you need. Tell the cyborg blunder to shine that belt up nice, Daddy is coming for it...”
