Post by Max f'n Daemon on Mar 9, 2014 18:39:26 GMT -5
I don’t care what you have to say about your tenacity, or your perseverance, or any other positive vibe bullshit, okay?
This week…I’m wrestling a goddamn chicken suited man.
Let me repeat…a goddamn chicken suited man. Not just that, one that’s portrayed as an actual fucking chicken.
I’m sorry…what?
When the fuck did pro wrestling allow such an—
You know what? It doesn’t surprise me at all.
Princess Page would obviously allow someone of…Buu’s caliber to participate in the WGWF.
Now, I know you have some wins on you, and I myself, do not reflect that, but the fact that I am expected to take your cock-a-doodle ass seriously is an insult to me as a person…and as a wrestler.
I don’t give a damn if you’re the fans’ favorite wrestler, or if you’re their knight in feathery armor, there is no way I am going to lose to a guy in a fucking chicken suit.
I mean…what have I done wrong? Last week, Anarchy demolished you in that ring, and not because I’m a pussy, or because I was afraid to face you, oh no, we demolished you because you’re exactly the kind of wrestler that we despise. Nothing but comedy, and even when you try to be serious, you come off as supposedly hilarious.
But back to the question at hand…what have I done wrong? Is it cause I’m running with the only group of guys who are in control? Is it cause I’m pretty fuckin convinced that Lzzy is some kind of anti-male savant, and is using all her self-ability to not want to fuck me?
Maybe it’s cause they realize that despite my failed attempts in the ring, that I am as good as they said that I was! And because of that, they don’t want me to main event any pay-per-views, because I’m not the kind of guy they want as champion.
They want a guy who’s been here for years, and had his chance…not dissimilar to Mr. Buu. You’ve been wrestling in the company for years now, and you’ve never grown out of the same spot on the card. That same filler spot where they put you when they have nobody else to face someone. And hey, it’s not entirely a bad thing. I mean, many…many remembered names have held the spot. Guys like Peter Gilmour…guys like Dark Shadow…guys like Hawaiian Hardhead, or Dan Fierce, or Legion, or Lunatic, guys who had absolutely no chance of ever becoming anything more than a filler spot.
It’s your M.O., Buu. Come out, please the crowd, maybe pick up an upset if you’re lucky, but in the long-run, you have no chance in hell of ever becoming anything relevant past jobber.
Me? I’ve got a big upside. I’m young, I’m talented, I’m untrained yet my diamond’s showing, I’ve got attitude, and above all else—and the most relevant point to this situation—I’m better than you by miles.
So I don’t particularly care if you take offense to what I’ve said, because to me, you’re nothing but a goddamn chicken, both in the literal sense, and in the sense that you’re a fucking pussy. You went down so easy last week, and yeah, it was uneven odds, but if you were any kind of wrestler, any kind of…male…anything, you’d have at least tried to fight back.
So as a personal message, gift wrapped to Princess Page with a male stripper in tow…come Monday…I’m gonna beat the cock until there’s nothing left that remotely resembles pleasure.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
“I’ve done so many things in the past week that I regret. I wore a shirt that says ‘I Hate Fags’ through a gay protest. I took a shot to the balls from a four year old so that I could get his candy. I even slapped an old lady so I could use her fucking cane! But I draw the line here. There’s no…no fucking way I’m doing this,” I say.
Of course, I say all of this while wearing a yellow skirt, white leggings, blue and yellow top, and a black wig. And let’s not forget the white sneakers. Oh, and also I’m standing just past an entrance to an arena. Where a football game is to, momentarily, be held.
In what might as well be small-town, redneck, Southern USA.
“Oh come on, you’ll be—” Flash starts to say.
I raise my right hand, the yellow pom-pom in my grasp acting as my pointer finger.
“If you say alright, I’m gonna shove this pom-pom so far down your throat, you’ll be shitting fluff for weeks…or at least more fluff than usual,” I say.
A suited man walks up to the two of us. A smile is on his face, and his hands are in his pockets.
“The game’s about to begin and the girls are ready to go,” he said.
“Leo, of course. How am I not surprised it’d be the gay one of you guys to have me do this?” I ask.
“Hey, we didn’t agree to the deal. You’re the one who keeps losing. Win a match and we’ll just hand the components to you. Until then, you do as we say,” the man—Leo—says.
“Is he convincing enough?” Flash asks.
“He’s got a small enough body that if he’s careful, we’ll be fine,” Leo says.
He takes some shades out of his suit jacket, putting them on.
“Not that I’m big on sports, but doesn’t the AFL start on the 14th?” I ask.
“Let’s just say I convinced them to start early. You might wanna hide somewhere Flash. Security around here gets pretty tight,” Leo says.
“I’ve got a good seat. I’ll be able to follow the action, both on and off the field,” he says.
I send my pom-pom wrapped hand into my face.
“This is never gonna work. The minute one of the girls grab my junk, this whole thing’s gonna be blown, no pun intended,” I say.
A referee walks into the end zone, and blows a whistle. A band is starting to play, and an announcer starts to talk about the line-up.
“That’s our cue. Just stick to the bottom, and you won’t fuck it up. Heh…probably something you’ve never hea—” Leo says.
“So far down your fucking throat!” I interrupt.
“If only,” he says.
Leo taps Flash on the shoulder, and they walk away. I situate myself against a concrete wall as a door nearby opens up. Nine girls pile out, with me taking rear.
As we run onto the field, I try to do my best impression of happy.
If you were five feet away from me, you’d realize the opposite is true.
How the fuck did I even get myself into this situation? I mean, I’m a decent enough guy. Sure, I’ve made some bad deals, but taking the easy way out is always the better option. Wouldn’t you have done the same?
I suppose, looking back, if I had known this was to be my fate, I wouldn’t have taken said easy way out.
God, this is tiring. Not that I’m on board for cheerleading being considered a sport or anything, but it sure as hell is some sort of athletics.
An entire half goes on with us doing absolutely nothing but jumping up and down and reciting some chant that I just sort of mumble along to. Maybe a few kicks to add some new shit to the mix, but all in all, it’s pretty repetitive…not to mention pretty exhausting. Jesus Christ, am I done yet?
As the football team rushes on off to the back, the cheerleaders and I fly off to a separate locker room. For what, I don’t know, considering the break isn’t that long.
When we enter, some girls start relaxing. A water bottle is tossed around until eventually, ten more girls that weren’t out there in the first half all start to pile in.
Wait a minute…
“Hey—” I say with my regular voice, before stopping.
Coughing a bit to hide said voice, I try again, albeit with significantly more falsetto.
“Hey, aren’t we going back out there?” I ask.
One of the girls—a brunette—takes her top off, revealing a sports bra underneath.
“They’re switching out the cheerleaders every half. We’re done for the night,” she says.
“Oh…thank you,” I say, falsetto still active.
You know, not that I’d ever admit that any of this was worth anything in the long run, but if I did, this all would have been worth seeing the girls change in front of me.
Sometimes it pays to successfully portray a girl.
That is, until it’s been five minutes, you’re still wearing the same clothes you were, and the ones you were with are already in the shower.
That’s when the flaw in the plan starts to make itself known.
A red-head walks up to me, a towel wrapped around her, with her hair dripping down all over it. Long…glorious…crimson…
“Hey, aren’t you showering? We gotta meet up with Coach down at the concession stand. She already won’t be happy that you were late,” she says.
I don’t frighten easily, but put me in a girl’s outfit, successfully portray a girl for roughly an hour, and then get to the point of a potential reveal?
Let’s just say my worst fear is a riot of angry females.
“Uhhh…” I say.
I hear a knock, and turn to the locker room door.
“Hold that thought,” I say, falsetto intact.
I walk over to the door and peak through it. I see Leo and Flash on the other side.
“Oh thank god,” I say, not even bothering to hide my actual voice.
As the locker room door closes, I hear the red-head trying to say something.
“Please tell me we’re done here,” I say.
Leo smirks, his hands folded in front of him. I turn to Flash, and let a sarcastic chuckle out.
“What?” I ask.
“Turns out one of the replacement cheerleaders had an ‘accident’,” Leo says. “Sprained ankle…can’t go out. Their coach turned to me in a time of need…”
“No…” I say.
“…she asked me what I could do, so I offered a solution to her quandary…”
“Fuck no!” I exclaim.
“…have one of the girls from the last half come back, and of course, because I know you’d be so generous to accept…”
“Man fuck this!”
I turn around and open the locker room door back up. The red-head from before is talking to the brunette. She turns to me, and points.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” she says.
I close the door, and turn around to see Leo holding up my pom-poms. As the door clicks shut behind me, I grab them from his grasp, and start to head out to the field.
“Go team, go!” I shout, my falsetto returning.
-------------------------------------------------------------
As my skirt sways in the wind, the black haired wig falls off my head behind me. It lands on the parking lot asphalt, along with my pom-poms.
“This was fucking stupid from the start!” I say.
“Maybe if you would have at least tried to play the part!” Flash shouts out.
The two of us quickly reach Flash’s car. Claiming shotgun, I toss the genuine autographed football into the backseat while Flash tries to Dukes of Hazzard this shit. He ends up falling flat on his ass next to the car.
“For fuck’s sake man, that’s never gonna work!” I shout.
I turn to my right, and see the thing that we are running from.
A bunch of angry fans, cheerleaders, and football players, their fists flailing and their mouths shouting obscenities that I dare not speak of right now.
Flash opens up the driver’s door, crawling in. He slams it shut before starting the fucking car. As the angry mob arrives at our car, Flash guns the fucker out of the parking lot. Once we’ve reached the road, the adrenaline starts to wear off.
For a few minutes, all that’s heard is our heavy breathing.
Eventually, I lean back in my seat, shaking my head at this whole night.
“Why does the laser even need a genuine autographed football?” I ask.
A voice that wasn’t in the car beforehand speaks up, “Because it represents the potential for sports movies.”
I make a quick, frightened call, while Flash swerves the vehicle a bit. We find ourselves in the opposite lane. The two of us shout at the oncoming traffic. The voice’s owner—Leo—crawls into the front seat, turning the wheel to the right. This allows us to return to the correct lane. Once that situation is over and done with, I turn around to see Leo himself in the backseat. He plays with the football a bit.
“Where the fuck did you come from?” I ask.
“Been in here since there was five minutes left in the second half,” he says.
“And you just assumed we’d be alright?” Flash asks.
“Yes, actually.”
Flash and I look at each other for a bit before returning our gaze to the road ahead.
“Well that actually makes me feel better,” Flash says.
“I feel honored, in some fucked up way,” I say.
That’s when the proverbial red and blue lights make themselves known. I fall forward, slamming my forehead into the glove compartment.
“Don’t pull over,” I say.
“I’m pulling over,” Flash says.
Flash starts to pull over into a Super America.
“Don’t pull over,” I say.
“I pulled over,” Flash says.
Flash stops the car, leaning back into his seat. I follow suit, and within a few minutes, the cop pulls up…a female cop.
“License and registra—”
She pauses once she has a good look at us.
Flash is in the driver’s seat, the most ridiculous smile plastered on his face, with his hands attached to the wheel.
I’m sitting in the passenger seat, still wearing the cusp of the cheerleader’s outfit.
Leo is in the backseat, playing with the autographed football, and for some unknown reason, has the black haired wig on.
The cop stares at us for a bit, switching her gaze between the three of us, who just glance back.
Eventually, she walks away. No words, no tickets, nothing but a sight she’ll never got out of her head.
I turn around to look at Leo, who still has the wig on.
“How…” I say.
“Oh please, I came off as the straighter one of the two of us,” he says.
This week…I’m wrestling a goddamn chicken suited man.
Let me repeat…a goddamn chicken suited man. Not just that, one that’s portrayed as an actual fucking chicken.
I’m sorry…what?
When the fuck did pro wrestling allow such an—
You know what? It doesn’t surprise me at all.
Princess Page would obviously allow someone of…Buu’s caliber to participate in the WGWF.
Now, I know you have some wins on you, and I myself, do not reflect that, but the fact that I am expected to take your cock-a-doodle ass seriously is an insult to me as a person…and as a wrestler.
I don’t give a damn if you’re the fans’ favorite wrestler, or if you’re their knight in feathery armor, there is no way I am going to lose to a guy in a fucking chicken suit.
I mean…what have I done wrong? Last week, Anarchy demolished you in that ring, and not because I’m a pussy, or because I was afraid to face you, oh no, we demolished you because you’re exactly the kind of wrestler that we despise. Nothing but comedy, and even when you try to be serious, you come off as supposedly hilarious.
But back to the question at hand…what have I done wrong? Is it cause I’m running with the only group of guys who are in control? Is it cause I’m pretty fuckin convinced that Lzzy is some kind of anti-male savant, and is using all her self-ability to not want to fuck me?
Maybe it’s cause they realize that despite my failed attempts in the ring, that I am as good as they said that I was! And because of that, they don’t want me to main event any pay-per-views, because I’m not the kind of guy they want as champion.
They want a guy who’s been here for years, and had his chance…not dissimilar to Mr. Buu. You’ve been wrestling in the company for years now, and you’ve never grown out of the same spot on the card. That same filler spot where they put you when they have nobody else to face someone. And hey, it’s not entirely a bad thing. I mean, many…many remembered names have held the spot. Guys like Peter Gilmour…guys like Dark Shadow…guys like Hawaiian Hardhead, or Dan Fierce, or Legion, or Lunatic, guys who had absolutely no chance of ever becoming anything more than a filler spot.
It’s your M.O., Buu. Come out, please the crowd, maybe pick up an upset if you’re lucky, but in the long-run, you have no chance in hell of ever becoming anything relevant past jobber.
Me? I’ve got a big upside. I’m young, I’m talented, I’m untrained yet my diamond’s showing, I’ve got attitude, and above all else—and the most relevant point to this situation—I’m better than you by miles.
So I don’t particularly care if you take offense to what I’ve said, because to me, you’re nothing but a goddamn chicken, both in the literal sense, and in the sense that you’re a fucking pussy. You went down so easy last week, and yeah, it was uneven odds, but if you were any kind of wrestler, any kind of…male…anything, you’d have at least tried to fight back.
So as a personal message, gift wrapped to Princess Page with a male stripper in tow…come Monday…I’m gonna beat the cock until there’s nothing left that remotely resembles pleasure.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
“I’ve done so many things in the past week that I regret. I wore a shirt that says ‘I Hate Fags’ through a gay protest. I took a shot to the balls from a four year old so that I could get his candy. I even slapped an old lady so I could use her fucking cane! But I draw the line here. There’s no…no fucking way I’m doing this,” I say.
Of course, I say all of this while wearing a yellow skirt, white leggings, blue and yellow top, and a black wig. And let’s not forget the white sneakers. Oh, and also I’m standing just past an entrance to an arena. Where a football game is to, momentarily, be held.
In what might as well be small-town, redneck, Southern USA.
“Oh come on, you’ll be—” Flash starts to say.
I raise my right hand, the yellow pom-pom in my grasp acting as my pointer finger.
“If you say alright, I’m gonna shove this pom-pom so far down your throat, you’ll be shitting fluff for weeks…or at least more fluff than usual,” I say.
A suited man walks up to the two of us. A smile is on his face, and his hands are in his pockets.
“The game’s about to begin and the girls are ready to go,” he said.
“Leo, of course. How am I not surprised it’d be the gay one of you guys to have me do this?” I ask.
“Hey, we didn’t agree to the deal. You’re the one who keeps losing. Win a match and we’ll just hand the components to you. Until then, you do as we say,” the man—Leo—says.
“Is he convincing enough?” Flash asks.
“He’s got a small enough body that if he’s careful, we’ll be fine,” Leo says.
He takes some shades out of his suit jacket, putting them on.
“Not that I’m big on sports, but doesn’t the AFL start on the 14th?” I ask.
“Let’s just say I convinced them to start early. You might wanna hide somewhere Flash. Security around here gets pretty tight,” Leo says.
“I’ve got a good seat. I’ll be able to follow the action, both on and off the field,” he says.
I send my pom-pom wrapped hand into my face.
“This is never gonna work. The minute one of the girls grab my junk, this whole thing’s gonna be blown, no pun intended,” I say.
A referee walks into the end zone, and blows a whistle. A band is starting to play, and an announcer starts to talk about the line-up.
“That’s our cue. Just stick to the bottom, and you won’t fuck it up. Heh…probably something you’ve never hea—” Leo says.
“So far down your fucking throat!” I interrupt.
“If only,” he says.
Leo taps Flash on the shoulder, and they walk away. I situate myself against a concrete wall as a door nearby opens up. Nine girls pile out, with me taking rear.
As we run onto the field, I try to do my best impression of happy.
If you were five feet away from me, you’d realize the opposite is true.
How the fuck did I even get myself into this situation? I mean, I’m a decent enough guy. Sure, I’ve made some bad deals, but taking the easy way out is always the better option. Wouldn’t you have done the same?
I suppose, looking back, if I had known this was to be my fate, I wouldn’t have taken said easy way out.
God, this is tiring. Not that I’m on board for cheerleading being considered a sport or anything, but it sure as hell is some sort of athletics.
An entire half goes on with us doing absolutely nothing but jumping up and down and reciting some chant that I just sort of mumble along to. Maybe a few kicks to add some new shit to the mix, but all in all, it’s pretty repetitive…not to mention pretty exhausting. Jesus Christ, am I done yet?
As the football team rushes on off to the back, the cheerleaders and I fly off to a separate locker room. For what, I don’t know, considering the break isn’t that long.
When we enter, some girls start relaxing. A water bottle is tossed around until eventually, ten more girls that weren’t out there in the first half all start to pile in.
Wait a minute…
“Hey—” I say with my regular voice, before stopping.
Coughing a bit to hide said voice, I try again, albeit with significantly more falsetto.
“Hey, aren’t we going back out there?” I ask.
One of the girls—a brunette—takes her top off, revealing a sports bra underneath.
“They’re switching out the cheerleaders every half. We’re done for the night,” she says.
“Oh…thank you,” I say, falsetto still active.
You know, not that I’d ever admit that any of this was worth anything in the long run, but if I did, this all would have been worth seeing the girls change in front of me.
Sometimes it pays to successfully portray a girl.
That is, until it’s been five minutes, you’re still wearing the same clothes you were, and the ones you were with are already in the shower.
That’s when the flaw in the plan starts to make itself known.
A red-head walks up to me, a towel wrapped around her, with her hair dripping down all over it. Long…glorious…crimson…
“Hey, aren’t you showering? We gotta meet up with Coach down at the concession stand. She already won’t be happy that you were late,” she says.
I don’t frighten easily, but put me in a girl’s outfit, successfully portray a girl for roughly an hour, and then get to the point of a potential reveal?
Let’s just say my worst fear is a riot of angry females.
“Uhhh…” I say.
I hear a knock, and turn to the locker room door.
“Hold that thought,” I say, falsetto intact.
I walk over to the door and peak through it. I see Leo and Flash on the other side.
“Oh thank god,” I say, not even bothering to hide my actual voice.
As the locker room door closes, I hear the red-head trying to say something.
“Please tell me we’re done here,” I say.
Leo smirks, his hands folded in front of him. I turn to Flash, and let a sarcastic chuckle out.
“What?” I ask.
“Turns out one of the replacement cheerleaders had an ‘accident’,” Leo says. “Sprained ankle…can’t go out. Their coach turned to me in a time of need…”
“No…” I say.
“…she asked me what I could do, so I offered a solution to her quandary…”
“Fuck no!” I exclaim.
“…have one of the girls from the last half come back, and of course, because I know you’d be so generous to accept…”
“Man fuck this!”
I turn around and open the locker room door back up. The red-head from before is talking to the brunette. She turns to me, and points.
“Yeah, that’s the one,” she says.
I close the door, and turn around to see Leo holding up my pom-poms. As the door clicks shut behind me, I grab them from his grasp, and start to head out to the field.
“Go team, go!” I shout, my falsetto returning.
-------------------------------------------------------------
As my skirt sways in the wind, the black haired wig falls off my head behind me. It lands on the parking lot asphalt, along with my pom-poms.
“This was fucking stupid from the start!” I say.
“Maybe if you would have at least tried to play the part!” Flash shouts out.
The two of us quickly reach Flash’s car. Claiming shotgun, I toss the genuine autographed football into the backseat while Flash tries to Dukes of Hazzard this shit. He ends up falling flat on his ass next to the car.
“For fuck’s sake man, that’s never gonna work!” I shout.
I turn to my right, and see the thing that we are running from.
A bunch of angry fans, cheerleaders, and football players, their fists flailing and their mouths shouting obscenities that I dare not speak of right now.
Flash opens up the driver’s door, crawling in. He slams it shut before starting the fucking car. As the angry mob arrives at our car, Flash guns the fucker out of the parking lot. Once we’ve reached the road, the adrenaline starts to wear off.
For a few minutes, all that’s heard is our heavy breathing.
Eventually, I lean back in my seat, shaking my head at this whole night.
“Why does the laser even need a genuine autographed football?” I ask.
A voice that wasn’t in the car beforehand speaks up, “Because it represents the potential for sports movies.”
I make a quick, frightened call, while Flash swerves the vehicle a bit. We find ourselves in the opposite lane. The two of us shout at the oncoming traffic. The voice’s owner—Leo—crawls into the front seat, turning the wheel to the right. This allows us to return to the correct lane. Once that situation is over and done with, I turn around to see Leo himself in the backseat. He plays with the football a bit.
“Where the fuck did you come from?” I ask.
“Been in here since there was five minutes left in the second half,” he says.
“And you just assumed we’d be alright?” Flash asks.
“Yes, actually.”
Flash and I look at each other for a bit before returning our gaze to the road ahead.
“Well that actually makes me feel better,” Flash says.
“I feel honored, in some fucked up way,” I say.
That’s when the proverbial red and blue lights make themselves known. I fall forward, slamming my forehead into the glove compartment.
“Don’t pull over,” I say.
“I’m pulling over,” Flash says.
Flash starts to pull over into a Super America.
“Don’t pull over,” I say.
“I pulled over,” Flash says.
Flash stops the car, leaning back into his seat. I follow suit, and within a few minutes, the cop pulls up…a female cop.
“License and registra—”
She pauses once she has a good look at us.
Flash is in the driver’s seat, the most ridiculous smile plastered on his face, with his hands attached to the wheel.
I’m sitting in the passenger seat, still wearing the cusp of the cheerleader’s outfit.
Leo is in the backseat, playing with the autographed football, and for some unknown reason, has the black haired wig on.
The cop stares at us for a bit, switching her gaze between the three of us, who just glance back.
Eventually, she walks away. No words, no tickets, nothing but a sight she’ll never got out of her head.
I turn around to look at Leo, who still has the wig on.
“How…” I say.
“Oh please, I came off as the straighter one of the two of us,” he says.