Post by themeccaofmanhood on Jun 8, 2023 12:09:50 GMT -5
Sam Chatman? Didn’t the Mecca of Manhood already take that piece of trash out? Guess the WGWF matchmakers are into snuff films and want to see The Marvelous One kill his ass again. Sam, what have you done since we faced each other last? That isn’t a rhetorical question either, The Big Natty Daddy is being sincere when he asks because whatever you have been doing it hasn’t been big enough to make an impact that he, or anyone could see.
Ok, that is a lie.
The Messiah of Muscle wasn’t being sincere, because quite frankly The Titan of Tenacity couldn’t give two protein farts what you’ve been doing Sam. Shaking your flat ass with your baby oiled baby abs for all the mid-forty divorcees at the Vanerial Rabbit. It’s easy to look like you have abs when you aren’t a full-grown man. You aren’t ripped Sam, you’re just malnourished. Out there trying to fill up your banana hammock with your little lady finger banana, while the Marvelously Massive Member would have it busting at the seams with his Giant Highland Banana.
King Dong to your Iddy Bitty Diddy Kong. Tried coming with a circus act before, cause you ain’t nothing but a peanut. Cause your dick is so short, you pee down your nuts. Kicked out of the casino for stealing rolls of quarters to stuff down your g-strings at the Vanerial Rabbit as you play bait for the chicken hawks.
Don’t like me clowning on you like that Sammy? Well, you were the one who called me clown before, and I made you the butt of the joke when you did. Said you weren’t impressed with my muscles, but they sure were impressive when I tossed your pre-pubescent boy body in the air and slammed you through the mat. You had tried to say Cholo embarrassed me, but you were the one who choked on that bag of dicks and made into the laughing stock.
Wanting people to call you Daddy, but you got the body of a Mommy. You got about as much testosterone as a mommy too. Bitch made beta boy is a much better name for you than daddy. Unless it’s deadbeat daddy, sucking off the teet of the Ramseys and the Dukes for a place to lay your head and for any form of relevance you may have. You talk about greatness and being a star, but all you do is talk about it, you aren’t really about it. You talk the talk, but you talk too much, you never shut up.
Get the reference? You’re Botchamania, you bitch made beta boy. The only thing you get a five-star rating for is being bland. Should change your name to Dairy Queen cone, you’re as bland as vanilla, as soft as soft serve, and you’ll crumble under pressure like those cheap cones.
You think you can wrestle a broomstick and make it look good, probably wanting to take an atomic drop on that broomstick. The Abdominal Adonis doesn't need anyone to help him look good, because you can’t improve upon perfection.
No one is paying to watch you, no one is tuning in to see you, no one even cares about you. You could have put anyone’s name across the card from me, and the viewership, ticket sales, and results would be the same, Marvelous. Although I will admit that I did hear you are the concession stand ladies' favorite wrestler. I overheard her going on and on about how much she loves when Sammy Chap-not even close to being a Man is in the ring. She loves it because she never sells as many concessions at any other time than when you are in the ring. Sammy hits the ring and the crowd hits the concession stand and the bathroom so they can take their
Ok, that is a lie.
The Messiah of Muscle wasn’t being sincere, because quite frankly The Titan of Tenacity couldn’t give two protein farts what you’ve been doing Sam. Shaking your flat ass with your baby oiled baby abs for all the mid-forty divorcees at the Vanerial Rabbit. It’s easy to look like you have abs when you aren’t a full-grown man. You aren’t ripped Sam, you’re just malnourished. Out there trying to fill up your banana hammock with your little lady finger banana, while the Marvelously Massive Member would have it busting at the seams with his Giant Highland Banana.
King Dong to your Iddy Bitty Diddy Kong. Tried coming with a circus act before, cause you ain’t nothing but a peanut. Cause your dick is so short, you pee down your nuts. Kicked out of the casino for stealing rolls of quarters to stuff down your g-strings at the Vanerial Rabbit as you play bait for the chicken hawks.
Don’t like me clowning on you like that Sammy? Well, you were the one who called me clown before, and I made you the butt of the joke when you did. Said you weren’t impressed with my muscles, but they sure were impressive when I tossed your pre-pubescent boy body in the air and slammed you through the mat. You had tried to say Cholo embarrassed me, but you were the one who choked on that bag of dicks and made into the laughing stock.
Wanting people to call you Daddy, but you got the body of a Mommy. You got about as much testosterone as a mommy too. Bitch made beta boy is a much better name for you than daddy. Unless it’s deadbeat daddy, sucking off the teet of the Ramseys and the Dukes for a place to lay your head and for any form of relevance you may have. You talk about greatness and being a star, but all you do is talk about it, you aren’t really about it. You talk the talk, but you talk too much, you never shut up.
Get the reference? You’re Botchamania, you bitch made beta boy. The only thing you get a five-star rating for is being bland. Should change your name to Dairy Queen cone, you’re as bland as vanilla, as soft as soft serve, and you’ll crumble under pressure like those cheap cones.
You think you can wrestle a broomstick and make it look good, probably wanting to take an atomic drop on that broomstick. The Abdominal Adonis doesn't need anyone to help him look good, because you can’t improve upon perfection.
No one is paying to watch you, no one is tuning in to see you, no one even cares about you. You could have put anyone’s name across the card from me, and the viewership, ticket sales, and results would be the same, Marvelous. Although I will admit that I did hear you are the concession stand ladies' favorite wrestler. I overheard her going on and on about how much she loves when Sammy Chap-not even close to being a Man is in the ring. She loves it because she never sells as many concessions at any other time than when you are in the ring. Sammy hits the ring and the crowd hits the concession stand and the bathroom so they can take their
Spencer Adams and wipe their Cholo’s.
The Bod God hopes you aren’t out to try and put on some five-star match at Brawl because he doesn’t get paid by the hour, he gets paid by the win. At Brawl it’s not part deux of the Chat-hardly-a-man versus The Marvelous One saga, because there is no saga. This isn’t a remake, a reboot, or a sequel, it’s simply a rerun where you go down flat on your back like Lexi Gold after two drinks, and The Mecca of Manhood shows the world once more that he is… SIMPLY MARVELOUS!
*When we last saw the Marvelous One he was in quite a precarious situation. Mason is handcuffed to the large four-post of Lexi Gold’s hotel room and also had his mouth duct taped shut by the succubus as well. Lexi smirks at Mason as her eyes lower to the ground, but you know, after stopping to gaze at his Calvin Kiliens. The sound of slithering noises is heard. From under the bed, three large snakes come out, from hiding, and slither on top of the bed, making it four pythons on the bed, as Mason was packing on in the aforementioned Calvin Kleins.
As the largest of the snakes slithered across Mason’s even thicker trouser snake the panic began to reach a height of flight or fight. Being handcuffed to the bed left Mason unable to achieve flight, plus, he is always prone to the choice of fight. Using this power pectorals, Mason pulled his arms down and in, as if executing a high cable curl. The one-hundred-percent solid oak headboard was no match for the power of The Bod God’s chest and snapped when faced with his unbridled power.
The sound of the wood snapping, and the flying splinters startled the snakes, and the largest one now with its head on The Abdominal Adonis’s rectus abdominis muscle responded by striking. The fangs of the snake sunk into the chest of The President of Pump.
“AHHHH F**K!” Mason shouts as he grabs the snake's head with his left hand. Mason feels another snake on his right leg and looks down to see the snake’s head near his knee and poised to strike. With a Pat MacAfee-like kick Mason sends the snake flying across the room and into the bathroom. Mason rolls out of the bed to his feet, his left hand still on the snake that is stuck to his chest. With a mighty tug Mason pulls the name off of his chest and throws it onto the bed.
Mason sees the two snakes on the bed curling up and turning to face him. They begin to slither across the massive California King towards him. Mason looks down at his bloody chest, and then to his right hand where from his wrist hands a piece of the headboard's post. Mason flips the piece of wood up into his hand making a club out of it.
What happens next has been deemed too graphic for you sensitive soy-boy snowflakes. I’m sure you get the picture though.
After the graphic bit is over Mason wipes the sweat from his brow as he takes a deep breath. Mason begins to look around for his clothes and finally sees his pants. As Mason grabs his pants he hears a rattle, and the notices the fabric moving. Mason begins to back away slowly and then looks over at his shirt. Mason sees a large bundle coiled up under his dress shirt. Frantically Mason looks toward the door and sees a clear path, and decides to make a run for it.
Mason begins running, and just as he is within arm's reach of the door he feels something pull tight against his shin. Mason stops and looks down to see a tripwire pulled taught against his leg. Mason then hears a loud creaking noise from the closet near the door, and just as he looks at the closet door it burst open. A plethora of snakes fall from the closet and cover the hotel room floor, blocking Mason’s path to the door.
Mason is on the verge of freaking out, just like anyone who finds their name across from his on a WGWF show lineup would do. Mason backs up slowly and begins looking around the room as he feels panic about setting it when he has a “light bulb” moment. Mason looks at the open window to the balcony, he knows he is too height up to avoid injury if he were to just leap, unless he had a parachute.
Mason darted to the California King, and pulled the ten-thousand thread count sheet off of it, even with the gruesome scene from earlier that still laid upon it. Mason saw his cell phone playing on the nightstand and shoved it into his undergarments, using his God-level Glutes to hold it securely. Mason turned toward the balcony and again had an open path. This time though, Mason took time to study the path for tripwires or other boobytraps and found none.
Mason used his speed, which is of course impressive, still holding the forty-yard dash record for linebackers at the University of Miami. Mason leaped as he neared the railing of the balcony, placing a foot on the top of it, and using his momentum to propel himself forward. As Mason’s foot left the balcony he through the sheet up, making sure to hold onto the corners, forming a parachute.
The top-of-the-line linen caught the wind, and Mason was able to flutter down to the ground safely. Mason landed, and while he did have a very nasty, and gruesome substance on his head from his purely self-defense club usage, he was safe on the ground and away from any living snakes.
The Glute God squats slightly and coughs, freeing his phone from its holding place. Mason holds the phone up to his phone but quickly jerks his head away as the smell wafts to his nose. Mason shakes his head, but battles through, dialing the number and putting the phone back to his ear. *
Hey, I need a cleaning crew.
*Mason pauses and looks down at his chest with blood running down it from the bite. *
I’m gonna need a medic too.
*Mason goes to hang up but stops as he looks at the victims of his clubbing that lay at his feet. *
One more thing, get me a taxidermist too.
~Climax.