Have you ever flown from Toronto to London? It's not pleasant. It's just under eight hours, but a third of a day in a pressurized cabin hurtling through the sky can still be enough to ruin your mood. Now let's take it a step further, how many of you have from Toronto to London and back again within 48 hours? Speaking from experience, that's enough to make your mood downright foul. RAVEN: Is he here? SILVER: Yeah, he's been here for an hour. Careful when you go inside, he's hammered. I climb off my motorcycle, dropping the helmet on the back of the bike and peeling off my riding gloves. We stand in the parking lot outside the HILITE training center, and we're alone. The facility closed for the day hours ago, and the students have long since gone home. I got back from England around dinner time, and had been asleep when I got the call that Jim Caedus was here. I don't like being woken up, I like it even less when I'm jet-lagged, when the night air is as thick and as humid as it is tonight, and when there's a former Universal Champion looking to kick my ass. RAVEN: Did you give him the booze? SILVER: Of course not, he showed up smashed... he did take the Crown Royal from your office though. RAVEN: Why the fuck wouldn't you stop him? SILVER: I'm an agent, he's an angry drunken Sasquatch. Fuck you. I'll buy you a case of whiskey before I get my arm broken by that big boned bitch. I sigh. He's got a fair point. I turn towards the main entrance and begin to carefully make my way over, but stop short when I notice a window pane smashed in just to the left of the door. I turn back to Jeremy. RAVEN: Are you shitting me? SILVER: What? You thought he politely rang the fucking doorbell? I continue to the door and push it open carefully, stepping through the threshold and listening to the crunch of glass under my feet. I glance around the main gym area and see nothing, but from the far corner hear labored breathing and the dull thud of bare knuckles on a heavy bag. RAVEN: Jim? Is that you? He doesn't answer me. Maybe he didn't hear? Slowly I make my way deeper into the darkness, motioning back through the door for Jeremy to stay stationed outside. Unnecessary. That pussy wasn't going to follow me anyways. RAVEN: It's me Jim! I'm here. I heard you were looking for me? The dull thud of the former champion pounding away on the bag continues. It's sporadic, they aren't landing clean, there's no rhythm to his combinations. He's emotional, and he really his smashed. I pick up my pace and plunge deeper into the gym, finally spotting movement in the shadows. I make my way over, alert, and ready for anything. RAVEN: Jim, what the hell are you doing here? He spins around suddenly, surprised by my arrival. He takes a few steps forward and before I can stop myself I feel my knees bend and my fists clench. He smiles. He doesn't want to fight. CAEDUS: JIMMY JAM! How the fuck are ya? RAVEN: Don't call me that. What are you doing here, Jim? He reeks of Jack Daniels and of the sour vomit matted into his beard, an olive green muscle shirt damp from a substance I don't care to clarify and stuck tight against his chest. He's smiling at me, but the corners of his lips fall slightly when he realizes that I'm not amused. He looks at the floor, digging his hands deep in the pockets of his cargo pants like a sheepish child being scolded. CAEDUS: Sorry, Jim. RAVEN: Don't call me Jim, Jim. It's James. Don't apologize, I get it, I've gotten drunk and done some dumb shit too. Just tell me why you're here... at my gym... hammered... in the middle of the night... CAEDUS: I just need to talk. RAVEN: A phone call would have sufficed, Jim. You didn't need to break my fucking window. CAEDUS: I know, I know, I'm sorry. I'll pay for that. I wasn't thinking. I just... I should have beat him, James. RAVEN: Excuse me? For a brief moment Jim Caedus looks like a sober man. He stands up straight, his eyes clearing like the sky after a storm. The facial expressions of a man lost at sea are replaced by the stony determination of a man off his horse but not out of the battle. That's the guy I wanted to face at King of the Ring. CAEDUS: I should have beat him. Her. Whatever the fuck it wants to be now. RAVEN: That's what this is about? Fucking Blingsteen? Listen Jim, it's over. He cashed in on you, and you lost your rematch. 0-1 you can try and argue argue, but 0-2 you have to start thinking long and hard about when to swing at that third strike. Move on, Jim. Focus on Michael Graves. For everyone's sake, but mostly your own. He looks like he's going to lose it. He looks like he's going to hit me. I brace myself, willing to let him do it if it'll end all this shit but he spins around with my eyes closed and lifts the Crown Royal bottle off a nearby gym mat and hurls it at the wall. It shatters, a dozen chunks of thick and jagged glass bouncing off the concrete and falling to the mats below. I open my eyes, startled. CAEDUS: Shit man, shit. I'm sorry. Shit. RAVEN: That... is what we call an overreaction, Jim. He scrambles over to the mat, dropping to all fours and doing his best to sweep shards of glass into a pile. A wave of amber whiskey washes across the mat as he pushes with his hands, the glass tearing his palms and mixing blood with the existing carnage. RAVEN: Jim, stop. CAEDUS: I'm sorry, I fucked it up... I'm sorry, James, I fucked everything up... RAVEN: It's fine, Jim. It's a whiskey bottle, not my son. Stop touching the glass. CAEDUS: We had a plan. I fucked it all up. I'm sorry. He jerks backwards violently, making me jump out of sheer surprise. He holds his left hand in front of his face, blood flowing from a gash that still has a giant piece of glass embedded deep inside. CAEDUS: FUCK! RAVEN: Jesus Christ Jim, can you please settle down? JEREMY! JEREMY GET IN HERE! Silver rushes in from his parking lot vantage point, likely expecting to see Caedus and I in an all out brawl, but he barely has time to register shock at our predicament before I'm screaming instructions. RAVEN: Go to the office, and get the first aid kit. Grab the phone, get a doctor over here, we need to make sure this doesn't get infected or get anything shards stuck in the wound before the pay per view. CAEDUS: Don't fucking take care of me, Jim! I fucked it all up! I let everyone down! King of the Ring was supposed to be OUR show! We were going to put on the match of the fucking year, and I was going to make you work for that title you wanted so bad, and I... I... RAVEN: It's OK. CAEDUS: That pillow biting, gender fluid... fucking... CUNT!! He slams his bloodied fist into the padded wall, staining another of my licensed HILITE mats. He winces, and holds his hand gingerly. I take a steady step towards him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He wheels around in anger, fist half cocked, but steadies himself. I don't flinch this time. RAVEN: Jim. I'm trying to be nice because you clearly need it, but you need to listen to me. You're out of hand. Calm down, or we're going to have a problem. Is that understood? The fire ignites in his eyes again. He grins, and balls his crimson stained fist. CAEDUS: Good. Fight me, Raven. That's what was supposed to happen, what they all wanted to see. It won't be for the Universal title, it won't be in the middle of a sold out London arena, but this is good enough for me... I only ever wanted to know I could beat you in the first place. He squares up. I don't move. RAVEN: You're hammered, Jim. You don't want this. CAEDUS: ... come on, Raven... give me this much... please? SILVER: I have the first aid kit! Come here, Jim. Let me see your hand. Jeremy sprints over from the office with the first aid kit. Flawless timing. I take a step back as he dives in and begins trying to tend to Jims hand. Jim lets Jeremy work, but doesn't break his eye contact with me. CAEDUS: He may have added a pussy, but he's always been one Raven. He's doing the same shit to you. He's been silent for weeks now, why the fuck do you think that is? The guy hasn't shut his cock polishers since he came after me, and now all the sudden... nothing? He's trolling you! He'll bomb you with videos at the promotional deadline just to bury you to the fans. He'll have something dirty planned with Bx3, or some way to cancel the match at the last second. You can't trust him. RAVEN: I know, Jim. I don't. I've been expecting this, it is what it is. You can't let him wreck you like this, though. He's my issue to worry about now. Tag out. He nods his head slowly, but then changes mind and begins to shake it vigorously. CAEDUS: No, fuck that Jimmy. Where the fuck is he? RAVEN: Don't- CAEDUS: I know, my bad, but seriously... where is he? That "JK I'm here" shit worked once, is he really trying the same move on you? He CAN'T be that retarded, unless I knocked more of his screws loose than I'm giving myself credit for. He's trying something. He showed up as a fucking woman for fuckin' fucks sake! How's he going to one up that against the Peoples GOAT? For the first time, Jim Caedus is making sense to me. He's not saying anything I hadn't already thought, but for some reason hearing it from a new source kick starts an engine that wasn't firing before. CAEDUS: We gotta find him, we gotta drag him out of hiding, and kick the shit out of him. SILVER: Come on, Jim. You know Raven is never going to go for that. RAVEN: ... I think the Mother Fuckers got themselves a bus. Want to go for a ride? CAEDUS: Are you kiddin', Jim? Sorry, I meant- RAVEN: Call me whatever you want, fuck face. Let me make a call. The game has changed, boys and girls. The game has changed because I've finally realized that I'm never going to get anywhere in the new XWF by expecting order and logic to win out. I'll never get anywhere in this place by trusting management to do their jobs and keep the talent in line, and I'll never get anywhere trusting an ally who says they have my back to pull their own weight. I'm sick of being the nice guy. I'm sick of being the veteran to encourage the rookies, the guy that steps in to help others short-notice and gets shit on for it, the rightful number one contender that watches an entire roster volley to leapfrog him in the queue and almost sees it happen. I'm sick of being the punch line to Bruce Blingsteen every time he wants to dangle the carrot of a title defense on Savage only to jerk it away at the last possible second. Fuck you. Fuck all of you. You win, Bruce. You pushed my buttons, you drove me to the point that I wanted nothing to do with you or this match. Hell, I wanted nothing to do with the XWF anymore... the mistake was to keep pushing until I eventually tipped over the edge, and came back with a fucking fury. This isn't going to be a ladder match; it's going to be a bloodbath, with one tiny cunt taking a beating that she's had coming for months from an entire roster. The moment I finally get my hands on you is the moment all your trolling becomes a little less funny, and what you did to Caedus seems a little more mild. I'm not trying to be funny. I'm not trying to be clever. I'm trying to give you a very clear warning about what's coming Bruce, Brucette, whatever the fuck you want to be written after "former champion"... I will hurt you worse than any uncle that molested you, or any frat boy that beat the shit out of you for using your teeth on his dick. I'll be the thing that haunts your fucking nightmares, from this night forevermore. It's not a Uni title match, it's your fight for survival. There's just one more thing to figure out, once I have you bloodied and beaten, all your bullshit finally stripped bare for the world to see... which hole should I be planning to fuck you in? The Mother Fuckers' Monster Truck screeches to a halt in front of a small medical facility on the outskirts of Dallas, Texas. It's late. The facility is quiet outside of the roaring engine inside this behemoth of transportation. Robbie Bourbon had been kind enough to not only loan me the truck, but drive Caedus and I across the international border and all the way to the southern most states. Don't worry, he drives like a maniac, we made miraculous time. It's almost instantaneous, really. RAVEN: Kill that engine. BOURBON: Sure thing, birdy. He kills the engine, but as I turn to glance out the window he leans on the horn and a generic version of "Bah Bah Blacksheep" suddenly explodes from the dozens of speakers and amplifiers strapped to this monstrosity of a rig that the Mother Fuckers have not surprisingly acquired. RAVEN: Are you fucking kidding me, Bourbon? BOURBON: What? It's a public domain song! I'm not putting money into my horn when I didn't pay for anything else. RAVEN: I was talking about drawing attention to- CAEDUS: You didn't pay for this truck? How the hell did you get it? BOURBON: Fantasy football. RAVEN: Guys, focus. Let's move. I open the door and slide out of the Monster Truck, dropping to the pavement and turning to sprint across the lawn of the medical facility as Bourbon and Caedus follow close behind. We near the main gate when a voice calls out to us from the shadows in the trees. ???: Nice whip. He's not here. We stop moving and stare into the darkness. A figure takes a few steps towards the edge of the shadows, but never enough for us to see his face. What I see of his clothes gives me the impression he's wealthy, but it's when he lifts a cigar to his mouth and a burning ember illuminates his face for half a second that I realize who he is, or why he's here. ???: Blingsteen isn't here. I assume that's who you were looking for? He was never here. CAEDUS: Want to fill us in? Bourbs and I don't even know where "here" is. ???: You're at the worlds foremost center for racial reassignment. BOURBON: Like Rachel Dolezeal? RAVEN: More like Robert Downey Jr. in Tropic Thunder, or in rare cases a state senator that was hammered and had his brain transplanted into the body of a black man. Caedus and Bourbon both stare at me, eyebrows arched suspiciously at my amazingly specific example. Caedus pieces it together first. CAEDUS: Holy shit, is that John Samue- RAVEN: Of course not, Jim. John Samuels would never agree to be in one of my promos against Brucette Blingsteen of all people, that's just a conveniently hidden transient black man that's surprisingly well dressed and has an intimate knowledge of the XWF. Coincidental? Yes. Indicative? No. BOURBON: That's straight up John Sam- RAVEN: NO! IT'S NOT! IT'S NOT JOHN SAMUELS! IT'S JUST SOME BLACK GUY WITH A CIGAR! Robbie Bourbon looks over to the man in the shadows. BOURBON: Hey, are you a King? The shadow nods. RAVEN: You stay out of this, "weakest link"! Do you swear to me that Blingsteen isn't here? I thought after the swap he pulled on Caedus he might come rolling in as a Nigerian, or Japanese, or some dumb shit. I guess it's a little too obvious for him, huh? CAEDUS: Yeah, we're going to have to think more outside the box. If he tries to sneak up on you after what he did to me, it'll be something out of this world. BOURBON: Extra testicle. RAVEN: Terrestrial. BOURBON: ... what? I was talking about something else. RAVEN: Shit, that just gave me an idea of where he might be. CAEDUS: Me too. Are we headed to Nevada? BOURBON: To the monster truck mother fuckers! You've got a mouth on you, don't you Bruce? I'm a little confused though, because while you ran that mouth non-stop for weeks after winning that title belt, it seems like since the day I mentioned you'd be in hiding pre-editing promos to try and sneak up on me you've had those lips zipped tight. That's almost two weeks, Bruce. What's the matter? You can't tell me that you've had nothing to say... we all know that's bull shit... I get it. I'd be pissed if someone called me out on the shit I was clearly doing but thought I was slick about, too. I don't understand how you didn't have a backup plan, though. That's your whole shtick, right? You flap those dick warmers non-stop, but when a match pops up in your google alerts you take the champions vacation or find a way to censor your opponents promo or get the referee on your side... whatever they throw at you, you've got a trump card. I want to see what you've got for me, Bruce. Come out to play. I've been waiting oh so patiently for the cum scented garbage that would spill from your lips, and for the phone call from Vinny Lane that alerted me you'd masterminded some enormous swerve that would shake the foundation of my strategy. You've got shit left, Bruce. You're Felix the Cat with an empty bag of tricks, and an angry fucking legend staring back at you daring you to make the first move. Yeah, you've got one hell of a mouth. It gets you into trouble. I'll see what else is on the menu, though. It's one thing to drive up to the grounds of a secured facility, it's another thing to sneak around the dark and narrow corridors of THE most secured facility in the country. Not, not the White House or the National Trust, not the pentagon... ladies and gentlemen, welcome to- BOURBON: Fucking Bourbon. So much for the big reveal. Yeah, that tubby side of beef somehow got us into Area 51. Be jealous. It wasn't even that complicated for him to do; when he told us he had an in, I expected some connection that would sneak us in a backdoor or some access keycard he had stolen once during his travels. Instead he just walked up to the guards and shouted "CANNONBALL!" before decking each one with an atomic right hand that crumpled them to the dirt. It was funny the first time.
It was surprisingly effective the second and third time.
Now, as a dozen guards lay scattered around the infamous base, it's just getting downright pathetic that our national guardsman can't adapt their tactics enough to stop eating power shots from a guy that resembles Nacho Libre. One more guard stands between us and the doorway we plan to enter. He charges us. BOURBON: Like I said, pathetic. We slowly push open the door and step into the dark room behind it. A spotlight shines down from the ceiling in the center of the room; a small medical operating table the only fixture of furniture in sight. A wheelchair lays on it's side a few feet away, and it's only when we get closer that we realize a misshapen milky fleshed lump in glasses is laying on the table. CAEDUS: What the fuck is that? BOURBON: RAVEN: That's fucked up, man. BOURBON: The lump hears us talking, and lifts what I guess is it's head. LUMP: IS THAT YOU FAGGOTS? BACK TO PROBE THIS RECTUM SOME MORE?!? WELL SPELUNK IN MY ANAL CAVITY TO YOUR HEARTS CONTENT, BUT DO ME THE DECENCY OF SHOVING YOUR FAGGOT COCKS IN MY MOUTH SO THAT I MIGHT DRAIN THEM THEN SPIT YOUR OWN FAGGOTRY BACK AT YOU WITH THE FURY OF A THOUSAND CHARLOTTESVILLE SUPREMACISTS! CAEDUS: That's fuckin' Bilbo, isn't it? BOURBON: RAVEN: No, it fucking isn't Robbie. And no it fucking isn't, Jim. We've been over this, I'm not allowed to use people in my promos without permission, so at very best that's an impersonator or parody law or this whole thing's a fucking dream... I don't know, whatever I gotta say to not get this shit disqualified. Faggins wouldn't appear against Blingsteen, so that's- The lump suddenly wriggles furiously on the table, craning a bizarre hairy knob near the front end which I guess must be it's fucking head. Disgusting. It looks like Barney Greens dick trying to gasp for oxygen, and not drown in the ocean of blubber around it... but again, with Harry Potter glasses. LUMP: BLINGSTEEN?!? THAT DYKE ISN'T HERE ANYMORE! WHEN THE ASS-RAIDING OTHERWORLD OVERLORDS REALIZED THAT CUNT COULDN'T DUMP ANY MORE LOADS IN ME THEY TOLD A BITCH TO KICK ROCKS! NOW ARE YOU GOING TO STAND OVER THERE AND BE A FAGGOT, OR GET OVER HERE AND BUST OUT MY WAGON WHEEL LIKE A FAGGOT?! CAEDUS: This is making me uncomfortable. BOURBON: RAVEN: Yeah, if Blingsteen isn't here we can just go. I don't need to see what's coming next. We turn to leave, the lump on the table screaming furiously after us as we make our way out of the room that will haunt my dreams forevermore. LUMP: DON'T WALK AWAY FAGGOTS! DON'T SHOW ME YOUR DELICIOUS AND AMPLE REARS WITHOUT ALLOWING ME TO SNIFF AROUND AND FIND THE STENCH OF A FAGGOT! I WILL WRECK YOU! We pass through the door and back into the hallway. Jim Caedus bends over, clutching his stomach. RAVEN: You OK man? CAEDUS: Nauseas... gonna vomit... Robbie Bourbon reaches behind his back and pulls a water bottle out of seemingly nowhere. He holds it out to Caedus who grabs it appreciatively and chugs half its contents. Only I seem to find the source of the bottle, and why he had it in the first place, strange. Suddenly Jim unleashes all over the tile floors, a wave of dark green liquid that makes me recoil in disgust. RAVEN: Jesus, Jim! Are you still drunk, or is that because of the lump? BOURBON: RAVEN: God damn it, Robbie. Bourbon shrugs as Jim continues to heave. RAVEN: Come on, I have another idea. He might try and Benjamin Button me. We should get back to the truck. If we see any more guards, no cannonballs. BOURBON: RAVEN: God damn it, Robbie! You Mother Fucker... You're an asshole, Bruce. I'm not saying anything everyone doesn't already know, but there's a reason for that. Why should I take all the initiative in providing the talking points? Why was I supposed to be the guy that released promos early for you to try and counter? Why should I let you sneak up on me with some last minute shift that makes the entire portrait I painted of you irrelevant? Jim Caedus was a strong champion, but let's not get it twisted... the guys functionally retarded. He was thrown by your shenanigans, but that's because he forgot something. You're an asshole, and an asshole can always force some shit out of nowhere. I know, terrible right? Well, that's because FUCK YOU. You haven't put a second into doing your homework since you became the Universal champion; it's generic "faggot" after generic "ur a bitch", the only thing occasionally breaking the monotony being your dick tuck of a legitimate contender, but that's about it. I told you, I'm not giving you shit, Bruce. Not a quotable line, not a point worth arguing, not a date or incident for you to fact check me on. I'll wait for you, and if you stay in hiding, I'll just fuck you up in the ring and nothing ever needs be said. I'll beat you with your own faggotry, faggot. I'm here, though. If you have the guts to open this can of verbal smackdown, I'm ready. Just tell me what you want to talk about, buddy. You're a fucking asshole, and you've got one hell of a mouth... but show daddy that third hole, sweetie, help him make up his mind. CAEDUS: I thought you said we were going to the fountain of youth? I thought you said that Blingsteen was going to Benjamin Button you? RAVEN: We are at the fountain of youth. Jim and Robbie look around in confusion, clearly having expected something else when we took off from Nevada. Frustrated, I snap at both of them. RAVEN: What's the fucking problem? CAEDUS: I just thought we'd go to South America, or someplace exotic to find it. This place, uh, kind of reminds me, of uh... how do I say this delicately? BOURBON: I roll my eyes, not understanding how many times I'll have to explain to them that I wouldn't just be able to use Shane Carvers house without permission. I could maybe get away with saying this was fashioned by a production company out of old movie props? Or even better I could say that Bourbon and Jim don't know what they're talking about, and that this is some random home that has no association to the XWF owner. The half nude pictures of Shane Carver on the walls, and the carvings of "#cdiff" into all of the walls and doorframes with what must have been a key don't help my case, though. RAVEN: I promise you, this is where we'll find the Fountain of Youth. This isn't Shane Carvers house. It's at that moment that we hear footsteps making their way towards the bedroom, and we rush to cram ourselves into a small closet and avoid being seen. Just as we close the slotted door behind us a tall figure strides into the room wearing nothing but a silk kimono. He has long hair, and a joint in one hand, while dragging an old Carver Championship Wrestling Federation belt behind him. He doesn't help my argument; he look A LOT like Shane Carver.
It's not though, I fucking swear.
Bourbon and Caedus eye me suspiciously. They don't have long to question me though, as the Carvertwin opens his kimono and a beam of white and blue light shoots from his groin to the far wall. CAEDUS: What in the fuck? BOURBON: CARVERTWIN: Loverboy! Get in here and sip from the fountain! The three of us look at each other, faces twisted in horror. Loverboy? A man in a gimp suit crawls quickly into the room, though the black leather has been replaced by pink spandex. He stops in front of Carvertwin, blonde hair poking out from underneath the mask as Shane turns the beam of light towards the gimps face and removes his ball gag. CAEDUS: Please tell me this isn't going where I think it's going... The gimp plunges into the beam of light, sounds resembling a boot in wet mud echoing through the room as Carvertwin throws his head back in satisfaction. Slurp, slurp, swickswickswick, glump, glump, gaaaaaack gaaaaaaaaack. Carvertwin grabs the back of the gimps head and presses himself deep into gagging mass. CARVERTWIN: Hurt me, Loverboy! Make me scream! The gimp pulls away from Carvertwin, and manages to sputter: LOVERBOY: Acknowledge the old wrestlers! CARVERTWIN: AAAAHHH!! NEVEEEEEEEEEEER! We don't see it, mercifully, but it looks damn well like the Carvertwin busts in Loverboy Gimpy Lomes mouth. I know, gross a.f. right? Suddenly the gimps muscles seem to inflate slightly under his spandex, and the hair poking from underneath the mask seems to instantly rejuvenate. CAEDUS: It IS the fountain of youth! CARVERTWIN: Run along. You should be ready to run the XWF for at least another month, now. If your true age starts to show through, we'll make another appointment. Understood? The gimp nods his head several times as Carvertwin puts the ballgag back in and slaps him across the face. The gimp runs from the room, sobbing in self hatred as Carvertwin settles onto a couch and begins to doze off to sleep. BOURBON: CAEDUS: Me either, but I feel like I'm gonna hurl again. BOURBON: CAEDUS: Fuck you, Bourbs. The Carvertwin begins to snore loudly, milked so thoroughly by Loverboy Gimpy Lome that mere seconds were enough for his body to shut off completely. RAVEN: We need to get out of here. Think; if you were Brucette Blingsteen, and you got yourself a vagina, what would the first thing you did be? CAEDUS: If it was me, I don't know, but if it's Blingsteen she probably just let a bunch of truckers dump clips. It hits me like a ton of bricks. He's right. I know where Blingsteen is. BOURBON: Without warning Bourbon kicks open the closet door with a scream of rage and sprints into the middle of the room. So extra. Caedus and I capitalize on his distraction and charge out of the closet, and towards the exit. Bourbon begins to follow, but something on the shelf in the corner catches his attention. BOURBON: I have no idea what he's talking about, but he seems proud of himself. I let him have his small victory. I have other things to worry about that, like the last stop on this trip. I know where you are, Blingsteen, and I'm coming for you. Here it is, the main event. You're a fucking pussy, Bruce. You're an asshole, and you've got a mouth, yes... but the thing that's absolutely infuriating about you is that you're a sopping, quivering pussy. You're not untalented, but your refusal to do anything other than find the bitchest way out of every scenario completely whitewashes any legitimate skill I've ever seen from you in a wrestling ring. You're the type of guy to set an online profile to "invisible" because he thinks that somehow gives him an element of surprise against the guy that's called his every move since the initial cash-in. There's no easy way out at King of the Ring, Bruce. I'm ready for anything you throw at me. I will steamroll you for every single XWF superstar that didn't have the clout to get their shot at you. I will take the Universal title off your waist, and hold it high. I never lost that belt, and it's coming home with me for every single XWF superstar that's ever climbed into the ring and put on an honorable contest, because it's ripped their hearts out to watch you each week. I will pummel your face into a mash of bone and chunks of hair if they don't pull me off of you. Then. Maybe. If I feel like it. I'll climb the ladder, and walk away from you once and for all. I really hope you release something Bruce, I can't wait to ravage that pussy for real when you muster up the courage to let out a queef. Mouth, Asshole, Pussy. So which hole do you fuck a former Universal Champion in? We stop in front of a desk in the lobby, all three of us gasping for air as we skid to a halt in front of a startled nurse. BOURBON: We're looking for Bruce Blingsteen. CAEDUS: You may have it under "the cunt currently known as Brucette", perchance? The nurse is too shocked to speak and stares at the three of us dumbfounded. CAEDUS: Look, we don't have time for your games! Tell us what room he/she/it is in so that I can go kick his/her/it's ass! NURSE: Sir, we can't allow visitors into the- CAEDUS: WHAT KIND OF FLEABAG MOTEL IS THIS?! No visitors?! RAVEN: Jim... we aren't in a motel. I point at the wall, and his gaze slowly rises to large silver lettering near the top. 'THE ABORTION CLINIC'. BOURBON: Oh sweet mother of snickers, James. That's dark. Even for us. RAVEN: No, you morons. Think about it, the first thing Blingsteen would do is be a Petrie dish for anyone with a dollar and no shred of self worth. The second thing she'd do is rip out any fermenting demons and smash them on a wall. CAEDUS: Seriously man, you're taking this too far. You sound like the bitch. I'm not even sure she could medically get pregnant, can she? RAVEN: Do you think she realizes that? She's a dumbfuck!!! CAEDUS: I don't know man, I'm starting to think we're the dumb ones. She's not any of the places we thought she'd be... maybe we're just not good at this. BOURBON: We should go. Gotta head to London soon. Sorry we couldn't flush her out. We sit in silence for a moment, despair befalling out mighty trio of heroes. The nurse suddenly leans forward and whispers something that changes the entire day, though. NURSE: Pssst. She WAS here. RAVEN: I FUCKING KNEW IT! NURSE: We told her she wouldn't be able to get pregnant considering the circumstances, but she insisted we insert a vacuum nozzle anyway. It was... CAEDUS: Spare us the graphic detail, honey. Is the bitch still back there? I owe her a cunt punt. NURSE: No, like I said, she left... quickly. RAVEN: What do you mean? NURSE: She heard you guys were looking for her. Nearly shit herself and jumped through an open window. Something about "ducked him this long, can't lose the streak". Caedus holds out his hand and fist-bumps me in victory. Bourbon offers the nurse a bottle of ipecac water. Dick. There's something bittersweet about knowing I almost caught her; but she's afraid. She knows she's fucked. It's just a matter of answering the age old question; which hole to fuck her in? CAEDUS: Come on, we know where she'll be next. BOURBON: LONDON BABY! I'm gonna fuck her in every single one of them. 100 win club. AND NEW 3x Universal Champion. Stop me, twat. FADE TO BLACK |