I've been nice. I've been polite. I've been downright pleasant.
For the last few weeks I figured I'd try to play along with ULW management and behave in the way that they reward. The whole Certified Baddie thing was me taking the complete and utter piss out of the whole thing. I didn't think I'd get anything out of it, it was to serve merely as a vessel to bring out the hypocrisy of one Raymond der Vaart.
If it actually worked and I was showered with rewards and praise and offers for brightly colored merchandise, I think that might actually managed to make me think even less of The Fart than I do now.
But I wasn't expecting what happened the moment he walked out to the ring on FUF 7. He came down, opened his mouth, and once he started speaking I felt something within my soul that I didn't think I would ever feel for such a simple, fragile, mortal man.
Hatred.
Five months ago I severed ties with the IWC. Five months ago I cut the federation that I spent six months of my life prepping for. Five months ago I said farewell to the collection of idiots, morons, hacks, and egomaniacal dipshits that decided that the best place to put a seven foot tall dragoness was in a freakshow division fighting against an idiot, a moron, and a retard.
And they teamed him with an autistic and a midget.
I'm better than that. I know I'm better than that. But because I didn't pick a side, that I didn't surgically graft my lips to the asses of either one of the emergent factions whose warfare dominated IWC I was ignored. I was an afterthought. I was given no opportunity to thrive amidst inferior fellows. There were teeming masses of non-wrestlers and the personal friends of Mr. Flies and the Dumbest Woman in Professional Wrestling needed lavish paydays, and brother dude jack, trickle down Hoganomics is what's best for business, Mean Gene!
And in those five long months I've shown the IWC what fools they were to waste me like they did. Remember my farewell pay per view match? You know, the one that was signed into being at virtually the last minute. The one that got made as an afterthought. The one where two people who had been with the IWC since its founding were given less consideration than some schmucks who had just signed with the company days before.
And speaking of schmucks, do you know just how wonderful and forward looking that little contest was? Of the four people that stayed with the fed in those five months only Leviticus has wrestled, he only did it for one match, and he sucked ass in it.
Yeah, the exact moment I left the fed, they stopped bringing in Fitzgerald. Amazing, isn't it? It's like he was brought in with the sole intention of being an embarrassment and being a gods damned albatross around my neck.
Picture, if you will, the concessions deck of a goodly sized arena. Maybe a bit more specific, let's make it Albany, New York's Times Union Center, the soon to be scene of ULW's seventh outing of Fuck'd Up Friday. If you're having trouble visualizing, they've got a virtual tour thingamabob on their website that can help you with your lacking imagination. If your brain is broke, go give it a whirl.
Go ahead.
I'll pause the narrative, it's not like you're holding up big, important things by having a brain made of discarded anuses. The whole world sits, waiting for you to visualize this scene in perfect detail. Yeah, 7 billion people are waiting on you to get the job done and you're failing them all, you fucker.
Got that image now? Good. Took you long enough.
Now take that long, curving concessions concourse area and pack it wall to wall with Bobs. You know Bobs. Portly fellows with strange dress sense and an odd way of speaking. So you're going to hear the occasional outburst of "Mnoose!" or a sweeping wall to wall utterance of "Mmm, ham!"
This is difficult, I know. Maybe get some ice for the overheated noggin of yours, but you're going to have to imagine that someone, namely me, has awarded a goodly portion of the gathered Bobs official-looking police caps of various sorts and some gold colored plastic badges that are probably going to go brittle and frail and shatter on your like your favorite old Transformers from when you were a kid eventually.
And in the middle of all this flabby carnage is none other than myself, Kalinda Kriegsdottir, set up at a table that I pilfered from somewhere else in the arena. On one side of me my muse, Spark, is set up with a tiny computer that would probably qualify as a rather large phone to someone not the size of a small cat.
Spark is in charge of the list of interviewees past and present. For the most part we've been winnowing down the herd of Bobs down to those who will be effective for general employment, with a handful for specific key positions within our newly created organization.
What organization? I'll get to that in a minute. Hold your horses, you're having enough trouble visualizing the Bob swarm for pity's sake. I don't want your head to explode. Well, maybe I do if you're some kind of stupendously cavernous asshole. Like a Tea Party senator, or one of those doxxing, rape threat sending Men's Rights cock-knockers. Or if you've ever unironically worn a piece of Alexander Fayt merchandise. Because fuck you, you don't need to be in the gene pool any longer.
