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.
Raymond der Vaart for the most part has been a nuisance, an annoyance, just an angry ball of adipose tissue that gets amusingly red when I talk to him. It wasn't what he said about me that did it. Oh no.
The whole point of the Certified Baddie was to highlight that the exact same actions from two completely different people resulted in two very different reactions from our esteemed evil overlord. Willow Wilkes brought out help that won her the World title, and she's heralded as a queen, as ULW's rightful and deserving champion.
I brought out SPIDER pretty much because I can, because I find unimaginable joy at adhering to the letter of the law and not the spirit. In the end his influence on the match was basically nil. It gave the crowd something to cheer, the sight of an old veteran and his wily apprentice bucking the rules and beating the established powers at their own game. And for this I'm labelled a despicable cheat, a woman of low character, and other sorts of terribly generic denigrations.
And if that was the only thing that happened, everything would have gone on as normal. But then Raymond opened his mouth and let loose with some of the most disgusting, hideous, hurtful words that I have ever witnessed.
After spending DAYS threatening Jason King with legal action on Twitter if he refuses to wrestle and instead remain with his grieving wife to mourn their slain daughter Raymond spits out poisoned words painting Jason King as utter scum who selfishly sought to compete for the World Heavyweight Championship, abandoning his wife in the process.
Oh I knew that Raymond was a hypocritical jackass, of course. But I hadn't imagined that he would go out of his way to bully someone into a catch-22 situation in order to take a big steamy dump all over his reputation on the air just for the lulz.
He's supposed to be a promoter, for fuck's sake. He just spent the last I don't know how long doing everything in his power to build up Jason King as this incredible powerhouse wrestler, a man who he insisted was so good that the ULW would be forced to look beyond the boundaries of its roster in order to defeat him.
Before it was merely minor abuses of power. Now? Now he seems hellbent on completely and utterly ripping the heart and soul out of Jason King so he can piss on it in the middle of the ring. Why? Who knows? Mayne Jason shot down Raymond's biggest, brightest, wettest dream of children buying brightly colored Jason King t-shirts stretching from sea to shining sea.
Maybe Raymond for all his talk about a federation run on peace, compassion, and love actually meant a piece of Jason King's ass, for Raymond to love. And Jason, of course, being married and not a fruity-booty hit Raymond's forbidden love with the slapjack, sucka! And now Ray is all in "If I can't have you, no one will" mode.
But enough amusing mockery of The Fart, let me tell you the real reason all this is going down. There's a conspiracy afoot, one that drove me out of the IWC and one that followed me here to ULW.
You've know them, you've seen them. Or you've seen the public works arm of their organization. You are all no doubt familiar with the multi-fed spanning stables of Silas World and the Sinistry, of which New Eden was a part.
There's been talk for years about the fix being in on IWC TV, of psychotically grafting the World Heavyweight Championship onto the waist of Taylor Chase-Cruze, aka the Dumbest Woman in Professional Wrestling. Having earned that title, the dumbest woman one, not the wrestling belt, on account of her having so gods damned many problems that would magically manage to solve themselves if she would WATCH THE FUCKING SHOW SHE WRESTLES ON and realized what an ass-sucking son of a sasquatch Silas Mason is.
And dear mealy mouthed Silas is at the core of this conspiracy, the group I refer to as the Shadow Cartel, since they basically DEVOURED the Independant Wrestling Cartel. You want the details, I've got a whole big thing I did stating my intentions and going into their background over on IWC television for their Last Stand Rumble.
It became apparent last year that there was some malfeasance under way, as Taylor Chase was handed the World Title on a silver platter, defended her title only against her sister and her sister's best buddies.
I thought at first that was the extent of the matter, putting in a fix to make Taylor Chase look sufferin' succotash STRONG, ooah! But no, I hadn't been exposed to the full extent of the Shadow Cartel, I had to be there in person to witness it, to experience it.
I was trained by Desolation, the man voted the greatest wrestler in IWC history. It's not an inbred, incestuous Mason-Chase-Frost bloodline connection, but I have ties to one of the greatest professional wrestlers that the world has ever known.
I'm an incredible physical specimen, I've a bright blue, seven foot tall dragoness. I can do things in the ring that no one else could possibly manage to accomplish. And i'm not some lumbering, fat oaf of a seven footer either.
I'm agile like you wouldn't believe. No, seriously, you won't believe some of the things I'm able to do. My balance is amazing. If there is a human being alive who can balance and walk across something, I can run over it at full speed.
I can manage a ¾ speed gait on any vertical surface I can get a good enough grip on, like the side of a steel cage. I can do that UPSIDE DOWN as well. Get me in a Cell match and you'll have an instant classic.
There's nobody else on this planet like me, and I've proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that I can do all the things that a fed owner could ever possibly want in a contracted professional wrestler.
I can fight. I can talk. I can take a beating like no one else can.
I'm safe and reliable, there is damned near nothing on this Earth that can cause me permanent harm. You can hit me all day, and you'll bleed before I do. It doesn't matter how I land, my tendons will not tear and my bones will not break. Soreness and fatigue means nothing to me, get me some below freezing temperatures and in 15 minutes I'll be fresh as a daisy and ready and raring to go once again!
And guess what? I'm also comparatively immortal. Not that I want to be stuck here for 40 or 50 years, but in that time I'm not going to get weaker, I'm not going to slow down, I'm not going to decay into decrepitude. In fact my life cycle has me heading the other way.
I'm going to get bigger, stronger, faster, harder, scooter, GODS DAMN YOU RAYMOND AND YOUR FUCKING EUROPOP, GET OUT OF MY HEAD.
Ten years from now all the people you see alongside me in ULW today will be slowing down. They'll be changing their styles, trying to adapt for old injuries, for weakened portions of their body, not being able to lift as much as they used to, not able to move as gingerly.
I'm a renewable fucking resource, I'm an investment in the future. For fuck's sake sometime in the next two decades I'm going to sprout some some actual dragon wings and become a literal high flyer.
Yeah, that's right, somewhere down the road you'll be able to see seven foot tall, four hundred pound me hitting over a thousand degrees of rotation cannonballing down onto some poor schlub from somewhere up around the lighting rig. Though I'll probably be seven and a half feet tall and around 500 pounds by then. Even more if I have high density, armor type scales.
I'm amazing now, and I'll be fucking incredible in the future. But do you know what I got stuck with as my very first PPV match? A moron, an idiot, a retard, and his tag team partners the autistic and the midget.
And I got to team with Taylor's spear counterpart, the Dumbest Man in Professional Wrestling, P. Clarence Whitman III, who usurped the title from Sting.
And of the four people who didn't leave the IWC in the five months that followed those people have had a collectively combined ONE MATCH.
I was treated like a joke. I was brushed aside like I was nobody. Rookies who didn't have my pedigree of being trained by legitimate motherfucking LEGENDS had their PPV matches signed days, a week in some cases, before I got mine!
I got stuffed into a freakshow match because of what I am, because of what I represented. I am something that the Shadow Cartel cannot handle. I cannot be cowed into submission with physical violence. I cannot be swayed by promises of money, power, and fame. They can't reach out and try to break me through blackmail and by fucking with my family.
So they had to publically humiliate me, they had to bring down the threat of Kalinda Kriegsdottir before I became so entrenched into the public consciousness that there would be no way they could get rid of me.
And I know this for a fact, that this was their intention.
Because damned near the moment I hit ULW, leaving IWC to pull a Fayt and disappear up its own ass, here come the same two corrupting forces that I left the IWC to get away from. Skipping merrily and happily tra la la are Silas World and New Eden. And with the prospect of demonic franken-hooker hand jobs from New Eden and the access to Silas Mason's Generic Bitch cloning facilities, Raymond der Vaart would have an endless supply cheap, pliable wrestlers for his his peace, love, hubble, royalty, specks, compassion pro wrestling federation.
Pretty easy to promote the appearance of love and harmony when you're all blank, mindless minions controlled by the same conglomerate corporate overlord.
But the moment I showed up on ULW TV, the moment I started winning, and winning, and winning... The moment I beat the complete and utter piss out of three grown men on the airwaves... The moment the world got to see me in legitimate competition against legitimate fighters…
The moment that I could show the fans that I was a shining shoot star headed straight for the top Silas sicks his sister-cousin-wife Lenore on me. Lenore and Silas sitting in the crowd, Raymond murmuring unintelligible praise that we can't understand because he's got Silas' dick down his throat. "Oh you're so awesome, you're so amazing, please come wrestle for my little federation, I am so not worthy!"
New Eden and Silas World got the royal treatment, they got their asses kissed. They've got privileges to do all sorts of bullshit that would get me slapped with fines and maybe even have the legal department cranking open my cloaca with the biggest sized speculum they had. Oh yeah, after last Friday I'm pretty sure that Raymond the Fart is capable of maliciously engineering some sexual abuse consisting of a few pointless cavity searches, a half dozen enemas, and a colonoscopy. It'd be fit in with the heinous abusive trauma that he's had inflicted on Cameron MacNichol and Jason King.
So the moment I got within spitting distance of ULW's World Heavyweight Championship, out comes Lenore Price-Mason to hit me out of nowhere and derail my opportunity for title contendership. And then she comes out and does it again. And again. And again.
And it's always the same fucking move. For a supposed technical mastermind, lost Lenore seems to have such a limited moveset when actually coming toe to toe with somehow who massively outclasses her physically.
Yeah, Lenore, you're a fucking one move wonder.
You and your single actual offensive move have managed to ruin two of my world title opportunities. You managed to wreck my feel-good moment with Angel Kash, where I was going to make the ULW fanbase love and adore me by making balloon animals out of Angel's broken, malformed limbs.
You want to attack me, bitch? You want to make a name for yourself by attacking the biggest, baddest, bluest beast that ULW has to offer? Fine.
Your name is going to go down in history as the prime example as what happens when you royally piss off a dragon. As bad as Angel Kash was, you're worse. Because Angel's too stupid to come up with anything remotely resembling a plan.
Hell, she's so gods damned dumb that she thinks she can be taken seriously calling herself the Trillion Dollar Princess, which would put her on economic footing with Mexico and motherfucking Australia.
And yet she can't be bothered to hire anyone competent to wrestle her matches for her. She'll offer millions for a title belt, which you can have custom made for under a thousand bucks by the way. Hell if you give him a few general ideas and some crayons and paper to draw it out on, Axl Evermore will probably fucking make you on for cost. God damn that guy's addicted to fucking title belts. No, seriously, the dude probably fucks title belts.
Come around Nine Rings Studios and wonder why Desolation's 160 some belts are all in padlocked cases? Yeah, to keep Axl fucking Evermore from dumping his man milk all over the damn things.
A million bucks is more than 99 percent of professional wrestlers make in a year. You could sign damned near the best the business has to offer to fight on your behalf and they'd be paid better than they would with a normal contract with a wrestling federation.
So I think that Angel Kash is a sham. I think that little blonde boil of the ass of the ULW is a product of Silas Mason's Bimbo Factory. Fake background, fake history, a bunch of buckeroos dumped on her with instructions to go right after me and try to make me look bad.
Key word being try.
Because when you don't have the brainpower to walk and chew bubble gum at the same time you take your instructions literally. So when Angel got told to present me as ugly, talentless, and unmarketable that's exactly what she did. Using exactly those words and few others.
And we all know that someone is being paid off to let her fucking wrestle. Because she won't actually fucking wrestle. She won't willingly wrestle a match, she won't cut a fucking promo. And apparently she breaks into pieces from a stiff fart. "Oh poor me, I wrestled one whole match ever and then was so terribly injured I couldn't wrestle and had to have the slightly more talented likes of Piddle, Plop, Steve Smith, and Kjorn Battlestar fight on my behalf!"
Yeah, she can't do any of the fucking things you expect from a professional wrestler and she treats actually doing her job as some dire fate to be avoided at all costs. She's not a wrestler. What she is is a gods damned mouthpiece stapled to my ass to try and discredit me.
"Oh you're so horrible, you're so ugly, you're so awful you kill the ratings!"
Gee, imagine that, the moment ULW got the capacity to measure segment by segment rating breakdowns, guess who's been near to the tippy top each and every time, and guess who ends up having chewed through the bottom of the barrel and has actively begun eating dirt? Why, Angel Kash, of course!
And I'm sick of it.
I'm sick of the motherfucking dismal bitch mafia pissing all over me because I'm not going to join one of their pwecious widdle cwime families. I lack the head-up-my-own-assedness and self loathing required to become a member of Silas World, and I don't have the pancake makeup, the cape, and the overwhelming urge to LARP at 3 in the morning at the nearest Denny's to join New Eden.
But I can see Willow Wilkes is trying, poor weeping Willow who can't get things done on her own and has to have her hand held so that she can win matches. With her "artsy" black and white photos and dreary, supposedly "deep" bullshit that make Jaden Smith roll his eyes and the inanity. She's trying so damned hard to fit in with Adam, the Dark Lord of Denny's, and Dante the Sci Fi Nerd who never takes off his motherfucking space helmet.
So as I was saying at the beginning, I've been nice, I've been polite, I've tried my best to be a relatively happy, bouncy, peaceful not-quite-human being. And you fuckers have sucked all the joy right out of me.
So it's going to stop.
I am going to make it stop.
Because last night I announced my intention to go on the offensive. I'm not going to just sit here and react to your corruption, your meddling, and your hypocrisy. I've sat here and taken it, waiting for things to get better, to be the better man by letting you get your bad behavior out of your system and move on.
But you won't, none of you will.
You will not fucking move on.
You insist on making each and every moment I spend in this business a misery.
Fine. You do that. Keep it coming. Do your worst.
Because I'm going to be doing the same damn thing.
I entered myself in the Last Stand Rumble to fuck up your plans, to destroy your drones, to derail the Taylor Chase-Cruze gravy train. I'm going to rip the heart out of the IWC, burn that fucking belt, and piss on the ashes like you lot piss on the whole of professional wrestling.
Everything that I promised to do to Angel Kash, Lenore, I'm going to do to you. Because you couldn't let me destroy her, could you? You knew what would happen if I broke her. If I demolished her so badly that all the king horse's and all the king's men, couldn't pay the Surgeon General of Beverly Hills enough to staple her face back together again.
All Angel Kash is is a bought body and a bloated ego. Strip away the loveliness she so cherishes, and thus deflate her ego and what's going to happen? I may be the cause of her disfigurement, but the whole reason behind it?
Because you assholes sicked her on me. And she'd spill the beans. She'd shout from the heavens what you paid her to do to get herself mainstream media attention now that the pro wrestling limelight had been forever stripped from her.
And you couldn't have that, could you? You can't bear to have anyone shine a light into your fetid darkness.
I'm not going to wrestle you, Lenore. You don't deserve a wrestling match. You and yours have decided that silly things like rules and regulations and laws hold no meaning for you, that there are no boundries for those such as yourself.
I'm going to give you the beating of your life.
Mostly I'm just going to hit you in the face. It's basically a universal counter to every thing you can do to me. Because you sure as hell aren't going to suplex someone three times your size.
Armbar? Punch to the face.
Sleeper hold? Thumb to the eye, back headbutt to the nose.
Your vaunted Hostile Takeover submission hold? Bitch, you don't have the fucking leverage. I'm going to fall onto my back, bridge my legs, and make it so you can't breath with 400 pounds of pissed off dragon crushing your implant-filled chest. And that's only if you can get it locked in.
What's more likely to happen is that you're going to jump onto my back, fumble around, find out that your little stick limbs can't actually physically contain mine. So you're just going to end up clinging to my back like a spindly, perfumed tick, and I'm going to wrap my tail around your throat and strangle you until you're bluer than I am right there in the middle of that ring.
But that's not all. Because I'm not just going to make you suffer. You see, I've made it my life's work to make everything as completely and totally miserable for New Eden and Silas World as I possibly can.
So your supporting cast? You bring 'em to the ring they're fair game. I'm going to stuff Silas Mason's wingtip shoes up his ass.
i'm going to give Mr. Joshua's bald ass the closest shave of his life and cut that heinous stubble off his face with my claws, and probably all of his skin too.
That delightful orphan child you gave a fancy title to and feed lines to make it seem like he's helping?
Yeah, I'm sorry, but this is ULW. You know what happens to pregnancies and kids around here. Mmmhmm, yet another dead baby for the pile.
Anyone that belongs to Silas World that comes within reach of me is going to suffer, and I am going to break them. I'm going to enjoy it. Because if they come out to the ring they're fair game. Because accidents happen, just like they did to Gemma Spector.
Oh I'm sure they'll fine me. I'm sure Raymond will go out on the air and lie some more about what a disgusting individual I am and how Silas World is so totally not about sodomizing puppies and kittens. Seriously, they're so not about sodomizing puppies and kittens that if you say on the internet that Silas Mason and his fellows are known animal-rapists that they will DMCA the shit out of you to show that they don't stick their boners in baby boxer's butts. And that's before the Chilling Effect lawsuits come into play, filed in states lacking anti-SLAPP regulations.
But honestly, what the fuck can ULW management do to me that doesn't end up hurting them more? Not book me? Oh I'm sure that will go over great with the financial backers, having one of your tops stars just sitting on her tail for absolutely no reason because ULW management is so full of hypocritical bullshit that their eyes have collectively turned brown. Yeah, Britney Lohan's had to wear contacts so Silas can keep calling her Baby Blue. The sexist fuck.
Handicap matches? Bring 'em. I love 'em. I get to take my frustrations out on multiple people at a time. It's like being given a buffet of people to twist in funny ways until they scream.
Because they sure as hell can't fuck with my matches any more than they're already being fucked with. Gauntlets becoming battle royals, ignorant bitches who can only hit their one move from behind butting into the middle of each match I have. Oh, wait. They could have a ninety pound woman stand on the ring apron, because there is nothing more heinous and dire of an interference in a match than a slip of a woman perching just outside the active combat area!
It's nothing personal, Lenore. You're just a cog in somebody else's machine. But that doesn't mean I'm not going to claw a perfect recreation of the infamous Dickbutt image onto your midriff through the course of this match.
Yeah. I'll do that.
While I'm at it I'll probably gouge the word "TWAT" into your forehead as well. Very easy to do in all caps, no fiddly round bits to be had, just nice, straight lines. They'll not only have to bring out the Dusty Rhodes' Destroyed Forehead blur filter for that one, but also the pixelation, and maybe even GASP the dreaded blue dot.
Yes, it's going to be horrible. It's going to be dire. You may never actually be able to work in public ever again.
Good.
Because you deserve it. You deserve it, Silas deserves it, and Raymond der Vaart fucking deserves it.
You shitheels have went and made an enemy of me, and I'm going to do everything in my power to make life MISERABLE for each and every one of you.
And I'm not going to do it alone.
Jason King.
Clay Colton.
Cameron MacNichol.
Anybody that has an axe to grind against the corrupt regime here in ULW and the shadowy figures pulling the strings dwelling behind closed doors, thinking themselves safe in SCW and IWC.
If you need anything, if you need help, if you need a tag team partner, if you need someone to watch your back, if you need somebody to take a cheese grater to somebody's face and a barbed wire bat stuffed up their ASS, you come to me. You call me. You hit me up on Twitter.
Because you're not going to be alone in this any longer.
I'm not going to let the Shadow Cartel fuck up yet another wrestling federation.
I'm laying claim to ULW. ULW is mine, and I will fucking DEVOUR anything that threatens it.
Even its management.
Especially its management.
Shape up, Raymond.
I want you to go to bed every night, dreading sleep, remembering one little fact scraping against the front of your brain every time you nod off to Dreamland.
Anything I can bite through, I can chew. Anything I can chew, I can digest. Anything I can digest is so broken down to its base components that no one is ever going to be able to get DNA off of it.
And that is one of the many methods I can employ to make sure they never find your corpse.
Sweet dreams.
As the TV feed fades to white I snort, exhaling a cloud of mist. I'm pissed off. I'm beyond pissed off. I am in fact so angry that my body has kicked into full on draconic fight or flight mode and that I'm throwing off so much elemental energy that I'm sucking all the heat out of the room. It doesn't happen often, and I couldn't do it on purpose if I tried. The Matriarch can, and she has, the one time I let her have enough control of my body to be able to do it. She's been doing dragon stuff for millennia, I've only been able to drawn on my innate element for a few years.
Standing off to the side of the set, producing my segment is my trainer and my friend, the Dark Man himself Desolation.
"You'd kill yourself from the cholesterol if you ate him, you know."
"Don't joke about that." I warn him. "I am completely and totally serious about murdering him, eating him, and wearing his skin as a suit."
"A suit? You'll have enough for a suit coat, waistcoat, pants, a trenchcoat, and a Liberace length cape. Seriously, he's a fat, greasy little bastard."
"I mean it!"
"So do I. Just remember to leave out the brain. You can take that down to the bottom of the Marianas Trench, or to the inner depths of Antarctica that mankind will never, ever see. You'll get prions and start shaking."
I'm already shaking, not with the symptoms of cannibalism, but with out and out rage. I shudder and let out a sigh.
"I hate them. I hate them all."
"I know." Desolation says with a nod, putting a comforting arm around my shoulders. He probably feels as unpleasant as hell, though. As cold as I am, I'm pretty sure every synapse in his brain is going "CORPSESICKLE, DO NOT TOUCH!"
"It's why I ended up mocking everything and anything that got within spitting distance. I had to make my own fun, which is what people have to end up doing. There's a reason why pro wrestlers tend to die young."
"And your situation is not unique. This happens everywhere where someone seizes hold of a scrap of power and uses it to advance their own agenda. This Shadow Cartel has just got the advantage of having roots sucking the life out of three wrestling feds."
"You've faced this before, how do I stop it? How do I fix it? How do I put the broken pieces back together?"
"Just like you are, just like I did. Find enough like-minded men and woman on the roster to band together and fight against the forces of tyranny and corruption, and never give in. You cannot ever stop, not even for a moment. You let your guard slip for even one moment, just for one show, and everything you've fought against will be right back there in your face again. "
"There was a three or four month cycle in the XHWF where President Eastman would lose interest, drift off into other things for awhile, and you could slip in through the cracks, get something done, make a change for the better. But then he'd suddenly realize that things were no longer adhering to his grand, glorious plan."
"I have god knows how many title reigns, most of them came from the XHWF. Because the son of a bitch wouldn't even bother with pretenses, he'd just strip the belts off of people and award them to his bestest buddies in the whole wide world."
"Eventually people got sick of that shit, and no one would work for Ricki, I stopped working for the son of a bitch and went elsewhere. Though a series of bad decisions I ended up running a place, trying to do the best I had with a pair of half-ton steroid jockeys, two Highlanders, and a pretend vampire hunter named Orlando Cruze."
"I had as much power there as I did everywhere, and I still couldn't stamp out all the bullshit going on. It's always going to be there, Kal, it's insidious, and it's never, ever going to be banished from pro wrestling entirely."
I've never run a wrestling federation. I've never even thought about the possibility of running a wrestling federation. But if the greatest wrestler that I've ever known can't rid a fed of corruption with himself in the head office, then yeah, that means that you're never going to be rid of it.
That sucks.
Desolation chuckles and shakes his head. "And I'm just making you miserable talking about it, aren't I? You need some cheering up. You need something positive, so beneficial influence that can be had on pro wrestling and ULW as a whole."
He grins, "So I'll tell you what we're going to do tonight. We're going to go over to the workshop and make you a brand new toy, something entertaining for the Can of Fun."
I'm an adventurer, I can't help it. The prospect of new gear, weapons especially, always piques my interest.
"So what are we going to make?"
"Well, considering Ray sent Sheryl Grey to the hospital by putting in a phone call to Dante, the ULW Board of Directors is lacking an on the ground representative around here."
"And considering she was about to fire the Fart…" we pause for a momentary, totally immature chuckle at a lighting a fart joke.
"And she managed the unfuck half the situations in ULW in one evening, I think that the Board's perspective on things lines up a great deal with your own."
"So we are going to get you a 2x4, lathe down one end into a proper handle, wrap that with some tape, and then burn a phrase into it. So that you will be literally hitting people with the Board of Directors."
It's a weapon, it's a symbol and it's a pun.
"I love it! You're on! You always think of the best presents!" I say, giving my mentor a hug. A hug that lingers for uncomfortably too long.
"Kal, I think my ear is frozen to your shoulder." Desolation says.
"Goddammit!"
"We've got hot water around here somewhere. We always keep it on hand after you managed to get yourself stuck to Xande practicing the Frostbite Kiss."
I wince, that was a pretty awkward in my training career. "Yeah, I make sure my lips are thoroughly moistened before I do that move now."
"Honestly, I'd just go with the fireball to the face."
"ULW management won't sign off on that unless I get lessons from a circus firebreather and get certified."
"The bastards."
Someone finally arrives with a cup of steaming water to prevent Desolation from being the most well known one-eyed one-eared man in professional wrestling, allowing the unpleasant moment to pass so that the two of us can go and make me my new plaything.
I can't wait to start bludgeoning people with it.
No comments:
Post a Comment