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.
On the other side of me is Dragon Kitty, who while feline-ish in nature is not the size of a small cat, but more in line with a smallish tiger. Where he's managed to get a laptop durable enough to tolerate those huge mole claws of his I will never know. He's also got those silly half-moon granny glasses and a tie on, acting in his capacity as my personal accountant.
He's also in charge of handing out hats and sheriff's badges.
He's also been eating them.
And I, of course, am in my usual off duty attire of a pair of jean shorts and a t-shirt with a pocket on the chest. Well, considering there's a third "leg" for my tail, it might technically be a trio of shorts and not a pair. Recently added to my attire is a pair of sunglasses, which are mandatory from now on, as well as the gum I'm chewing. Why?
Well, it all happened on Twitter for the most part. Since there are people who actually cheer Jackson Adams, you might not be smart enough to be able to read. So in short I'm a baddie now.
Yes, ladies and gentlemnooses, Kalinda has turned heel! Shock! Horror! Snuffleupaguses! No it's not me having been corrupted by the dark powers surrounding me and becoming the evil overlord slash cult leader slash apocalypse maiden slash leader of an army of the walking/shambling/stumbling/crawling/floating dead they've always wanted me to be. No, I haven't turned my back on the fans because they were cheering Jason King louder that one time. No, I'm not signing on with either of those stupid fed-withering fandom-loathed bandwagon-jumping stables of New Eden or Silas World.
No, it's because ULW management caters to the bad guys. Being all nice and polite and so gosh darn happy to be here gets you pissed on. I'm not going to wait until Little Miss Scandal Free hikes up her skirts (whilst wearing tights so she doesn't let even a single scandalous ankle show) and widdles an overly orange stream (too many carrots) into my mouth like Cameron MacNichol is getting. I'm not going to let some dude that faked his death for tax purposes with teeth so rotten he has to wear some TREMENDOUSLY large corrective headgear (that also freshens his otherwise near-lethal halitosis) steal my medical records and in the process toss yet another fetus on the ever-growing pile of ULW dead babies.
I am pre-emptively cutting off all such douchebaggery off at the knees by adopting heel status. And upon doing so, I am given my special Naughty Club membership card that allows me to do some rather not nice things to other ULW superstars as well as giving me ULTRA SPECIAL PRIVILEGES.
I also have a punch card for hugs from ULW management, and a book of coupons. Get out of one threat to quit the fed free. Expires 9/15, redeemable for two shows worth of coddling my pwecious widdle feewings. Ignore two hypocrisies, get one free. 15 minutes of fame awarded to bemoan the fact that I am the most special-est of special snowflakes and that whomever is being promoted the most is a big meany-pants because I deserve all the attention and the international advertising campaign. Those sorts of things!
So, I have my official bad guy sunglasses on now. I've got my Oh So Arrogant brand gum that's guaranteed to increase my insufferable twat-dom by fifteen percent or my money back. And I've officially slutted up my normal outfit! No more pants for me, it's shorts all the way! You can see my knees now, how revealing and arousing! And a sexy, sexy tied off t-shirt, woohoo internet wank fodder here I come. Splort.
Also as a heel I get to have my own ridiculously oversized entourage that can be used of various nefarious purposes. Wrestling on my behalf, ala Angel Kash, preventing grievously wronged dragonesses from staving my head in with a cinder block, ala Lenore Price-Mason, or just generally slutting up the place and attempting desperately to get me over, like Adam.
Man, when a guy is generally bombing they usually only hang one attractive girl off him to try and get some crowd reaction. Adam has what? Like eight? Then again, Cassidy Haze probably counts as negative two. I know she usually does in the Ron Ratings. Heyo!
Thus the group of ridiculous quasi-reptilians jokingly dubbed "Dragonfarce" are currently interviewing for various positions. We've already recruited quite a number of general security personnel, but ran into a bit of an issue when trying to whittle them down to a manageably sized personal security force.
Bobs, you see, are not really known for their intellect. they're mostly known for eating ham, wearing wiggies and TIGHT leather pantaloons, beating up means, and sending them TO THE MOON ALICE! And that's not their fault. My theory is that the individual Bobs you see are like worker bees. It makes more sense to think of a whole collection of Bobs as a single organism. "Queen" Bobs, as it were, are called Roberts, of which we've only seen one, and he is a rather nasty piece of work when he's not disguised as one of the typical Bobs.
The Bobs around here are rescued Bobs, transplanted Bobs, domesticated Bobs, as it were. Wrangled and trained by one Mr. Ron Raeth, Bobs are a valuable natural resource, as they do most of the behind the scenes grunt work for Desolation's Nine Rings Studios, and through them the production duties for most of ULW's associate promotion, IWC. They work for ham.
These Bobs have lived through Mad Robert's Mnooseville Purges, where Bobs that didn't quite live up to the ideals of the Bob image were rounded up, slaughtered, and used to make vegan meat-and-egg-substitute products. Vegenaise? It's essentially Bob blood. Vegan baloney? You guessed it, denatured Bob cold cuts. People who abhor the wonders of ham and bacon are not nice people.
So as a result we have a selection of the most diverse Bobs in existence, and without the stifling presence of a Robert to oversee them and not whisk them off to the glue factory the moment they express a defect according to the murderous Mnooseville Charter several have managed to develop their own personalities and identities beyond the core basics of Bob-dom.
Unfortunately they live mostly in Ron's basement, and thus the only thing they have to form their nascent personas upon are old wrestling tapes, metal/industrial music, toys and TV from the 80's and 90's, and whatever else they can find in those limited surroundings.
So it is no surprise that the two suitable personal security candidates we've found acceptable are a buttermilk-chugging, pinkie-finger flipping, bald Bob in a leather vest that is somewhat clumsier than the usual run of the mill Bob. He's been dubbed "Stone Clod" Bobo Austin, and is announced typically by the sound of something breaking. Unlike his namesake his arrival is not limited to merely the shattering of glass.
The second is probably the most physically impressive Bob I've ever seen. He's taller and a LOT fatter than your typical Bob. The guy gives Plop a run for his money in the lard ass department. He's kind of a pain to work with, since he has a bit of an attitude problem. But his skill with both a sledgehammer and a shovel have earned him a place in the security force. He figures himself Bob royalty, and thus the "King of Kings." Ron's referred to him as Triple Chin due to his corpulence and the source of his mannerisms. He's pretty smart, for a Bob, and is the leader of my security force, the Captain, if you will, giving him the title of Captain Trips.
And I had just begun interviewing a third candidate when my little job fair was rudely interrupted. I was rather impressed by this one, as he'd managed to dress himself more like a typical human being, rather than an obvious Bob. Gone were the multihued wiggy and bow tie, replaced with a sickly green skullet and walrus mustache, stubble, snot green and poop brown feather boa, tanktop, and tye-dyed tights instead of leather pantaloons. He also seemed a bit leaner than your typical Bob.
"So, Mr. Brogan, is it? Why do you feel you'll make an excellent addition to my crack security force?"
"Well lemme tell ya somethin', Mean Gene..." he calls everyone Mean Gene. Bobs have issues remembering names for the most part. See Cousin Siggy, Buddy Budderkins, and Beatrice the Poop Bum.
"The Bulkster's got the power of the millions of Fecalphiliacs on his side, dude."
I wasn't quite sure I heard that correctly. "The what?"
"The Fecalphiliacs, brother! They train, wear their underwears and take their fiber regimen so that Fecalphilia can run wild, Mean Gene!"
Yes, I had heard it correctly and I could do nothing but stare. There are no words for this.
"Okay, dude, the Bulkster can tell you're not impressed. But the power of Fecalphilia let the Bulkster heft up the 9 billion pound carcass of Sanjay the Giant Indian Doucecanoe, carry him across the ring on the Bulkster's barn door back and Samoan Drop his greasy body in front of one hundred million Fecalphiliacs in the Potty Yak Browndome, Mean Gene!"
"You know who didn't have to tell everyone every week that he was a giant Indian douchecanoe? Sanjay the Giant Indian Douche..."
"OH MY GOD WOULD YOU PLEASE LEAVE!?" I growl at the Bob who has been the bane of my existence all afternoon. Stringy, greasy tangles of rainbow hair, an equally gross goatee, and a dark emerald skin tone that will have Marvel Comics up my ass if he put on a pair of purple shorts.
"Sufferin' succotash, son!" he says, recoiling. He's been doing his best to be obnoxious and annoy me since the moment he walked in the door. I'm pretty sure he's from a cross-pollinated lineage that makes him as much of a Cruze pod person as it does a Bob. He seems to be doing his utmost to get me to bite him. I get the distinct feeling that he wants to force himself down my throat.
A sound akin to hitting a side of beef with a baseball bat echoes throughout the concourse as my captain of the guard does his job, removing odious persons from my presence. He tips his police cap to me, which is worn on top of his crown, as he somehow has managed to open up a hole in the floor into which he shoves the unconscious body of the pod person.
"I'm-ah sorry about that ma'am-ah." says Captain Trips, "He just doesn't want-ah to stay buried!"
Much similarly a mound of dirt has appeared from nowhere, which is rapidly shoveled into the hole which upon being filled vanishes without a trace.
"That guy is way too be green to be headline Pestlemania, Mean Gene." Bart Brogan says with a disapproving shake of his head, referring of course to the world's biggest pay-per-view competitive apothecary show of the year. Anything over half plant and you qualify as an ingredient, not a participant.
Unfortunately that obnoxious little interruption was followed with an even larger, even more odious, most supremely annoying interruption as a phlegmy, dutch accented voice shouts over the crowd, "What in the blue blazes is going on in here?!" growls my boss, ULW… something or other, president maybe, Raymond der Vaart.
He marches through the tide of Bobs, who begin to form ranks and begin to sing my own personal re-write of a Scooter song. I call it "Fatter, Balder, Dude-er." Raymond just glares at them, and at me.
"What are you DOING?" he growls, "You cannot spontaneously have ham parties for 200 of your closest friends in the middle of an arena ULW has rented."
I glare at him over the top of my shades. "It's not a ham party, Raymond, I'm not even going to look up what disgusting sex act that means on Urban Dictionary."
"It means..." Spark begins to say, before I grab him with one hand and promptly stuff him into a British bobby's hat in the box of hats to shut him up before he can scar my brain.
"Then what, pray tell, are you doing taking up a goodly chunk of one deck of the arena?"
"I'm recruiting!"
"Recruiting what, Kalinda? I know I put out the call for new wrestlers, tag teams especially. But these do not look like future ULW superstars. It looks like a clown car or two unloaded at a meeting of Weight Watchers."
Several Bobs faint at this dire pronouncement. The very idea of LOSING weight is absolute terrifying and a fate akin to death for most of them.
"An entourage. I'm a baddie now, Raymond, didn't you see Twitter?"
He rolls his eyes, "I don't pay attention to anything you say on Twitter, and the sooner the rest of my employees realize that they ought to do the same, the better their mental health will be."
I point to my sunglasses and my tied off t-shirt top.
"I'm wearing sunglasses and chewing gum! I've changed my attire to something significantly more slattern! It's obvious I've gone over to the Dark Side, Ray."
I make a gesture with my hand and put my face into an expression of extreme concentration and willpower. Despite my effort I cannot actually accomplish a Force Choke.
"Right." he says, disbelieving.
"I had someone purposefully run in on one of my matches to help on my behalf! If that doesn't scream "I'm a naughty, naughty person breaking the rules in order to partake of an unfair advantage" I don't know what will!"
He sighs and shakes his head, "I distinctly forbade contracted ULW talent from interfering in the main event last week. And while I am not particularly PLEASED with the fact that you and Willow Wilkes violated the spirit of my pronouncement, no rules were actually broken in the process, and as a result I cannot punish you."
I snort, loudly. "Yeah, right. If I hadn't obviously declared myself a bad guy way before the start of the show you'd be punishing me by having me wrestle Priest and two random goobers this week instead of giving me my long awaited re-rematch with Angel Kash."
"Your what?"
"My re-rematch. I was supposed to face her back in that tournament thingy, but got Steve Smith. Was supposed to wrestle her later, but had to murder-death-kill her whole bodyguard crew slash butt wipers slash sex slaves. So this is my second rematch, thus a re-rematch."
"Riiiiiight." it's obvious he doesn't get what I'm saying and just moves on the conversation in hopes that there will be something forthcoming that he can in fact comprehend.
"So I turned heel so I could gleefully partake of the special privileges you shower on the more unpleasant half of the roster."
"I don't give special privileges to anybody, Kalinda."
"Jason King doesn't have an entourage. Clay Colton doesn't come to the ring with a half dozen buddies. Yet Adam, Lenore, and Angel all get to have a bunch of folks accompany them EVERYWHERE and they get to do all sorts of things you'd scream your head off about if the good guys did it."
"Jason King could have a troops of singing, dancing clowns follow him down to the ring if that's what he wanted."
"Ah ha! And they would wear his rainbow panoply of child-centric merchandise in order to further cement him as the chosen face of the company, whom you are going to ride until the wheels fall off and go to ridiculous lengths to assure will never take a clean loss in the middle of the ring."
"I have no clue what you're talking about. You might as well be speaking French."
"Anyway, having joined the deepest darkest depths of despicable wickedness, I'm recruiting my own security team to keep my person protected, keep Eric Sailes from pooping in my gym bag, interfere in my matches, shoo off Eric Herrera and the Mormon Muddy Mission from distributing Jack Chick tracts, having some shoulders to cry on when I manage to lose to my own general incompetence because SHOCK! HORROR! SNUFFLEUPAGUSES! THERE'S A 90 POUND WOMAN STANDING ON THE RING APRON!"
"I don't think Eric Herrera is actually Mormon, and I don't think the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints appreciates being demeaned in this way."
"90 POUNDS, RAYMOND! TINY WOMEN STANDING ON RING APRONS ARE FAR MORE EFFECTIVE AT MAKING PEOPLE LOSE MATCHES THAN ANY OTHER!"
"And quite frankly I would very much appreciate it if you would stop antagonizing our World Heavyweight Champion."
I grin, "Hold on, I think I have a coupon for that!" I say, pulling out the rather thick coupon book and begin to leaf through it. It takes a few moments before I find what I'm looking for. One of the few advantages to having an artifact of unspeakable evil grafted to your arm is the fact that the claws are better than scissors. I have that sucker cut out perfectly straight and on the lines in seconds and drop it into Raymond's pudgy hand.
"What is this? "Redeemable for 1 day of unrestricted, consequence-free ranting and/or taking potshots and/or shoot comments about another member of the roster." Where did you get that book of coupons?"
"Yes, I know, I know, it's supposed to take four to six weeks for delivery, but I just couldn't wait. So I went up and had my own book of coupons printed. I know what's in there already, so I figured that I could dive right in to the deep end of being a heel without having to stand in the shallow end until I can debut my new gimmick by beating the peas out of a random babyface. Umm… used to be the guy getting the Worf Effect in ULW was Desolation. But he isn't here any more, and we haven't really established and official federation chew toy."
"I have no idea what you think you are..."
"Ray, I'm totes a baddie! Look! I even have the requisite eyeliner and spooky eye paint thing going!"
I slide down my sunglasses (not removing them, because proper baddies don't remove their shades except when they wrestle, and in the case of Curtis Hughes and Leeland Gaunt not even then) and show off the black tribal designs around my eyes. They're kind of like the white or green markings I've showed off before when channelling dark powers before.
Raymond is totally impressed at my attention to detail with my whole heel turn schtick. I can tell.
"Fine. Whatever. As long as it's not a severe detriment to anyone else you can do whatever you like. Recruit bodyguards, hold out try outs for a freak show, start your own call-in vote show trying to find the best arm pit fart-er in North America. Just clear out of here. You're terrifying the concessions workers, and they need to get things stocked up before Friday. You've got 30 minutes to get your "security team" or whatever together."
Wow. This whole heel thing definitely works. I'm being given special dispensation from the boss man to recruit my elite security strike force on company property, interfering with business as usual while I'm doing it. Total favoritism. I'm in Raymond's good book now. Bad ass!
Bart Brogan takes this moment to theatrically cup his hand up against his ear. He calls for silence and all the Bobs quiet themselves, allowing the soft buzzing of a fly to be heard. The Bulkster looks rather confidant as he pulls a length of pipe out from beneath his feather boa.
"You see, brotherdudejack, back in the long ago ages of the 80's, brother, the Bulkster was marooned on an island. And he made friends with the snarling, growling, feral Samoan tribe, and they taught the Bulkster their ways in exchange for being able to draw upon the power of Fecalphilia."
Mr. Brogan bends over, lacking the bloodcurdling scream that most Bobs have occur when they take this posture. Probably because his tights don't have a pocket for a tape recorder. He takes the pipe, places it between his green and brown clothed buttocks, clenches, pivots, and lets loose with a one cheek squeak with enough force to fire a dart from the blow gun, spearing the fly from the air.
Raymond is quite impressed, staring at the newest member of my guard team with what is obviously jaw-dropping awe. He shakes his head at the incredibly impressive sight he's just witnessed, mutters something to himself about needing aspirin and wanders off.
So that's three down. Four is a good number. That's how many Angel Kash has, and I can't let her have a bigger entourage than me. It's a matter of professional pride, after all. But wherever am I going to find someone suitably impressive to join the elite ranks of the three Bobs that have come before?
An angry shout from over by the restrooms answers my question. "MY CLIENT, BORK REZNOR, HAS DETECTED A REEK!"
The ground shakes, dust falls from the ceiling, my orange soda trembles in its glass as the crowd of Bobs part, revealing the rotund form of Lead Bob Wrangler Ron Raeth, the ceremonial banjo of his office strapped across his back. Somehow he's managed to find a suit that fits his linebacker-esque 330 pound frame. He's red faced and looks like he's about to pop a blood vessel in his head as he repeats himself at maximum volume.
"MY CLIENT, BORK REZNOR, HAS DETECTED A REEK!"
He darts forward several steps while the most impressive looking Bob I've ever seen comes striding forward with slow steps that cause the whole of the arena to quake. This fellow definitely knows the whole playbook on how to be a baddie, as he's already got the whole eyeliner and more revealing attire thing going.
Rather than the typical pair of pantaloons, he's cut a pair of tight leather short shorts. His bow tie is not mysteriously attached, but rather tattooed directly onto his throat with a rather intimidating skull centerpiece. He looks like he's only got maybe 100 pounds of extra flab on him, with the rest of extra 300 most Bobs carry devoted to muscle.
If I wanted to go out and play catch with Smart Cars, this guy looks like the most likely playmate to be able to catch what I can throw and fling the amusingly cute, tiny car right back to me. Most people just go smoosh or go running in terror.
He looks rather somber, as opposed to the outright jolly nature of most Bobs. He only has a single rainbow streak, though some multicolored roots are showing, in his otherwise ink black hair. Long and straight, also not a typical Bob trait.
Bobzilla stomps over to my table, a tremendous scowl on his face as he glares daggers at Bart Brogan. The frown of Mr. Reznor is so severe that it almost looks like the exact same shape as Mr. Brogan's mustache.
Ron is right there with his apparent client and he screams once more, this time directly in the face of my newest member of security.
"MY CLIENT, BORK REZNOR, HAS DETECTED A REEK!"
Brogan looks around with wide eyes, unsure of what to do.
"Um… excuse me?"
Bork reaches up with one hand, and with a sound like cracking stone slowly shifts his frown into a neutral expression, first once side, than the other.
I'm about to ask about his qualifications when the air fills with the obnoxious 90's Europop tones of E-Rotic's "Max Don't Have Sex With Your Ex." I'm wondering who the hell shares Raymond der Vaart's taste in music when everybody's least favorite wrestler strides into the concourse.
It's none other than Max Hardly, best known as the replacement Alexander Fayt when the original managed to disappear up his own asshole. Max has been portraying the role of Fayt for years and is tentatively a member of the Loons.
He's also like just about the only person Simon "Silencer" Cagero is absolutely batshit TERRIFIED of. Yes that's right, the evil mime will flee in outright terror at the sight and sound of Max teh Fayt attempting to serenade him with a hideous rendition of Judas Priest's "Turbo Lover."
Max is joined by his brothers, Fat and Spliff, who look like nightmare caricatures of Piddle and Plop. Fat is an obese, greasy, hideous human being who makes his own clothes, and yet still covers them in stains. He's chomping on a turkey leg, as usual. Spliff looks like Piddle would if he started taking meth. Like anorexic model skinny and looks like he was the centerpiece at a paint palette bukkake party. Spliff is holding up the MP3 player and struggling under the weight, while Fat has a pair of giant speakers strapped to his back.
Max comes striding in with his outfit that makes him look like he was out at a vampire LARP. I think his cape is passed down from person to person, marking his status as the Dark Lord of Denny's. He comes striding up to the table, motions for Brogan to move from his seat, and then sits himself down on the table when the booger green and brown Bob refuses to move.
"o hai, i m teh max." he says, making a show of elegantly pulling off his leather gloves, giving a small shake of his head to make his overly conditioned 80's hair looking pure white locks billow through the air. It looks like one of those commercials where there ought to be cherubic harping in the background.
And there is, as Spliff presses a button on the MP3 player.
"i herd u r lurking 4 a bootygard 2 protect u while u wrestle in teh ulw." he says with his weird, obnoxious accent.
"I lik teh ulw, but tehy wil no let me wrestl cuz i m teh fayt and i was teh wurld hooverweight shampooian."
Yes, for a few brief, dark days back in the dire days of the mid 2000's Max Hardly was your ULW World Heavyweight Champion as management rushed to find a solution to the problem of the original Fayt vanishing up his own egomaniacal butthole. Alex Fayt stole everything, his look, his moves, his entry theme, EVERYTHING. So they simply had Max steal those things in order to cement himself as the second Alexander Fayt.
Literally nobody noticed.
Max teh Fayt grabs my coupon book from the desk and begins leafing through it, a knowing grin on his face.
"hmm, it lurks like u r gone 2 b 1 of teh main event heelzorz. xclent. i was also teh main event heelzorz. so u wil be my steppin ston 2 stardom. u need teh entourage, i hav teh entourage also." he gestures to Fat and Spliff, who are toasting Stone Clod with a quart of buttermilk and picking his nose, respectively.
"i wil b ur bootygard, and u wil get me in teh door 2 see teh raymod the fart.i wil let him hav buttsecks wif meh, and tehn i wil b teh ulw wurld hooverweight shampooian 1nce mor. u can hav teh ulw hardcor titl, teh still hav taht, m i rite? rite?" he grins at Bork and pats him on the shoulder.
Bork looks down at Max's hand, looks at Max, looks down at his hand again. There is the sound of snapping tree branches under load as Bork's natural hateful frown manifests itself on his face once more.
He slaps Max's hand aside with enough force to spin the white-haired weirdo around, his exquisite locks flowing phantasmically with the motion, gripping him in a waist lock, and rolls back in his chair, flinging Max over his head in an incredible German suplex.
Bork roars with rage as he gets to his feet. Max is up after the dire suplex and has leaped up into Spliff's arms and has begun to shake like a leaf. Bork turns his gaze to more intimidating prey, snarling at Fat Hardly, who has a milk mustache. And a milk goatee. And a milk chest mat. And a milk pubic thatch.
The Sensei of Fattitude looks around with confusion, not sure what he's done to draw the beast's ire. He turns and begins to try and waddle away, but Bork grabs him by the plentiful amount of greasy hair atop his head. Fat Hardly manages to grab his brothers, trying to prevent himself from being suplexed.
But Bork manages to cinch his titanic arms around the prodigious waist of Fat and with a Godzilla-esque roar hefts the three Hardly Boys up over his head in a German Suplex that would shake the Times Union Center to its very foundation, were it not for the presence of a well-placed hole.
Captain Trips whistles happily as he begins to bury the trio of interlopers. I stand up, nod to Ron Raeth, and offer my hand.
"Sir, consider yourself and your client officially employed!"
Yeah, suck on THAT Angel Kash. My cadre of elite bodyguards are awesome, while yours are awful friggin jobbers. Booyah!
So here we go again. Kalinda Kriegsdottir and Angel Kash. Only the thing is, I've never actually wrestled Angel Kash, have I? Then again nobody has, with the exception of Silencer and Serenity. And as a newly adopted baddie, I get to be able to decide on a whim who is and is not people. Mimes are not people, faux-lesbians that promote a relationship on Twitter to draw in the Jerry Lawler demographic are not people, pigs-beings that spray their own feces and menstrual blood all over the stalls in some of the places I've had the misfortune of going potty in? You guessed it, also not people.
Thus no one of importance has wrestled Angel Kash. And Silencer will back me up on this, having stated on several occasions that he is in fact a piece of shit and is notorious for being actual pigeon poop.
I'm starting to think that Angel Kash, the wrestler, is a fictitious urban legend. An utterly false creature of mythology and the human imagination that might, perhaps, have a grounding in reality. Like the rotting basking sharks that people think are little plesiosaurs, or the Jenny Hanivers, the dried out corpse of a stingray carved into the continence of a mermaid.
What I think we have here is not Angel Kash, Trillion Dollar Princess and Professional Wrestler. What we have is Angel Kash, Fifteen Dollar Princess and Amateur Manager. No no no no no, what we have here is something absolutely unforgivable.
What we have is, shudder, an attempt at making Steve Smith relevant in this day and age! It's terrifying, horrifying, disgusting, and sick! To try and take a man of his age and his lacking talents, the ticking time bomb that is basically everything between his hips and ankles, and an outright exploitation of his vaguely Jesus-esque appearance in order to draw in the over 50, religious, and not having their glasses on demographic.
Through the magical powers granted to her from the powers above, and by that I mean ULW management, Angel Kash can use her sorcerous powers of substitution to change the names on the booking sheets from Kalinda vs. Angel Kash to Kalinda vs. Steve Smith, Kjorn Battlestar, and the rest of the Job Squad.
But no longer! For you see, ladies and gentlemen, heel shenanigans are made null and void if you try them out against another heel. It's like fucking magnets, how do they work? Are you a magnet, bro?
I am officially a certified baddie, and thus by the power of my sunglasses, eyeliner, and skimpy attire I hearby invoke my power of darkity dark batshit dungeon fuckery to heretofore null and void Angel Kash's magical switcheroo powers, ipso facto miney moe, magico!
And thus having spoken the magic words, the world will bear witness to Angel Kash's second match ever in United Livewire Wrestling. And it's probably going to be her last one too. Because seriously, she's like a fucking manager who to date has had her biggest offense be purely verbal put downs. And not good put downs either.
Like Angel Kash, you are a disgrace to mankind. You are a scum-sucking cumdumpster of a human being lacking the sense that your beetle-loving god granted to a concussed, senile goldfish. Despite supposedly being a world economic power to rival two Wal*Marts, ranking right up there between Mexico and Indonesia, all your bajillions have managed to buy you is… Steve Smith and Kjorn Battlestar.
Such fail. Many ineptitude. Very suck. Wow.
I mean you've got all the money in the world and the only guys you can afford to go out there and wrestle in your place are a guy whose knees were broken down and on the verge of spontaneous combustion ten years ago and the guy who got cut off at the knees because Bethesda Software said "That's a nice wrestling federation you have. Would be a shame if someone sued the pants off of it for using our intellectual property."
As a magical dragon-themed warrior hailing from another world, capable of using incomprehensible eldritch powers and sorceries, I find it incredibly demeaning and offensive for a scruffy-looking nerf herder like Kjorn to take what is essentially my real life identity, staple it to some random dude, and pilfer liberally from what is only like the sixth most played video game on the planet EVER to fill in the gaps.
Yeah, way back when the rumors were going 'round that the IWC had this big nasty monster-person getting ready to rip and shred through the roster. So the ULW went out and got themselves a Renegade to my Ultimate Warrior. A Buzzkill to my Road Dogg Jesse James. A Gillberg to my Goldberg.
And then IWC shit the bed and blew what could have been and a certain otherworldly dragon warrior managed to wind up in ULW and all of a sudden Kjorn Battlestar was the New Coke of professional wrestling and nobody wanted him. 'Cause he's just a dude, you know? Nothing compared to a fucking a SEVEN FOOT TALL FIRE BREATHING MONSTROSITY WITH A MOTHERFUCKING TAIL! Dragonborn who? Get a load of the real fucking dragon on the ULW roster!
And in comes Angel Kash swooping in to save the day! Poor, oppressed Angel Kash whose biggest baddest, meanest taunts about not being marketable were shattered into the thousand pieces the very moment ULW acquired an easy way to measure it's segment by segment, person by person ratings.
And it turns out that one of the biggest, baddest, bestest, bluest driving forces behind getting the mothership some big ol ratings pie, if you wheel? Kalinda motherfucking Kriegsdottir.
And one of the biggest duds? The elite ratings killers, who are to the ULW fanbase what the horrific visage of Tammy Faye Baker is to the boner-bearing populous. Angel Kash is dick wilter numero uno now that Arcadia Chavez is a crispy critter and there isn't hide nor hair of Tom Smith to be had on this show.
Unmarketable my big blue ass. You can suck my non-existent cock, Kash. I'm ULW's number three ratings draw, and I'm right up there with Jason motherfucking King, and I haven't had a marketing campaign, months of getting my butthole verbally tongued by the management, and a psychotically managed campaign of booking to assure that no matter what I will never EEEEEEEVER be outright pinned in the middle of the ring during a match.
With LITERALLY ZERO commercial dollars behind me, Angel, I am neck and fucking neck with ULW's Chosen One. I'm the only one of ULW's top four names that HASN'T got a title. I've gotten where I am, Angel, on the sheer effort of me being the biggest, baddest, bluest bitch this company has ever seen.
And do you know what?
I'm sick of your lip.
I'm sick of your attitude.
I'm sick of you being a wrestler that does not fucking wrestle.
I'm sick of you being a vehicle to foist Steve fucking Smith, Exploding Knee Jesus, onto the rest of the world.
I'm sick of you, plain and simple.
So since you can't be bothered to wrestle, since you can't even be arsed to fling two hundred words at a camera every other week, since you can't do anything but live in a little bubble obsessed with your own perfect little head shoved right up your perfect little ass, I'm going to fix that for you.
You're not going to need to wrestle ever again, Angel.
You'll never have to take five minutes out of your day to cut a promo.
Hell, you don't even have to stress out your dainty little tootsies by having to hike those treacherous hundred feet or so to the ring.
Because the market has spoken, Angel. And the market has decided that it fucking detests you. You are an affront to professional wrestling. You are a bleeding fissure on the anus of humanity.
You've got your crew, I've got mine. And what's going to happen, Angie-baby, is that me and my guys are going to beat the everloving FUCK out of your guys. Steve and Kjorn and Todd and Leroy, we're going to snap them like twigs.
And with nobody to hide behind Angel fucking Kash has to get her hands dirty and step in the ring with her worst nightmare.
"Oh, I haven't been pinned! I haven't submitted!" Yeah, and guess what? You haven't fucking won a match either! Cameron MacNichol had you as the gods-damned albatross around his neck and did the hard work to submit Serenity in the sole single legitimate wrestling match you had. Yeah yeah, yeah, "Who are you to doubt El Dandy" with Piddle. ULW Legend.
Ric Flair's fucking proverbial broomstick can get a win over Piddle.
But guess what, Angel?
I'm not going to pin you.
I'm not going to make you submit.
I'm going to fucking massacre you in the middle of the ring.
The match is going to end when the referee has decided that you've been put through so much pain, so much misery, so much suffering that to allow any further violence on the broken husk of your body would be unthinkable. I'm going to brutalize you so bad that the referee has to end the match, or be tried as an accessory to a fucking war crime.
Two weeks ago Mya Denton rid the world of ULW's biggest bag of suck with a cattle prod and the world rejoiced. It cheered. Last week a baby-talking tumor got cut out of ULW's body, and this week I'm going to excise the cancer that is Angel Kash from this federation, and I'm going to do it with my bare fucking hands.
I'm going to destroy you, Angel. I am going to take away each and every thing that you love about yourself, about your body, about your face. I'm going to rip out your hair in chunks. I'm going to make you walk with a disgusting limp. I'm going to claw gashes in your forehead so big that the plastic surgeons will never be able to hide the scars.
Go ahead. Bring your empty words and your empty threats. Say that I'm jealous. Say that I'm ugly. Give voice once again to the LIE that I'm unmarketable. Because some Friday evening, Angel Kash, you're never going to be a whole woman again.
I'm going to carve off pieces of your body, Angel.
You're going to leave fragments of your fucking SOUL in the middle of that ring.
It's not going to matter how much you scream. It's not going to matter how much you beg, how much you plead, how many millions you offer me on a platinum platter to just make the suffering stop. To bring an end to your pain, to bring an end to the match.
You'll burst your vocal chords SCREAMING for me to pin you. WAILING that you give up.
But that's not how it works, Angie. That's not how it's going to be.
I'm not going to stop hurting you until they make me. The punches, the kicks, the slaps, the bites, twisting your bones in ways they weren't meant to bend, digging my claws into your flesh and drawing pictures so when the stitches come out you've got a little stick figure picture of me with my boot up your ass.
The only way it's going to end, little girl, is when Cassandra Mason comes running down the aisle with an army of referees and security personnel in tow to pull me off of you. Because having a non-wrestler crippled, disfigured, and scarred for life on live television would be such a SCANDAL.
Because you aren't, Angel.
You're not a wrestler.
You're never going to be a wrestler.
And come Friday, do you know what you're going to be?
Meat.
Screaming.
Bloody.
Meat.
And me, Kash?
I'm going to eat you up.
Om.
Nom.
Nom.
[Fade to White.]
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