Twenty four men and women, two dozen souls all coming together for one purpose: to show their skill, to show their strength, to show their determination, their will. Their capacity to soak up absolutely hellacious amounts of damage that would make lesser men and women simultaneously puke, piss, and shit themselves and shortly thereafter passing out.
Three points for a win, one point for a draw, no points for a loss. Whichever of the dozen individuals in each of the two groups scores the highest will face each other in May. The winner of that bout, having proved their mettle, will face me one on one for my DTW World Championship.
But you see, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and human cancers of all stages, I'm also here too. A wolf amongst the sheep. I'm fighting my own future competition for my champion, my title, my belt. I am the first, the ONLY DTW World Champion and in the living hell I call a career, not a single one of you has managed to defeat me cleanly in one on one combat.
I get absolutely nothing out of this tournament if I win. A pretty, shiny trophy to adorn my mantle? I don't want them. I don't need them. Years ago I might have been filled with the desire to give it all, to do my best, to win at all costs and earn myself the prestige and glory that comes with victory.
But I never did win those wonderful, sparkly, shiny accolades. Because the whole of professional wrestling decided that it wasn't about who was the best fighter, who could take the most damage, who could dish out the most punishment.
Oh no, little ones, it became all about who you know, who you blew, and whose blood flowed through your veins. Which officials you could bribe, which federation overseers would bend over backwards to kiss your ass, which personages of power you could get to lay opportunity after opportunity at your feet just because of your last name or your backstage connections.
Run in after run in. Night after night. Title shot after title shot handed on silver platters to the people who had lost to me when they finally found themselves bereft of their allies and forced to face me with nothing but their own minds and their own muscles.
And they all came up wanting.
Months ago I fought many of you in the Railway Rumble, in a battle of strategy and endurance. Whoever lasted to the very end would be granted a golden opportunity at my DTW World Championship.
Except…
You all failed.
Each and every one of you little bastards said you were going to walk out of there as the one true challenger to my title, and you lied.
You lied to me.
You lied to the people.
You lied to yourselves.
Because when everything was said and done it was ME who stood tall at the Railway Rumble.
It was ME that won the wonderful gift that had been placed on a silver platter for all of you to take with your grubby, sticky little fingers.
And yet none of you had the heart, the will, the strength, the skill, the drive to step up and seize that gift for yourselves.
You all came before me.
You all were found wanting.
I spent three years watching my wretched paymasters reward their failing cronies. I watched people who lost to me lavished with title shots. I saw the undeserving simply handed professional wrestling titles that might very well have been participation trophies for how often they were defended. I grew sick in my heart to see how people who had earned nothing were given everything, and those that strove to accomplish everything were rewarded with nothing. With less than nothing. With mockery, with scorn, with disgust, with racism.
How many of you were banned from attending fan festivals at the companies you worked for because of the color of your skin? How many times were you called a beast, an animal, a monster, a lesser, a subhuman because of a random quirk of birth and fate? How many times did each and every one of you have to sit out in the parking lot while the rest of your coworkers got to sit in the arena and sign autographs?
You haven't had to go through the absolute hell that I had to crawl through in order to gain MY DTW World Championship.
You haven't had your happy, silly, pleasant personality used against you to pit you in endless matches against idiots, clowns, midgets, and the mentally handicapped. You haven't had your boss hire a hillbilly cult to lock you in a casket and set you on fire in the middle of the arena.
You haven't had to feel the dual agonies of having your flesh burn from the flames and your heart burn because of betrayal.
No one helped me.
No one came out to stop them.
There wasn't so much as a child with a water pistol out there to try and douse the flames while a sentient being burned alive trapped in a metal box, listening to her flesh sizzle, breathing in the smoke of her own burning body.
I had to escape from my own blazing coffin in order to get to where I am today.
And I crawled out of my own fiery grave into an even deeper hellhole of misery and corruption where all the backstabbing and political dealing was magnified tenfold.
Tell me, children, have you ever been hired by a wrestling federation whose sole motivation for your hiring was to destroy you? Not physically, not like the bounty-seeking hillbilly cult and their flaming coffin, but professionally.
To take you off the market so you can't be used by other feds and then to suck every last drop of prestige, glory, and majesty out of you that they can in order to better their own selection of wrestlers?
Because that's where I was before DTW. I had just quit a fed that on my way out expressly stated that they'd only signed me for the purposes of ruining me.
And they almost did.
They nearly destroyed me, so far as professional wrestling was concerned. The only good deed Riddick's ever done in his wretched, miserable, masturbatory life was to recognize that I'd been given a raw deal and invited me to take part in a startup deathmatch wrestling company.
If you think he's a douchebag from a distance, try having to wrestle the Angriest Little Cancer Patient every other show for six months while he's screaming about wrapping an Eskimo parka around his dick so that he can fuck your freezing cold scaly cloaca.
And then there was the legal trouble that sent DTW onto hiatus, leaving me wondering if I would wake up in the morning and find that the courts had closed down the only federation that had ever bothered to treat me like an actual fucking human being.
And I waited, my DTW World Championship having never been defended.
And I waited.
And I waited.
There wasn't a single phone call, a single text, a single email, not even so much as a motherfucking smoke signal from other wrestling federations asking me if I wanted to take part. If I wanted to compete for them. If I wanted to wrestle for them. If I wanted to take part in their rumbles and tournaments and fun and games.
Because even an entire year removed from the company I left to drown in a tide of its own shit the empty, soulless husks of human beings coasting by on their name, their friends, and their connections were still whispering their poison into the ears of those who would listen.
DTW is all I have. It's the only wrestling federation that's ever given me a fair shake, and with all the bullshit out there about me, it's quite likely that if DTW goes down, my career ends along with it.
That's why the DTW World Championship is MY title. Because my destiny in this sport is irrevocably tied with that of DTW itself. Because this is the only way for the truth of what I am to burn away the lies. For DTW rise to become THE place to go for hardcore deathmatch wrestling and MY title becoming the one everybody is gunning for.
I have to make sure DTW remains a respectable place to work, and not a wretched hellhole filled with run-ins, backstage cliques, and titles being treated like garbage. And in order to do that I cannot and will not reward failure.
None of you stepped up. None of you won the prize. None of you managed to beat me at Railway Rumble.
And if you think in your abominable, pea-sized mind for a single moment that you DESERVED to have me just fucking HAND YOU a World Title shot you can suck Teiji's dick. You won't even have to ask him. Just wait around in his vicinity for about five minutes, it'll get whipped out without any prompting from you.
You lost.
Each and every DTW roster member that took part in that match, each guest, each member of the Broadway musical masquerading as a professional wrestling stable known as Badd Breed, you lost.
If you wanted a world title shot that badly, all you had to do was win.
And you didn't.
So it's your own fucking fault.
Which means that the entire DTW roster's out for me to pick to defend my title against.
So who else can I face?
It's not like anybody not named Masatake or Hanako ever invites me to go places, do things, or just shoot the shit over the phone with me. And they're DTW already, and thus out. I couldn't give it to Claudia or Delilah either for the exact same reason.
So what am I going to do? Just go up to some rando on Twitter with my hat in hand and go "Please sir, would you like to compete in DTW against me in a World Title match?"
That's how you end up with your world champion taking the belt and driving off with one Caleb Hart into the sunset atop an automobile shaped like a penis, never to be heard from ever again.
That is a thing that actually happened, by the way.
When I started wrestling I knew I was going to suck. My moves weren't going to be crisp, my movements were going to look like garbage. Because I had not even six months of training inside a pro wrestling ring and I basically had to learn how to compartmentalize how I fought before and how I would have to fight from then on.
I knew it would take time before I developed proper instincts to compete in the world of professional wrestling, so I did what every other person with questionable wrestling ability does to mask it; I carried a trash can full of weapons that I could hit people with instead of doing all those complicated pro wrestling moves.
All I wanted to be when I started out was another deathmatch wrestler, one that just so happened to look a bit different than other people. That way I could let my unique appearance and my happy, peppy personality be the things that made me stand out from the other wrestlers around me.
Except that never got to happen.
My Can of Fun would be whisked off to the back when I wasn't looking. Despite me focusing my training on that way to wrestle, because hitting people with random shit I just picked up has basically been my fighting style since forever.
Desolation, one of the greatest technical wrestlers and mic workers in the history of professional wrestling, may have been the one that taught me the moves, the holds, the ins and outs of how to wrestle.
But it was SPIDER that taught me how to be a professional wrestler. The toad-licking, acid-dropping bastard didn't even blink at having a seven-foot-tall, bright blue dragoness being dropped in his proverbial lap with instructions on getting me prepped for the ring.
But he went above and beyond that. He didn't just teach me what I needed to survive in the ring, but also what I needed to survive the predators backstage, the scummy promoters that would sell out their own mothers for a dime and won't pay you a wooden nickel more than they have to.
He did this out of the goodness of his foul, black heart.
All I ever wanted to be when I started out in this business was a deathmatch wrestler. All I wanted to do was to be happy. All I wanted was to help people.
I sat there, I did my job without complaint. I went above and beyond the call of duty. When after every other World Heavyweight Championship match in ULW the champion would take a show or two off to "recover," I'd be right there wrestling that show. From beginning to end, never missed a night. You know, until they stuffed me into a goddamn rotbox and lit me on fire.
So because you all failed to provide me with a suitable challenger, I decided that I would face a deathmatch legend. I would face one of the people responsible for training me to wrestle. I would face the Hardcore Messiah himself, SPIDER, in the match type he made famous; the Human Horrorshow.
And you whiny, entitled little bitches wouldn't even let me have that. The tweet went out and the ink on the contract hadn't even dried when the whining started. The pissing and moaning about how Kalinda was too scared to face so and so, about how so and so deserved to have been awarded the title shot when they'd LOST THE GODDAMNED RAILWAY RUMBLE IN THE FIRST PLACE.
So as to prevent a catastrophic bitch-pocalypse and the prevent Japan from being sunk in a tidal wave of blood gushing forth from some very salty, sandy vaginas, I'm going to say right now that I'm not making it my goal to win the Carnage Carnival and the Yamashi Cup.
If it happens, it happens. And you can spend the next show jacking off into a cup of your own tears because if I win it again you all once again get to sit with your thumbs up your butts and spin while I wrestle someone of my choosing.
And if it just so happens that y'all aren't good enough to outscore me when I'm actively fucking around, and whomever Group A has win can't beat me on Night 12, then I'm choosing that motherfucking Japanese wrestling blow-up doll to defend my title against.
My goal for this isn't to win, rather my goal is to not lose. If I can put you away, I'll pin ya, make ya tap, whatever.
But if I think you're scum-sucking gutter trash class human beings that don't deserve to come within spitting distance of MY DTW World Championship? I'm not even going to try to beat you. I am going to drag the match out to the thirty-minute time limit draw, and I am going to fuck you up while I do it.
I'm going to pick a body part, and I'm going to destroy it. A leg, an arm, your neck, your back, whatever. I'm going to put a target on you for everybody else in Group B to focus in on and use the weakness I made to tear you apart.
I'm the Champion. Winning this thing gets me a match with a blow-up doll, "Carnage Carnival Group B Winner/2018 Yamashi Cup Winner" stuck to my name whenever DTW books me, a smug sense of superiority, and the inevitable boatload of bitching because you fucks didn't manage to win the big event against the World Champion YET AGAIN!
I'm going to be REALLY fucking disappointed in you all if I end up with the highest score in Group B, because I'll be developing a complex. Do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to dislodge narrative causality not just once, but twice?
And goddess help you if I end up doing this a third fucking time. Because I swear I will vacate the fucking thing so someone else can hold onto it for a little while I fuck around in the Tornado Rules vision with Claudia and Delilah until I accidentally win a fourth DTW event, get a World title shot, and win the thing back.
Okay, fine, maybe I won't wrestle a blow-up doll. But if you fuck this up for yourselves again, I swear to all that is unholy that I will give Purple AKI Man a shot before one of y'all get one.
Fuck, if I'm feeling up to it I'll fight the Dirty Wizard, Purple AKI Man, Psycho Stalker, Damian Hister, and Jersey Jim all at the same goddamned time. Because they sure as hell aren't going to win a World title any time soon, and fighting five somewhat ineffective guys at the same time is going to scratch my nostalgia itch for murdering the crap out of a bunch of goblins back home.
And then I will beat them to a pulpy, unconscious mess, pick them up and use them as puppets to act out the WORST yaoi fanfiction I can find on the internet. I will fucking drag out props. I will put a long blonde wig and a Viking helmet on Psycho Stalker, give Purple AKI Man a purple Iron Man mask, paint Jersey Jim green, give the Dirty Wizard a patriotic shield, and then dress Psycho Stalker up in skin-tight leather to be a femboy trap Black Widow and act out Chuck Tingle's "Pounded in the Butt By My Overwhelming Adoration of Non-Shitty Superhero Films."
That's right. This is the future you have to look forward to if you can't muster up the skill to beat me. I will have unconscious, bloody DTW jobbers in costume drying humping one another with me doing goofy voices and reciting the shittiest dialog I can find on the internet. I have minions. They will help.
So you better pray to your silent, unanswering gods that one of you can get the fucking job done.
Because I will follow through on this, and I will make you wish that you had Teiji spitting shit into your eyes and poking your eardrums out with his dick.
-o-
Soooo it looks like I'm the odd lady out. While the boss lady and the floofmeister are tearing it up in Group B, I'm stuck in Group A with a bunch of no-fun, stuffed shirted louts! I mean just listen to these names!
"Cactus" Jack Bronson.
The Psycho Kid.
Joe Stanton.
Rebel Manson.
"Salt Shaker" Williams.
Is this a professional wrestling tournament or a gosh darned western? Do I need to bring spurs, a cowboy hat, a set of assless chaps, and a pair of long underwear with an escape hatch over the bum?
I mean if it wasn't for the android, I'd be positive it wa… WAIT A MINUTE! Is this Westworld? Am I in a pro wrestling tribute to Westworld or something?
Because seriously, you guys have done a grave disservice in casting me in the wrong genre! I am a fearsome undead clown beastie! I chew on brains, suck out souls, and sneak small children sugar and caffeine in secret right before their bedtimes! I am a terrible, evil, scary blackhearted fiend! I don't belong with men in leather chaps sitting around a campfire eating beans and making doe eyes at the hunky slabs of beef around them. Both the other cowboys and in the case of Teiji and Salt Shaker Williams the cows as well.
Oh my gosh! It is! Group A is the DTW Cowboy Division! Sammy 3.0 fought a gosh darned bull this weekend! We have Lobo here to be the bumbling, ineffectual rodeo clown! Teiji is here, of course, to have that western vibe of cow pats being left all over the place. And maybe casting got as confused with him as they did with me and have him in the role of an escaped Chinese laborer, despite being, you know, Japanese.
I mean they called Sammy a robot when she's clearly an android, and they have Erik Holland listed as a human being when he's actually an equivalent volume of sloths in a Giant Gonzalez-esque naked man suit with clothing over it. Creepy, rapey-eyed, algae covered sloths.
Because let's face it, he's like a human glacier and despite being well read, he's kinda… you know, doesn't really have a plan to get from point a to point b, and usually ends up somewhere over near point q wondering where his wallet is and if those nice foul-smelling green children that he doesn't realize were actually goblins are going to be back with his Egg McMuffins like they offered to get him. And also he's somehow managed to lose his socks along the way.
'Cause like the boss lady said, he walked into the Railway Rumble with a whole Broadway musical full of backup and still managed to lose the whole thing.
He's more of a big picture kind of guy. You give him a big picture and some crayons to color with while the people who know what they're doing sit in the next room over and figure out actual proper strategy-type things.
So if this is a Western, and because it's kind of a farce we'll have some crossover with Blazing Saddles, and that means Erik Holland can be Mongo. Let's just hope he's better than the LAST pro wrestling Mongo we had, he of the endless hitting people with Haliburton briefcases and being endlessly cucked by Jeff Jarrett.
Speaking of breaking a thousand guitars and never drawing a dime (I kid, I kid) we have the wrestler voted in their high school yearbook as "Most Likely to Have Acquired Their Ring Name From a Tumblr Birthday Meme," Rebel Manson.
Or possibly a stripper or a porn star. I'm not sure. Because of the aforementioned person peddling their boobies and cooters for buckaroos, "Rebel" has kind of become a gender-neutral name.
So I actually looked it up to see if Rebel's a boy or a girl. And um… I'm still not sure? There's like… no muscle tone there. I mean I don't see any boobies, but that doesn't mean anything, because I know that flat chested girls are a thing, especially in Japan, and we've got a guy who poops in his jocks, stuff them into people's mouths, and beats the bishop in the middle of the ring.
Some gal walking around with their tits out isn't really going to make someone so much as bat an eye after that.
They must be pretty rough and tough, though! Walking around topless with all these sex-starved cowboys out in the middle of the range with nothing but one another and cows for company.
And you've heard most of these boys talk, so you know they'd make for absolutely horrible company!
And so we go from one skinny, pasty white androgyn to another Peter Pan-like figure who never wants to grow up, and thus insists that you call him The Psycho Kid. I mean… why? Unless you had your childhood stripped away from you to slave away in the music mines by "Papa" Joe Jackson and thus never had a chance to really grow up, you definitely should NOT be asking anybody to be calling you "kid."
I mean "The Psycho Man" sounds so much better! You even have a ready-made Black Sabbath entry theme, which is like half of what you need to be a popular wrestler. Just pair that with a cool finisher and you too can wrestle in slow motion, have crummy tattoos, and sound like special needs molasses in January on the mic, and ride a giant sperm to the ring.
Or have like no wrestling ability at all, an affinity for steroids, and a tag team partner with an interlocking hair design but be huge with a good look and ripped as all hell. I mean that's why they called him Hawk. Because he had a brain the size of walnut 90 percent of which was visual processing and hardwired hunting behaviors and 10 percent survival instincts, which allowed him to fill the remaining space with bone and "personal demons" fluid which allowed him to totally shrug off piledrivers and DDT's.
I mean Ric Flair is damned near 70! At what age does he stop being the Nature Boy, and start being the Nature Man? It makes no sense!
And do you know what else makes no sense? Pilfering the name of a certified legend for your own nefarious purposes! A name that was stolen from a classic film from decades ago. An amusing, lighthearted romp of a film that lies very near and dear to my heart.
Huh? What? Cactus Jack Bronson? No! I'm talking about Mr. "I tossed my entire tray of scrabble tiles onto the board because I had waaaaay too many vowels and not enough consonants" Zombie.
How dare you! How dare you pilfer the title of the international release of George A. Romeo's classic horror flick "Dawn of the Dead" for your last name! For shame! I mean unlike me and Mitsubishi Cowabunga you don't even have the remotest semblance of undeath around you!
At least if you do I didn't find it by going through your trash cans and your gear bag. I did find far, far too many Kit Kat bars in assorted flavors than any human being has a right to be carrying on their person at one time.
Food won't fill that aching, empty void inside of you, Antidisestablishmentarianism Zombie. All the weirdly flavored chocolate covered wafer products in the world will never fill the painful gaps inside your heart and soul.
'Cause one's a septal defect and that requires surgery, and the other one can only be filled by the eating of delicious, golden-braised babies! Mmm mmm mmm!
Well no, not really. Souls and stolen memories can also help fill the soul-hole too! At least for proper undead! Which you are certainly not! I mean if you've got dead baby skulls you're not recycling them properly in the bin marked "Bones and assorted debris belonged to the damned," I mean it's right there next to the bins labeled metal, paper, plastic, and glass! Or at least there's one in my house! 'Cause when you have a necromancer in residence you don't ever want to let bones go to waste!
And speaking of waste, helping Sammy and me (and possibly Rebel) fend off the sausage fest that is Group A, is Hanako Takeuchi. I mean she had the boss-lady able to bring her boyfriend back as aaaaaaaaaany undead critter that she could name or imagine, and she chose to bring him back as a bland, boring, plain jane undead. Basically, a normal human powered by negative energy instead of positive.
Boo! Hiss! Lame! Suck! Trying to hog all the cool undead for herself, cause the Menagerie have made a promise to bring her back as a banshee if Riddick manages to stalk and kill her. Hopefully in a murder-suicide for the good of all humanity.
Cause he's totes an example of form following function. Have your head bald and in the shape of a bell-end for long enough and you yourself will, in fact, become a bell-end!
Like his buddy Teiji, who is like a two-year-old in a grown man's body. Hasn't yet mastered the ins and outs of potty training and not playing with himself in public, but sure as heck likes to watch the same gosh darned movie on repeat over and over and over and over and over again until the laser saws the mother fuzzing DVD in half.
Only instead of "Frozen" or "Finding Nemo" or "Disney's Robin Hood" to awaken a latent furry fetish it is instead the nihilistic message of Tyler Durden from "Fight Club." Ugh. Because to be perfectly honest, who wouldn't prefer it if Teiji broke out into random choruses of "Let It Go" instead of letting it go in the middle of the ring?
And after all his audacity and shock value of trying to be all gross and offensive, his poop isn't even interesting. I mean it's scarcely together. The man is getting… like… no fiber and he likes it that way because when you have to spit poop in somebody's eyes you don't want to have to take the time to chew and wait for the saliva to work it up into a nice, moist, watery froth that can be easily spewed forth into a mist instead of a turd just tumbling pathetically from his crap-covered lips like the world's worst, digestive system-backwards Birdo.
I mean he doesn't even drop a magical crystal ball to the next level when you hit him with his own poop three times!
AND IT'S BLAND! There's nothing fun in there! I bit the man's SURGICALLY RECONSTRUCTED chocolate starfish and I didn't even get so much as a piece of corn! For someone who literally gets off on being transgressive, I can tell you right now that Teiji Shintaro's diet is as boring as a nursing home grandma. It's all softness and mush. The spiciest, most intimidating thing he has is the occasional dash of pepper on his baked beans SINCE THIS IS THE COUNTRY AND WESTERN COWBOY DIVISION OF CARNAGE CARNIVAL, REMEMBER?!
But you know what? Putting up with the cowboys farting around a fire and people with weird and stupid names and nicknames is going to be worth it. Because I get to wrestle Sammy 3.0 again!
After my unfortunate loss to everybody's favorite bootylicious bimbot (in design only! There's nothing wrong with her processors!) I'm out for revenge! And also licking her audio receptors until her legs fall off from the secret passcodes I'm sending in literal lingual morse code, cause that's what lingua means, it's Latin for tongue! But mostly revenge!
And also to use the secret scanners I hid in my tail to scan her perfect backside and create my own line of pirated design bum-pillows using her picturesque derriere! I'll make millions from the perverted Japanese fanbase! Mwahahaha!
MWAHAHAHAHA!
MWAHAH… *hack* *cough*
-o-
You have all these lively souls gushing forth hopes and dreams of victory, promises, and certitudes of success, oaths and vows of triumph.
But me? I am not going to stand here and crow at top of lungs to heavens and hells about how I shall emerge from Carnival of Carnage victorious, challenging my bond-mate Kalinda Kriegsdottir for championship she so cherishes.
There is no purpose. *chuckles* If Kalinda and Delilah fight unarmed, Delilah loses. Such has been way of things since my favorite neon blue toad-beast was five feet tall, and is just as true at seven feet.
And hitting Kalinda with things? Is best way for awakening noisy, snore-dragon from slumbers. Finding thing which makes loud noise upon breakage, and proceed to execute said breakage over head of said snore-beast, repeating until said snore-beast ceases to snore and emerges from cocoon of pilfered blankets.
Was much wailing and gnashing of teeth in hotel for Raging of Broken Spring, as Kalinda had decided not to teleport home to sleep, but instead stay in hotel with rest of wrestlers. I go to get drinks out of machine and come back to find that Kalinda has commanded Claudia to steal all pillows from all rooms of other wrestlers. Is so much easier to get to hotel ahead of others when one can teleport, yes?
*chuckles* So big blue snore-beast slumbered in fort constructed of pilfered pillows. Many drunkards returned, passed out upon their beds, and rose for day 2 with sore, stiff necks.
Why do I tell silly story?
Because is purpose of my fight in Carnival of Carnage. I am pillow thief. I am to be causing of pains, of agonies, and of discomforts. Kalinda's goal is not victory, but instead misery. She wishes to make those who are unworthy suffer, to hurt them in ways to assure that those that next face them have bruises to kick, wounds to claw, and joints to rend.
For those whom I face before Kalinda, it is my duty to soften them up, to provide first cuts into which she can dig her claws and tear away meat from bone. For those whom I face after, their hides are already rent and their meat exposed for me to rip and rend.
Most wrestlers will not be suffering full wrath of Menagerie. Simply those who are too immature to risk being granted responsibility of world champion and also those who behave in manner of… what is term Claudia used? "Glory-thots which thirst for hot-dog-flavored water from glorious golden rod of DTW World Championship," I think?"
I do not understand usage of word "thot" which is abbreviation containing word "ho" which is already shorter and gets same point across. Perhaps is degree of class, yes? Courtesan is higher than prostitute, which is higher than whore, which is higher than hooker, which higher than ho, which is higher than thot. Is maybe meant to convey utmost gutter-trash, scum-sucking, bottom-feeding, low-down, bargain basement, discount rate, trash bag slattern peddler of own sagging titties, bad makeup, and ruined roast-beef vagina.
But of personage called Riddick, he is most definitely of sort that is glory-thot. And also possibly regular thot. Even most wretched of whores where I come from can control urges. Even most oversexed dark elf can contain carnal urge and not whip out one's dick and having big, messy wank in public.
Even stupidest, most inbred, mushroom-addled dark elven male knows to not speak to female betters with words of violation, of sexual assault, of unwanted advance and unreturned affections.
So on behalf of Hanako Takeuchi, I grab Riddick by balls. I take testicles, I make pop off. No more balls. Is like of neutering poorly behaved dog, yes? No more pissing on of walls, no more humpings of furniture, no more anal rape of neighborhood felines.
Reach down, grab, extend claws, twist. No more problems. Unfortunately has already bred, so have not fully removed from genepool, but if Riddick-child takes after father and grandmother, is going to somehow manage to choke to death on small can of peas before reaching age of majority.
But no more breedings shall take place. World shall be forever free of future Riddick crotch-dumplings and loin-fruit.
And I, personally, think that accomplishing this task is much more nobler goal than merely winning professional wrestling league tournament. Tournament is only fleeting moment of glory, is name in record books that few will read.
Neutering Riddick is much grander task, improves world for all peoples. Is not like bald fuckhead is not deserving. Is always screaming at one lady or another that he is going to fuck them, is always pulling out penis in public where is not wanted, is always doing gross, grotesque things.
Is only shame that Teiji Shintaro is in other group so that I cannot emasculate him as well. Already has weak sack from barbed wire flossing. Can easily just pull open, stick in claw, snip snip.
Always am having amusement hearing wretched spawns of inbred millipedes crowing about superiority of male sex, when sporting such soft, fragile, easily crushing bits between legs. Is big conspiracy between males, even when life is on line to never, ever strike testicles so as not to reveal fragility of male sex to all onlookers.
You are not seeing ladies with bits hanging off of body that even brisk brushing strike will cause curling of into fetal position with wailings and lamentations and wishings for death. Poor, poor males. Is good thing Menagerie is here to provide example of might and strength to such weak and fragile creatures.
So! Others who are not Riddick be aware; your testicles are safe. For now. But if you are opening of your mouth to spew filth about putting unwanted dicks where they are not belonging, I will have no qualms in engaging in removal of your testicles as well. Breeding, sex drive, and testosterone are not rights, merely privileges that mighty personages can revoke if it is shown that you abuse them.
Perhaps if Riddick is very lucky, can get to surgeon in time and can take balls out and put them in jar of preservative, place on mantle next to pissy ashes of mother and shattered fragments of own decency and sense of shame, yes?
Make sure to label clearly, yes? Be not wanting of stupid inbred toad-beast guests like Teiji and Shakur to thing ball-jar is filled with pickled eggs for eating. Riddick-friends are not having of intellects. Likely stems from early school sticking of crayons up nose and eatings of many pastes.
Many, many pastes.
And probably sniffings of rubber cement too.
Perhaps when in hospital someday from Menagerie beatings, get medical scans done, yes? Perhaps find long-lost crayon, remove, and then have brains greater than flatulent huntsman spider, rather than equal to.
Will be most glorious day in life of crosseyed, inbred sodomizers of dead milipedes.
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