[We open to a rather strange sight. A winged blue lizard about the size of a kitten, tinted a dark blue with electric blue stripes, has plopped himself down in the middle of a table, glaring intently into the dark lens of the camera, apparently waiting for the little red light to come on.]
Spark: And there's the little red light coming on!
[Told you.]
Spark: Hello ULW peoples, my name is Spark, and I represent the amazing whirlwind force that is Kalinda Kriegsdottir, who is soon to grace your televisions as soon as the ULW bean counters stop eating the things they're supposed to be counting and inventing a system to measure the humor value of their own gaseous eruptions in the categories of duration, sound, and smell in order to actually, you know, put together matches.
Now I'm not an expert on professional wrestling. Well, at least the way my people define expert. See, I'm a Muse. I'm a knowledge-collecting and consuming spirit that bonds with another sentient being in order to share my vast stores of wisdom and experience.
Though umm... I kind of had a bit of an accident involving a phased-dimensional supercomputer. Electricity-based muses have kind of had a bum rap for most of forever. When your world's tech level is plonked right down in the middle of steampunk, there isn't really a quick and easy way for a Lightning muse to gather information.
An Earth muse can consume the books, a Water muse can lap up the ink, a Fire muse can absorb the essence of burned pages, but a Lightning muse like me? We have to learn the old fashioned way; getting a copy of the information from our host's neural synapses. So yeah, limited to my host's reading speed for a few centuries, can you really blame me for... well...
I accidentally the whole internet. Memes, pornography, amusingly captioned pictures of cats, pornography, videos of people playing video games, pornography, hateful, ignorant blog comments, pornography and all.
And that was a bit too much. So I'm kind of weird, prone to making references only a handful of people will get, and am easily distrac... SQUIRREL!
[Spark bounces around the table, attempting to emulate the "body-wave" style gait of the squirrel.]
Spark: I'm bonded to a terrific lady named Kalinda, she's an orphan and an ex-adventurer. Left to her own devices, she'd be managing a... umm... there's an elvish word that encompasses the place of business perfectly, but the common tongue doesn't have a word that means tavern-inn-pizza parlor.
You get to make your own hours, you've always got a roof over your head, you can get into brawls whenever you want, and if you apply yourself to making an extra big batch, you can literally be rolling in dough! Lulz!
[Yes, the little dragon literally just said "lulz."]
Spark: So yeah, we're not from here. Kal really thinks this place is a bit of a suckhole. Well, she thinks it's a lot of a suckhole, actually, but aside from having technological devices that I can't leap into and manipulate to my liking, I think this place is actually kind of cool.
You've got a functioning internet; all I have is my extremely limited partial parallel world copy. Which was everything I managed to suck up before I... well... I kind of made the supercomputer explode. Which is okay! Because it was trying to kill me and Kalinda's adoptive grandmother at the time!
See, Kal's a war orphan. Which is pretty easy to do when you're dragonblooded. Oh, did I forget to mention that? Yeah, she's part dragon. She's functionally immortal with regards to the whole aging thing, she just gets cuter and more dragon-y the older she gets. She's blue, has a tail, and is seven feet tall right now. Another century or two and she'll have a gorgeous pair of wings, maybe some nice spiral-y horns, and some respectable armor plating. No hot-blooded guy is going to want anything to do with a woman who can't shrug off being stabbed with a sword when she's bare-arsed nekkid.
So she hatched from an egg, and I got saddled with having to live in her head and teach her about stuff. And I have to tell you, it's a pretty tough job. She only gets like not even half of my jokes. I have to explain to her where the stuff I'm referencing comes from. It's absolutely grueling. But I think I did a good job of bringing her up properly. She can trade witty banty and scathing insults with the best of them.
But she uh... she does have a bit of a potty mouth on her, though. That's kind of been made worse by her being here. One of the guys that trained her in the whole pro wrestling thing? Yeah, he tends to use the word "MFer," well, not that word, the naughty version, but anyway he uses it like punctuation.
So yeah, we're not from here. We got summoned here. Turns out that the dark artifact of dark malevolent, dark and evil power that she got from gnawing off the arm of an unpleasant necromancer lady turns out to have a title of mystical nobility to go with it. Aaaand you get the artifact and the title by taking it off the corpse of your predecessor. Even if said corpse is still actually inhabited by a consciousness and is moving around. And it doesn't come off, at least it doesn't come off until your arm does. Which is kind of a deal killer for trying to worm your way out of having the whole Chosen One of an Evil God thing.
So it's like she got a magic cellphone that's full of nasty spellcasting apps, but the number is still the same. So if somebody got hold of a bit of graffiti reading "FOR A WICKED TIME CALL..." and decided to dial it in, Kal has her ringer go off. Though the phone metaphor kind of breaks down there, but the whole calling thing still works, because instead of dialing a phone, the kind of call is more like demon summoning. Um... not that Kalinda's a demon, mind you. The artifact, a gauntlet with a bit of an attitude problem to him, kind of makes her an honorary demon so far as the whole summoning thing is concerned.
So a couple months ago some goober decided to get his jollies seeing what summoning rituals worked in a book that got fished out of the infinite void between worlds. And he turned out to be one of the handful of people on this silly sphere that can actually do honest to goodness, or badness, spellcasting.
"But wait," I hear you telling me, "Magic isn't really a real thing, Spark! That only happens on TV!"
Well yes, but we're on TV right now! Or... well, we will be once this goes through editing, gets vetted by the production department, and sent out on the air with all the other promos. This one ought to go out right before the William Tell Overture starts kicking in and all the lazy wrestlers who are REALLY HONEST TO GOODNESS BUSY U GUIZ rush in with their tapes that they made in a mad dash to get things done in the last 24 hours. Because their lives are just so gosh darned busy and complicated YET LIKE MAGIC THEY MANAGE TO FIND THE TIME TO GET SOMETHING DONE ON THE LAST DAY LIKE MF-ING CLOCKWORK WEEK IN AND WEEK OUT.
Um... sorry, I get carried away when I think about people sometimes. Some people have contagious mannerisms. Like the guy who explained the whole magic/lack of magic thing to me. One of Kalinda's trainers, a scruffy looking guy by the name of SPIDER, looks like he's licked one too many of the wrong kinds of toads. He's that guy that I said uses MF-er as punctuation. He told me "Spark, kayfabe is being bent and broken and twisted so gee dee'd badly around here it looks like a Gordian umm.. Gordian f-frig knot. We've got assassins, the demonically possessed, a whole troop of darkity dark bat-shizzle dungeon... um... frigs again, and a suckbag by the name of Jackson f-ing Adams. Gee dee'd m-fing sorcery is the least of our m-fing worries around here. F it, you guys fell through a m-fing plot hole."
[Even by wussing out on saying the naughty words Spark looks exceptionally embarrassed.]
Spark: So we've actually got a whole cast and crew of folks from Tathion, that's the name of our world. We've got Kal and me, we come as a pair since when I'm not around on my own I'm actively living in her head. We've got the stupid skull, the aforementioned dark artifact. And we've got Miss Hissy.
That's not actually her name, and we don't call her that to her face. But it's dangerous to toss around the name of a goddess, even one that's a universal immigrant several times over. She's a goddess who kind of ate the rest of her draconic pantheon, absorbing their celestial domains in the process.
She then started nibbling on the rest of dragonkind, and before you know it, she'd gobbled up all her worshippers and ended up with her last temple cast adrift into the void between realities by a powerful spell being flung around by some battling wizards of incredible power.
And like Kal does, even though she hates adventuring, she got roped into doing something, ended up in the temple, got her big blue butt kicked and went out calling for help from any power that'd answer her call.
Miss Hissy's a stuck up pile of scales, totally hates the fact that her one follower is only a teensy part dragon, but Kal's still a dragon, so that counts. Of course she'd just love to have a few more followers, but she's kind of a dragon supremacist. Mammals need not apply. At least not ones with enough blood from something scaly in their background to offset that little flaw.
So Kal's also got THAT going for her. Having an evil world-conquering, all-consuming hydra empress that's got a live feed on all her senses 24/7. And hey, I can use 24/7 and it actually makes sense here! Tathion's week is nine days long. One extra work day, one extra day off stuck in the middle of the week when the really f-ed up moon goddess gets her reign over the sky and all the creepy sh... er... stuff comes out. Werewolves, lawyers, the undead, senators, spawn of great old ones, market research specialists, those sorts of wicked horrors, things that should not be, and unholy abominations.
[Spark gathers himself up and puffs out his tiny little chest.]
Spark: But Kal's fought all those kinds of things before, and more besides! So being stuck here, Kal got a choice of taking part in one of two career options, cause the guy that ended up summoning her to take her off the hands of the guy who summoned her had his fingers in two pies.
The one is adventuring with all the relatively limited supernatural drama llamas you guys have got going on here. And since Kal hates adventuring, she went with the whole pro wrestling thing. Which she kind of has some practice at. She's been lacking in the magical weaponry department for most of her life, so her fighting style has been to use whatever isn't nailed down to hit people, and then throw people into the things that ARE nailed down. And she's also the bouncer in her own inn-tavern-pizza parlor, so she's got the brawling down too.
The hardest part has been the whole not allowed to kill the other person, hey no biting their fingers off, oh come on now, ripping open their throat with your teeth is right out thing. She's a dragon, we can bite through anything we can fit in our mouths, chew it up, swallow it, and get nutrition from it. It comes naturally.
And you guys are kind of at the short end of the stick in the spellcasting department. So bitten off fingers have a tendency to stay bitten off. Especially if swallowed first. You've got no way to get lost limbs back, that's just... that's so sad. Back home just rub some troll blood on it, hold the severed bit back where it's supposed to be, and boom, there you go.
[Spark turns one foot back and forth against the table, looking a titch embarrassed about that.]
Spark: So uh yeah, thankfully we only went through a dozen of those body double layout grappling dummy manikin type things before we got that worked out of her system.
But anyway! Kal's had a few matches under her belt, and for a total noob to the world of pro wrestling, the in ring bit anyway, I think she's doing pretty well. Umm, her soon to be former employer the IWC, not so much though. But I think I'll throw things over to her to talk about that.
Because she's been holding in her ranting for a couple weeks now, and if she keeps it in any longer I think she's going to pop.
Big blue wall of text incoming!
[The feed switches over from the little blue dragon, Spark, to the big blue dragoness Kalinda. Though aside from being a bit sharp in the canines, Kalinda's only truly draconic feature is her saurian tail. Well, aside from the fact that she's seven foot tall and bluer than the sky.]
[Kal's a pretty powerfully built young woman, who looks every inch the sort of person who enjoys clearing the riff raff out of her own tavern. She looks of size and strength to carry out two or three unconscious deadbeat customers out into the street under each arm. One arm, her left, we can see clad in black armor plating, with a jawless, horned skull adorning the elbow. That would be the dark artifact Spark mentioned.]
[Her brilliant red hair is a bit mussed, and her equally fire truck red eyebrows are knitted in a scowl as Kalinda finally has the opportunity to vent some steam on her situation with her soon to be former employer, the IWC, and it seems she's got a bit of a bone to pick with the new boss as well.]
Kalinda: You know what? IWC may be a shithole, a blight on this ass-backwards, stupid looking ball of a world with its singular stupid sun and singular stupid moon. But there's one thing I can say on behalf of my one match away from being former employer, at least it wasn't lazy.
Gods know how many people on the roster, three fourths of them members of the Sinistry. People employed as wrestlers' supporting casts interfering in matches despite not being active fucking wrestlers for the company. A collection of folks that includes several of THE DUMBEST SENTIENT FUCKING BEINGS THAT I'VE EVER SEEN. And I'm not doing anyone any favors here, I'm including Kobolds, Goblins, and the talking fucking mushroom that lives in the little cabinet in the handicapped stall my inn's men's restroom.
When half your programming revolves around a woman who is SO GODS DAMNED DUMB that she doesn't even bother to watch the show on which she competes to figure out WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON, AND WHY PEOPLE CLOSE TO HER KEEP CLASHING WITH HER BECAUSE OF HER SHITHEEL OF A MANAGER WITH HIS STUPID ACCENT AND STUPID NICKNAMES TELLING THEM TO FUCKING GET LOST, NO YOU CAN'T SEE HER, you're going to have a fucking problem!
When the members of your roster listen to the guy the OTHER FUCKING HALF of IWC programming revolves around, who I must remind you is basically ONE OUTFIT MADE OF SECONDARY COLOR SPANDEX AWAY FROM BEING A FUCKING SUPERVILLAIN over his friends and allies, you're going to have a fucking problem!
When you need a GODDAMNED FLOW CHART to figure out what the fuck is happening on a typical episode of RIOT!... When you can't figure out the best way to keep a title belt from being stolen is to keep it in a safety deposit box AND NOT BRING IT TO THE FUCKING ARENA. When fucking anybody and everybody can make up the rules to everything as they fucking go along without consequence or repercussion. YOU'RE. GOING. TO. HAVE. A. FUCKING. PROBLEM.
But I can't even BEGIN to comprehend the logic behind the booking for your debut show, my debut show, everybody's ULW debut show. There isn't even a card there to be subject to change without reason. Like if Eric Hererarurrurrrarara suddenly comes down with the case of the thermonuclear shits from the resulting karma from stealing my mentor's nickname of more than a fucking decade and he can't do more than moan in pain and shudder as he craps out yet another one of his kidneys.
We don't even have an owner named at this point. All I've got is some illegible scribbles on my contract from some intermediary business man empty suit types who I didn't shake hands with because I didn't want to end up with any of my fingers missing. We don't have an owner, a president, a CEO, a general manager, the only solid name I can find with anything to do with the company is Creepy Ruiz, and he's the fucking janitor who's been scrubbing down the ring after practice sessions so that no one catches the plague from Rayne Young, who doesn't wash because it ain't gangsta.
Probably all "Look at me, I wear baggy slacks, have tattoos, and grew up on the mean streets, ughhhhh!" That ugh is accompanied by the mandatory insecure male crotch grab and pelvic thrust.
Bitch you didn't grow up on no mean streets. I mean the worst thing you people have on this fucking planet is each other. "Oh, look at us we have no magic power whatsoever so we have to shoot little bits of metal at one another from our hand-held metallic DEATH COCKS." Do you know what getting shot is like for half of the people I know? It's about as damaging as somebody flicking you in the head. You people might as well be shooting NERF guns at me.
You turn down a dark alley in the wrong part of town back on my world? Turns out the floor of the alley, the wall of the alley, and the thing pretending to be a bit of sky and some lines of laundry all come together and fight over which one of them gets your tasty innards. You manage to sneak away while they fighting? That dumpster you're hiding behind is actually a carnivorous shapeshifter, you are now lunch. Down at the end of the alley? Big green dude the size of two SUV's, puts you in a stew and grinds your bones to make his bread. Hopefully he just snaps your neck and doesn't sodomize you to death because he's hung like a fire extinguisher.
And that's not even close to the scariest neighbor I have. An actual dragoness. Not a lady of elven descent with some dragon blood that'll take a few centuries to blossom into true dragondom. Oh no. Hatched from an egg the size of a Volkswagen and has only gotten bigger as time's gone on. If she came out of her cave, I think she could plop herself down on the street out in front of the Manhattan Center, curl around, and get the tip of her tail to touch her nose. She's one of those slinky anguiform-type dragons. You people would call them Eastern or Asiatic.
She could swallow most of the ULW roster without needing a drink of water afterwards. It'd be like gobbling down popcorn chicken. Except in this case the chicken bits have shitty tattoos, personality disorders, and egomania the likes of which would actually make an actual gosh-darned dragon go "Oy, you're a bit full of yourself, ain'tcha?"
Incidentally she's also my grandma's best friend and has always been a sweet ol' thing to me. Got myself a whole bunch of toys and stickers and stuff when I was little because every year without fail she'd order a couple of pallets worth of Monster Scout cookies. And no, the Scouts are meant to scout FOR monsters, not comprised of them. Though we're all a pretty tolerable lot as long as you're relatively polite and don't attack everything immediately on sight.
Since that's what a monster basically is. The kind of magic-warped mind that takes a look at a group of four people dressed in full plate, armed to the teeth, radiating magical power and goes "Hmm, I'm a two foot droplet-shaped mass of goo with a silly face. I think I can take them."
Kind of like a few pro wrestlers, really. The vain martyrs that'll go out marching to certain doom against overwhelming odds. Prancing happily down the aisle to their own doom, eager to be beaten down by two, three, four, eighty seven fucking people. The sort of people that if you tell them "Bring me something to beat you with!" go out and rip a branch out of a tree, go and buy a whip, hand you a shotgun. "Rrrrrr! Yeah, kill me! That's the ticket!"
Says a lot about their brainpower when you've got people like me who'd tear the corner off a piece of paper and say "Go ahead. Wail on me." But then again, I suppose that's not really an apt comparison.
I've got one thing going for me from my unknown family history; a distant blood relation to one of the greatest adventurers of all time, the dark elven smith Metsuki Tahari. The last survivor of the War of the Elementals, the endless cycle of men and woman of power battling it out between one another for the chance to be granted a single wish.
Her wish immediately made her and her kin the most desirable people on the planet for those seeking power. For she wished that all those that shared her blood would be forever unharmed by any merely mundane weapon. You could have the sharpest sword in the world, you could have a spool of monomolecular wire, you could have the cannon off of the gods damned Death Star, and you wouldn't be able to so much as mar the skin of a Forgedblood.
Yeah, it's going to sting like hell, leave you bare-assed naked, and you're probably going to suffocate since the planet you were standing on just got blown into chunks, but you're going to survive the shot.
No wonder you people have ICBMs, UAVs, and nuclear fucking warheads. You've had a decided lack of persons of power that can wave their hand at you and turn you inside out. Honestly, it's not healthy the way everybody in this world seems to keep their aggression and destructive urges bottled up.
Everybody in this world is a glass cannon, able to be armed with a long distance weapon that can kill in a single pull of the trigger. Every dire wound requires months of rehabilitation. You're always a scant handful of minutes without oxygen away from being utterly and irrevocably lost. There isn't a healing potion to be had on this silly little ball, let alone minor or major healing spells. You've got like all of one guy ever that's actually brought somebody back from the dead, and he's supposed to be the son of an all-powerful deity.
I'm calling bullshit on that one, by the by. All-lazy is more like it. You've got the power to shaped the very fabric of creation, you can make reality just about any shape you want, and then in the end you decide to make just about everything a fucking ball.
"Let's put a big ball of fire in the middle, and then a couple rocky balls going in ovals around that, then let's stick a few big gassy things, like Aunt Agnes, but smaller, a bit further out beyond that. And... oh, I think we're done with this solar system! Boy, rolling balls sure is easy. Hmm? Left over bits? Bah, it's good enough. We'll call them belts, like they're there to hold up the solar system's pants. Asteroid belt here, Kuiper belt on the outside. And it's all a bit of a round, ball-y kind of thing. Let's make a bunch more, mmhmm, and then have them all going in a big circle around this big circle thing here. Balls and circles and ovals all the way down."
And then you come down to the little sentient beings living on your little ball, and they discover tools, and writing, and illustration, and then they get to mapping out the whole place and the find out, unfortunately, that while the world seems flat, it's actually not, and that you have to do weird things in order to draw how your world actually looks on anything that isn't actually shape like your world.
Tathion is shaped like a big, fat donut. The geography maps perfectly to a flat plane like a piece of paper. It's completely obvious from anyone standing on the surface that it's shaped like a donut. We've got nice, happy little suns and moons that go corkscrewing around the donut, that are actually worlds in their own right. Representative of each of the twenty two elements of magic, each one representing a celestial object, an element, a deity, and said deity's personal little pocket realm. Well, I say little but technically they're infinite. In theory. In practice they're still focused around the general area of the deity's own personal domain.
And we don't just have that one set of supreme beings, oh no! We're not picky, we'll take whatever pantheon happens to wander in when we get a new, permanent addition to the planet. Did I mention that? Instead of geologic upheavals of fire and smoke and lava and continental drift and erosion and shit, we just get whole new continents dropped into places where there isn't much going on.
Most of Tathion is a constantly shifting field of urban decay, post-apocalyptic cityscapes cast into the nonexistence between realities with powerful technology and powerful magic. There's an awful lot of that there, just empty city devoid of life because some other cosmic scavenger has come in and poked through and hoovered up all the tasty sparks of life, leaving only the dry, lifeless crust behind.
Which is fine, because hey, us little bitty mortal beings find stuff to eat in that crust, thank you very much! The surface areas that haven't seen significant amounts of use get replaced every few days. So we get a whole new set of stocked grocery stores, gas stations, food production plants, and so on and so forth. It's like farming, but more fun. Instead of PANIC ABOUT SPRINGTIME PLANTING and PANIC ABOUT AUTMN HARVESTING with a few months of bleh in between, you get to go on a scavenger hunt and go shopping without having to pay for a damned thing. It's pretty cool, well, unless you like having the same nice, predictable brands.
You one of those people that has to have BumCo Brand Ham-Flavored crackers and blue cheese with maggots in it from a particular villa in the south of France? Tough shit. If you're lucky you can find something with relatively the same consistency, if the stars align it'll be meat flavored. But it's not going to be ham flavored, it'll be some sort of six legged, three ton, bright purple land-crustacean that roughly occupies the same environmental niche as the common moo cow. They're huge, they're ridiculously cute and fluffy, they have six eyes, and they taste goddamn amazing. And of course you don't have them here. You've got all the plain, boring creatures.
Just like you've got all the plain, boring people. Seriously, you don't even have a blue and green ocean-dwelling variation of your species. That's how low the bar is set here. Literally every sentient species that I can name has an aquatic analog. That's how uninterestingly, backwardly, obnoxious, lazily not diverse you are. Three fourths of your fucking world is water, and you're living on the less available bits. And it's salt water, which apparently KILLS YOU.
How the FUCK did you manage to become the dominant species? 99 percent of 75 percent of our world we can do fuck all with, we can't even drink it. And you're fine with that. Just sitting in the corner and going "Okay" in a big, sad, derpy voice. No transformational magicks, no genetic engineering, not even ripping out bits of other critters you find useful and grafting them on.
You guys are collectively the laziest subset of human beings that I've ever heard of. No wonder an obnoxiously large percentage of you fuckers just lounge around and record Days of Our Lives bullshit, slap a promo on the end of it and call it a day.
Now I'm not an expert on Terran culture, or pro wrestling in general, but my god, which unfortunately has a devotee count of population me, some of you guys are absolutely dismal, depressing, channel-flip causing fucktards. I could've sworn we're being paid to be entertaining, rather than, you know, bludgeoning viewers upside the head with videos just dripping with angst.
There's another reason why I left the IWC, because having to sit through the typical pile of promos made me want to slit my wrists. And I did. Several times. Just to say I tried, I honestly, really tried. But like I said before, YOU ASS BACKWARDS PEOPLE HAVE PRETTY MUCH FUCK ALL THAT CAN ACTUALLY GET THROUGH MY SKIN.
Oh sure, I'm mad as hell, not particularly happy to be here, but I have a sense of humor about things, dammit. And while I'm not fond of the SOLE SENTIENT FUCKING SPECIES ON THIS MUDBALL AND HOW MIND-NUMBINGLY BLAND YOUR LOCAL ASSORTMENT OF CELESTIAL BODIES IS, there are a few things I like.
For example you can go into any given gas station and be able to buy those neon orange peanut butter and cheese crackers. I think they make up a good third of my diet since I've been here. And circus peanuts! They're all over! I don't have to throw money at some shifty characters roaming the urban blight to keep a look out for strangely addicting hunks of sugary styrofoam. And if I ever get home, I'm going to make an absolute KILLING.
The greatest liquid base for healing potions in existence, and it's just sitting there pinkly on shelves in neat little rows, in neat little bottles going for a few bucks a pop. It's like the one thing you people do right. That vague minty pink stuff that fixes everything wrong with your tummy? A spoonful of that mixed with some healing herbs and infused with a little bit of mana and you've got something that will heal all but the most dire of wounds, dispel the worst illness, and if you use a whole bottle, can make limbs grow back.
I'm going to be able to buy a gods damned palace from selling off the stock of Pepto-Bismol I'm keeping in my coat pockets. I buy like five bottles every time I see them. It kind of sucks that this shithole of a world doesn't have the naturally occurring currents of elemental life energy that you need for proper healing herbs. Otherwise I'd have just managed to cure cancer.
Ebola? Shit, I could fix having the lower half of your torso lopped right off. If I got a big enough vat and a ton of dried Lifeleaf, a literal ton, I could probably grow another you from the lower half too. Yeah, don't you just feel horrible now? Aren't you just so sorry that somebody fucked up magic for the rest of you somewhere along the line?
And don't talk to me about the quasi-supernatural hooey you've got your "alternative medicine" people shilling. I come from a world that is literally fueled by magic, and I'm going to tell you straight up right now that homeopathy is COMPLETE AND TOTAL UTTER HORSE SHIT! You don't make something STRONGER by WATERING IT DOWN unless it's a gods damned body of water!
Let's see, I've got a case of the poops, so I'm going to take this bit of poop, put it in water, shake it up, then put it in another bit of water, and then do that again and again until I would need a fucking GLOBE OF WATER THE SIZE OF THE MILKY WAY IN ORDER TO FIND ONE MOLECULE OF THE POOP I STARTED WITH THAT'S SUPPOSEDLY THE ACTIVE INGREDIANT. If that were the case tap water would be simultaneously the greatest panacea and the deadliest poison in all of existence.
And the only thing that drinking colloidal silver is going to get you is a far, FAR inferior version of my gorgeous, stunning complexion and homeopathically strengthen your finances by taking money away. You're going to end up looking like a gods damned Smurf with vitiligo.
Let me put it this way, THERE IS A SEVEN FOOT TALL, BRIGHT BLUE DRAGONESS WITH AN UNCOMFORTABLE NUMBER OF VOICES IN HER HEAD FROM A MAGICAL DONUT WORLD WHERE SHELVES MAGICALLY RESTOCK AFTER THREE DAYS FINDING AND POINTING OUT THINGS THAT ARE PATENTLY RIDICULOUS!
You should be ASHAMED of yourselves! I mean even more so than you already ought to be ashamed for being the sentient species equivalent of sugar-free vanilla pudding. Pudding that's been left out until it's nothing but skin, and then rolled into a ball where 99 percent of the 75 percent of the stuff that makes it up will kill you if you eat it.
Your species is a joke, your planet is a joke, your solar system is a joke, and your wrestling federation? One of the biggest jokes of all. Are you going to pull names out of a hat? Are you just sitting down and waiting for the resulting Days of Our Lives droning poop-leaking-down-your-leg drama that comes from sticking walking clichés with personality disorders and cheaply done tattoos in close proximity to one another?
I'm sure I'm going to get the fucking dragonslayer guy. Because THAT just about writes itself. "Oh hey, we have a dragon on the roster, let's have her face the guy based on a draconic serial killer that sucks out and devours dragon souls like she does circus peanuts." Guys, that's just so damned lazy! That's like giving Orlando Cruze a match against a guy in a creepy white hood named Ku Klux Dan.
Or worse, they're not even going to ever ATTEMPT to make their match pairings have anything resembling logical sense. I'm going to get stuck with one of the goobers named after the method of precipitation falling from the sky because I've stated that one of them doesn't bathe, and the other is suffering from weapons grade pants-on-head stupidity. Just wait until he loses a couple matches and we found out that the guy that's been getting his ass kicked isn't the actual guy, but a ringer bent on ruining Eric Heeurrurururrraaarrrraaairirriatingtangwallawallabingbang's supposed "good name."
I give the fuckers two months before they're either murdered by their doppleganger or dead from flesh eating bacteria because washing your hands after you poop isn't how they do things in the hood, yo.
Or if they're not going the route of pairing up the people who bitch at one another the loudest, aren't pulling names out of a hat, and attempting to actually use both their braincells to have something of a theme to the matches, I suppose there's always one particular route for them to go.
Stick the two weirdest members of the roster together and have the seven foot tall blue dragon lady wrestle the drag queen with a name so punny that it made Spark groan in disgust. Yeah, the running pun machine that provides MST3k style commentary in my head on literally everything in my life found a line he won't cross. So Mister Roxy has the distinction of joining Lord Voldemort and Chris Benoit with the status of He Who Must Not Be Named.
Though honestly, out of everybody here? Queen Voldemort there is probably the most interesting one out of the lot. I mean the other two people that actually seemed to stand out have just played way, way too many video games. Positively standing out, that is. I'm sure that if I tried I could figure out some categories where each and every one of you redefine suck for a new generation. But then I’d have to knuckle down, study everybody in depth, and actually be able to pick people out of a crowd.
Right now I've filed pretty much everybody under "is an overused shade of pale orange-y pink, stands between five and seven feet tall, bog standard assortment of limbs, not a single horn or pointy ear to be had amongst the whole damned lot."
Can you, I dunno, start painting yourselves bright colors on my behalf? That way I can at least identify you guys visually? I mean Rayne Young I can identify by smell from a block away, so that's not a problem. There's the guy in the mask, but once he starts losing he's going to turn out to be a clone of the actual guy, who has been locked up in a mental hospital, or held in a basement by his cousin who was also his ex-girlfriend and the mother of his mutant web fingered children. Who I wish wrestled, by the way, because that way I can tell who they are.
You could easily tell who they are, because they've grown up loathing their limited genetic pool, and assortment of birth defects. So much so that they have HATE tattooed on the knuckles of one hand and INBREEDING tattooed on the other set.
Right now half the roster is trying to figure out exactly how that one works. So I'll spare the ULW the tragedy and bad press of having a significant portion of their roster die from near simultaneous brain aneurisms trying to puzzle this one out.
It's because they're inbred, and thus they have enough fingers on one hand to write INBREEDING on the knuckles, whereas a normal human being would have four, which is the number they have on the other hand. When they're calling somebody out on a lack of bravery, they tell their opponents to grow two pair. When they were little the bullies used to call them four eyes, then they got glasses, then they called them eight eyes. They really do have two left feet.
And now that guy with the two braincells picking out the names from a hat for this little clusterfuck of poor decision making is having fantasies of a long, drawn own, bloody feud over the honor of Eric Huracanrana's deformed, illegitimate children. But it turns out that they were actually fathered by Eric's deformed hunchback identical twin brother Kevin, who lived in the basement, was chained to the wall, and fed rats. He picked the lock, grabbed an Eric Herpy-derpy-puddin'-and-pie mask, racked up a losing streak, and then decided to impregnate their mutual cousin-girlfriend, and it turns out that he's his own grandpa.
So yeah, it's kind of difficult to single people out where they all look the same, they're all shorter than you, and they're all basically obnoxious. Thankfully I've got an information spirit that swallowed the internet, a dark artifact of an evil god trying to turn me into a mustache-twirling supervillain, Miss Hissy, the many-headed dragon goddess who ate her worshippers to death and thinks non-draconic sentients are icky and filled with cooties, and an inbred dragon-wolf that thinks he's a cat to keep me company.
Because honestly, if I had to rely on the lot of you to pal around with and amuse me? I think I'd be trying to slit my wrists again right around now. After all, I'm sure if Gillette can cram enough blades onto a single razor, it counts as magic and thus can actually break the skin. That's how it works in Dungeons of Dredmor, which with its item-hoarding, pithy combat quotes, irreverent tone, and over the top use of cheese is actually enough to remedy my homesickness.
And hey, if I ever start to miss some of my least favorite parts of home, well, at least I know where I can find a faerie with a stupid pun-themed name! But at least THIS ONE can't put a curse on me.
At least I don't think they do.
SPARK! FIRE UP THE INTERNET! I NEED TO KNOW IF MIDWESTERN AMERICA-BASED PEOPLE WITH GENDER ISSUES ARE CAPABLE OF CASTING CURSES, OR IF THAT'S JUST INDIANS! THE DOT INDIANS, NOT THE HEADDRESS INDIANS!
[Fade to Black.]
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