Just another normal Saturday afternoon in the Kriegsdottir household. Dragon Kitty chewing on a car tire, Spark playing Overwatch with some contraption he's rigged up from a phone keyboard, a dish rack, the guts of a computer mouse, and a super ball, and of course Claudia wearing my DTW World Championship Title around the place.
I'd held the thing for seven weeks now, and I still had to bite my tongue to keep from calling it a World Heavyweight Championship. Because that was what ALL the wrestling companies called their biggest and baddest, most prestigious belt. Even if it wasn't quite accurate and anybody could compete for the thing. Even if your roster consisted primarily of a bunch of scrawny, bitchy ex-models trying to out-emo one another with their tragic backstories and ongoing series of miseries.
I growled to myself and banished the thought from my head. If I started thinking about that horrible place I'd spend the entire evening bitching about teleporting masked sex dungeon enthusiasts, meat curtains, bimbo factories, and conniving quasi-managers who had figured out that by acting entirely through subordinates they got to wield power, influence wrestling, and be the focus of every single wrestling show but only have to step into the ring twice a year, thus easily avoiding all consequences for their actions.
That was one of the things I liked about DTW. The boss man loved violence, so there would be no endless series of matches where I fought someone's flunkies as a professional wrestler did everything in their power to not have a professional wrestling match. There would be no six month spans of endless run ins and hiding behind bodyguards.
Oh no. In DTW I could just grab a flunky or a bodyguard and use them to beat the offending cuntmonkey into a gooey red paste. And not only would I not be punished for such a thing, I would likely receive a congratulatory letter detailing just how hilarious Goro Yamashi had found the funny noises my victims had made while screaming for their lawyers.
At the moment I was doing something very non-violent and decidedly non-dragonlike. Because the last thing in the world you expect a seven foot tall bright blue fire-breathing dragoness to do would be attempting to bake a cake.
Well, attempting wasn't the proper word, as I had rather succeeded in baking the cake. It just wasn't a particularly substantial cake. The perils of sending Claudia out to get groceries were topped primarily by the fact that like most beings in well-industrialized nations on planet Earth she wanted to do everything the easy way.
So rather than all the ingredients I needed to make a yummy cake from scratch, I instead had a box of questionable powder that proclaimed itself to be cake mix, but could be cocaine for all I knew.
Though I'm sure that they wouldn't be selling cocaine in this large of an amount at the dollar store, which was where Claudia had picked up this particular mix.
I don't eat eggs. Not because there's some sort of innate bond between me and other egg-laying creatures, having been hatched from an egg myself. No, not because as a dragoness once the start of my draconic puberty kicked in and my reproductive system started doing something I'd be popping out an egg or three every year or so.
Nah, it was just because I didn't like the flavor. The yolks. The whites. The whole shebang. The whole… eggy flavor of them. I'd wowed a few people with a perfect, fluffy meringue the first time I baked a cake here. Because I didn't have any frosting, but did have eggs and powdered sugar in the shared fridge.
Instead I used a powdered egg replacer substitute thing that came from a box that looked like it hadn't seen an update or redesign since the late sixties or early seventies. That worked for most things I used eggs for. Though I couldn't attest to how well it made frosting or an omelette or anything like that.
But having Spark cackling madly while entitled neck-beards screamed at him to switch characters because he was game throwing if he didn't adhere to the perfect team composition desired by the special snowflake was kind of distracting.
So I'd mixed up teaspoons and tablespoons with regards to powder and water, which had ended up with me grumpily spooning two thirds of the stuff back into the baggie.
And after that little incident I ended up cursing the marketing demons for showing a square pan, yet having instructions to put the mix in a 9x13 pan.
So I'd done that and cursed myself for having made two boxes. Only to have the thinnest of thin cakes emerge from the oven a half an hour later, mocking me for my decision to use but a single box.
So instead of one big, fluffy, satisfying, supposedly delicious cake I had two skinny-ass ones that were as much frosting as cake, fell apart while trying to get them out of the pan, and in general being as decidedly un-cake-like as they could be.
Story of my life, end up being replaced by two scrawny, skinny, unsatisfying things that fail to actually have the qualities of the thing we supposedly were, ending up being more sickly sweet sugar substance than actual, solid deliciousness.
And I couldn't even stack the things because one of my pans was a slightly different shape than the other.
That and Claudia had already swooped through, harvested the middle two pieces of the cake, and fled into the dark recesses of the apartment cackling all the way muttering about dark numerology, frosting for the frosting gods, and cake for the cake throne.
I needed to go and check on her to make sure that she wasn't making an actual throne of cake in one of the back rooms somewhere. Because the moment she left it unattended Kitty was likely going to eat it, and then the two of them would get into a fight that would leave the walls, furniture, and carpets singed with lavender flames and the unspeakable acid secretion that Kitty had for a breath weapon.
Even though he was technically a wolf-dragon hybrid (a heavily inbred wolf-dragon hybrid with some tiger and rhinoceros thrown in) Kitty kind of had all the worst qualities of a dragon, a dog, and a cat.
He groomed with his tongue, which meant regurgitated hairballs. Which could eat through about a foot and a half of concrete.
If it were anyone else's hair it wouldn't be a problem. But dragons are immune to their own element, which means that Kitty's hair was completely immune to Kitty's own stomach acid. And because it was elementally immune, meant that it couldn't be broken down by the draconic digestive system.
So in short Jason Kaine would kill himself off if he were to ever become a dragon, with his intestines clogged with an ever-accumulating clog made from his own happily consumed boogers.
And on that unappetizing note, I made my way back into the dark and sinister depths of my condo to where Claudia was lurking. Meaning that I had a bulb out that I was too lazy to change because everybody can see in the dark, and that it was at the end of the hallway on the left.
Fortunately my maniacal thrall was not in fact crafting a throne of cake, or making a wall of cake bricks and frosting mortar. For once she'd actually just eaten the damned cake and not done anything ridiculous with it.
Instead she appeared to be cleaning my throne. No, not the porcelain throne, the one made of bones and horns and skulls and whatnot I'd picked up from some evil overlord's garage sale. As badass and sentimental as a chair crafted from the bones of your slain enemies was, when your banshee wife was shrieking at you that the Children of the Night needed a bigger play room, you dismantled the Man Cave.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Hehe, I'm polishing your bone, obviously." my clown companion stated with a widening of her almost ever-present grin.
"No, seriously. What are you doing? And don't start with an endless stream of double entendres."
She sighed, "Spoilsport." she stuck her tongue out at me.
"I'm getting the chair prepped for your big entrance at Deathmatch Demolition!"
I raised a brow. "I wasn't planning on having a big entrance at Deathmatch Demolition. Or much of an entrance at all. Since you're out first, it's not like we can even do the usual thing."
"Nuuuu! It's a big time special show! You HAVE to do a special entrance."
I shook my head and made a disgusted noise, "Why? There's nothing in it for me. The whole thing is to decide who I face after the Yacht show. I'm going to be facing SOMEBODY no matter what I do."
"I'm going to be a fighting champion, so I'd rather somebody who isn't me win the thing. Because if I win, no matter who I pick people are going to bitch about the decision and ride my ass about it.
"Eh?"
"Well I can't fucking choose Riddick. I've already beaten the fuck out of him several times, and am scheduled to beat the fuck out of him AGAIN at the Bikini Atoll show."
"Devereaux? Already beaten him. Hasn't done anything particularly impressive. Same goes for Jason Kaine or Matt Acid."
"Just about the only person in the fed that I haven't beaten the complete and utter fuck out of yet is Teiji "I Wanna Be Tyler Durden When I Grow Up" Shintaro. But he's a disgusting poop-flinging, poop-eating, poop-fucking, face-raping, openly masturbating in the middle of… well fucking everywhere coprophilia exhibitionist."
"And sure, I'll face the bastard. I'm not scared of a little poop. I spent most of my teenage years clearing overgrown critters out of the drow city's sewer system. I've battled shit golems. One man and the contents of his digestive system doesn't unsettle me in the slightest."
"But he goes in last. So if he can't get the fucking job done from the most advantageous position, I'm sure as hell not going to hand it to him on a silver fucking platter."
"Anybody else? No challenge. I might as well be wrestling El Dandy."
"Who are you to doubt El Dandy?"
"And just imagine the eternal bitchfest from the entitled and bald contingent if I did something so shockingly nepotistic as to give YOU the title shot. Be it by winning it and picking you as my opponent, or having you win."
Claudia gives me the "you're a complete and total idiot" look that I used to make when arguing with empty-headed bimbos on Twitter. "Nonononono, you can't do THAT! You have to WIN IT!"
"Why? To get a shiny trophy that probably isn't even real silver? D'ya want to have it an put it on the mantle as a shrine to our tag team dominance, since we're probably the only two people in this match that are actually capable of maintaining a functional alliance from the beginning to the end of the whole event?"
"Noooooo!" Claudia protests, "You have to go out there, do your best, and try your hardest! It's something you need to do to show your fighting spirit as DTW World Heav… Herpa-derpa-weight Champion!"
"Glad to see I'm not the only one that keeps accidentally calling it that!"
"Look oh dark and malevolent mistress of mine, she whose stature makes diminutive supermodels pretending to be emo-goth wrestlepeoples pee in their designer pants, even though it's probably going to be quicker to soul-suck the energy to get home out of some supernatural critters that prey on human beings, making sure the DTW championship is a belt that is worthy of admiration and respect doesn't go right out the window."
"I mean yeah, it's just good business to make sure the title is treated well and not hoarded away under the sofa cushions while you turn purple mutter "my precious," inexplicably demand tag team title shots you haven't earned, and not defend the thing for half a year."
"Not only is it in your best interest as champion to maintain a strong and powerful air of… er… strength and power, but to be a dominant champion. To crush all foes before you, something something, lamentations of their women."
"To beat the peas out of them at every given opportunity so that they KNOW you're a real tough cookie, a worthy champion, and that you're not going to slack off. You need to pound the message into them that you don't have off nights, that you take all your matches seriously when something prestigious is on the line!"
"You need to win this, not because it benefits you, but because it establishes you as a fighting champion! Do you want to be like those lazy peoples in the crummy feds whose championship reigns are a joke because they only win title matches and lose literally every other match not involving the title like losing non-title matches was going out of style and they needed to wear them out or else they'll be stuck with a closet full of bell-bottoms and suits with lapels so large you can use them to hang glide?"
She emphasizes this by miming somebody in a disco era suit flipping out their lapels into a hang glider, like some sort of rubbish dressed James Bond, and pretends to fly around the room making wooshing noises.
"Plus due to the number of competitors that aren't us in Deathmatch Demolition this is a match of numerological significant! It'll power up the belt a bit faster! Because there are 14 competitors, and 12 of them are our foes!"
"The number of value meals at McDonalds involving sandwiches! The number of critters in the Zodiac, both Chinese and Roman! The number of Transformers Primus originally created, minus the Fallen! The number of apostles Jesus had, which probably means even less to you than the Transformers…"
"I like the Transformers. I haven't had anybody be a tremendous flaming twat burning with the hatred of a thousand suns because they were really into Transformers. Well… except when I was trying to figure out which one of Rumble and Frenzy was red, and which was blue."
"And I'm not impressed in the slightest with a tripartite deity that doesn't grant his followers kick-ass magical powers. Or even lame-ass magical powers. Or any magical powers at all, leaving the -ass suffix quantification scale behind entirely."
"And for as much as the noisy ones like to scream that they're doing this because it's what their magic book says, they sure don't abide by much of anything the dude they supposedly venerate above all else had to say."
"Ok, ok, I'll leave out DJ Jazzy Jesus and the Fresh Fish (and loaves) of Bel-Air. But there are other significant incidences of 12! It's two fives, two five man band types, and thus having the potential of two typical hero or villain parties, and then if you also count the number of parties you get twelve!"
"The months of the Terran year, if you don't include the extra millisecond at the end as it's own month. Which I do. I officially claim it and dub it Claudember."
"There were four members of the Beatles, and three members of Cream! So if they had an orgy you'd multiply four by three and get twelve combinations. I mean, like, one on one combinations. Not doing and Eiffel Tower on Clapton or playing Ookie Cookie with Ringo's face."
I blink a few times.
"TWELVE IS IMPORTANT! There were originally twelve members of the Jackson Five before Joe Jackson started culling the herd of lesser, inferior, not-so-wholesome looking Jacksons."
"What."
"Like deformed, two-headed Zebekiah Jackson, who they kept chained in the basement and fed rats, who could sing harmonies with himself! Or Luana Jackson, who was bitten by a were-beast, and has spent most of her life as the family housecat, directly inspiring the panther sequence from the Black or White music video!"
"Claudia, you need to stop before you break my bullshit detector and have to buy me a new one."
"Okay, okay, so I may be exaggerating a LITTLE BIT, but still, the number 12 is numerologically important and you would greatly power up the belt by winning this match, despite it not being directly defended! C'mon, would I lie to you?"
"Constantly."
"Well, yes. But that's not the point! The point is that you need to continue being the big nasty rawr-scary scrapper that you've always been, and not just sit on your tail and be lazy just because you've gone and won one shiny thing."
"You've only won the one shiny thing after three years of your whole career trying to earn one. So just because you have one you have slaked your thirst for shiny pro graps prizes? I mean c'mon! You've trotted out that bit where you hold the record for most eliminations in a Match Formally Known as But Is No Longer Called the Rumble Bash Due to Legal Reasons Even Though the Company That Owned the Trademarks Never Actually Used Them to Promote a Battle Royal While You Were On the Roster."
"C'mon, boss lady! Get mad! When life gives you lemons, throw those lemons back in life's face!
"Yeah! I don't want life's damned lemons, what the hell am I going to do with these?"
"And then infused them with a fearsome combination of fire, light, and life mana so that they will detonate when thrown hard enough! Burn life's house down, WITH THE LEMONS!"
"You were jerked around for years, always given walking bags of silicone or monumental inbreds as tag team partners, and then when you finally get a decent tag team partner, they treat you like dirt to kiss the asses of a bunch of preppy bitches who don't want to come into work and do their fuzzin' jobs!"
"You and me? We're a team! A proper team! The only team in DTW. We've got tandem moves, finishing maneuvers, matching attire! We even have our cool, creepy, bad-ass entrance that we do with you that works just fine for the both of us coming out."
"So you know what we're going to do? We're going to show the world that you're an awesome tag team wrestler, even though we don't have to tag! It's like an instinctual thing, like sticking Heavyweight between the words World and Championship. It's just something we've been trained to do for so long it's second nature!"
"We're going to go out there, we're going to have cool, spectacular awesome entrances. We're going to tear up our twelve foes, the two of us against the world's most disgusting zodiac, and you're going to walk off that soccer pitch with a shiny new trophy and pick your opponent to fight in a month!"
"Because you're the Ace of Death Trip Wrestling. You've been ill-used for so long that you need to get your fire back, have fun with things, go all out! Let's see if we can get you back to being happy, bouncy, fun, cuddly Kalinda from when you first started wrestling."
"We are going to make you a happy draggy, oh most over of overlords. And that's all going to start with some clowns, some sections of prefabricated housing, a wading pool, some spray on foam, and some of those textured paint rollers that haven't seen the light of day since the late 90's."
"I cannot imagine what you could possibly have in mind with those."
"Come into my parlor, said the spider-clown to the dragoness, and let me spin you a tale." she says with a grin, leaning in close.
-o-
So this is a first. I think for the very first time we have Claudia and I in a single room, both grinning like loons into the camera. Because Claudia is always grinning like a loon and she has an infectious smile.
I'm mean that literally. I'm not sure where she keeps her troupe of clown minions, but they all ping as kinda-sorta undead. So the pale white coloration is natural. Or un-natural.
Look, terminology gets complicated when magical contagions are involved, okay?
Anyway, I don't think we've done a tandem promo before.
"Hello ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, cancer patients of all stages! And you know what that means! Why, we're going to be talking about the Angriest Little Cancer Patient, amongst others!"
"Because this is Deathmatch Demolition! A colossal confrontation of carnage filled with fire, flames, fricasseed fartknockers fried by detonating devices! Where Double Dragon devises dastardly deeds to dominate a dozen douchebags by demolishing their derrieres!"
"The boss lady and I are the only cohesive unit around these parts, and we're going to be taking full advantage of it, because we're not as dumb as Dick Deveraux looks, oh no! I mean you'd have to be absolutely NUTS not to use the first and third entry positions to maintain an advantage through the whole of the fight!"
"Because seriously folks, do you think the combination of ego, entitlement, douchebaggery, outright bugnuttery, and constantly masturbating to an endless loop of Fight Club contained in the Ultraviolence Union is going to allow them to function as a cohesive unit for more than five seconds?"
"Fuck no. Riddick is going to try and throw anybody he gets his nails-fallen-out-from-chemotherapy hands on over the fence the first chance he gets. I mean he's such a scumbag he powerbombed his own mother so hard he gave her brain damage all those years ago. Then did it again."
"Psychnuts is going to see centipedes crawling out of Riddick's eternally be-sanded vagina and is going to throw him through the wall of fire she sees the fence as before they can crawl around to bite off his testicles and deprive her of having more than one grandchild."
"And Teiji? He thinks Riddick's head is the world's largest, most glorious bellend, and is so disappointed he can't fit it in his asshole. So instead of churning butt-butter to make some Santorum the old fashioned way he's going to have to lather up his own shit on Riddick's chromedome and then wank on it."
"And Riddick doesn't have time to be some anarcho-nihilist fanboy's cum dumpster. He wants to win a match, get accolades, and piss me off by making me have to defend my hard won DTW World He… World Decidedly-Not-Heavyweight Championship against him on every show during the month of February."
Fuck. I'm still sticking the word Heavyweight in the belt's name. Goddess-damned force of habit.
"So what that means is that anybody that enters that match is going to get double teamed by a pair of delectable dragonesses. And maaaaaybe when he comes in at number seven Double Dragon's designated mascot and Young Boy Masatake Kawamata will decide to be on Team Pretty and Cute instead of Team Dumb and Ugly."
"Because he's not going to be able to get Kalinda over the fence. Heck, I don't think I could get your big blue butt over that fence."
"One of the benefits of having a tail when you're my size. Adds another 130 or so pound of weight that keeps my center of gravity waaaaaay below the top of that fence line."
"So he might as well keep the alliance train rolling on by helping us. Why, imagine what it'll do for his career if he's the one to throw Riddick or Devereaux or Teiji over the fence."
"Probably shorten it dramatically as one of the egomaniacal doucheprinces will get a bug up his butt about it, which Teiji will shit back out and eat, and attack him on the yacht screaming about manifest destiny or some bullshit like that. "How dare you actually do what the match requires and eliminate me! Don't you know that in my own mind I'm SOOOOO much more important than you!""
I stick out my forked tongue, a good twelve inches or so of it, and blow a raspberry while making a jerking off motion to indicate that I think the lot of them are wankers. Teiji obviously is. We have what is probably hours of video footage of him gleefully fapping.
"Oh hush! Don't scare him like that! And it's not like you can't revive him as an undead minion if one of our overly entitled baldies or the Shit-Gibbon Supreme actually murder him in the face."
"I'll do it so long as Masatake agrees that he's not going to put on face paint when he comes back. I refuse to be responsible for unleashing yet another Eric Draven Crow wannabe on the world of professional wrestling."
"And if young Rebel Heart doesn't want to play along, I'll just throw him out along with the other eleven members of the world's weirdest zodiac.
"I know, right? Though it's a bit hypocritical for a seven foot tall bright blue dragoness and her quasi-undead clown-dragon-faerie minion to be calling a bunch of other professional wrestlers weird."
"Oh come on! Our weirdness is perfectly normal, wholesome and natural! Let's run down the list one by one. Because there is nothing natural about Psycho Stalker's weirdness."
"Hey! Don't talk about my second bestest pal in DTW like that! I'm his bestest friend in the whole wide world!"
"You're his only friend in the whole wide world, and your relationship consists entirely of you beating the peas out of him at any and every given opportunity."
"I gave him a wonderful present when we had a date in the bar that one time!"
"It wasn't a date. He was stalking you and you beat him unconscious with a surge protector power strip after he prodded you in the tit, referring to it as "Strip Poker.""
"See, strip because power strip, and poker because "poke her." It was so romantic with him missing teeth and bleeding copiously from the mouth and lips. Nice, big, puffy lips perfect for kissing."
"I'm not sure which one of you is the more unsettling sexual predator."
"Hey! There's nothing sexual about my predation!"
"How about that time you kissed The Amazing Mascot Boy and Human Target Girl?"
"That wasn't predation! That was me returning a bit of stolen life force to a wounded individual, and then making sure to give Mitsubishi a kiss too so that he wouldn't feel jealous or left out!"
"Riiight."
"ANYWAY! It's not like Psycho Stalker is a dire threat or anything. I've kicked his bottom up between his ears a whole bunch of times. Worst case scenario here is that I eliminate him early, and you end up being bored for two minutes after you show up as entry number three."
"Bring your clowns out and we can do a musical number. Probably the most useful thing this damned gauntlet grafted to my left arm does is grant me the capacity to totally shred on anything that has strings and can make a note. As Arimus is the God of Death, Demons, Devils, Dark Magic, and Stringed Instruments."
"Why is that?"
"Way I was told they snatched up all the good divine portfolio bits that they wanted, and then there were a bunch of leftovers and their dad made them each take at least one. Basically the overgod of magic and darkness making his godkids eat their god-vegetables."
"I feel sorry for whomever ended up as the God of Brussels Sprouts."
"Laila. Falls into her domain of plants. Solar deity, her light erodes anything much more technologically advanced than a steam engine. If it was made on an assembly line, by a robot, or out of interchangeable parts, forget it. It's either rusted away entirely, or converted to a lesser version of the same device. Start with a .50 caliber sniper rifle, end up with a crossbow whose quarrel makes you look like you're obviously compensating for something."
"And speaking of overly compensating for something that brings us to Riddick, whose mom, Psychnuts, is entrant number four."
"As violent as she is, I don't imagine that she's really going to be much of a danger aside from the usual violence. I mean it's not like she's got the mental faculties to comprehend the rules."
"She probably thinks that we're all giant bunnymen who are here to suck all her sex-thoughts out of her ear lobes or something."
"And that you're a giant blue nymph cursed to endlessly repeat pop culture references. Making this match Echo and the Bunnymen."
"Boo! Boo! No one is going to get that reference!"
"And speaking of just not getting it, that takes us to entrant number five in the Dirty Wizard."
"Whom I have to work at to not call the Shitty Wizard, even though he is also pretty shitty, because Spark loves Dota and will not shut up about it."
"I think DTW as a whole ought to come together and stage an intervention for the poor guy. He's obviously got an alcohol problem."
"So you want to stage an intervention, send him to AA, where as a professional wrestler his higher power will throw off his hood and go "It was me, Austin! It was me all along!""
"Aw, son of a biscuit. No. I was thinking of voting on a piledriver type move that we hit him with every time we see him in the remote vicinity of alcohol and call it the Designated Driver. So that he starts to associate alcohol with having his skull caved in."
"That's mean, Claudia. The poor fellow suffers from alcoholism."
"Poppycock! He doesn't suffer from it, he enjoys every moment of it! And speaking of opiates and dicks, that brings us to entry number six, Jason Kaine."
"Now that's not fair to Jason Kaine. We have no evidence to suggest that he's an opium addict."
"He picked it up just before his Viking phase, as he was slowly cranking his interests back through time and wound up with a vice from Victorian England. That's why he doesn't show up and make promos half the time! Because he's asleep after smoking the peace pipe!"
"That's tobacco."
"Well at least he's not injecting marijuanas! Even just one marijuana causes the body to start breaking down and..."
"Quit it with the memes, that's my department!"
"ANYWAY! It's obvious he's on the poppy juice. Just look at the symptoms!"
"Symptoms?"
"Confusion! He thought he was a viking for awhile! Then out of nowhere he dropped the gimmick despite being more one of the interesting and unique members of the DTW roster, and then just made himself into just another beardy asshole and put on a hairpiece. Bad move, Baldy Dwarf."
"Well, and then there's the constipation. All you have to do is listen to him talk for a few seconds to learn just how amazingly, spectacularly, intestine-bulgingly full of shit he is."
"See? I'm not wrong! And the viking thing? Sudden and violent shifts in personality and mood in such a short period of time!"
"That poor man. If only he was just out in the parking lot with Jackson Adams eating funny pizza."
"Those are mushrooms!"
"I'm not up on the Earth drug culture, because none of them work on me."
"Okay, you kinda know the bible, right?"
"I make it a point to learn about the native religions of my foes so that I may belittle them with devastating taunts, yes."
"Okay, that book at the end, Revelation? Yeah, I'm pretty sure John of Patmos was eating all kinds of funny mushrooms."
"And on the topic of funny mushrooms, that brings us to entrant number seven in the whole shebang, Masatake Kawamata."
"How do funny mushrooms relate to our mascot, the esteemed Mr. Manitoba Kalamari?"
"Umm… because Super Mario has mushrooms in it and comes from Japan, I guess?" I blush and look a little ashamed.
"I'm sorry, but doing the transitions seemed like so much fun, I didn't want to be left out."
"Aww! I forgive you, boss lady!" Claudia says, giving me a hug. Which with out different heights means that she's basically shoved her head into the middle of my cleavage.
"Oi, careful with that. We don't want to start spreading lesbian pollen around DTW the way it's gotten around all those feds in the Triad."
"Well, that wouldn't be so bad with all the cute valets and managers and ring girls..."
"And Psychnuts. Who I think was masturbating on the show at some point."
"I had kind of cracked open my skull and cut out a chunk of my brain so that I would never have to have that image enter my head again. But it's there again now. Thank you." Claudia makes a disgusted face.
"You're welcome."
"ANYWAY! We've kind of railed on The Adorable Dr. Rebel Heart already..."
"Goddess, hearing you say that out loud all I can think of right now is how much Rebel Heart sounds like the name for a stripper or a porn star."
"If you want I can go devour all his masculinity and make him a cute ladyboy stripper."
"No no, don't do that. With four girly-looking people on the roster we might reach critical mass and our roster might start drawing in 120 pound MAXIM models."
"I can nom the innate guyhood of every member of the DTW roster and turn this whole thing into a magical girl anime! Don't push me, I'll do it!"
"Starring Teijiko Shintaro as Sailor Poop."
"Psycho Stalker as InyurPanties."
"Dickless Devereaux as Shojo Bat!"
"Mattea Acid as King Minos' Wife Pasiphae!"
"And you say you're NOT a sexual predator."
"No, just a mythology buff and a bit of a pervert. And speaking of being a bit of a pervert that brings us to number 8, Damian Hister."
"He's not a pervert. He's an inept serial killer wannabe who has never managed to kill anyone."
"No, no, you misunderstand! I'm saying I perv out for him a little bit."
"You're disgusting."
"I know! I'm an unholy abomination cobbled together from the blood of ancient fey, undead, dragons, and assorted horrors and bound mind, body, and soul to the handmaiden of a dark and malevolent deity with the powers to bring the dead into a twisted mockery of life and command them against the forces of the living!"
I pull her head out of my bosom and give her a shove.
"Not anymore you're not. Mind and soul yes, body no."
"Awww!"
"Lesbian pollen. Gushing grannies."
"...I'll be good. ANYWAY! He's a totally sweet guy who helps out sometimes when my blood gets to itchy and needs to come out for awhile, or I have some pesky muscles or tendons that need to be cut that I can't reach."
"And being able to stab, shoot, and slice you to bits over and over again must help him out in some way, I suppose. Even if it's a cruel irony that the one person in the world that he can actually succeed in murdering is completely and utterly incapable of dying through physical violence."
"Oh I'm sure enough physical violence might do it. We haven't tried the stake in the heart, cutting off the head, filling the mouth with garlic, burning both, and then putting the ashes in holy water yet."
"Wouldn't work. You'd come out of the oven whole with an apple in your mouth wearing a pig snout."
"Haha! Yeah, I probably would, that'd be HILARIOUS!"
"I can just imagine some would-be vampire hunters opening up the crematorium, looking forward to immersing your ashes in holy water, and then finding a somewhat roasted, delicious-smelling barbecue sauce covered clown with an apple in her mouth giggling at them. They would be so startled, confused, and sad."
"And speaking of sad slabs of long pork, that brings us to number 9, good ol Jersey Jim."
"Just looking at the guy makes me thank the fates that I'm a dragon and will not have to endure the slow decay of the human body heading into old age."
"I can scarcely imagine what being a washed up, past your prime grappler is like when you're of the feminine gender. Because for three fourths of these places all you need to be a lady wrestler is a face that doesn't make people throw up and a nice set of tits. They don't pay you travel and a dinner at Denny's to come in and throw fists because you used to be on international television if you're sporting two X chromosomes.
"Oh, lady wrestlers in the states don't have to do that. They get sent to Nevada, where they work on the Moolah Memorial Bunny Ranch, slobbing the knobs of the Vegas medium rollers."
I snarl involuntarily.
"I am so fucking glad that woman is dead, because if she wasn't I might just have to kill her."
"You can always dig her up, reanimate her, and kill her again."
"It just wouldn't be the same."
I smirk.
"Besides, if it turns out your world actually has a proper, functioning hell, I don't want to give her one minute's respite of burning eternally in the lake of fire."
"Ehh, that's kind of the problem with a lake of fire. 'Cause a lake by definition has shores. And if it has shores, you can get out. No matter how unscalable the walls. They've got literally forever to make handholds. "
"With millennia worth of scientists and engineers the place probably has air conditioning by now."
"And speaking of blowing a whole lot of hot air, that brings us to number 10, Stone Cold Steve Autism himself, Riddick!"
I make a disgusted noise.
"I'm not being a dick about it, and I don't like to throw around accusations of autism around as an insult because it's kind of overused on the internet, really tacky, and kind of degrading to actual people with autism."
"But for fuck's sake attacked a cameraman and started jerking off with his blood this week. Getting violent for no reason, and inappropriate, public sexual acts are like the two biggest calling cards of riding the short bus to school."
"Ehh, Riddick seems to me more edgelord than autistic. "Look at me, everybody! I'm shocking, offensive, gross, and I need you to pay attention to me! Look at how edgy I am!""
"You may be right, best to just ignore him. Did you hear him this week? He was all "Look at all the things I've done for you, notice me, Kalinda-Senpai!" and has been indicating that playtime is over and he's coming for my title for realsies this time."
"I'm not sure how you could be coming after you for real this time, considering the last time he was after you he brought out a flamethrower."
"I know, right? He just HAS to be the center of attention, has to be in all the main events, has to be all big and bad and shocking and shit so people keep talking about him. It's like he's gotten to the top of the professional wrestling world, he's had three great matches with me, and he just keeps trying to escalate the violence and offensiveness."
"Dude, you don't have to do all that shit. You don't need to wax the dolphin using somebody's blood to keep people talking about you. Just keep going out there and having awesome matches."
"He just wants to be crude, vile, and offensive. He doesn't care what kind of attention he gets, so long as it's attention. He's basically a bald overly attached girlfriend. And the poor Bad Luck Brian that's acquired his unhealthy fixation is the pro wrestling audiance."
""What? Herpes? Oh no, I went and made sure that they're OUR-pes now!"" I do my best "Riddick looking intense face" (it's all in the evil vizier eyebrows) and a stalker smile.
"Eww." Claudia looks me over and takes a step back.
"Look, I know I'm one to talk, but please don't do that smile again. It's unpleasant."
I stick out my tongue and wiggle it.
"Rrrr! I'm Riddick, I'm here to give your grandmother a heart attack with my obscene in lewd behavior and then lick your pussy!"
Claudia and I pause for a moment and then speak at the same time. "Lesbian pollen."
"And speaking of pussies, that brings us to number eleven, Dick Devereaux, who is a tremendous cunt, but lacks both the warmth and the depths."
"And he's trying to do the whole "You're all conspiring against me!" thing that wrestlers do when they find themselves completely and utterly unable to defeat one particular opponent."
"If the other 13 participents in this match are going to conspire against them, it's because we're all film critics and think his shitty little mini movies gargle as many balls as Cindy Todd will once she's old enough to put out to pasture at the Moolah Memorial Bunny Ranch."
"Better hope they're not allergic to the pigment in the black lipstick, pancake makeup, and the sulfurous stench that surrounds her from demonic inhabitation."
"I think that's just her diet of garlic and the lingering scent of onions she has to keep cutting so all her proteges keep crying about their horrible, horrible lives, tragic backstories, and the awful things she does to them and yet they still stay with her."
"You can cut the sexual tension with a knife. Just have her thralls walk out there in full pony girl attire being lead around by their nipple piercings."
I fix Claudia with a glare. "No."
"What? I didn't say anything!"
"Just no."
"What?"
"No, Claudia."
"I don't even have nipple piercings!"
"All you need is like five minutes and a nail."
"Well yes, this is true, but I do not have nipple piecings at this particular moment, so your accusation is completely and totally unfair!"
"Besides, it'll never work. I have to tease and taunt the audiance with my abbreviated top that shows just enough underboob to hint that the thing will come flying off at any time, but only my trolling, spiteful nature keeps it in place, refusing to spill the glorious bounty of my nipples freely for the world to see."
"Can we please stop talking about your nipples?"
"And speaking of things that awkward goober wrestlers will never see in person on a member of the opposite sex in their lifetimes, that brings us to number 12, Matt Acid."
"That's mean, Claudia. I'm sure that there's the perfect 300 pound ring rat with a tramp stamp that says Butt Slut wearing a pair of leopard patterned yoga pants with copious stains in the crotch just waiting to scoop him up in her arms and drag him off to the trailer park to make a hundred welfare babies somewhere."
"Good thing we'll be having a few shows in the United States so that the star-crossed lovers can meat.
"Eww."
"He hobbies include picking her thong out of her ass crack, taking duckface selfies, farting in elevators, and posting "If you can't handle me at my worst, you don't deserve me at my best" memes to Facebook."
"EWW!"
"And the trailer park she's knownas Rhonda Buttnuggs, because she crapped her pants in a WalMart one time, and her chronic dehydration from drinking cola instead of water has lead to her crapping gravel, and thus shaking a leg and leaving a trail of itty bitty poop rocks marking her path through the store like the world's most disgusting Gretel."
"And speaking of crapping, shaking a leg, and leaving a disgusting trail..."
"Hey! We've skipped over Purple AKI Man!"
"Look, with the number of people who already have some sort of quasi-sexual fixation on you within this fed, do you REALLY want to risk bringing attention to yourself and your big juicy muscles?"
"I don't think I'm in any danger. He only seems to target people with a Y chromosome, hence his spine-tingling war cry of "Hellooooo boys!""
"Do you think he has any chance at winning this match?"
"Nope."
"Do you think there are legions of fans chomping at the bit wanting to see you and him fight one another in the squared circle?"
"Not really."
"So let's just dismiss him as irrelevant, start giggling when he starts touching, groping, and measuring the muscles of the male competitors in this match, and move on to the final member of the DTW Zodiac, which makes him Pisces."
"Goddess, if it was ONLY fish that he smelled like."
"Teiji "The Turdman" Shintaro."
"Who as of late actually managed to spit the poop out of his mouth and keep himself from stuffing another load of his off brand Rhonda Buttnuggs into his reeking maw, and actually managed to say a few words."
"Sure, they were words that sounded like he spends a goodly portion of his life masturbating to Fight Club, but to be fair he spends a lot of time masturbating to everything."
"He is the antithesis of Team Pretty and Cute. His grossness and message of hate, loathing, despair, and anarchistic-nihilistic philo-wanking much be met and destroyed."
"So I, Claudia Kajara, clown, comedian, and Countess of Cuteness have taken it upon myself as my sworn duty to be the one who eliminates this stinking, reeking, filth-spraying, from this match, even if it costs me my own entry."
"There is nothing that I will not do in the name of cuteness, innocence, and decency, even if it means violating those very standards of cuteness, innocence, and decency like Teiji Shintaro violates the eyes and nostrils of each and every human being, dog, cat, bird, insect, and duct-taped wrapped gerbil that has met an unfortunate end in his wicked intestinal tract."
"Teiji Shintaro, we comin' for you, ninja!"
I place my hand over my heart and expel a deep breath.
"Laila's leafy lovebags, Claudia, don't scare me like that!"
"I resent that accusation! I am a pure and innocent clown who desires nothing more than to be amusing!"
"And suck out the brains of the occasional member of humanity."
"Yes, and suck the brains out of the occasional member of humanity. It's not like they were going to be using them anyway."
"So I think we've covered everyone."
"Everyone except a buzz-killing, no-fun, big blue windbag!"
"And a tiny, pasty Bozo the clown enthusiast who uses a slide whistle to indicate the intensity of her self-pleasure sessions!"
Claudia gasps. "You beast, you promised you would never tell!"
"Fite me IRL, u beta cuck!" I saw putting up my fists.
Instead of the predicted battle of fists, I flick Claudia's ear, she pokes my navel. She honks my nose, I give her a noogie.
"Oh noes! Dissension in the ranks!" I saw in an overly dramatic, but bored voice.
"However will these two manage to coexist during the oh so dangerous Deathmatch Demolition?" Claudia adds in complete and utter monotone.
"This is the most horrendous brawl I've ever seen!" I drone, plucking one of Claudia's hairs.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the greatest night in the history of our sport!" Claudia adds, holding up a Tony Schiavone handpuppet and and sticking one of its tiny felt fists into my ear.
"Oh no! We're out of time! You'll have to see the aftermath of this vicious, horrible brawl on Deathmatch Demolition!" she says through the puppet as we both exhale a cloud of foggy breath at the camera.
Fade to white.
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