What Is Daxton Oliver Beckett All About?
People are constantly asking me what I’m all about, like it’s some kind of fucking million dollar question. I’m about so many different things that it would take days, literally fucking days, to describe it all. Everyone is about a message these days, like it really matters in the end. We are human beings, and that’s all about copulating and making a statement. My statement might seem like it is little more than “Fuck you…” but as I said on Twitter earlier this week, it’s about one thing; YOLO. If I’m honest, I don’t really know what it means, other than to get turnt up and have a good time, but I think it’s old people’s way of saying to live every single fucking day like it could be your last, because it just might be. Tomorrow is not a guarantee. I don’t wanna die tomorrow and think to myself, “Damn, I wish I woulda nailed that one bombie from the Dairy Queen the other day. Those pigtails would make great handlebars for that ride.” Nah, I hit it like three times.
I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again. You only live once. I’m a free spirit, and I’ve travelled all over the world. I’ve nailed a girl on like every continent. I’ve sipped the best booze, smoked the finest herb, and ate like a king. But, I’ve also turnt up on Mad Dog in the back of my van, fallen asleep on park benches, and eaten out of a garbage can. Other than the last part, I wouldn’t trade any of it for any amount of rich, because it makes me who I am.
I don’t know if I mentioned this before, but I wrestled in Japan for two years. I absorbed a lot of the Japanese culture. I don’t just mean the Tokyo Kawaii, Hello Kitty bullshit either, but the virtues of the Futile Era Shinto. Respect, dignity, integrity, virtue, and hospitality, not just for oneself, but also for your neighbor. Real Mr. Miyagi shit. I try to live by those virtues every day of my life. Of course, I’m human, and I make mistakes. I’m not saying that I’m selfless by any means.
But the one thing that really digs at my ass? People baiting me into a fight that they know I can’t win… No, I’m not talking about Chris Shipman. From what I’ve seen of that guy, I am definitely not impressed. In my debut here in SCW, I took down Calvin Harris… yeah, I know I’m not helping my case much, but from what I hear, he does rank up higher than some of the lame asses that have beaten the supposed Reverend Psychopath of Originality, Chris Shipman. That’s a topic for a later time, though.
Nah, I’m talking about the slimy gweed, Giani Di Luca. You know, the stereotypical trash that blows down off of the Jersey Turnpike. I’m talking about whoever the fuck this ginger bastard with the Lucky Charms accent is, that decided it was a brilliant fucking idea to bash me across the back with a baseball bat. I’m still trying to figure that one out. Mickey Carroll and Giani Di Luca… I don’t know whatever the fuck it is that I did to either of you to deserve that shit.
But no, I’m not backing down from either of you. I’m not admitting to some kind of defeat to either of you. I’m just saying “What the fuck, bruh?” Who are either of you, and why are you coming after some basic no-name to try to put yourselves over? Do you realize that you don’t stand a chance against anyone, and you think I’m easy pickings? Yeah, ask Calvin Harris how that worked out for him, why don’t you?
Is it because I stepped on your fragile ego two weeks ago, Giani? You realized that you couldn’t hide behind your buck toothed beaver of a girlfriend forever, so you figured out that you need back up to come at me? I know of you, Giani, but this Mickey dude? Seriously? That was your best option? From what I heard, he only ever played second to anyone he’s ever surrounded himself with. Ben Jordan mostly, but then that other guy who was basically you, only not stacked like a brick house? Gringo Ringo Mingo whatever? Yeah, nobody really cared… not even when you two tried to team up with J2H, who seems to be doing a lot better now that he’s out of your shadow.
To be honest with you two, I’m not scared of either of you. You can come at me with bats from behind, and basic Pumphandle Slams all you want, but it’s not going to change the fact that I got your number if we ever meet up inside of a wrestling ring. You can pass that to Mickey, too. Daxton Oliver Beckett is nobody’s bitch, but you know who is a real bitch? Payback, and I got lots to send your way. Either one of you got the balls to step inside of the six sided circle? Haha, I didn’t think so. Just know that next time, I’m gonna have eyes in the back of my head, waiting for you two. Next time? There won’t be a next time, because I’ve got your number...
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What the Fuck Just Happened?
#NP "Hail To the King” by Avenged Sevenfold
Roxbury Park; Beverly Hills, CaliforniaSo, let me tell you a little story that’s gonna take us back a couple of weeks here. I hate to live out past drama, but it’s going to answer one of the burning questions people have been messaging me about on Twitter. Nah, not how big my dick is, because if I told you, you wouldn’t believe it anyway. I hear it’s somewhere in Google Images anyway.
Sorry, I got side tracked. This story takes place about two weeks after Celeste and I decided to make things official. We had been spending everyday together, and this time was no different. I get a text from her, asking to meet me in Roxbury Park. Being the romantic fucker that I am, I decide to throw a couple ‘wiches together, some carrot sticks, and a bottle of cruelty-free champagne, which turns out is post-Vegan friendly club soda in a fancy bottle, so that no grapes were harmed in the production of it. It made sense at the time, okay? STFU
So, I got out favorite fuck blanket spread out on the grass, my little picnic set up going on, catching a few cool California sunrays with my shirt off, and my glasses on. The fresh air is nice, even with everyone walking around in parkas like it’s not fucking 75 degrees outside. I blow off the hate as I soak it all up. Jamming out to my theme song which is available on iTunes, Spotify, and whatever you crazy kids are downloading from these days, if you wanna get into it with me. I feel a light tickle of nails gently dragging across my toned pecs, because you know… I work out. The sun cuts out the face of my admirer, but it’s obviously Celeste, right? But, Celeste has never touched me with so much passion and desire before, so this kind of intrigues me. I just close my eyes, and let her do what she wants, because this would not be my first time going downtown for indecent exposure for doing it in broad daylight. The way she’s handling my ripped abs, and the way she twists my nip just hard enough to make me shudder in delight, but not hard enough where it feels like I just got kicked in the balls. I groan, because Celeste is going to take it! She’s going to make it hers! Even as she pulls the right earbud out of my ear, running her tongue across my earlobe, before whispering right in my ear…
Delia: You really are a dirty, dirty boy, Daxton… I wonder what would happen if I told Celeste…
WHAT?! O-M-F-G! The crowd goes wild, because *mimics explosion* mind has been blown. I might have expected it more if it hadn’t been before she revealed to the world that she’s a conniving fucking bitch, but it’s right before that. I sit up and lift the sunglasses off of my face. My nipple has been violated! I rub it gently as I look at her in a way that says…
Me: What the fuck?! Is there something wrong with you, Delia?
Delia: Hmmm, probably. Z’ere is just somes’ing so intriguing about a taken man. It poses certain… challenges… because, let’s face it. Any single male, and most females as well, would do any’sing just to be wi’s me. I could literally hand pick any guy I want, but z’e greatest accomplishment is finding somes’ing I want, taking it, and keeping it.
Me: But, I don’t have anything you want, except… You want Celeste?!
Of course she’s not talking about Celeste… or is she? Most importantly, is there suddenly a possibility of a biased triple threat that’s basically a handicap tag team bedroom brawl for the coveted Triple Orgasm Championship with Delia and Celeste and me? I look at her face as she rolls her eyes.
Delia: Ugh! Clearly you’ve not been to college…
Me: Um, FYI, I graduated signum cum loudly… very loudly. And by that, I mean I nailed a college professor with tenure and a front parking space and a picture of her husband and adopted children on the desk before I knocked it all off, thank you very much.
I told her! Or, so I thought, until she unbuttons the top of her blouse, revealing a light glance at her cans, and the top of the black lace bra holding those milk bubbies in place. I’m not going to lie, I stared. I stared hard. But just like Jason Segel in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, I did not finish the deed, even in my mind. Okay, I imagined it a few times in the twenty seconds… er… minutes that I stared at them. But it’s kind of the same, because I didn’t actually touch them.
Delia: Are you done? I’m trying to have a conversation wi’s you, but you keep saying “Oh yes, mommy” and it’s starting to get awkward…
Me: I am done! I’m done with this conversation, and this whole idea of using me for my body. I love your best friend, Celeste, and even if my mind did get lost inside of that black booby trap under your shirt, I will not do anything about them, except when I’m alone in my hotel room, and Celeste isn’t around, and we’ve been dating for a month where I’m no longer like a middle school boy who snuck into a peep show when I see her ta-tas, and I imagine doing terrible… TERRRRRIBLE things to them, and you. I wasn’t breastfed, and I’ve always held that against my mom as a sign that she doesn’t love me, so boobs are kind of a big deal, so my denial of your jigglypuffs is a total commitment to your best friend. In conclusion, this is the first oral presentation I’ve passed with flying colors, where I’m talking, and not going down on a chick!
Delia blinks, so I take that as my cue to stop talking. I look around for Celeste to jump out of a bush and yell “Surprise! And I never expected handmade tomato cheese sandwiches from my favorite kid’s movie of all time, Harriet the Spy, because if it wasn’t, then I’m essentially a sociopath, because trenchcoats and spying on people is fucking awesome!” But, surprisingly, she doesn’t do any of that, because she’s not even there.
Delia: I actually agree. Harriet z’e Spy is a forgotten American treasure z’at inspired me… to be just like Marion Hawethorne. Clearly it didn’t work out, but still… I digress. Z’is has almost nos’ing to do wi’s Celeste. It has everys’ing to do wi’s you, me, and your career. Celeste won’t be part of SCW for much longer anyway.
Me: But why? She’s doing so well here. She won the Bombshell Roulette title at the Halloween show, and she beat Veronica at High Stakes. She’s killing it out there, week in and week out.
Delia: You… are an idiot.
Before I can say a single word, she leans in and kisses me. Say what you will, but there’s a reason the French invented the French kiss. Only, they use a lot more tongue aggression than we do. Somehow, she has my tongue in a sleeperhold, and those eyes stare right into mine. I’m partially unable to move because she scares the living shit out of me, and the other part is that she literally has her tongue wrapped all the way around mine, and I can’t get away despite the struggle. She is clearly the dominant one right now, and I have to stop struggling so that she will let me go. Once she does, she bites onto my bottom lip, drawing a little bit of blood, but somehow kind of erotic.
Delia: I’ve never liked Celeste. As a matter of fact, I only urged her to date you, because you are an unruly asshole wi’s no regard for anyone but yourself, and you are clearly not boyfriend material. You are a few good fucks to keep her mind off of what is really going on.
Me: Thanks! Not that I don’t hear that a lot, but it never gets old hearing it.
Delia: My point exactly. You have no regard for her, because you aren’t even curious about my master plan.
Me: Ugh, classic villain spoiling the plot by unveiling their master plan to someone they view as weak or inferior, who rises up and stops them in a twist that is too predictable, and also incredibly fucking stupid, because those last three minutes of explanation could have been used to get away.
Delia shrugs her shoulders as she reaches over to the cruelty free champagne, opening it up, and allowing the bubbles to splash on my chest and stomach. She goes to lick some off in an effort to seduce me further, but then she makes a sour face as she spits it out onto the ground.
Delia: Somehow it tastes like pepperoni and vanilla wafers? But again, I digress. Let me put z’is in terms you can understand. I took a break from z’e spotlight. I need a tool to promote my starring role on Chronicles of Hexx, and SCW is it. I need to reel z’em in wi’s kindness, and z’en kill two birds wi’s one stone to promote a Mean Girls Reunion Tour! Celeste is just a fugly wannabe me who is so gullible and ready to accept any kind of praise she can get. And you… you’re sexy. You’re stupid… so very stupid… but sexy. Plus, stealing you from her would be a great way to assert myself as z’e wicked bitch of z’e Sou’swest once more. Plus you are sexy, and I can see by z’e bulge in your skinny jeans z’at you feel z’e same way about me. You will do for now.
Me: I will “do for now”? What the fuck does that even mean? I’m not some piece of property that you can claim. I’m a human being, with real feelings, and a real penis. I might talk a big game sometimes, but I never make people feel like they are nothing. People aren’t disposable sex toys. So, you are wrong. I am going to tell Celeste all about this.
Delia: I never said that you wouldn’t… but you won’t. I have my claws dug so deep in her right now, that she wouldn’t believe a word you had to say. And if she does, it’s pretty much too late anyway. But, Veronica’s boyfriend, and her friend will just have to beat z’e living fuck out of you if you do. Oh, but how romantic would it be if you two shared a hospital room? Couples feeding tubes, in a vegetative state.
Delia reaches forward, so quick that I can’t even try to stop her. She puts me in a nipple lock that freezes me, drains me of my power as if it were my own kryptonite. I just stare at her, thinking “AHHH YOU BITCH!” as my mouth remains closed.
Delia: Don’t fuck wi’s z’e meanest Mean Girl. If you have a change of heart, we might have a place for you wi’sin our organization. Z’e Bombshell Division is not enough, so we’re expanding.
Me: But… guys can’t be girls unless they self identify that way to sneak into the bathrooms of Target to take videos of women pooping…
Delia: I will give you one week to s’ink about it. If you don’t want to do it, z’en I would suggest finding a different career, because Giani Di Luca is a big guy, and Mickey Carroll has done hard time for just generally being a bad mos’erfucker. Z’e odds are not in your favor. Consider your next move very… very carefully. You could be z’e next big star if you play your cards right…
She lets go, not because she’s finished, but because there is a homeless guy in the bushes, playing with himself, hopefully at her expense. She gets up and leaves out of sight, and I just sit there, waiting for Celeste to show up. It took me about five hours, and a few text messages to realize that Delia had used her phone to text me. By then, the sandwiches were ruined, and the carrot sticks looked like day old dog turds anyway…
It wasn’t so much the meeting with Delia that had me feeling like a total fucker. It was the fact that I even took her offer into consideration. I stood back and watched as Delia played her like a fiddle, taunting me the whole time. I let the fear of a scrawny ginger man with almost no facial hair stop me from doing the right thing until it was almost too late. But more importantly, I almost gave in to the idea of selling out my girl for fame. That’s the part that I can’t get over, and it’s the part that’s going to drive me to look like a pussywhipped motherfucker for a while. I fucked up, but now I’m manning up.
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Christmas Comes Early This Year
#NP "Naughty Christmas" by Lacuna Coil
Undisclosed LocationMy girl is not your typical girl. She doesn’t like flowers, and jewelry, and chocolates, and long walks on the beach, so I had to do something special for her to make up for that shit with Delia a couple of weeks ago. She asked to come along with me while I dish out a little bit more of my signature trash talk. I told her I had a special set-up that fit the occasion, and I think I might have done just that. I’m not a flashy kind of guy, but Celeste brings it out of me a little bit. What she thinks is just going to be a regular shit talk sesh, is actually a bit of a date. I couldn’t think of anyone else in the world who deserves to see this first hand, than someone who claims to have never actually tasted a snowflake, except once in Boston, but the sewage water that falls from the sky does not count.
Now, it’s no surprise that Celeste does not celebrate Christmas, but rather Yule, a festival that starts four days earlier, and ends on New Year's Day. I tried to keep that in mind, but hey… who can resist a man in a furry red and white suit, righ?
Imagine this… an old VW cargo van, nestled quietly in the middle of nowhere, decorated with more lights than most people put on the outside of their houses, because I fucking love Christmas! Now, imagine a small fire pit, roaring with a kettle of chestnuts roasting inside. Smell the notes of hot cocoa filling the air, matching the pine trees set up around the clearing of this wooded area. Forget the reindeer shit piles periodically, because I’m out there working on shoveling it away. The reindeer are still settled down, in front of a sleigh, because I now have money, bitch. Everything is perfect, except for the sudden shrieking coming from within the van. Celeste is now awake! I rush over to open the door, but it is knocked right into me, and I fall over on the ground. Celeste jumps out of the van and starts running.
Me: Celeste, wait!
Celeste: FUCK YOU! You chloroformed me, you psycho! HELP! HELP!
Me: Nobody is going to hear you scream out here, my darling…
Okay, that sounded way fucking creepier than I meant for it to. Not at all sexy. Like a busty blonde bimbo in a horror film, She trips over literally nothing, giving me the chance to catch up to her. I hug onto her from behind, but an elbow catches me in the side of the face, and my eyes go cross for a second. I shake it off as Celeste begins shrieking again, trying to get away. I reach into the pocket of my tight fitting Santa suit, showing off my awesome chest tats partially. I pull out a remote, and press the red button, causing a stunning sound of blowers to startle her as she falls to the ground, crying. However, after a second, she opens her eyes, and notices all of the small twinkling lights surrounding her. Her eyes wander from tree to tree, and then the netting of lights above her head that shine brighter than the clear night sky. Soon, a snowflake lands on her nose, causing it to crinkle really, really cute like. Then another, and another. She stands up and slowly begins to spin around as the flakes become more and more prevalent. She gasps as she soaks it all up.
Me: I only chloroformed you so that I could totally surprise you… I’m not the smartest guy sometimes, and I’m sure there was a better way to go about it, but I ran into Kobe Bryant at a bar in Hollywood recently, and he swore he had a one hundred percent success rate that way, so…
Celeste: If I didn’t have a splitting headache right now, I would kick you in the nuts, and then kiss you.
Me: Kobe also said to keep ibuprofen handy for afterward. I didn’t understand why until now, but…
I reach into my pocket and pull out a small bottle of pain relievers, handing them over to Celeste. She pops the top off and takes a few pills, finding it necessary to settle down for a moment. The snowflakes dance across her face, resting beautifully in her hair. She holds onto her head as I walk her over to the sleigh. She climbs up in it, admiring the scenery as much as she can with such a bad headache. I reach into the sleigh and pull out my Santa hat, pulling it down over my ears. I look over to the camera and tug on my beard slightly…
Me: Tis the season to be jolly. Fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la… Christmas is still 9 days away, but we are only two days away from the Christmas edition of Climax Control. That’s right, and I’ll be handing out presents like it’s going out of style. It’s almost like the twelve days of Christmas, all rolled into one night… except, instead of twelve, there is only four gifts. They don’t compare to turtle doves, or maids a milking. They aren’t in the same league as golden rings, or choirs singing… There is no partridge in a pear tree. Oh, no… it’s so much better.
I nod my head as I show off a toothy grin, letting my silver tooth catch a gleam from the hundreds of lights surrounding us. I tuck my fingers underneath the white fur lining of my Santa jacket, and I tug until a couple of buttons pop off, showing off my sweet ink, and that bit of man fur that drives the ladies crazy.
Me: On this edition of C.C. Dax Beckett gave to thee, an ass-kicking inside of the ring. On this edition of C.C. Dax Beckett gave to thee, two Bad Boys waffle stompings… and an ass-kicking inside of the ring. On this edition of Climax Control, Dax Beckett gave to thee, his hly fucking presence… TWO BAD BOY WAFFLE STOMPINGS… and an ass-kicking inside of the…. RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIING!
I nod my head as I warm up my sweet vokes. Celeste covers her ears and groans, but I’m sure it’s only because of the chloroform. I fucking rock at everything I do, including singing, so I know it couldn’t be that. I count the items I sang, and it isn’t four things, but three, but I shrug it off, because I’m sure nobody noticed.
Me: That’s right. I’m handing out gifts, like the gift of my presence. Yep, my presence is your present, and it’s the gift that keeps on giving, because, well… I fucking rock. Unlike most of the roster, I had to fight to get my spot in Sin City Wrestling. I had to scratch and claw my way into a contract, while most other people with far less to offer come walking in, lose to the amazing talent that we have here, and then skip out on their contracts. I deliver, week in and week out. Even if the bosses have only booked me once, I’ve been showing up to do work. Before I was even getting paid, I was proving why SCW needs me. Ninety fucking percent of the roster can’t say the same thing. Everyone wants to run their mouths, handing out demands for title matches when they haven’t done shit to deserve them. I’m just happy putting on a show for all you sexy fuckers, and if a title comes my way, then great. If not, then great. I think that attitude comes through in my dedication and my performance. I could be like every other tool on the roster, and just show up when I want to, and put on a half-assed show, collect my paycheck, and peace out. But no, I give you all one hundred, every single time I show up. I’m not being cocky when I say that my gift to you is my presence, because I’m going into overtime to give the viewer their money’s worth. I will make my match the most epic match of the night if Shipman can keep up with all of this.
I motion down to my body suggestively, but mostly to draw in the attention of Celeste, who reaches around and runs her fingers through the light hair exposed.
Me: But, that’s not all you’re going to see. I’m going to show up on Climax Control, and I’m going to make sure that I beat the actual living fuck out of Giani Di Luca and Mickey Carroll, if they are brave enough to step from behind the Mean Girls and face me like fucking men. I don’t care if they got bats and chairs, or if they borrow the Mean Girls’ maxi pad stash. Throw anything they got at me, but they’re gonna have to do it face to face, and that’s when shit’s going to get real, on the real. I will take on both of them, and I will make sure that they know that they messed with the wrong bruh. I already bloodied Giani’s nose once. The next time I see these jokers, I’m going to turn their entire world into one bloody mess. And, you’re going to love every single minute of it. Not only because you fucking love me, but because you fucking hate them. It’s just a fact. Both of them have tried to play the nice guy, party boys with a heart of gold, but you guys didn’t fall for it, and then they showed their asses. Their pasty, pale, alabaster back door exits, and their true colors really showed. They yellow as fuck, and green with envy. They wanna turn me into an example? Bring it. The only thing that’s gonna be an example is why no one should mess with Daxton Oliver Beckett. Ask Calvin Harris how that worked out for him. His two wins don’t be looking so good against that L I gave him at his Supercard debut. I defied those odds, and really, Giani is the only threat. Mickey has always been dead weight, carried around by other people to make them stronger. It’s just a fact, Mickey. No one is looking at you. That’s just how it is.
I shrug my shoulders, because I can’t make this dude look better than he actually is. I’m not that good of a liar. Sorry…
Me: And now for the Main Event… Okay, it’s not so much of a main event, as it is a chore. But, hey, you gotta start somewhere, right? I mean, it’s like I’m being forced to work my way up the ladder to prove my worth to this company. It’s almost like that, anyway. I already beat some asshole with an overly inflated sense of self worth when I debuted in the company. True, it wasn’t the most honorable win, but it was a win over someone who makes himself out to be the best in the business. I thought they were scraping the bottom of the barrel for that one, but they went and proved me wrong. It’s like I’m sliding backward this week when I have to face Chris Shipman, the guy who found something to hate about the most unhate-able person in SCW. This is the guy who does nothing, and gets handed everything. The truth of the matter is that I think I’m being served up to him to make him look better by getting a win over someone, anyone, because he needs it. He’s been in the shits lately. He turned his back on the only people in SCW that gave a singular fuck about him. It was a crap shoot, because that might have given him the chance to step out of the shadows of The Seven Deadly Sins. It might have shown that he can stand on his own. Except that it didn’t. Of course, it’s only been like three weeks or whatever, but nobody cares still. This match could be the one that could change all of that, and sell some of that overstocked Shipman merch at the tables. This match could be the one that finally puts Chris Shipman on the map!
I hold my finger up, which probably looks less intimidating since I’m wearing a Santa hat and suit, but whatever. I hold it there for a dramatic sort of effect as I glare out through the flurry of snowflakes blowing through the air as “Jingle Bells” begins playing from the iPod I put into the scene just off to my right. I had a damned point, and by God I’m gonna make it! But, my eyes lower to the ground in a show of disappointment.
Me: Except it won’t. First off, yeah fucking right. I’m not going to lose to some grease ball who thinks adding religious relevance to his stage name is going to strike the fear of God into all of us. There is no way in fuck that I’m going to lay down and let some two-bit, washed up, slacking ass motherfucker get a one-two-three on me. No way. At all. Sorry ‘bout it. Bye Felicia. Not happening. Nope. But, let’s go off into some acid trip world where absolutely nothing makes any kind of sense, whatsoever, and he actually does win. Unicorns fly out of my hairy asshole, and the color purple can be tasted. Chris Shipman gets a victory over Dax Beckett. Bare with me, here. It’s all make believe anyway. Assume this all happens. So, I lose to Chris Shipman, and I kill myself, because… what the fuck? No one is going to care. He beat some rookie with a whole lot left to prove. You can’t polish up a turd and market it as a champion. They tried that with Giani Di Luca, and it didn’t work. Sorry, boss-men. Now that I’ve allowed Shipman to live that fantasy for a minute, how about we snap back to reality. Dude is trained about as good as a JCW Backyard Wrestling fan. In case you are normal, and you don’t know what JCW is… it’s shitty hardcore wrestling ran by two rapping clowns and features wrestlers not good enough to wrestle at your local YMCA once a month. But, it’s edgy, so it’s cool when you’re stoned off your ass, or really drunk at a bar you didn’t even know was about to have a JCW event because you wiped your ass with the flyer earlier because the shitty dive was out of toilet paper. Basically, if Chris Shipman doesn’t do us all a favor and kill his wrestling career, he should go there. It’s more or less the same, but it gives the illusion of still mattering in the world of professional wrestling.
Again, I shrug my shoulders. Most people would probably think I was being a dick because I’m facing Chris Shipman this week, but I was really only trying to help the guy. It’s gonna be such a disappointment to him when I beat his ass.
Me: This match is really a lose-lose, but hey, I’m a team player. I’m going to go out there and make him look somewhat good. I’m going to put him over a little bit so that the fans see that I work just as hard as I play. People might think for a minute that Chris Shipman might have my number, but then? I’m going to pull out all of the stops, and I’m gonna take the win I knew I was always going to get. But… YES! That was the fourth gift I was talking about earlier. I’m not going to sing it though, because that just doesn’t flow. The gift is that I’m going to give Shipman the idea that I am surprised when I win, because he did such a gosh darn good job, gee willakers, and Beaver Cleaver. I might even pat him on the back and tell him that he’ll get the next guy, all while I know it’s not true. As long as I don’t have to break the bad news to him, I’m alright. I couldn’t do that on SCW’s Christmas event. That would be like telling a Make-A-Wish kid that the autographed t-shirt they’re going to want when I’m done selling losers weak ass moves, that they should just take a picture with me, because they’re going to die soon anyway.
Celeste: That’s fucked up, even for my taste…
Me: Exactly my point! Chris Shipman needs a boost, even if he really doesn’t deserve it. I’m going to make it look like he is as good as upper management wants him to be, even if the only three people who are buying that shit is him and the bosses. The fans still won’t buy those lame ass Reverend Psycho shirts, unless that’s the only one left in a 4XL. Either way, Sunday is going to be awesome. For me. Because I’m going to win. Obviously. So let’s break out the ugly Christmas sweaters, and find the real reason for the season. Overpriced crap for people you only tolerate! No, that’s not it. If I bought you more gifts, I love you more and you suck. Nah… Jesus Christ? Ah, I give up. Merry fucking Christmas, Sin City Wrestling fans! See you Sunday!
I’m guessing Celeste’s headache went away, because she pulls me inside of the sleigh, not giving me any chance to defend myself against her ravaging ways. I just give up and let her literally rip the suit right off of my body. I know she tasted snow that night… and that sounded way grosser than I thought it would. Good night, folks!
