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Let’s Make A Deal
#NP "Dead Weight†by Zomboy
Locale: Tom Gola Arena; Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
This show was kind of fun, actually. I got to kick Eyesnsane’s ass, and prove further that Bad Boys deserve a shot at the tag titles, even though I’m sure the bosses will find a way to discredit my win like Giani said. But, who doesn’t like winning, right? Plus, I got to do a Bad Boys Easter Egg hunt. Nobody showed up, but that didn’t change the fact that I didn’t enjoy it. Plus, we got to redecorate the Men’s locker room, which I was told if we do it again, we won’t be allowed to share it with the rest of the guys in SCW. Talk about real discipline, right? That’s pretty severe. All in all, it wasn’t an eventful night, but it was a good one nonetheless. I’m in the back, having a couple drinks with Mickey and Gi, while Celeste, Veronica, and Mercedes are hanging around. It’s a bit of a dual celebration since Mercy and I both won tonight. Veronica is being grumpy since she didn’t get the win due to Sam Marlowe’s gross amount of cheating in their match, but we’re still two for one. Mickey has his arms wrapped around Mercedes as they kiss, and Celeste is rubbing her hands across my chest. It’s a good time, as Celeste whispers into my ear that I need to look for an Easter Egg in her rabbit hole. I’m about to take her up on the offer right then and there, but then some people are so rude as they barge in on our celebration. We all get quiet, except Giani who never gets quiet, and we all stare at Amy as she walks through the hallway where our party is taking place. She rolls her eyes at me as she refuses to even say a word to me. Being the nice guy, I block her from passing so that I can acknowledge her, since none of my friends want to.
Me: Hey-ey-eyyyyy-meeee! Amy Marshall! Oh, tag team partner, how’s it going?
Amy looks up at me, and if looks could kill, I’d probably be fucking dead as a doornail, whatever that means. Either way, I hold onto my chest, because I’m actually hurt by her borderline hatred of me after what I did for her by getting her into the second round of the tournament.
Amy: Get the hell out of my way, Dax. I’m on my way to meet Jessie, Shane, and Jake.
Me: That stings, Amy. I was going to ask you if you wanted to party with us to celebrate yet another mark in the “W†column for me.
Amy: Yeah, I think I’ll pass on that one.
Amy rolls her eyes once again as Veronica makes an “ew†sound at the thought of partying with Amy. Mercedes smiles wickedly as she peeks over Mickey’s shoulder to watch me toying with Amy like a cat with a mouse.
Me: You call me an asshole, but you’re the one who keeps pushing me off like I’m some kind of burden instead of thanking me for letting you ride my coattails through this tournament, all the way to the finish line… no offense, Mercy.
Mercedes: None taken. It would only be offensive if you guys actually stood a chance at beating Max Burke and myself.
Me: Haha, but seriously. I can’t believe you’re being so cold to me. I’ve opened up myself to you in a way I would never consider with anybody else.
Amy: What are you talking about? You’ve shown your ass to anyone willing to look at it. That hardly makes me special to you. Now, don’t make me repeat myself.
Amy tries to push past me again, but this time, I step directly in front of her. She slaps the taste out of my mouth, and Celeste steps right in between us as she shoves Amy.
Celeste: Keep your dirty hands off of my man, bitch!
Amy balls up her fists, but I pull Celeste behind me as I get in Amy’s face. I have to give it to her, because she doesn’t back down any as she gets me right between the eyes with a headbutt as she walks past me. Instead of coming to my aid, the Bad Boys just laugh at me as they splash beer at me, giving me hell for it. I gotta admit, my pride is wounded a little bit. I chase after her as I leave my own celebration party. We go around a corner as she opens the door to the parking lot. I chase after her, pushing through the door myself.
Me: HEY!
Amy raises her middle finger up in the air at me, waving it for good measure as she continues walking. I speed up to catch up to her, blocking her once again as I try to figure out exactly what I did wrong.
Amy: If you don’t get out of my fucking way, Dax, I’m going to make sure Celeste doesn’t get to enjoy what’s in your pants for a very long time.
Me: I don’t even know what the fuck I did, Amy. I was trying to be nice, like I’ve been the entire time we’ve been forced together. I tried to show you my world for a minute back there, and you just shit on me like I was a glass table in one of your movies.
Amy: Fuck you for that. Every time I turn around, you’re putting me down and putting yourself over. You walk around here like it’s Team Dax. It’s Team Damy, and until you start acting like it, I don’t trust you to keep it together long enough for us to make it past Sam and Ben next week.
I listen to what she’s saying, and I nod my head, because that’s what my dad taught me to do when chicks are saying shit that you don’t really care about, especially when they’re mad at you. I hope I’m convincing enough, but when I realize that I’m not, I groan loudly.
Me: That’s because it IS Team Dax. I run this show. I’m the one who pinned Joshua Acquin in the first round. I’m the one putting in double time at the gym between… personal engagements. I’m the one who came to do work. I even tried to include you in it, and you just fucked me off about it. All I’m seeing is the extra mile I’m going to make this shit work. So, excuse me if I’m having trouble seeing the tiny bit of shit that you’ve contributed to this thing. Do you got a magnifying glass for me to try to find it.
Amy: Oh, you are so full of shit, and then you wonder why I don’t want anything to do with you.
Me: I’d be willing to bet you that I come through next week, and that I put Ben down for the one, two, three. And I’ll do the same to everyone that we face. I’d bet you my dignity.
Amy goes to say something, but then she stops, taking a breath as she thinks about it for a second. She can’t help but smile a little, and I get the feeling that whatever it is that she’s smiling about isn’t any good for me.
Amy: I have a history of winning bets on this Blast From the Past tournament, like when I forced Delia Darling to kiss Erik Staggs’ ass three years ago. Now, let me counter that by saying that I’m so confident that you’ll cock up in this tournament with your arrogance, I’d be willing to bet that if I get pinned in this tournament, that I’ll wear a Bad Boys shirt to the ring for a month, and introduce you asshats as the greatest stable in SCW history.
Me: You’ve got to be kidding. What size shirt do you wear? I’ll get that ready just in case I can’t carry your ass through this thing any longer. I don’t see us losing, so I already know that you can toss that shit right out of your mind.
Amy: If we lose, you’ll star in one of my films? If I get pinned in this tournament, then I have to wear your stupid shirt and announce you guys as the greatest tag team in SCW history?
Me: If you get pinned, or if you submit! That’s the deal.
Amy puts her hand out immediately. I can’t believe it. She WANTS me to fail. Well, luckily for me, I’m God’s gift to wrestling. There’s no chance that I’m going to lose this match. I got this one in the bag. I’m that damn good, so I got nothing to sweat. I shake her hand, and with that, the deal is sealed. I smile, because I can’t wait to make her eat her words, and she smiles because she thinks that she’s going to make me eat mine. Girl, I got your Bad Boys shirt, and a nice little speech forming in my head right now, as we speak…
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Power Trio
#NP "Ride†by Twenty One Pilots
Locale: Bad Boys Home; Las Vegas, Nevada
I guess this one takes a little bit more explaining, in case you missed the crazy shit that happened last week, but the Bad Boys made a pact to stick together through thick and thin. Well, it just so happened that part of that pact seems to mean that we all had to make a trip back to Las Vegas. We went down to the courthouse, and we got us each a pair of marriage licenses. It took a lot of liquor, but when I woke up the next morning, I had two white gold bands on my ring finger, and found out that my new legal name is Daxton Oliver Beckett-Carroll-Di Luca. Mercedes! I’m catching up with you for most names in SCW. I also woke up to a voicemail on the new house phone, in the home that we apparently bought together. I gotta stop drinking with these guys, because this is getting pretty out of control. I woke up half naked in a bed, next to Mickey, and I jump a little. I look over to Giani who is sitting at the edge of the bed, watching with a huge smile on his face, laughing at us, all while Mickey reaches down and scratches his crotch, with his eyes still closed.
Giani: I just love watchin’ ya two sleep. My pair of lil’ angels…
Me: Fuck you, bruh…
I wave my middle finger at Giani as I hear the voicemail play over the answering machine. I yawn as for a moment as I try to continue waking up, grabbing the whiskey bottle from the nightstand. I take a swig before throwing it across the room, watching it bust against the wall.
Answering Machine: … Nicholas Taylor from the US Citizenship and Immigration Services, reminding you that you were scheduled for a routine check up this morning, Tuesday,April 19th, 2017… and I’m standing outside of your front door, wondering if you are ever going to answer…
Mickey jumps out of bed, and I swear his ass blinds me as the sun reflects off of it. I shield my eyes, even though I’m thankful that I don’t see anything. He grabs a pair of jeans from the floor as I light up a cigarette and look to Giani, flipping him off once more.
Me: Again, fuck you, Giani. It’s like 11:45 in the morning, and now I gotta be awake enough to lie to this guy?
Giani: I just couldn’t stop starin’ at the tent you was pitchin’, and wonderin’ when we was gonna get to consummate our marriage…
He doesn’t even give me a second to flip him off before he turns around and drops his pants. I close my eyes, groaning, because I’ve seen enough man ass for the day. Luckily, he pulls a robe around himself and ties it tightly as he and Mickey walk out of the room, I guess going to the front door. I scratch my nuts as I look around for my clothes. I don’t see them, and then I shrug my shoulders as I walk over to the mirror. I run my fingers through my hair until it’s at least half way presentable. I stumble down the hallway, bouncing off of the wall once as I come to the top of the stairs. I stare down to see a guy in a suit staring up at me, with Mickey and Giani gasping and pointing.
Giani: Why didn’t you put on ya robe, sugar buns? We got company.
Mickey: ‘E’s not afraid to show off what ‘e’s got, I’m afraid. It’s part of what drew us both to ‘im. Such confidence.
I take a drag from my cigarette as I stare down at the three people at the bottom of the steps before I let out a belch. I smack my lips, because I can’t get that lingering taste out of my mouth. You know, the cat shit taste you get when you pass out before you can brush your teeth after drinking whiskey? I stumble down the steps as the man blushes a little and looks slightly away from me. He smiles as he puts his hand out to me.
Me: I’m sorry, but these fuckers are the only dicks I like. But it’s so nice of you to flirt.
Nick: Um, erm… I’m Nicholas from the USICS. It’s wonderful to meet you Mr. Di Luca.
Me: Likewise, Mr… Nicholas?
Giani: Let’s go to the livin’ room, shall we? It’s such a mess since we was in the City of Brotherly Love. Kinda coincidental really. We’s just gettin’ settled in here.
Giani leads the way, but he looks back at me like he’s going to kill me. I just shrug my shoulders and sneer at him as Mickey smacks my ass, giving it a firm grip for good measure. Nick looks at it, and something tells me that this guy is going to be trouble. He doesn’t look in a disgusted kind of way, which instantly makes me regret my attire of briefs and nothing else. We take a seat on the white furniture that looks like it just came out of HGTV’s Gay Edition Magazine centerfold. It’s pretty wonderful though. I get a taste of the high life for a minute, and I’m not going to complain.
Nick: I must start off by saying congratulations. It’s so rare for three people to find a common love in this world. Today’s society doesn’t really accept such relationships as valid, but the state of Nevada does, and by extension, the United States embraces you.
Me: It took them long enough. Our people had to suffer for so long, through civil unions and literally no rights to true happiness.
Nick purses his lips as he nods his head, opening his briefcase while staring at me. This time, it doesn’t really feel like the kind of undressing me with his eyes type of look. Instead, it’s more of an ax in his hand going Lizzie Borden on my ass. He pulls out a notebook and a pen as he jots things down.
Nick: Yes, it seems our people have finally gotten the proper respect that we deserve.
His pen scratches across the paper with his last letter, his eyes remaining locked on mine. I look over to Mickey and grab onto his arm, as he shakes it off, quietly telling me to bugger off. I look over to Giani, and I crawl onto him, curling up next to him as I lay my head on his shoulder. He reaches over and pats my head like someone does to a dog just to get them to move along and stop bugging them.
Nick: You’ll have to forgive the intrusion. I mean, our appointment was for twenty minutes ago, so I’m in a bit of a rush, but it’s routine for the USICS to do a home check, just to verify that your marriage is real.
Mickey: I beg yer pardon, mate? Are ye implying that me and my husbands are being fraudulent? I resent that statement, Mr. Taylor.
Me: Yeah! I love Mickey’s schlong! I don’t just enjoy it, but I actually love it. When we were all married, I kissed Giani’s lips, and then I kissed Mickey’s schlong. I’m actually offended right now. I can’t even…
I get up from the couch and prepare to storm off in a fit of rage, except I don’t think I’m as convincing as I was in All That Glitters, because Giani grabs onto the back of my underwear and drags me right back down to the couch. I take a deep breath as I try to stop the anxiety from taking over. I put my cigarette out on Nick’s briefcase as he glares back at me.
Nick: Oooookayyyy… Five hundred dollar Armani briefcase there… I’m going to be honest here. I think you three are faking a marriage. Other than Michael’s citizenship, which would have drawn so many less red flags had just one of you sham married him, I don’t understand this at all.
Mickley: Sod off! I love these sexy bastards with all me ‘eart.
Nick: Funny you should mention that. See, I also have Twitter, because I’m younger than forty-five years old, and I found that one Mickey Carroll’s professional Twitter account reads such accolades as “SCW’s Resident Shit Head†along with “At Mercy Mercy V has me heartâ€. Seems this refers to Mercedes Vargas, I’d assume. Not to mention Daxton’s on and off relationship with the daughter of a bonafide celebrity, and Giani’s known business and romantic ventures with one Veronica Taylor.
We all look to each other for a second, as we try to cook up a defense silently. I reach over the table and I grab hold of Nick’s collar as I get directly in his face. I glare at him, as I watch the fear well up inside of his eyes. The little bitch all but cries and screams at me… that is, until he grips onto my hands and rips them off of his suit, daring me to get physical again.
Me: How FUCKING… DARE you mock us. As a gay man, you should understand the struggles with getting to the point of being comfortable enough with coming out of the closet. So we wore beards. So we talked in a very vulgar manner to these women, and talked about all the poon we were getting. What masculine gay man hasn’t struggled and hidden from himself?
Nick: Me, for one.
Me: It took so much courage for me to admit that I enjoy the twigs and berries and fox holes of these two men, and from one gay man to another, I can’t believe you would have the heart to shame us for our love. Honestly, you fucking disgust me, and I don’t think I want you in our home any longer… the home that our love BUILT!
Nick pauses for a minute as he stares at me. He rolls his eyes, and he removes his jacket, showing off a pretty impressive build that makes me resort of fake crying. I fall onto Mickey, who shoves me away. I then go to Giani, who moves to the side, letting me fall onto the couch to curl into a fake crying ball.
Mickey: Forgive me lover for his actions. ‘E’s still a bit drunk from our celebration last night. Nothing big. We just went through our photos that we ‘ave all around the love nest, and not just because we figured ye’d be coming any day now. It’s because we love each other so much that the Atlantic couldn’t keep us apart.
Giani: I’m gonna speak to ya from the heart. We got a very special thing goin’ on right now. Just ‘cause ya don’t understand it don’t give ya the right to put us down for it. We love each other, even if it don’t conform to the standards in ya lil’ books in ya briefcase. We ain’t known each other for all that long. Me and Mickey go back, but Dax is new to us. It never once clicked that we couldn’t live without one anotha’ until Dax came into the picture. Then, it just all fit togetha’ like a puzzle. We all belong together, and we shouldn’t hafta be separated by an ocean and a few laws. We live together, we eat together, we party together, we sleep together, we do everything together. In that way, we’re happier together than most married couples. If ya wanna deport Mickey, then I can’t stop ya, but don’t ya dare come at me with that kinda shit, bro. Don’t you dare tell us that we got no love for one another, and that we don’t deserve to be married, ‘cause that’s when ya gonna strike a nerve in me, an’ ya don’t wanna do that, dawg. So ya can go ahead and write it down that we was rude to ya, and that ya got ya opinions, but at the end of the day, it comes down to fact. Our love is proven in each picture we took on the road together, never leavin’ each otha’s side. Our love is proven by the thought we put into tryin’ to impress ya enough for ya to leave us alone so that we can just enjoy our lives together. We ain’t tryin’ to put on some act for ya. This is us. We’re known as Bad Boys, ‘cause we’re bad. We’re rude and crude, and we do what we want, when we want, and how we want, to who we want. But one thing stays true… we always do it togetha’...
I can’t lie. Half way through his speech, I sit up and stare at him, like everyone else in the room. I find an actual tear dripping down my cheek. Mickey’s lip is quivering as he’s trying with everything in him to stop from crying. For a minute there, we curl up with one another and share a hug. Of course, it’s a manly friend kind of hug, but that speech though… It hit deep for us, and we can’t help but fall prey to the moment. Nicky looks at us for a second and sighs, shaking his head as even he’s trying not to cry.
Nick: That is… total bullshit…
Ooooor, maybe not…
Nick: Fortunately for you, I don’t have any hard evidence at this time to get you two locked up, and you sent back to England. All I have is some easily dismissed facts, and a shitload of suspicion. For now, anyway.
Mickey: Who do ye think ye’are…?
Nick: No, who do you think YOU are? Making a mockery of something that MY people have fought for, laying their lives on the line for fifty plus years? Do you know that my husband and I have been together for sixteen years? That’s right. We were high school sweethearts, who stuck together through college, and all of the hatred that was thrown our way. We only just got married last year when the government finally decided that we were worthy of sharing the same title as anyone else. So, pardon me if I think that what you’re doing is wrong, and that I would love nothing more than to see you three pay for it to the full extent of the law. Damn I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry.
Me: That was a fucking cinematic masterpiece!
Giani: Have ya ever seen it all the way through?
Me: I couldn’t stand the emotional speech, because it made me bawl like a little bitch. Plus, I assumed that was the end, once they get to live together happily ever after.
Everyone in the room stops and stares at me as I shrug my shoulders.
Nick: Yeah, well, spoiler alert… they are forced to deal with the consequences of their actions, much like you three will. Granted, I’m hoping for a much more harsh sentence than they got, but…
Giani: I think ya need to leave our love nest, right now, Mr. Taylor. Instead of takin’ out ya frustrations on our asses, why don’t ya take them out on Mr. Taylor’s ass later.
Nick clenches his jaw as he stares at the three of us. It’s clear that he wants to maul our asses, and most likely not in the kind of way we’re trying to convince him we would. His deep brown eyes are on fire as he burns at each of us silently, enjoying every minute of envisioning our very grizzly deaths. He stands up from his seat as he continues to look back and forth between us, before slamming his briefcase shut. I gently wave at him as I look at the front door.
Nick: Gladly. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand being around this farce and blatant mockery of the institute of marriage anyway.
Nick tucks his briefcase under his arm as he turns toward the front door, trying to keep his dignity intact. We glare at him as he takes a few steps toward the main entryway. However, he stops and turns on the balls of his heels to face us once more, glaring at us once more.
Nick: This isn’t the last time you’ll see me, gentlemen. I’m going to make it my personal mission in life to make you guys pay for your actions. I’ll sooner die than I will give up on that mission.
Me: I look forward to our next visit, Nicky. Next time, wear something that doesn’t make it look like you’ve got a splintered stick up your ass, though. Looking kinda stuffy, bruh…
Nick smiles, but it isn’t one of those happy like smiles. He growls under his breath, but I hear it. At least, I imagine he’s that mad, because I’ve gotten really fucking good at making people that angry. I smirk as Nick turns back toward the door, only this time, he storms right to it, and flings it open as he disappears outside. I’m sure once he brings his notes and that tape back to his office, they’re going to send us an apology fruit basket and wish us luck on our long life together. I look forward to that very moment, as I stand up from the couch and look at both of my “husbands†as if to tell them that they owe me big for going along with this whole thing. Mickey lights up a cigarette, and I take it from him, taking a long drag off of it as I grab the throw blanket from the chair Nick was sitting in, and wrap it around myself as I search this fancy ass house for some noontime breakfast. I’m gonna need my energy for the long trip I got planned for my promotional video against Ben Jordan and Sam Marlowe...
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Fired Shots
#NP "I’m Your Gun†by Alice Cooper
Locale: Undisclosed Location; Washington D.C.
Me: I had to sit and think about this whole thing for a long time. I didn’t want to just sit around and give some half-assed bullshit take on people who really don’t even matter to me, like I’ve been doing for the last few shows I’ve competed on. Eyesnsane was a simple stepping stone to get to where I needed to go. Joshua Acquin was the annoying obstacle on my way to the stepping stone that was Eyesnsane. Me and the Bad Boys haven’t made any sideways comments about it. We’re declaring war on all that is Sin City Wrestling, but our next goal is to get to the tag titles. It’s no surprise that I’m so fucking good at what I do, that I’m carrying Amy Marshall through this tournament. I mean, was there ever any doubt? As I told Amy earlier, we’re not going to leave this tournament because of anything wrong that I could possibly do. Once I get through this tournament, I’ll get to go on to face Jeremiah Hardin. That… that right there is a motherfucking laugh, but this is neither the time nor the place for this…
It takes me a second, because I was so wrapped up in what I was doing, that I forgot to remove the lens cover thingy. I stop just long enough to do that, and as I step away from the camera a few steps, every single one of you fan bastards watching this get an eyeful of my white t-shirt with the bright red lettering, reading “#RageGotScrewedâ€. I turn around for a second, very slowly, because there is a very important message on the back. In the same bright red coloring, only much larger, something that really needs to be said starts to slowly come into view. Yeah, that’s right… “#RageGotScrewed†because it obviously needs to be said again. I turn back around and wink as I click my teeth together, making a gun motion with my fingers. I take a seat in a rolling chair, letting the darkened tool shed around me come into view.
Me: Hash-motherfucking-tag… Rage Got Screwed. We all saw it. Love or hate the guy, that was some supersized bullshit. But, we’re not here to talk about all of that. We’re here to talk about the thing that matters. Me. I’m a bonafide superstar. I’m the stick by which all things are measured in SCW. All I need is the titles to prove it. That’s all these motherfuckers wanna talk about right now is “How can you say that you’re the best when you haven’t won any titles?†Bitch, did Spike Staggs start out with the World Heavyweight title on his shoulders? Did Misty come walking into this fucker with the World Bombshell title around her waist? No, because they weren’t legends. They were made into legends. This ain’t the end game, bruh. Call me an asshole. Call me anything you like, but the fact of the matter is that I get results. Take this week for instance.
I stop for a second and take a step back as I let a portrait of Amy Marshall come into view. I pick up the camera and turn the screen around so that I can see what I’m filming with my handheld. I point back, making sure my new fancy wedding band comes into view.
Me: Suck on that, Nicky… Now, we are looking at someone who, somehow, became a legend in Sin City Wrestling. I mean, she is fucking terrible at what she does… inside of the ring I mean. Not the porn thing, because she look like she know how to handle a firearm if you catch my drift. In the ring, she’s reckless. She’s careless. She doesn’t treat this like the artform that it is. No, she treats it like a barroom brawl at any chance she gets. She got some flippy bullshit, and some hard hitting moves, but there’s nothing to it. I could go out there and Bad Girl someone and make it look like a real move. She is only as good as the company she keeps, usually. I mean, last round, I tried my damnedest to get my skill to rub off on her, but luckily, Kate Steele sucks even harder than she does. My point is, if someone like that can become a Hall of Famer, a Grand Slam Champion, and a supposed icon in this company, just because she hit a couple marks out of the hundreds of opportunities she had at titles… then why do people tell me that I’m not shit in SCW? I lost one match. Well, two, if you count the little tag match with Andrew Garcia where Bad Boys was playing games with them. But, one legit match to the new “Top dog†of the company. We all saw how that played out for Rage, so if I’m being fair, I haven’t lost shit yet.
I stroke my beard for a second as I try to collect my thoughts again. My hazel eyes resting on the camera lens as I try to keep my fucking cool about that past injustice. I hold my hand to my side as I clear my chi and continue.
Me: Amy Marshall has lost like ninety percent of her matches. She lost to fucking Jessie Salco. I mean, for serious? That shit is FUCKING embarrassing. It’s bad enough that she keeps this charade going of being friends with Jessie, but who the fuck loses to Salco? Zuri Chastain or whatever the fuck she’s going by now? I mean, before Blaze of Glory, people would have ranked you above Jessie Salco, but you….
I can’t help it. This is just pissing me off, because I know that I’m stuck with this baggage. I clinch my fist together, and you can even hear the hand on the camera clenching tightly around it as it shakes a little bit.
Me: I can’t even right now. My point is that you have a paper legend on one team, with a man who is clearly a better athlete and competitor than anyone on the roster, who is obviously destined to become an SCW legend. Someone who talks the talk *Points back at Amy’s picture* and someone who walks the walk. Then, you got someone who has been too busy cleaning bathrooms and fetching coffee for the last several months, teamed with a champion, who has his head planted so firmly up Evie Baang’s ass that he can’t tell if it’s day or night. But, it’s okay because he’s such a nice guy, right? He’s a real stand up fellow. Who could hate this smug bastard?
I step to the side to show off a portrait of Ben Jordan in all of his smug glory. I sink down a little bit away from the camera as I show off the picture and let the viewers drink it in. I imagine as I’m doing it that they are cheering for him, and showering him with adoration, as they typically do when he shows up on screen at SCW events. I slowly rise back up into the view as I let my fingers rise even higher. I pause for a second with an almost sick kind of smile on my face. I then loudly snap my fingers, and inside of my head, the cheering stops, and there is a moment of clarity. I look from side to side as if imagining that the whole world has stopped for a minute.
Me: Good… now I can say how I really feel. Ben Jordan is a good guy… as long as he gets what he wants. In short, he’s a self-serving pile of Cockney shit. Now, now, I know what people will be thinking when they see my little freeze frame moment here. “Daxton Oliver Beckett… you’re just jealous because Ben Jordan has had a few titles, and has half of the tag titles that you and Bad Boys are chasing.†I have nothing to be jealous of, because that’s going to come to me in time, along with way more than this washed up sack of crap could ever hope to achieve. No, see I’ve heard it all from my frie… husband, Mickey Carroll… who I love very much. Yeah, that’s right Nicky. He spent so much time talking about the good old days with Benny and the Jets. All the drinks, all the ladies, all the good times… and the tons of bad times. Hold the fuck up! I’m not being bitter. Trust me when I say that there were plenty. I might not be the smartest guy in the world, but I know how to pay attention and take notes. Ben seems like such a nice guy, but the fact is that he’s a slithering snake. He slides around, charming people with his blue collar flash, and his drunken, brain damaged Brit accent, and we all forget the hard evidence that he’s a belly riding reptile!
This is when I pick up a snake from a nearby cage. I hold it up, allowing it to flick its tongue out at the camera, staring with its needle point pupils as it comes closer to the camera. I let it do a charming little dance in the camera, and as if I planned it, it strikes right at the lens of the camera before I drop it to the ground. I keep the camera fixed on my face as I stomp the fuck out of the snake, cursing under my breath as I mush it up. I then look back up to the camera.
Me: Benny boy will wind up just like that. I’ll happily play the bad guy, because I can’t sit by and let people like him ruin the sport that I’ve grown to love and respect so much. Loyalty is a major part of this sport. Some people cling onto it more than others. Ben Jordan turned his back on Mickey, someone he’s known since he was seven fucking years old. Mickey didn’t do anything wrong. He just wasn’t good enough to tag with in Sin City Wrestling. He wasn’t a big enough star to leech off of, the way Jordan Williams was. He kicked him to the curb, and then had the nerve to get mad at Mickey for telling him to fuck off and attacking him. Mickey might be a little… brash… at times, but he’s a human being with feelings. Ben Jordan betrayed that. He treated him like a candy wrapper and tossed him in the garbage as soon as shit started getting sweet. And then, in order to maintain a friendship with Ben, Mickey crawled back and apologized for being the bad guy. Mickey apologized, and Ben just ate that up. He enjoyed watching his former best friend reaching up to him, begging to be accepted, and then tossed him to the side again. For the same fucking tag belts.
I shake my head as I take a deep breath. I just can’t believe I have to spell this shit out for people to understand what it is that they cheer for. It pisses me off beyond belief. It shows in my eyes as they flare up big. However, I slowly ease them into a sweet smile as I show off my pearly whites. I laugh. Like a crazy person. Not overly loud or crazy, but a light laugh that betrays the things I’ve just said. I wave my hand at the camera.
Me: This match isn’t about the Blast From the Past, Benny. It’s not about some future promise of a title shot. It’s not about proving without a shadow of a doubt that Bad Boys deserve those belts that you’re clutching onto for dear relevance. It’s not just about business for me. You’re probably so blind to the fact that your friend Mickey is even back on Sin City Webcast, that you think this is just some kind of friendly contest between an up and comer, and an already there star. You’re so self-absorbed that you can’t connect the dots, so let me spell it out for you, you manky, gormless chav. Mickey Carroll… you know, your former friend? The one who for some reason is just as blinded by you as the fans are? Yeah, he’s a fellow Bad Boy. Oh yeah, you don’t pay attention to anything that isn’t Evie’s bouncy mams, but Bad Boys are the newest craze sweeping the Sin City Nation, three young chaps who have their eyes set directly on those fucking belts that you and Jamie Dean are wearing. Mickey Carroll is a Bad Boy, and so am I. That’s right. Mickey is my partner in business, and in life. Yeah, I’m all about his… ginger… pubes? I go crazy for them and I can’t stop thinking about his… fluorescent freckled fanny. *Gags* Kay, but this is a very personal match to me. I plan to kick your ass as a tribute to one of my husbands.
I make sure that the wedding bands come into view, shining in the light let off by the camera. I hold it there for a second, trying to stay serious as I talk.
Me: What you did to him, almost made him give up on men. Lucky for me, I was able to show him the goods, and show him that not all guys are like you. There is loyalty in this world. There is love…. Anyway, that should be enough for immigration. I’m going to rip your reputation into pieces on Sunday. I want to destroy you in Mickey’s honor. I want to see you wrecked by what you’ve done to Mickey. Plain and simple, I don’t like you. I would even go as far as to say that I hate you. You’re overrated and underdeveloped. You’re a disgrace to humankind. If you can pull your head out of Evie’s ass for five minutes, do a recap of what I’ve done to people over the last few weeks. People that I don’t even care about. I’ve embarrassed them. I’ve shit all over their motherfucking careers and lives. And I don’t give a tossed salad about them. You? I’ve got a problem with you, so I want to make you the laughing stock of the locker room, asshole. I want to beat you so that people can see you for what you truly are; a sniveling brat who feels entitled because you grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, and had it a little harder than some, who abandons those who support him. I just have to say it, Sammy…
I step to the side a little bit as I show off a picture of Sam Marlowe. Her dark red locks wave down the side of her face, her fingers tangled in it as she strikes a sexy pose for the camera. I look back at the picture like I’m talked to her.
Me: Sammi, sweetheart. I’m not going to hold it against you that you cheated heavily to defeat my acquaintance, Veronica Taylor, last week. Everyone gets lucky from time to time. Why don’t you ask Amy about that one, yeah? You had to do something to stop yourself from fading into total obscurity, am I right? A win over the only First Class Bombshell in SCW is a good way to hold that off a little longer. I’m going to give you a piece of advice that Mickey is too kind hearted to ever admit. Your partner will not be loyal to you. You guys might go back a little bit. I’m sure you liked looking at your friend as if he were a potential more-than-friends kind of thing. But then, little miss Evie came along, and she wormed her way into the picture, and you found yourself spending less and less time with him until you felt that resentment clawing at your brain like a rabid raccoon. You like to keep a bright outlook on life. Trust me, I used to be just like that until I opened my fucking eyes to the world around me. But, you know that I’m right. You want to trust Ben, but you know that you can’t. But, you are tied to him for the rest of the time that you are in this tournament. So, even if luck strikes again, and you guys somehow get past us, what’s going to stop him from screwing you over if he draws the card of going up against Team Double A, Evie Baang and Lord Raab? It wouldn’t be the first time he’s let you down for Evie, right? It’s in his very nature to do what serves him best, and being a double champion is nothing compared to the sweet waters that flows between Evie’s legs. Eventually, she’s going to show her true colors, and she’s going to give him a taste if he lets you down… again. He’s going to throw you to the wolves, as if he hasn’t done so already. He’s going to, and you know that it’s only a matter of time until that happens. You are just one betrayal from turning into a Mean Girl, and you know it, sweetness. Hopefully you don’t get too blinded by his East Ender charm, and you wake up to the fact that he’s in it for Ben, not Sam and Ben. I pray that you are smart enough to realize what’s going on right in front of you. Hopefully your time of bringing Christian his coffee and selling Bad Boys t-shirts has given you time to realize where it all went wrong, and that’s the second Ben found something “betterâ€. History always… always repeats itself, so keep that in mind, because if not? I’m sure Amy can muster up enough skill to knock some fucking sense into you. Wake up and smell the roses, princess. At the very least, I ask you to leave this battle to the marquee attraction *Juts thumbs down to self*, and the one that is meant to put him over *Points to Ben’s picture*. Is that how you want to be known? As yet another one of Ben’s lackey’s? Another person that Ben pulled the wool over the eyes of? Either way, I’ll see the both of you on Sunday...
I wink at the camera and click my teeth once more. I clear my throat and then reach my hand up into the air. I snap my fingers once again, setting things back into motion… kind of. I’m mocking Ben Jordan for fucks’sake! I don’t know how this actually works. I trot around the dim room for a second, showing off the place where I shit all over the lives of my opponents before reaching the tripod. I set the camera down on the tripod for a second as I kick chunks of dead snake off of my boots, scoffing at it, before I swing my leg around to knock the camera right off of the stand, cracking the lens as it collides with the ground. I kneel down on the ground to give the camera one last look at my twisted sick face before pressing the “stop†button.
Word Count: 7985
