The following is another excerpt from the blog “The Shorty Bounce” by Devin Tyler
Here we go again. Another week, another round has passed in the Blast From the Past tournament. This week, we get to take on the Punk and Country Connection. So, basically, we are taking on the most dysfunctional bunch of misfits since me and Evie. Granted, we figured out how to co-exist, but these two have only been lucky. Evie and I have been spending more and more time together, and I gotta admit; she’s not as big of a pain in the ass as I originally thought. Though, to be clear, she is still a pain in the ass.
We got this match in the bag, and those two trophies might as well have our names written on them. We are the underdog team of the century. We will continue to move through the competition. This week will not be any different. It is just par for the course. Amy Marshall isn’t a joke. She’s the goddamn punchline. And Wyatt? He’s nothing more than a tagalong to the living, walking self-Roast that is Amy Marshall. He’s probably been gone too long to realize that underneath all of the awful, cheap warpaint, Amy Marshall is nothing. She’s a cheap imitation of what a Bombshell is all about.
Is it that he doesn’t realize, or that he’s too goddamn stupid to realize it? It’s hard to tell. What with that toothless hillbilly routine of an accent he’s got going on? If he didn’t at least have decent looks, he would belong in a circus sideshow. I know, up until fifty years ago, people could have said the same thing about me. But hey, I don’t carry around the moniker of Dumbest Man Alive. Of course, for him to actually think that he’s got a chance proves that theory all by itself.
But it should be interesting, right? The smallest man to step foot inside of an SCW ring versus one of the tallest, biggest, bulkiest men to step foot inside of an SCW ring? It will be interesting, but only if you are smart enough to put the money on me. Which, forgive me, but from what I’ve seen in this neck of the woods, people aren’t exactly smart. That’s why idiots flock to Nevada, to throw all of their money at machines with hypnotizing, pretty little lights, and then once they are just about down, they drop the rest of their money of liquor and hand whores to make them feel better about their lives before they return to the mediocrity of the Midwest. That’s right, Nevada is the Mecca for bumbling idiots.
And that right there is precisely why Wyatt is perfect for Sin City Wrestling. Does he have the makings of a World Heavyweight Champion? Probably not. Scratch that, definitely not. He would barely make a good Roulette Champion, but let’s not get too hasty. Point is, he does not have what it takes to move on to the top of this company, and I do. But, once again, I get to prove that inside of the ring this week. I’ll see you losers in the six-sided ring in just a couple of days. Enjoy your delusions in the meantime.
********************************************************************************************************
We come in to see “Shorty” Devin Tyler sitting poolside with a cold drink in one hand, and a second drink in his other. He has a pair of shades on as he sits there, watching the pretty girls walk past. He is wearing a Speedo and nothing else beyond the sunglasses. He takes a sip from one drink as he looks around once more.
Just then, a pretty blonde approaches him with a smile on her face. Shorty smiles and sets the extra drink down on the side table as he starts to sit up in his lounge chair. The woman is dressed in a skin tight pink bikini and white flip flops. She leans over, practically putting her bosom directly in his face.
Woman: Excuse me, kiddo, but have you seen this bald, handsome, muscular guy hanging around? I was supposed to meet my Tinder date here, but I can’t seem to find him anywhere…
Shorty lowers his sunglasses with a smirk on his face, showing off his pearly white teeth. He clicks his teeth as he winks at her.
Shorty: This little boy is all grown up from the waist to the chiseled jawline, baby.
Woman: Ummm… I think I left my oven on in my hotel room. Sorry…
Shorty: But none of the rooms have ovens!
The woman awkwardly lowers her head and scurries on away from Shorty. He can’t even react to it as his jaw just hangs wide open. He can do little more than mutter a simple scoff as he puts his sunglasses back on. After a moment, he begins speaking under his breath until the anger overrides the shock, and he gets progressively louder.
Shorty: … the actual fucking fuck is that all about? We chatted for two weeks, and she saw all of my pictures on the fucking app! Is it not obvious that I’m a little person? I’m standing next to a high chair for crying out loud! How dumb could that broad be?!
A young man in Bermuda shorts and a black tank top comes walking up to Shorty with a smile on his face.
Man: Hey, you’re that short stack that’s in that local wrestling company, Sin City Wrestling, right?
Shorty: Hey asshole, I might be little, but I am a human being, chapstick dick! And yes, I am that “short stack” who has blown through every piece of lame ass competition that they have put in front of me in SCW.
Man: Bro, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to insult you like that. I thought that was your name. I seen you go through all of those big dude, and I’m impressed. I was wondering if I could get an autograph or something for my girl. She gets to go to the show while I work.
Shorty looks over as the squealing girl across the pool with blue and white hair, waving at them. Shorty’s eyes instantly fall to her black bikini top, or rather what is about to pop out of it at any given moment. Shorty winks at her as he stands up and shows off everything he’s got, which is enough that the camera has to blur it out. The man suddenly feels insecure as he leans back a little bit.
Shorty: That’s your girl? The fine piece of hipster ass over there that’s blushing at the sight of what I got?
Man: Yeah… We’re in a non-monogamous, poly relationship because it’s the latest trend since Veganism. But I’m pretty sure that she only wants an autograph.
Shorty: Bruh, she wants more than an autograph. She wants my pen shoved so far… Never mind, anything for a fan.
Shorty pulls a pen out of nowhere and a picture of himself. The man looks around, trying to figure out where it came from, and Shorty instantly signs it. “All the best, you fine piece of hipster ass, -”Shorty” Devin Tyler 510-840-**** Room 208, Your boyfriend can watch as long as he’s not in my line of sight.” He then smacks the picture into the man’s chest and goes back to his drink. The man looks at the picture and shakes his head as he starts to rip it up. However, his girlfriend comes up to him, and they bicker as she rips the picture out of his hand.
Shorty watches the fight ensue with a devious smile on his face as the girl storms off. He walks back over to the bar, drinking the rest of his drink before setting the empty glass on the bar. He walks inside of the hotel with a towel around his neck. As soon as he walks in, several hotel patrons stop and stare at him.
Shorty: What the fuck are you staring at?! Haven’t any of you seen a little person before? Oh, why don’t you go ahead and snap some pictures, because they last longer you arrogant regular sized pieces of horse shit! Un-fucking-believable! How many of you want to have your kids stand next to me so that you all can laugh at it later? Huh? Or why don’t you stick me in a five piece suit and give me an oversized lollipop?! How about that?! Oh, you would like that wouldn’t you? “We represent, the Lollipop Guild, the Lollipop Guild, the Lollipop Guild. And in the name of, the Lollipop GUILD! WE WISH TO WELCOME YOU FUCKERS TO MUNCHKIN LAAAAAAAAAAAND!!!”
Shorty practically has a stroke as everyone blinks and stares in his direction. The entire hotel falls silent as Shorty looks around to see that there is a cute puppy walking on his hind legs while balancing a ball on his nose. Shorty purses his lips as he lowers his gaze to the ground. He sighs as he walks further inside of the lobby. He goes up to the elevator and presses the “Up” button. He waits as everyone watches him and shake their heads in disgust as their whispers echo through the room. Finally, the bell rings and the door opens. He steps inside, and finds himself alone, with a breath of relief.
Shorty: Goddamn, that was embarrassing. Thank God I’m by myself. I just sang the “Lollipop Guild” song while cussing out children and the elderly. What the hell is wrong with me? Am I really that horrible of a human being?
Shorty continues to mutter to himself as the bell rings and the door opens. He starts to walk out before bumping into the leg of a bellhop. The bellhop smiles and pats Shorty on top of the head as he coos at him.
Bellhop: Awww, how sweet. Where are your parents, little boy?
Shorty grits his teeth and clenches his fists together. He shakes in anger before losing it and punching the bellhop right in the dick. The bellhop falls to his knees as he looks at Shorty with a look of pure and utter betrayal.
Shorty: I’m a grown man, you sack of shit! I wrestle for Northern Lights Wrestling and I’m doing a showcase here in Sin City Wrestling! I have a job, I’m not a child! I’m a man! I’m a real, living, breathing, eating, shitting fucking man!
Shorty shakes his head as he turns around and pretends to kick dirt up over the bellhop on the ground. He walks over to room 208 and he pulls his room key out of his Speedo. He slides the key card and the door pops open. He walks inside as the hipster chick from poolside comes rushing up, stopping the door from completely closing. She taps Shorty on the shoulders and he starts to turn around as the woman wraps her leg around him, sinking down to his level.
Shorty: What the holy-fucking-shit? Sorry, Winter, I had to steal that one…
Hipster Chick: I got something else you can steal, baby. Mommy needs hewr wittle manzy mans.
Shorty looks up into her eyes, confused and shocked at the same time. He shakes it off and his jaw drops.
Shorty: Momma! Momma! Yes!
Shorty turns and shoves the door closed behind him, causing the scene to fade out on the door, but not before the sound of several loud banging noises are heard, causing doors to open to stare down the hall toward room 208.
*********************************************************************************************************
The cameras return to the live studio audience, many with drinks in their hands as the lights come back on. They are cheering and laughing from the previous round of “The Roast of… Amy Marshall” as we quickly pan across them. The camera then focuses in on the set where we see Evie Baang seated in a comfortable chair next to a thin glass podium with a microphone. Her legs are crossed as she settles in, a smirk coming across her face. Suddenly, “Shorty Bounce” by Lil Wayne blasts over the speakers and the crowd gives off a mixed reaction, but it is mostly positive as the sign above the stage requests that they cheer and applaud.
“Shorty” Devin Tyler steps out from behind the curtains, dressed in a charcoal grey suit and a blue shirt that is opened half way down to show off his uniquely chiseled physique. He holds his arms out at his side to wave in the applause, note cards in his right hand as he steps out. He then sets his arms out in front of him and begins doing the Shorty Bounce as he approaches the podium. He stands up behind it, and it practically hides him. Evie gives a toothy grin as she walks over to the curtains and pulls out a step ladder. She sets it up in front of the podium as Shorty climbs it, much to the laughter of the audience.
Shorty stands up in front of the audience as he adjusts the microphone to a lower point as Evie takes her seat once again. Shorty sets his cards down on the podium as he leans onto the podium for support. He stares out into the audience as he sighs into the microphone.
Shorty: Are you assholes as excited as I am to talk about Amy Marshall?
Again, the crowd gives off a mixed reaction, though the sign above the stage requests a round of boos. Shorty rolls his eyes as he leans back up to a standing position, adjusting the microphone once again.
Shorty: I mean, who wouldn’t want to talk about an SCW Hall of Famer, right? A Grand Slam Champion? She has all of the makings of a solid opponent… on paper. Yet, somehow, people aren’t even talking about her in this match… or ever really.
Shorty looks out into the audience as crickets literally chirp. He shakes his head as he looks to Evie, who is yawning.
Shorty: Fuck all of you! Haven’t you ever heard of comedy of truth? People are talking about her opponent who literally did jack shit in his short time in SCW. The retarded cowboy. He was a tag team champion. Big fucking whoop. Yet his speech impediment makes him endearing, and people want to hear more about him. Maybe because he’s not as played out as Amy’s vagina. Heh?
Shorty looks bright eyed out at the audience as he gets a couple quiet chuckles. He slams his fists against the podium as he snaps at the audience, who only seem to blink and stare in return.
Shorty: Oh come on now! That was funny! You shitheads don’t understand sophisticated comedy! Let’s be a little more high brow from here on out, okay?
The audience chuckles slightly at Shorty’s little outburst, but this is good enough for him to return to his stiff routine.
Shorty: Wyatt Peterson, dumb as a box of rocks. Does he even know what a wristlock is? Does he realize that wrestling isn’t a bar room brawl at the local dive bar? Being a giant doesn’t make him better than anyone. It just means that the bigger cranium makes it easier for me to give him a concussion from that tiny pea brain rolling around inside of his head… Laugh damn it! Laugh!
Shorty looks out into the audience and he doesn’t see a single reaction. He flips the podium over, causing it to shatter, and his cards fly everywhere. Evie covers her mouth as Shorty jumps down from the step ladder.
Shorty: Alright, let’s go ahead and stoop to dick and fart humor. Will that be what gets you going?
The audience looks to one another and they begin to nod their heads. Shorty shakes his head for a moment before nodding along.
Shorty: Okay, fine. Let’s do this. Wyatt Peterson, the only competitor in this match who has spent more time on his back than Amy Marshall!
The crowd laughs at this one, but Shorty is still on an angry roll as he begins pacing the stage, causing his mind to race.
Shorty: Wyatt Peterson, putting the “Cunt” in “Country”. Why? Because he’s a big, fat cunt! A pussy. He doesn’t have what it takes to get past me. Height is not everything, and that is literally the only thing he’s got on me. There is absolutely no skill there. I mean, his only hope, as we’ve seen in the past, is for a partner to come along and carry his ass to a victory. I’m sorry, but you can’t hide behind Amy and expect her to do that, because Amy is a choke artist.
Shorty grins for a moment as he looks over to Evie who nods her head, urging him to continue on as she practically reads his mind. The crowd waits for it almost patiently.
Shorty: Inside of the ring, that is, because we’ve all seen how well she can suppress her gag reflex outside of the ring.
The crowd bursts out into laughter at his low brow quip. He shrugs his shoulders as he looks out into the audience.
Shorty: Wyatt Peterson has made a career out of relying on others. He definitely pulled the wrong card when he got Amy Marshall as a partner. We all saw what happened last year when one of SCW’s most promising up and comer’s got stranded with Amy as a partner. He went from a shoe in for the next SCW World Heavyweight Champion, to a Tag Team Champion that faded into obscurity. Inside of the ring, because the last I checked, his role as “Throbbin’” in Buttman and Throbbin’ earned him a Woody Award at the AFA’s. Gives a whole new meaning to the term “Up and Cummer” huh?
Without being prompted, the crowd roars with cheers and laughter. Shorty starts to get into now that the crowd is getting into it. He puffs out his chest like a beast as Evie even offers him a clap.
Shorty: Wyatt Peterson probably thinks that he’s got an easy breezy week ahead of him, right? A Hall of Famer that’s carried him through two matches already has his back. Unfortunately, what he doesn’t realize, because he’s been gone for so long, is that Amy Marshall played it smart and waited for opportunities to weasel her way into every single accomplishment she’s gotten to her name. I mean, why wouldn't he question that? It’s gotten him past two teams. It’s just unfortunate for him, because Amy has never, and will never, make it past Sugar Tits… I mean, Evie Baang.
Evie pushes her shoulders in, taking pride in her new nickname. She bounces her shoulders slightly as the crowd gives off a very masculine round of cheers and cat calls. Evie leans back in her seat as she crosses her legs in the opposite direction, listening intently to Shorty now.
Shorty: Wyatt Peterson believes he’s destined to win this whole thing. I would say “thinks he’s destined”, but that would imply that he’s capable of putting together a coherent series of thoughts that doesn’t revolve around Honky Tonks and double wide trailers. What he doesn’t realize is that the team that everyone thought was going to win 2018’s Blast From the Past Tournament has already been taken out, and they were taken out in the first round… by this Dream Team, motherfuckers!
Shorty walks over to Evie and he poses next to here, rapidly moving his finger between the two of them to emphasize that he’s talking about them. He then marches back to the center of the stage to take his place.
Shorty: Roxi Johnson, the superhero on the streets, and the bondage queen freak in the sheets, and the potato-eating, Guinness chugging, piece of shit who tried to exploit his wife’s untimely death to further his career, O’Malley. Yeah, we took them out. That was the team that the internet said was going to win this entire thing. Fuck you, internet! This tournament belongs to two people, and it definitely isn’t Amy Marshall and Wyatt Peterson. It belongs to “Shorty” Devin Tyler, and “Sugar Tits” Evie Baang, bitches!
There isn’t so much a round of laughter, but a chorus of cheers, prompted by the board above the stage, of course. Shorty throws his arms up in the air, drawing it in even louder. He then waves the audience off as he brings the microphone up to his lips again.
Shorty: I figured I would slay the beast before I take shots at the easy target, because that’s what a true champion would do, and after we take out these two piece of trash, we will breeze on to those trophies. Watch out Kristopher Ryans, because I’m coming for you. I’m going to be the smallest World Champion in SCW history, but I’m going to pack the biggest punch.
Shorty holds his fist up and mimics a Dick Punch that gets the crowd roaring again. He smiles and nods his head as he looks out across the audience silently for a moment. He then begins speaking again.
Shorty: Now, let’s get a little less serious when we talk about the reason we’ve all gathered here this evening. It’s “The Roast of… Amy Marshall” afterall, right? Let’s bring out the guest of honor. Without further adieu, fresh from the free clinic on West 5th Street in Reno, Nevada, let’s give it up and hope that the antiviral drugs have had enough time to work… Please welcome, Amy Marshalllllllll!!!
Shorty lightly claps his hands together as the audience seems shocked. The curtain parts and out steps Amy Marshall… except it’s not. It appears to be a homeless woman with dirt covering her body. She is wearing a large purple mohawk wig, a dirty Misfits tank top, black and grey plaid skirt, fishnets, and a studded leather jacket with matching boots. She stumbles out onto the stage as she sticks her tongue out and throws up the horns. She nearly falls over and grabs onto Shorty to hold herself up on his bald head. As we get a closer look at her face, she has “herpes sores” painted onto her face. The crowd laughs at this display as Shorty and Evie help the woman over to the large leather chair in the center of the stage. She falls into it and instantly falls asleep.
Shorty: Classy. How could someone not wife that, am I right? She’s off the market, so please pay no attention to her exposed beaver…
Shorty points over to the woman, wearing no undergarments, as a censor bar covers the subject in which Shorty is speaking of. He shakes his head as he moves a chair out in front of “Amy” that covers her up.
Shorty: We all know that Amy is never truly off the market. The ring is just a white mark around her finger when she puts the ring on a stranger’s nightstand. Her husband is okay with it, so who are we to judge? It’s a new age, the times they are a’changin’ as one Bob Dylan says. Then again, with a nose that big, bruh can’t be too picky. I mean, I could crawl up and hide in that beak!
Shorty mimics climbing up and taking cover as the crowd offers a decent chuckle. Shorty shrugs his shoulders.
Shorty: Meh, they can’t all be winners, right? Amy Marshall surely knows that one. She has had some impressive wins, but her losses far outweigh her wins. I mean, the losses are practically twice as heavy. She should be used to losing, but this renewal of her otherwise dead career has given her hope. How fucking cruel? She actually thinks that she can win this match. Is she stupid? Sorry, that was a stupid question. She’s proven time and time again that she’s not the brightest crayon in the box. She’s an idiot, more of less. But, yet somehow, she’s the Einstein of her team? That’s fucking sad…
“Amy” wakes up for a second and flips Shorty off before curling up in the leather chair and falling back asleep.
Shorty: As if Amy’s wrestling career wasn’t enough of a joke. Amy Marshall is a well known porn star turned porn director. She’s starred in such films as Amy Does Atlanta, Ann Arbor, Austin, Albany, Anaheim, Allentown, Amarillo, Ames, Anchorage, and Asbury Park. And famous director of such cinematic masterpieces as Jurassic Jugs, Long Ranger, Tale of Two Titties, American Hair Pie, Bi-Curious George, Fill Bill, Edward Penishands, and Cum Sluts of New Jersey Vol 4. That is an impressive resume. Add that to reigns as Bombshell Internet, Tag Team, Roulette, and World Champions, losing most of them on her first defense, and you’ve got a real talent on your hands. In her hands. However you like it, because you don’t even have to ask!
The crowd laughs again as Shorty settles back near the chair that “Amy” is seated in. He brushes her hair out of her face as she moans and turns over to the opposite side. She puts her ass in the air, and Shorty leans over to nearly barf at the mere suggestion.
Shorty: Goddamn, please don’t offer that beat up mess between your legs to me! It looks like you’ve given birth! Do you even have any children? Or is that where all good careers crawl up inside to die and fade away into obscurity? I’m sorry, but I’m just getting mine going, and I’m not ready to peace out just yet. Besides, you’re a triple bagger. One for your head, one for my head in case yours falls off, and a third so I can puke into if both bags fall off. And let’s not forget the double entendre, that I would need at least three rubbers to feel safe!
The crowd groans at this, rather than laughing.
Shorty: What, too much?
The crowd nods as they agree with his statement. He shrugs his shoulders as he continues on.
Shorty: You can’t expect less than that! Look who we’re talking about! Everything she touches turns to shit. Except the Metal and Punk Connection, because that was shit before she even signed her name to the dotted line. See, my momma raised me to believe that you are as the company that you keep. And where I come from, Northern Lights Wrestling, a subsidiary of Honor Wrestling, the company that Amy keeps is shit. Jessie Salco. Sure, she’s had a few runs herself, and she’s better than Amy, as fucking sad as that is to say, but she couldn’t carry a crowd if her life depended on it. And let’s not forget, she couldn’t sell a glass of ice water to a man stranded in the desert, let alone a wrestling move. And Kate Steele? The woman who will turn on you so fast that your head will spin.
The crowd claps, seeing the truth in Shorty’s words. He doesn’t even give them the chance to get further as he continues on.
Shorty: That’s who Amy Marshall is. She can’t say that she’s too trusting, because she’s been in this business far too long to trust everybody, let alone anybody. How can Wyatt Peterson trust her? Is he just blinded by the thought of a title, like every other piece of shit in this business, who takes no pride in their work, and would stoop to any level, including riding Amy’s ass and coattails through this tournament, just to hold a belt for one week before moving on to the next conquest? Maybe, but he’s also a dumbass, backwoods, inbred cousin fucker, so let’s take that into account.
Shorty pauses for another cheap pop from the crowd who is almost dying at the last comment. Shorty smiles as he looks over to Evie, who motions for him to wrap it up. He clears his throat as he looks back out to the center of the audience.
Shorty: In short… pun intended… damn you, Sugar Tits, now you got me doing it… In short, because everyone seems to need to be reminded of the most obvious facts, every single moment. Let me remind you, you are looking at the winning team, right here.
Shorty points between himself and Evie.
Shorty: It’s going to take a lot more than a washed up, beat up ex porn star and a giant who is as quick witted as I am tall, to take us out of the game at this stage. You are looking at your future champions, and your Blast From the Past 2018 winners, guaranteed or your money back! Now can we please get security to help this poor homeless woman… I mean “Amy”... off of the stage, and please burn that chair. Thank you all for coming out tonight! Now get the fuck outta here, because I refuse to pay extra for the rental of this set!
Shorty waves at the audience as the “Applause” light comes on over the stage. Shorty is all smiles as a set of security members comes out and fights off the Amy Marshall impersonator, even as she pulls out a switchblade. With the ruckus going on behind Shorty, he is oblivious to it all as the crowd continues to roar. Evie and Shorty take a bow at the center of the stage, just as “Amy” throws a chair over their heads and into the audience. The audience begins to scatter as things continue to fly, unbeknownst to the two roasters of the evening. The scene fades out.
