Big grin. Grillz of gold teeth with pink dolphins.

 

Shimmering gold threaded mesh hoodie. Pink LED dolphins about it. Hood up. Sunglasses On, the SleazyBomber. A mustache like mink. Complemented with Red Bottom Loafers, Hawaiian Print Shorts. Flowers of Periwinkle and Paisley set on aquamarine.

 

With him. Damien DeSett, lumoxing of taut muscles and potato skillz. Rubbing his hands together menacingly. Kevin “Satan(Now with more Evil!)” Alloy in a workout suit, horns on the hood. Bluetooth in the ear. 

 

The Corporate Fuck/b/olt Basement, complete with a large stolen Defiance Banner, hastily scrawled with the ubiquitous /B/ logo over it. 

 

Grey walls, Ficus Trees and industrial carpeting. Taupe on Taupe. Double soothing.

 

Flex~!

 

Whealdon casually pulling a cigarette from the pack sitting on his desk, removed the lighter next to it.

 

“Well,

 

So Nikolas Kiri wrestled a tiger for a steak.”

 

A solid drag.

 

“And We’re the comedy act.”

 

Chuffed laugh. Whealdon lowers his sunglasses reflexively, and a picklish grin spread across his face as he clean his mustaches with amusement. He takes another drag, ashing it into a defiance coffee cup labeled “Da BAWS!”.

 

“Okay. Cool. Nikolas Kiri is some kind of animal raping killing machine, and he’s gonna single handedly run over the World’s Longest Tag Team dude. Scary. 

 

And his manager, totalllly is lining him up like a classic monster. talking points like “Comedy Joke team fed to Monster. RAWR!”

 

Slow clap, cigarette hanging from his mouth.

 

“So Jonas, the next time yer lining up the comedy lessons. Why don’t you let the real wrestlers come on down so we can see how to do the slapstick. Did I mention I marked when Kiri wrestled a steak from a tiger?

Next thing you know, he’s going to be wearing a Bronson Box full body bathing suit, and a matching new bondage mask thing, and huffing and puffing like a great big bad strong man wolf about how he’s gonna blow my house down.”

 

Whealdon takes another drag, ashing it, pushing his sunglasses up and slapping Damien on the chest.

 

“But it turns out the World’s Longest Tag Team has its own wolf. Because you know, we thought of that. I realize Jonas that connecting point A. to point B. isn’t really a strong point for you. But what you’re looking at is Mister Morning After Rich Mahogany. Who by the way, Former EPW Television Champion, and the only moxy that show’s got. Not to mention shoulders like boulders and hair so fine, it’ll make a lion jealous. 

 

And that isn’t even touching the King of Sleaze. See while you might be thinking “Herp De Derp, dah funny guys don’t win many matches”. You may want to take your shitty black and white TV, spin that antenna and pick up the Ultratitle. 

 

Because Daddy.”

 

Whealdon takes another drag.

 

“What’s going on here is that I am thrusting my way into the sweet sixteen. So while you were practicing your best kool-aid man impressions with Jack Bryant, and he will be missed, I was busy you know, taking it to some real competition.

 

I know I know. Funny guys, being fed to Monster. I got that the first nine times you put that out there and tried to explain it to your half-brained retard. Beat one of those recently too. So I got that goin’ for me too.”

 

Big Grin as Whealdon point index to temple.

 

“Of course Nikolas Kiri is a big tiger wrestling raw meat eating super machine. I mean, I grew up watching the NWC, and I saw Ra and Malignance, and clearly you did too. So you grabbed the first guy who sorta looked like that, slapped a bad mask on him and rolled the dice on making a career out of him.”

 

A hand motion of the dice rolling.

 

“Here’s one of the key differences though. While I’m busy taking out the next big name in the Ultratitle, Which by the way when I bring back, I’ll make sure to mail you a copy of, so you can see how real wrestlers operate.

 

Maybe you’ll be busy housebreaking that big retarded goon.

Nikolas Kiri. Isn’t frightening. Keep him in the Zoo, have him wrestle a bear, have him wrestle an alligator. Have him wrestle a statue of a yeti.”

 

Whealdon took another drag, leaning back on the desk all casual like.

 

“I’ve already fought Russian Fighting Machines, Drinking Fighting Machines, Wargods, religious feverants Daddy. 

 

But I’m supposed to be scared of some big fucking guy because he “bent” the bars on a cage and is eating a hunk of raw meat that you previously fed to a tiger.

 

Yeah. Check. Welcome back to reality.”

 

Whealdon cleans his mustache craftily.

 

“Nikolas Kiri isn’t the next great big wrecking ball. Hate to be the one to let you know about that Jonas, but Jack Bryant isn’t Pete Whealdon daddy. not on the same planet, not in the same solar system or galaxy. 

 

So again, slow clap, you beat a fading nobody on his way out of the door, and you took your big retard to a zoo and he wrestled a tiger for a hunk of meat.

 

That’s assuming PETA hasn’t already gotten their hands on that unedited footage, and gone to fucking town. Maybe your next Tarrasque styled adventure could include that? Maybe Kiri can be in other situations he’s ill prepared for, kind of like Doors, Drawers and Clocks? teach this phrase to him.

 

 

OHHHHHHH YEEEEAAH.

 

Paint that big dumbshit red and call him Kool-Aid. He’ll maybe move some merchandise and we can all agree to disagree that you found probably the least suitable candidate for this, say ever?

 

I Know, I Know, I Know. Lemme tell you what you’re gonna say next.”

 

Whealdon takes off his sunglasses, pulls his hood down, He puts his hand out and Satan places a white package in it.

 

It’s not a steak.

 

It’s a pair of socks.

 

“Blah Blah Blah Blah. Kiri Big. Blah Blah Blah. Violence impeding. Blah Blah Blah Blah. I secretly wonder if I can control him. Blah Blah Blah Blah. Please don’t hit fast forward on me.”

 

Whealdon tosses the sock at DeSett’s feet

 

Flex~!

 

Sunglasses and hood replaced a new cigarette is in his match.

 

“See look Daddy. I think I got Jonas Anger just about right. Maybe, next time. You won’t come out and waste one half of the World’s Long Tag Team’s time. You’re not even worth the tip.

 

You’re getting a drink and maybe a number. Maybe Rich is shaking in his boots at your big, bad, evil monster tiger fighter.

 

Me. I see a bigger joke.”

 

Wheladon ashes the cigarette and leans back against the desk.

 

“And now, we’ve got Mike Sloan. When I came back I was glad to see Grandpa Sloan had dusted off his walker for one more.. whatever it is old people in walkers do.

 

Of course, he managed to find Curtis Penn. Formerly lost in parts unknown as well! How’s my two favorite past lifers?

 

Penn still finding himself in the desert? Or wherever he ducked out too after I sent his career directly from the highest point it will ever reach to where it rightfully belonged. 

 

See where as Kiri is just plain silly anger, this is just plain silly. Mike F’n Sloan, always a bridesmaid but never a marriage to get to, but still wearing that dress like a king. I’ve always wondered since I carried your useless son what it’d be like to get you in the ring. Of Course, I wanted to face vintage Sloan, and not beer left in the sun for a couple of hours too long flat Sloan.

 

Daddy, if I had a time machine, I’d rev it up and take it back in time to see if classic Sloan could match up to the greatest wrestler who’s ever lived.

 

The answer is no. Because you were stale when you were new, and you’ve only gotten soggy potato chips since then. I know I know, you’re tired, worn out and gritty. Like Jeff Andrews without the cajones to back that up.

 

and you’re here for a story o’ re-demp-shun. I got that tale in full for you Mike."

 

Another long drag.

 

 "fuck you.”

 

Black.