bzzzt.

click.

Whhrrrr..

A whitewashed wall. Followed by stuttered zooming, and quick circular panning. Stop. Smoke twists in to view. 

“Point that camera over here.” 

Pete Whealdon is lounging in a floating pool chair. In a Kiddie Pool. In what appears to be a basement. A cigarette hangs from his lips and he is rubbing his chest in a manner that would be considered rudely grotesque to civilized folk. 

“mmmmmhehehehahahaha.. Satan thought he was Michael Bay.”

Pete Whealdon considers the words coming from behind the camera for a moment, before cleaning his luxurious lexus of a mustache with his forefinger and pinky. Behind Whealdon is the ruin of a desk. Damien DeSett is sitting at it. Or in it. As it were. Damien is busy inspecting his hands, and then the desk, and then his hands, and then the desk, and then his hands.

The camera quickly spins around and the visage of a man who like a dog could only be described in vague niceties such as “Loook at you! Look at you!”. Thick black rimmed, completely non-ironic, and not even remotely hip coke bottle glasses, and a hood pulled tight around his head. two devil horns come off of either side, and a hole has been cut, his ear sticks through and a blinking bluetooth ear piece sticks out. 

“Daddy, point that camera back over here!”

The camera swings back around, Pete Whealdon is now standing out of the pool, legs spread and hands on his hips. Aside from wearing the finest mustache in the history of humankind, Whealdon has chosen to wear a yellow mesh shirt, with a pink dolphin embroidered on the chest, as well as a bright pink speedo. Suffice to say it doesn’t leave nearly enough to the imagination. Whealdon casts his cigarette into the kiddy pool.

He turns around to look at the desk, and you’re gonna wish he hadn’t done that as his ass cheeks are now gracing the screen, grabbing the ficus tree nearest to him, he turns back around, plunking the ficus down in the kiddie pool.

The Ficus happens to be made of plastic. And fireproof. Lately there has been an issue with ficus trees burning in this particular location, but this ficus tree also has what is supposed to pass as a copy of the ULTRATITLE draped from it.
Pete turns around again. Buttcheek city. Satan giggles. DeSett walks through the desk KOOL-AID Man style over to his bowflex, where he promptly flexes, and gets at it.

“Daddy, How come no one told the Suite One, Gideon was retarded?”

Kevin “Satan(now with more Evil!)” Alloy is about to respond, raising a finger in front of the camera.

“But more importantly, how come no one told DEFIANCE’s coolest wrestler that retard gideon had a hot to trot sister.

Daddy, how could you not see the dutch rudder implications?”

“mmmmmm.. Satan hadn’t considered your buttcheeks before.. Satan feels ill Suite one.”

Whealdon spins around, more jostling of goods happens.

“No time for that, because Nadia. I don’t know if you’ve ever rubbed baby oil on the chest of a real man. A Dolphin Man. But I suggest we just leave Gideon tied to the bike rack and go have some sex and then you can get me some fish sandwiches and we’ll see what happens.”

Inappropriate gyrations.

“Now Nadia, you see I printed out your brothers weblog, and it’s in my desk here somewhere..”

Whealdon turns around again, and bends over and digs through the wreckage. Somehow the fact his ass is tanned was missed earlier. Finding a single piece of paper, he spins back around, his ermm... package jostling. He returns to the kiddie pool. He pulls a pair of vintage aviators, otherwise known at the coolest shades in the business, they also double up as Whealdon’s indoor reading glasses, he slaps out the wrinkles from the print out.

Whealdon murmurs to himself a bit, trying to work out the tangle of writing that served as Gideon’s first appearance to the world.

Whealdon raises his eyebrows.

“You see.”

Thwapping the paper some more.

“Gideon, named by parents, who couldn’t even get giving birth right and popped out some kind of autism hamburger, and Daddy, Autism Hamburger? It sure as hell don’t taste good. Further damning proof that Nadia needs to up and leave her brother in a bag with a rock in the river Daddy is delivered not a mere.. runonsentenceaway.”

Whealdon drops his sunglasses down. 

“Gideon. Can. Not. Grow. A. Mustache”

Satan gasps rather audibly. Damien stops bowflexing the fuck out of his bowflex.

SNAPCUTTO now trending worldwide on twitter: #AUTISMHAMBURGER

The German Guy is now sad in his field. In his Lederhosen. Damien DeSett stops rumbling towards him.

“mmmm... Satan is confused.”

“Daddy, Satan isn’t the only confused one. The Suite One sat down, and wrote out a thoughtful letter, hoping to reach out the next generation of superstar, he poured out his feelings, OVER the internet, the most emotional place to pour out emotions. He took time out of his day of Long, Hard, Thurstfilled Day. He thought he was laying down some pipe, and some wisdom. He “borrowed” a laptop from his BAWS, Who also happens to have a very very sexy assistant. Who The Suite One failed to impress.”

Whealdon stroked his mustache in disappointment. 

“But Daddy, When, The Greatest Technical Grand Wizard Dolphin, planned all of this out, He thought he was dealing with a man’s man. A real Mans Mans Mans Man. The Kind who can put a little Veeeelour on his lip, the one who can put the lass back in class. Daddy, I thought I was talking to a man who could at the very least put some fuzz on his upper lip.

Now.”

Whealdon holds a hand up.

“I’m not saying that some you won’t be able to put a flavor savor on that lip of yours, but let’s face it a man without a mustache is like.. well. It’s like a star without a twinkle. It’s like Eric Dane without a mane. It’s like Dan Ryan without grizzle. It’s like Rich Mahogny without a bowtie. Daddy it ain’t right.

I also heard men without mustaches attract sasquatch, and I gotta ask the people who run ULTRATITLE, exactly what they were thinking, letting in this hairless wonder. You’ve flagrantly endangered the entire tournament letting him in.”

Whealdon shakes his head in disgust. He doesn’t even want to touch his mustache. He drops his piece of paper, and it floats down, landing on the arm of his pool chair. Whealdon turns around and bends over again. Satan audibly sounds like he’s about to vomit.

DeSett flexes to fill the time.

Whealdon having finished looking, well longer than he should have for the paper, has popped back up and turned around.

“Gideon. I tried to take you under my wing. I tried to feed you my knowledge as though you were a baby bird, and I was giving you the easily digestible goods Daddy Bird Dolphin style. 

But you couldn’t even get it right. I’ll even be a little sad when Nadia is giving me that long awaited Dutch rudder post match, and if you’re really lucky, I’ll even let my man here Damien DeSett”

DeSett Flexes again.

“give you a little water and dog food while you’re tied to the lamppost outside. But at Ultratitle, it’s gonna be time for the slippers and daddy, even though the Suite One rocks velour slippers, he intends to metaphorically whip my new retard dog into shape before I take your sister home and knock some very very sensual boots with her.”

Sunglasses up. Baby Oil out. Running down the center of his mesh shirt.

”bam”

somewhere the universe groans.

Inappropriate gyrations.

Black.

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