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Well, well-well, well…
…well.
Kick a man while he’s down.
That’ll show them.
Thumb and pinky emoji.
I’ve got a story I’d like to tell all of you. It’s about Tough Talking, Mean Walking, Teddy Palmer and his recent return to High Octane Wrestling. You know him. He’s the guy who is both King Kong, AND The Darling of the Denucci Cup. And yes, those tiny black and blue marks on his chest are a result of all the pounding his fists have been doing as of late.
They don’t call him Tiny Hands Ted on the run sheet for nothing.
Ted’s return is truly of the most captivating variety. Him coming back wearing a Kelly Slater necklace for good luck while using the Denucci Cup as his surfboard to ride a righteous wave towards redemption is in a word, MAGICAL. Toss in the disheveled beard and the fact he won a similar event last year…
…and that’s got Hollywood written all over it.
Of course, the best part of Ted the Terror’s story is that all of it is true. Even the part where he won a similar romp. I saw it. I was there when he won the LBI with the grace of Rose Kennedy. It was a lovely day, and all the candy cardinals sang in unison as the rose petals fell gracefully to the floor. I remember it. The fans remember it. Fuck, even Scottywood remembers it. Then, sadly I believe he sustained a self diagnosed high knee injury shortly thereafter. Such a shame, too. You’d think hanging a perfect ten on a stage like that would propel you toward Fifty Year Storm heights, and normally you’d be right.
Just not for him.
Luckily, with the “what could have been” part of Ted’s story now in the rear view mirror, he’s back in High Octane to pick up where his flourishing career fell off. Not wanting to commit the same sins of the past, he returns stronger and more prepared than ever before; bringing with him his pen pal to help document the whole thing.
Safe to say, Teddy Palmer and company are primed to color outside the lines on the next page in his Diary of a Wimpy Kid, and there isn’t a damn thing High Octane can do about it.
—
Ted, you idiot.
I was rooting for you after my unfortunately cute exit from the Cup. Then, you just had to take a piss in my salty pond; seemingly flexing under the impression it would not cause a single ripple.
Well, it did.
You said Cancer Jiles has a fragile psyche.
I say Ted must be Italian.
You said Cancer Jiles is a weak minded loser.
I say so is Alex Redding.
It’s no secret I lose, Ted. So much so you can set your watch to it. Big. Small. Weird. Tall. Dick in pants. Dick out of pants. I even lose to no dicks at all– its become a time honored tradition here in High Octane. That in mind, I still persist. I still remain. I still keep crawling back for more like a cockroach who is immune to even the harshest of squashings. Does it help I get paid more money to lose than most get paid to win? Sure. Maybe. But that’s not my point. My point is does any of that sound like the workings of a weak minded individual? The answer is no. It does not. In fact, would a weak minded individual be scrubbing the decks of the USS Octane for the past week with a toothbrush and a bad taste rotting inside his mouth in some wild, desperate, far fetched, outlandish attempt to get his wish granted?
That Ted, for your information, is the type of guy I am. My desperate dick stays out for the world to see. It doesn’t hide behind skinny capris and a camel toe, like yours does. Neither does it take a high knee injury and go home, like yours did. You fucked up by pissing in my pond, and frankly I didn’t like it very much. Pray to our GOD he doesn’t grant my wish, or that you manage to stay in the Cup long enough for my erection to go away.
Things can get very bad for you, Ted.
I’d HATE to see it.
But definitely do yourself a favor and don’t ever again forget who the fuck it is that I am, Chicklet.
Pucker.
Kiss.
Goodbye.