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Warrick Hill and women.
And, no, I’m not talking about the members of the eMpire.
Legit women with tits, ass, and vajayjays. Where do they land with Warrick? What’s his history with the fairer, bitchier sex?
While the guy has never had what a normal person would call a ‘relationship’ with one. He has had feelings.
At one point in his past he felt something a person might describe as ‘infatuation’ for a smoke show of a blonde. She was rich. She was hot. She had no kids. She didn’t care about marriage. She seemed perfect.
The only problem was the fact she was an evil bitch. Like, legit evil. Not, wouldn’t give a homeless guy a dollar if his life depended on it, evil. That’s respectable evil. This woman was super, legit evil.
So, naturally, she had to go. Call it self-preservation, a modicum of decency…call it whatever you like, the fact is Warrick couldn’t follow this woman down her treacherous path.
Not to mention by keeping her alive he’d be FOLLOWING a woman. Something Warrick just couldn’t wrap his head around. A man, maybe. But a woman…c’mon.
Aside from the evil bitch, Warrick has used women as a means. A means for release. A means for pleasure. A means for attaining whatever temporary goal he sets his sights toward.
A holiday, if you can even call it that, like Valentine’s Day has never meant much to Warrick. It’s always symbolized an uptick in candy and wine at the local grocery store.
That and, well, desperate attempts by singles everywhere to try their hardest to act like being single on Valentine’s Day doesn’t bother them.
I mean, it’s pretty fucking simple. If you’re single and you don’t care about Valentine’s Day, then just roll ahead with your life. Don’t mention it. Don’t make fun of it. Act like it doesn’t exist…because it doesn’t.
But, nope, inevitably every year thousands if not millions of women will come up with some goofy ass slogan or event to scream as loud and proud as they can that “We are single on Valentine’s Day and WE DON’T CARE.”
Sure you don’t, babe. Sure.
So, what does this have to do with HOW? Where does the legendary Austin Reeves factor in? Let’s find out!
A close up of a clown appears, to our extreme discomfort. We pull back, getting a broader view. The clown is none other than Ronald McDonald! Yes, the red, afro sporting, happy go lucky not in any way creepy mascot belonging to America’s most popular food chain…fast food or otherwise.
It isn’t a REAL Ronald McDonald. It’s a prop, glued, bolted, whatever securely to a bench outside a local McDonald’s. While his half of the bench is occupied by clown ass, the other is occupied by human ass. Which human could this be? Who would want to sit that close to Big Red Ron?
Why, Warrick Hill!
Both men, one fake, the other real, sit with their legs crossed, in the same direction. Warrick is licking what remains of his Vanilla Cone. It’s pretty fucking plain. Warrick seems to be going through the motions, finishing these soon-to-be regretful calories.
A few kids walk by, with their mothers. They stare at Warrick, who is licking his cone, seated very close to Ronald. The mothers hurry them inside, finding the scene to be a bit beyond odd.
Warrick doesn’t care. He’s on a mission. He gets down to where there’s more cone than cream. He contemplates finishing the very average, basic dessert. He doesn’t really see the point, so he tosses it in Ronald’s lap.
Warrick stands, patting Ronald on the back of his super hard afro, “Sorry about that, Ron. But I’m sure some fairly young, moderately attractive female employee will come out here and clean you up.” Pausing, Warrick smiles, feeling philanthropic in the most sexual of ways…he places his fists atop his hips, looks to the sky and tells Ronald, “Happy Valentine’s Day, pal.”
Yes, it’s Valentine’s Day. Despite the time you are reading this. PLAY ALONG
His phone remains in his pocket, switched off. The vibrations were working overtime. Word got out that Warrick is a whore. Send him some money and he’ll talk to you…so long as you answer his questions. Turns out wrestling fans are pretty fucking desperate.
So, he marches along, taking in the air, thick with despair on this day of days.
“Did you hear?” a voice sounds out, a few feet away. It belongs to an overeager male in his twenties. He’s seated at a table right outside a local coffee joint. With him is a woman, obviously his friend. The dude is balls deep in the zone every man should work to avoid.
His female pal responds, “Hear what? I hear a lot of things. They have twenty-four hour news services you know.”
“Hahahaha!” he laughs way too hard at an unfunny joke that was constructed to make him look like a buffoon. She just stares at him. Once his stupid laughter ceases, he continues, “There’s an epidemic going on.”
“Oh yes, the Corona Virus, I heard…is it one or two words?”
“It’s however many words you’d like it to be,” he responds, hoping that flattery will get him somewhere.
It gets him nowhere. She sort of rolls her eyes and begins playing with her phone. Most likely texting the dude she wants to fuck.
“Corona Virus,” Warrick says aloud. He’s aware of the beer. He’s aware of the term virus. But, he’s never quite placed the two together. “Is that loser talking about a fucking hangover?” Warrick reaches the conclusion most logical within his brain.
He stares up at the menu belonging to the coffee house, hoping they serve whiskey. He’d like an Irish Coffee.
“But no, it’s not the Corona Virus,” the friend zoned guy says, growing enough of a set of balls to correct the woman seated across from him.
“It’s not?” For the first time she gives him her full attention. Could he be getting somewhere?
His face reddens. He worries he may have offended her. “I mean, it could, if that’s what you wanted it to be…or if maybe you heard some late breaking news.”
She sighs and buries her face back into her phone. Girls don’t want to fuck guys with gelatin spines…it’s foreboding of limp dicks and itching clits, that go unscratched.
He sighs, worried to continue. She takes a sip of her coffee. It sounds terribly empty. She extends it…doesn’t even ask. The guy grabs it and heads over to buy her another one. Warrick keeps a peripheral on these activities.
The man zoned friend stands next to Warrick.
“Why are you buying her coffee?” Warrick asks.
“Because, I’m a gentleman.”
“What, you got something against chivalry?”
Warrick raises his hand, “Nope, not at all. You guys always leave more for the rest of us.” Mr. Chivalry is nonplussed.
They stand, awkwardly.
“Do they sell whiskey here?”
“No sir. This is a dry coffee shop.”
Mr. Chivalry looks around worried Warrick’s four letter outburst might offend someone. Nobody flinches.
“If you want something with alcohol, may I suggest a bar?”
Warrick kinda shrugs, “Yea, I guess. Go get me one of those viruses, right?” He laughs, elbowing the dude. The dude doesn’t really get it.
“That’s not something I find funny.”
Warrick isn’t surprised. “Whatever, enjoy enthralling that chick with your talk about lame ass epidemics.”
The dude sighs, “That wasn’t even the epidemic. I was talking about Galentine’s Day.”
“Galentine’s Day…” he pauses, looking around. His voice shrinks, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, probably to push the plot along. But my friend over there, she’s single and really feeling rough today. So, I wanted to cheer her up with Galentine’s Day.”
“That sounds like the gayest shit I’ve ever heard.”
“Well, excuse me!”
“You’re not going to get in her pants spouting lame shit like Galentine’s Day. The fuck even is a Galentine’s Day?”
“It’s a term for single women on Valentine’s Day. They don’t have to feel alone…they can band together…a sign of single unity. GALENTINE’S DAY.”
“Mother of God.”
Warrick reaches out and smacks Mr. Chivalry across the face, knocking him out. He turns and exits, nauseas over what he’s just heard. Mr. Chivalry’s female friend remains laser locked on her phone.
Galentine’s Day. Has it really come to this?
Women so desperate…so lonely…so in need of a warm and fuzzy that they create their own ALL THE SINGLE LADIES mantra on a day meant for couples. Fucking Galentine’s Day.
That’s about as basic bitch as the term intends.
What happened to originality? What happened to creativity?
You don’t qualify for a certain event…a certain day, so you just crash the party with some weak ass slogan. Typical.
The world is full of basic bitches. It’s full of individuals who can’t think for themselves. People who need an idea so they sit down and watch a couple hours of shitty drama on CBS. Next thing they’re penning some script about crime.
It sounds familiar. Because, it is.
A crippling lack of creativity has permeated every avenue of life. Professional wrestling included.
Take a look at Austin Reeves. Big? Check. Bald? Check. Ripped? Check. Mean looking? Check. A life that seems way too dramatic to be real? Check. Enters to something sung by Metallica? Check.
He’s a basic bitch. In spite of his best efforts, there isn’t a thing about this dude that stands out.
Be a clown.
Be a drunk.
Be a STD riddled gigolo.
Be a man who had a sex change but then realized he wanted to be a man again and had the reverse operation.
Be a walking, talking dildo.
Other than – Basic.
For fuck’s sake.
Taking Mr. Chivalry’s advice, Warrick finds himself inside the nearest bar. It isn’t much. A few tables, a couple of games. A bar with several stools. And, of course, a shit ton of booze behind a middle aged, male bartender.
“Galentine’s Day?” the guy asks, looking at Warrick.
“Yea man, apparently it’s all the rage with single women.”
The bartender shakes his head laughing…he pours Warrick another whiskey, double. Warrick turns his phone on. He instantly swipes away all the Twitter notifications.
PayPal pops up. It shows he’s received nearly five hundred dollars in fan donations.
“You okay, boss?” the bartender asks. Warrick’s outburst damn near shook the quiet, dark bar.
“Fans man…I’d hate them if they weren’t so fucking stupid.”
Curious, Warrick opens his Twitter. He sifts through some of the DMs. One contains a link to Austin Reeves’ HOW profile. He clicks.
The bartender leans over. Warrick shows him Austin.
“Is he in one of those Steven Seagal movies? You know, the ones Seagal made after, like, 1998.”
“Man, those jeans are tight.” The bartender is speaking about their literal tightness. He’s not saying he’d like a pair of those things.
“No shit, you’d expect to see the outline of a penis somewhere…but, no. Kinda worrisome for a dude who’s supposed to be 6’8.”
“Perhaps he’s celebrating Galentine’s Day.”
They share a laugh.
Curiosity sends Warrick to his profile. The bartender is still watching. He puts two and two together. “Those pants are tight, bro.”
“No, I mean they are tight…like, where’s YOUR dick?”
The bartender laughs. Warrick quickly scrolls away from his image. “Trust me, it’s there. I’ll whip it out right now to prove it!”
“No thanks, man. I don’t want that on the security footage.”
It doesn’t take long for Warrick to lose interest. He tosses his phone onto the bar top and runs his fingers through his hair. “Ughhh, I miss Derek.”
The bartender doesn’t really know what to say to this.
Thankfully, Warrick explains, “He’d do all the research on these fuckers. Now I’m supposed to figure the ins and outs of these dipshits I’m facing. It was easy with that Max guy because he was so fucking weird. But this Austin Reeves guy? Fuck me.”
“I don’t really know what to say. I quit watching wrestling years ago.”
“That’s actually kind of refreshing. You wouldn’t believe how many wrestling scholars there are roaming the streets.” Warrick finishes his drink and slams the bottom into the bar, signaling he’d like another. “I got one of those vanilla ice creams from McDonalds…thinking that might give me some insight into this Austin guy.”
“Ah, yes, that’s about the blandest shit you can get from McDonalds.”
“Aside from water…yea, I think it is.”
“Or, ya know, you could get a hamburger. Just meat and bread, nothing else.”
“What kind of a serial killer would order such a thing?”
“I had a college roommate who liked them that way, no lie,” The bartender says, topping Warrick’s drink off. “He wound up jumping off a bridge.”
“No, he didn’t die. He survived the fall.”
“Wow, props to him. Next time he’s in here, buy him a drink…on me.” Warrick slaps down a ten.
“Well, that’s the thing. Once he came to on shore, he stood up, smiled, found out that life was worth living and then…a tree fell on him. Killed him, right there.”
The bartender nods, slowly snaring the ten without Warrick noticing.
Warrick leans back, rotating his glass back and forth. “I guess some people are so fucking bland they render you speechless. It’s basic bitch syndrome. What else can you say? They are so fucking basic that they just don’t get it.”
The doors to the bar fly open. A herd of women in their late twenties to mid-thirties barge in. They are buzzing about GALENTINE’S DAY. Warrick looks over his shoulder, then back at the bartender. The bartender smiles.
“It’s like fish in a barrel,” Warrick comments, leaning forward.
“No shit, man…those women aren’t out here for empowerment or female companionship. They’re just trying to get laid.”
“How many of them are in that group?”
Bartender does a quick, silent count, “Seven.”
“Ohh, very biblical. Alright, whip up seven of the gayest cosmos you can.”
The bartender nods.
Vanilla Ice Cream. Galentine’s Day. Austin Reeves. They’re all the fucking same.
Basic ass shit requiring the slightest bit of creativity imaginable in an effort to placate those with an underactive imagination. It’s fucking McDonalds, to paraphrase the hilarious Jim Gaffigan.
Warrick devoured Vanilla Ice Cream.
He’s going to fuck as many of these gals as he can on Galentine’s Day.
And, Austin Reeves, he’s going to demolish your worthless existence at Refueled, placing him one win closer toward taking the LBI.
“Lee Best Invitational?” Warrick pauses, glancing down at the HOW site once more before the final cosmo is ready for delivery. “Ha, I just realized that’s what LBI stands for.” Ah, gotta love Warrick, always on the ball!
He snares the tray of cosmos and approaches the women.
They giggle hysterically. A play on GALENTINE’S DAY. HOW FUCKING ORIGINAL.
He slides the cosmos in front of them, the drinks are pink and bright…little flowers are placed within each glass. The bartender did what was requested of him.
Warrick flexes, extending his right arm. “Can one of you…GALS,” again, they giggle uncontrollably, “tell me what type of material this shirt is made out of?”
“I’ll do it!” a super eager chick pinches the material between two fingers, rubbing it. “Cotton?” she looks at Warrick…eyes hungry for more than a fucking cosmo.
“Nope, sorry,” he pulls his arm away. “That’s One Night Stand Material.” He smiles like a douche.
The gals all giggle. “You are so bad!” one of them says, slapping him on the arm.
And so the night commenced. A basic pick up line accompanied by basic drinks to a group of basic bitches which would inevitably lead to a basic conclusion.
I got one more basic conclusion for ya – Warrick Hill defeats Austin Reeves at Refueled XVI.
Meanwhile, inside a small house. A woman, middle aged, is cooking macaroni and cheese. Her thirty something year old son is seated on the couch, reliving all the highlights from last week’s Refueled.
He may or may not be fondling his junk through the thin fabric of his shorts. This Joe Bergman/Brenton Cross match is getting him super-hot and bothered.
“C’mon! Show me something…yea, there you go! Great athletes…oh yea, hell yea!”
“Sweetie, I’ve got your mac and cheese ready,” his mother calls out.
“Okay, mom! This match is almost over!” As if he were a prophet…or, ya know, just a loser fan who’s probably watched the match like eleven times, the match comes to an end. Bergman is victorious. The man child pumps his fist. “Fuck yea!”
“Sorry, mom! I just really hope this guy beats Warrick and prevents him from winning the C Group.”
She delivers him a bowl of mac and cheese, “But I thought you liked Warrick. I thought you two were exchanging messages.”
Her son lowers his head, “Not anymore. He quit responding. He’s a jerk.”
“Well, that’s okay. I’m sure there are other wrestlers out there you can talk to.”
His mother heads into the back to probably contemplate suicide.
Meanwhile, he remains on the couch, frustrated. He slams the tv remote into the couch cushion. The channels spasm, landing on a rival promotion. DETECTIVE JACK PUFFER is on screen.
“Who…what is this?”
Could it be? A die hard wrestling fan finding a promotion he’d never heard of? I guess anything is possible.
“But enough about that guy,” Puffer says, moving on from his ongoing feud, “I’d like to send out a statement that if anybody has seen this man!” He holds up a picture of Warrick Hill, “I’d like for them to contact me immediately. He is missing!”
The program cuts away to a local commercial.
The fans leans back into his mom’s couch. A few crumbs fly into the air.
“Warrick is hiding from that promotion?” The fan leans forward, the wheels turning. “I should turn him in!”
He snares his phone, but stops…”Or…OR…”
The little shit is definitely thinking in terms of leverage at this point. He doesn’t ask himself whether or not anybody else has picked up on this Puffer/Warrick connection. Two prominent promotions, you’d think word might be out.
But, apparently, it isn’t. So, while he’s still got the chance to do so…he appears ready to use this information for personal gain. It appears the man child is growing up.
Back at the bar, it’s growing late. Warrick is taking a super long piss at a urinal. He’s scrolling around on his phone. A twitter notification pops up. It’s the wrestling nerd that aided him in his prep for Max.
“What’s this nerd want?” fairly inebriated, Warrick opens the message.
– You can’t take my money and ignore me. Message me back by tomorrow or I’m telling Jack Puffer you’re working in HOW –
Warrick tilts his head back, staring at the overhead light. He groans, “Son of a bitch.” It was inevitable something like this might happen…Warrick had only hoped it wouldn’t happen so soon.
And, so, he messaged the nerd back.