- Event: Chaos 047
“You know your fucking problem right?”
“No? What’s that?”
“You’re to fucking serious.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Trent?”
“You, Mr. fucking Billy Big Balls, Evan fucking Ward. You’re too fucking serious. You fucking come to me, all pissing and moaning about being fucked over on Chaos. It’s ‘cos you’re too fucking serious, ain’t it?”
Evan looked up from his game of Candy Crush on his phone. “Eh? I don’t follow.”
“Urgh, you’re a fucking shit for brains sometimes. Look, haven’t you fucking noticed that what you’re all Mr. Serious Business fucking wrestler, acting the fucking hard man in control of the fucking situation and getting all fucking egotistical like a dude any fucker gives a shit about, you always fucking lose. You get to fucking full of yourself and high on your own fucking stash.”
“You’re a fine one to talk, you’re always smoking your own weed.”
“It’s a fucking metaphor, dingus. You talk fucking shit and start fucking believing you’re the greatest shit every to take a dump in the fucking wrestling ring. News fucking flash, Evan, you ain’t. Fuckers like Mike and Rhys, they’re the fucking top shit, they’re who every fuck wants to beat, they’re who every cunt wants to be. You? You’re just skirting around the fucking edge of it all, you just fucking run in, take a dump and sod off again. I mean, fuck, dude, you beat Solex one fucking week then lost to Hollywood the next. You fucking beat this living shit out of Sektor, completely destroyed his fucking overblown ego, then totally bricked it last week.”
“I mean, that’s a bit unfair, Jatt-”
“Jatt fucking nothing, dude. You fucking let him knock you the fuck out, that’s on you. You fucking went on his so-fucking-called chat show without a fucking care in the world, thinking you’re too fucking important to keep your fucking wits about you and got smashed. Ain’t no fucking excuse for not doing the business on that Coktor in the fucking main event. Too fucking serious. It’s boring. Fucking predictable. You fucking stand there, running your mouth and shitting on everyone like they’re fucking beneath you and they’re all just like, meh, what the fuck does that prick Evan Ward fucking know?”
“Harsh, dude.”
“But fucking true. When you’re acting all fucking serious you’re just like this place. All fucking clean, polished white fucking tiles, every spec of fucking dirt carefully fucking removed. Fucking spotless with no fucking character at all. Fucking clinical. Who the fuck gets excited about seeing a fucking place like this? This fucker over here wouldn’t I bet.”
“What?” Replied the fucker sat next to Trent, minding his own business.
“Is this fucking place exciting for you? Do you ever fucking think ‘oh, let’s go in here and fucking admire how fucking well swept the floor is? I can’t wait to see the blank fucking walls without even a fucking painting hung up.’ A fucking tourist trap, this is fucking not”
“Well, no. This isn’t the sort of place anyone would ever go sightseeing at.” The poor man replied, obviously not wanting to be involved and preferring to focus on what he was doing.
“Exactly! This fucking place would do so much fucking better if they spent less fucking time paying an army of fucking janitors to clean it and a bit more on the fucking decor. It’s a fucking literal blank canvas, you do some fucking dope ass graffiti all over it and people would come flocking here! They’d be all coming back again and a-fucking, anxious to spot any fucking details they missed or see if any new shit had been added, never fucking knowing what will slap them in the fucking face.”
Evan frowned. “I don’t think that’s the issue, Trent. And, anyway, what’s that got to do with me wrestling?”
“Every fucking thing, dude! You can’t fucking say you can’t fucking understand what I’m talking about!”
“I can, that’s pretty much the standard situation here, because you’re an idiot who rants about nonsense all the time.”
“This ain’t fucking all the time, dude, this is now! And this nonsense makes total fucking sense!”
“… That’s an oxymoron, dude.”
“You’re a fucking oxymoron. Look, fuckhead, your fucking braindead attempts at making yourself look like a serious fucker always fall flat on their face. But look at whenever the fuck you’ve won big lately, you’ve always taken the piss. You’ve gone and taken a massive fucking dump on what’s fucking expected of you and completely fucking thrown your buttmunch fucking opponents off their games. It ain’t fucking rocket science, dude. When you’re on the top of your fucking game it’s when you don’t give a shit what people think and wind them the fuck up with whatever fucking douchebaggery springs to mind. I mean, that fucking Bohn Jektor skit was hilarious and fucked Sektor right up. He had no fucking clue what you were going to do and was too fucking busy in his own head crying over your fucking true to life, picture fucking perfect impression you did of him. Fucking honestly, dude, if he was in that fucking bar with you I wouldn’t’ve been able to tell the fucking difference.”
“I gotta admit, it was a lot of fun.”
“Fuck yeah, dude, and that’s the fucking thing, ain’t it? Shit like that don’t just get in those fuckers’ heads, it gets you fucking relaxed and in the fucking zone to take advantage of it. When you’re all fucking serious you’re thinking you’re doing both but fucking failing.”
“This is an awful thing to say, I didn think I would ever let it come out of my mouth and I feel extremely dirty for it, but you’re making a lot of sense, Trent. Maybe I do need to stop trying to make people think I’m a big, serious threat to their careers and just mock them until they give me their belts to get rid of me.”
“Now you’re fucking talking. Its like I always fucking say, if you can’t fucking intimidate a wanker, then annoy the shit out of them.”
“You never say that, Trent.”
“I fucking well do.”
“All the time?”
“Some fucking times.”
“Really?”
“Okay, I’ve only ever fucking said it once.”
“Just now?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Anyway, Trent, I appreciate the advice, but how is this going to help me this week? I’ve got to take on both Mike and Dan in a tag match. They’re not self aggrandising softies like Sektor with an ego as fragile as a ten foot tall inverted pyramid of wine glasses balanced on a gym ball in a storm. Ripping the piss out of them will only piss them off.”
“You’ve got fucking Townsend in your corner, dude, leave the fucking serious shit to him. He can get in the fucking ring and look all fucking moody and glare at them ‘til they fucking shit themselves in fear or buy one of his fucking deadly curry tacos and then shit them-fucking-selves, while you fucking stand on the apron and mock the shit outta them. They’ll get fucking pissed off and attack him while you take it fucking easy and smoke a fucking joint.”
“I don’t smoke, you twat. And I’m not just going to sit back and let Rhys have all the fun. I’ve already beaten Dan once and I’ve got a score to settle with Mike after he beat me in that ladder match. It’s not often you get the opportunity to fight two of the top wrestlers in the company at the same time.”
“Didn’t you fucking beat Dan and STRONK in a fucking tag match the other fucking month? Seems to happen a lot.”
“Dude, you beat them by hitting them with my catatonic body, you absolute cock womble. This is me actually wrestling and testing myself against them again, dude. Even if I didn’t give a shit about trying to give them a good stomping, it would be so shit of me to leave Townsend hanging just so I could have a laugh at their expenses. Sure, they wouldn’t get to beat the shit out of me, but you can bloody well bet Townsend would absolutely murder me, grind my corpse up through his van’s mincer and serve me up as in a tortilla for his new special meal deal.”
“At fucking least you’ll be fucking well remembered.”
“Only for the massive hospital bills bankrupting the unfortunate chumps who ate it. Why are you poor, I thought you were rolling in cash. Oh, I ate an Evan Ward Memorial Taco and literally turned inside out through my butthole then spent the next eight months being de-inverted.”
“Thats a fucking image which won’t ever fucking leave my brain. Thank you, little shit.”
“Good. Anyway, how am I meant to take the piss out of Mike? Dude’s fucking unparodyable. A total brick wall of anti-satire. You could put him in a room with a bunch of clowns and the world’s greatest comedians and impressionists and they’d take one look at him and say, fuck it, we’re becoming ascetic monks. What can you even do with that? He literally wrote a blog from the shitter after getting food poisoning. Dude has no shame, no dignity and gives no shits apart from the ones he does on the toilet. You can’t mock a dude like that.”
“Except the fucking way you just mocked him for being fucking unmockable.”
“Well, obviously. And I mean, Dan, you can mock him all you fucking want. You know what it’s like, right?”
“Fuck yeah, he’s got a hell of a fucking short guy syndrome. Always a fucking laugh when a little dude like him tries to act like a big man.”
“Yo-what? No, dude, that’s not what I’m talking about and he is a big man, he’s huge, you’re just s freaking giant. Everyone’s little compared to you. No, I mean, you can mock so much about him ’til the cows come home and he won’t get any of it. It’ll go over the top of his head, he doesn’t have clue how much everyone thinks he’s a tosspot. He’s as oblivious to this shit as you are.”
“Fuck yeah, dude, he so fucking dumb.”
“Urgh… Anyway, dude, aren’t you finished yet?” Evan said as he stood up.
“Almost, have some fucking patience, you little shit..”
“Blergh, what’s that smell? Is that you?” Ward said, holding his nose and looking rather green as he flushed the toilet and left the stall and walked to the sinks.
“Fuck off, blame the fucking taco.” Trent flushed his toilet. “Fuck.” He flushed again. “Bollocks.” Flush flush flush. “Fuck it.” Trent left his toilet stall and joined Evan at the sinks. Evan looked over his shoulder at the open stall which Trent had just left. The toilet was more like a water feature. “Jesus fucking Christ, Trent, I can see it poking out the top.”
“Those fucking toilets are too fucking small, it ain’t my fault.” Trent protested as he washed his hands. “At least those fucking janitors will earn their fucking keep.”
“Dude, there’s earning their pay and then there’s workplace endangerment. They’ll need a bloody hazmat team to clear that up.” Evan dried his hands and left the restroom to escape the nauseating stench of excrement. Seriously, what crawled up Trent’s arse hole and died? And why did its whole extended family follow it?
Evan tried his best not to catch eyes with anyone as he left the high class, swanky restaurant they’d used the bogs in. All he could think about was that, as big a pile of shit the Final Alliance was, it had nothing on what Trent left in that toilet. Fucking hell, he felt like he needed to spend another couple of months in a coma to recover from that traumatic experience. Maybe he could get his nose on Chaos and lose his sense of smell for a bit. That’d probably do it. If he couldn’t shake the toxic gas lodged in his olfactory system he felt like the only finishing move he’d be hitting on Ryan and/or Best this week would be the Third Generation Award Winning Vomitorium. Ladies and gentlemen, remember to bring your disposable ponchos and brollies if you’re in the splash zone at ringside.