I’m walking back to the locker room in a daze. My mind is all fuddled and I can’t seem to keep my train of thought. My mind keeps going back to one thing, and one thing only.
Holy fucking shit, I actually won! I beat MJ Flair! I beat the girl who is next in line for the LSD title! I beat the 6th place finisher at WarGames… Well, that’s not much of a bragging right, I mean, if War Games was an Olympic sport she wouldn’t have even gotten a medal.
She gets the participation trophy award, like, “Congratulations, here’s your consolation prize! A quick and very painful loss to Cecilworth Farthington! Also, here’s a 25% off coupon to Ross Dress for Less!”
I’d rather get a match with Lucian and a trip to Hawaii. I mean, I should be able to beat someone who’s probably dead, yeah? Then I’d be 2-5 baby!
The fog in my mind is slowly clearing as I get closer and closer to the eGG Basket, that is our locker room. When I finally arrive I enter bedlam. Cancer, Doozer, and Zeb are there with giant bottles of champagne. As soon as I walk through the room the pops are topped and a fountain of bubbly is shooting across the room, cascading down upon me from above. They are cheering, whistling, and a hootin’ and a hollerin’. I’m sure you can pick out who’s doing what.
“I can’t believe you did it!” The Maestro says in a tone that I can’t decipher. Is he really shocked that I finally won a match? Or is he just saying that because that’s what people say when they’re at a loss for words.
“I knew you had it in ya, Bobbo.” Doozer congratulates with a gruff voice, as he steps up and claps me on the back, harder than was necessary. “I only wish you had done a little more damage on the girl.”
“Bobbaaay!” Zeb hollers out with a big smile on his face. “You don’ set the mood, now’s my turn to brang the Bandits their second W of the ebenin’!”
I smile at my friends, still not quite able to believe it. I walked into that match thinking I’d be 0-6 (or 0-11 if you count exhibitions). At no time did I actually think I’d beat someone of MJ’s caliber. The added weight has once again cost me. My equilibrium was off, my cardio was shot, and I was seconds away from shitting my tights (again), from the sheer pressure that I keep putting myself under.
“Hey guys, I think I’m gonna go run across the hall right quick.” I say, walking towards the door once more as I feel the rumbles in my belly.
“Splittin’ a log ‘er two?” Zeb asks with a chuckle.
“Hey, why don’t you take ole CBD with ya,” The King of COOL offers, pointing at Cardboard Dan propped in the corner, with his head scotch taped to his neck, slightly askew. It looks like an inquisitive dog who tilts his head in disbelief. “He’s been cooped up in here too long, I think he’d like to stretch his legs a bit.”
I shrug my shoulders, I don’t mind spending a little time with Dan Jr. I certainly like him more than Dan Sr. that’s for sure. Dan Sr. scares the shit outta me! So there I go, heading out the door, with Cardboard Dan tucked under my arm, a smile on my face, that feeling of everything finally being right in the world for ole Bobby Dean . As I enter the hallway and start towards the men’s room I begin to whistle a cheery little tune.
Day after Refueled XXXI
IHOP – the Greatest Place on Earth (for fat people who like shitty food)
“Where is he?” the voice of an impatient Doozer asks the table of four.
“I’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Cancer answers as he looks down at the menu, without his trademark mirror shades adorning his face, as he wonders what he’d like to shit out later. “Plus it gives us a chance to talk about what happened last night.”
“You mean, with the Bruvs stealing CBD?” Doozer asks, as his fists clench and his knuckles go white from the strain.
“No,” the Maestro begins, “But we will talk about that today. We need to figure out how to get those bastards back. No one steals our boy, not without recompense. I’m more talking about Bobby getting a World title shot against Mike Best! What in the actual fuck! Why would Lee do that Bobby? Especially after the last time those two squared off. Bobby was in a fucking coma for a month! Is Lee trying to get Bobby killed?”
“What was it with the whole Bobby Best thing anyway?” Doozer asks, completely oblivious to the major concern Cancer has over Bobby’s livelihood. “Have you ever heard him call himself Bobby Best before?”
“Ain’t never met Bob’s deddy. Mebbe Lee’s dun him?” Zeb asks innocently.
“Hmm,” Doozer and Cancer are deep in thought, while Rick sits there swiveling his head around, following whoever is talking. It’s like a tennis match, his head going back and forth. But then, suddenly he begins to grin. And then his grin goes into a full blown shit eating smile.
“EGGS!!!” he bellows out in greeting, as Beautiful Bobby Dean finally appears.
And what an entrance he makes!
Bobby Dean is decked out in the most absurd tuxedo known to man. Every piece of the ensemble is sky blue. From the wing tipped shoes, to the pants, up to the button down shirt, to the long twin tailed jacket, to the handkerchief sticking out of the front jacket pocket, to the cummerbund, to the suspenders, and finally down to the over sized bow-tie.
He looks ridiculous, but he’s got the biggest smile on his disheveled face the others have ever seen. It’s contagious, because soon the four at the table are all grinning like idiots. I’m sure, some of them were grinning at how silly Bobby looked, but the point was they were all on the same page, smiling like idiots.
Bobby plops down in the corner wrap around booth, causing Rick to scootch over to give the large man a little extra space. Bobby elbows his new friend in the ribs with a grin on his face.
“Where ya been Bobbo?” Cancer asks, looking at some familiar looking shades. “And where did ya get those COOL shades?”
The culprit looks a little embarrassed as he removes said shades and puts them on the table in front of the rightful owner, who immediately snatches them up and puts them where they belong. Bobby chuckles and shrugs his shoulders innocently. “Sorry Cancer, I didn’t mean to take them, I just wanted to feel COOL for the night.”
“No worries buddy,” Cancer defers, waving it off like it was nothing, even though on the inside he was reminding himself to never let his shades out of his sight in the future. “So, tell us, where ya been bud?”
“Well, after winning last night, then finding out I was going to face Mike next week,” he begins to explain, with something the others haven’t heard in quite a while, confidence. Pure, unadulterated confidence. “I just couldn’t sit still. I had all this adrenaline, I just had to get out, spend the night out on the town. I went to NoMI first…”
He’s suddenly cut off by the shocked intake of breath by Cancer, as everyone turns their attention to him. “Did they kick you out?”
“No?” Bobby asks, more than tells, as he is confused as to why they would want to kick him out in the first place.
“You ate there!?” the disbelief is very evident in his voice this time as Bobby simply smiles and nods in return. “How? How did you manage to get a table in the most exclusive restaurant in town?”
“I told them my name, and suddenly they had an opening.” Bobby explains as if he were simply answering what 2+2 is.
“Oh man…” Cancer answers completely stunned and at a loss for words.
“The food there was amazing! And you know me, I know food! Then after that, I left NoMI and went over to the Gold Room…” this time he’s cut off by another shocked gasp, but this time it’s come from Doozer, causing them all to look at him.
“Don’t tell me they let you in!” Doozer demands, almost angrily. To which Bobby once again smiles and nods, like the cat who mischievously ate the canary. “How!? How did you get into the most exclusive strip club in Chicago?”
“It’s like I told you,” Bobby answers as if it were obvious, “I told them my name and they parted the red sea. And by red sea I mean vagina.”
Ugh, groans are heard all around the table.
“I can’t believe the name Bobby Dean could mean so much in this town…” Doozer laments, causing the others to nod in agreement. Bobby meanwhile scoffs and pulls his hand to his mouth as if he has been insulted to the utmost.
“How dare you!” Bobby challenges. “Why, the name Bobby Best means quite a lot to the fine people in Chicago!
“Wait, what?” Cancer stops, waving his hand in a stopping motion. “Slow down, Bobby Best?”
Bobby suddenly looks abashed, his face grows red, and he begins to look around sheepishly. He lowers his voice and explains, “Listen, I’ve got a little confession to make. I’ve been telling folks for years that I’m the adopted son of Lee Best. First people thought I might be Mike, but I quickly explained how Mike wasn’t a son, he was just telling people he was for the clout that the Best name gave him.”
Zeb looks confused and can’t help but ask, “So like you?”
“Wait, how does that even work?” Doozer asks on top of Zeb.
“Well, Lee does a lot for the city.” Bobby goes on to further explain the intricacies of his lie. “I mean, he holds Refueled each week in the Allstate Arena, which brings a lot of money to the city. I’ve seen the numbers, he’s made like 8.5 MILLIONS dollars here in Chicago on ticket sales alone! Trust me, the Best name opens a lot of doors! I’ve got a standing credit line over at the Horseshoe Hammond. I can get into NoMI’s anytime I want, as well as Arun’s, and the Signature Room too.”
“Yeah, but what if Lee finds out?” Cancer asks as the sheer audacity of the con begins to boggle his mind. “He’ll string you up by your nuts and filet the skin off you!”
“Maybe,” Bobby offers with a simple shrug. “But, according to the fine people of Chicago, I’ll still be known as his adopted son. Trust me, I’ve been doing this for a long time now. I figure it’s worked for Mike all these years, why can’t it work for someone else who has the balls to try? And as you guys know, I’ve definitely got balls.”
“Uhm…” three people at the table are at a loss for words. I’d say four, but Rick’s vocabulary is pretty limited, I’m not sure if Uhm is in there.
“That must be it!” Cancer exclaims as he sits back heavily in the booth. He looks at his questioning table mates as if the answer is obvious. “Lee is feeding Bobby to Mike as punishment for using his name. What better way than to feed his ‘son’ to his actual son?”
“NO!” Bobby shouts, stamping his foot, which is actually a quite useless gesture considering no one can see it, and he’s seated… “I’ve earned this shot! I’m the most deserving person at this table for a shot at the World Title! Have any of you ever beaten MJ Flair?”
Crickets. Cancer and Zeb both slowly raise their hands, but Bobby seems to not see them as he looks anywhere but at Cancer and Zeb.
“I didn’t think so.” Bobby once again stamps his foot like a petulant child. “Lee isn’t punishing me. And Mike isn’t going to kill me. In fact I’m going to mop the floor with that guy! I’m going to walk out of Refueled with a new belt! Sure it can’t hold up my pants, and sure it’s heavy as shit, and sure it’s not a belt we can share amongst the five of us like we could the other belts. But I’m going to win! Dammit!”
Doozer smiles, nodding his head as if he’s finally been let in on a secret that no one knows. “I believe in you buddy.”
Cancer, looking at Doozer as if he’s lost his mind, turns back to Bobby. The scowl that was forming on his face slowly dissipates. He begins to nod as well. “I, too, believe in you Bobby.”
Zeb, like the others, ends up nodding his head along with the rest. “I dun always believed in ya!”
Rick, well, Rick doesn’t nod his head. He doesn’t say a word. He simply stares at Bobby, concern in his eyes. When the whole table turn their attention to the giant of a man, Rick simply smiles and… “RIIIIIIICCCCKKKKK!”
“Yeah, well,” Bobby is flustered. He’d worked himself up in a fit, and now the overwhelming support being shown has caused him to deflate. Perhaps the lack of sleep for the past 24 hours is catching up to him. Or perhaps he needs a little time to recompose himself. Whatever the reason, he begins to shuffle his way out of the booth causing the other four to stare.
They watch him walk across the room to the gentleman’s washroom. Well, we’re in an IHOP, I don’t think gentleman’s washroom is what they call it. I believe they refer to it as the shitter. Or, as Dean refers to it, ‘my home away from home.’
As Bobby disappears behind the door, the other four turn their attention back to the table in front of them. Silence ensues.
Doozer is the first to break the silence, “I don’t know if I like overconfident Bobby.”
Cancer and Zeb nod their heads.
Doozer continues, “Why can’t we find a happy medium? A little depressed Bobby mixed with a little confident Bobby, mixed with a little horny Bobby? He’s always got to be one of the other. Never a mixture of the three.”
“Reckon I’d have Depressed Bobby or Overconfident Bobby if I were choosin’,” Zeb says, shuddering at some memory. “Know I ain’t as veteran as him in the love-makin’ department, but him humpin’ my leg ain’t addin’ much in the way of valuable romantic ‘speriences.”
Cancer, oddly quiet, begins to scootch out of the booth as well. Once free, the King of COOL follows the footsteps of his long time friend and makes his way to the shitter. Once the door opens up he hears “SchnnnniiiiiffffffffttttttthmmmmmmmffffFFFFUCK” before he sees Bobby standing at the sick, white powder covering his nose, as a zip lock baggie full of white powder sits in the sink bowl itself.
“Bobby!?” Cancer asks in shock. “What in the world?”
“It’s not what it looks like!” Bobby answers lamely, trying to push the ends of the baggie together to close it. But, as we all know, zip locks are fickle things and Bobby in his hurry is unable to seal the damned thing shut in time, as Cancer storms over.
Snatching the bag out of Bobby’s hand, Cancer reaches a finger into the bag and dabs the end of his digit in the powder. Raising his finger to his mouth he tastes the end of his finger. His eyes grow wide behind his shades. His eyebrows are almost to his hairline.
“Confectioners sugar?” Cancer asks, unable to believe his taste buds. “You’re snorting confectioners sugar?”
“What!? Bobby asks, in indignation. “If it’s good enough for Mike, then it’s good enough for me, right!?”
Cancer can only shake his head in response. At a complete loss.
The last time I squared up against you, Mike, I talked about the countless times we’ve danced this dance. I talked about how the only times I managed to beat you were when you were on your period. Well Mike, my friend, I’ve got this nifty little app on my phone that helps keep track of the monthlies, and according to this, you’ll be heavy into your menses on July 9th! Perhaps it’s the advantage I need? And trust me, I’ll be looking to capitalize on any advantage I can, as long as it means I’m beating Mike Best in the end.
I still can’t get used to that. Why, you may ask? Because you’ll always be Mike P****y to me. No matter how much time has passed. No matter who you surround yourself with next. No matter if you’re the 9Time, 10Time, 50Time champ. In the end, you’ll always be that cunt punting DREAMer, that Vendetta mask wearing KFlaw wannabe turd, running roughshod over everyone weaker than you, while surrounding yourself with the few people that could threaten your reign of supremacy.
I can’t sugar coat things here, P****y. Nor do I think you’d want me to. In fact I think you’ve been pushing me my entire career to finally reach this point. That point where I’ve finally stopped fearing you. Because you can’t respect a man who fears you.
For years I’ve thought of you as a friend. But I’ve realized, you probably don’t even know who I am. Line me up with Teddy Palmer, or Hughie Freeman, and you probably couldn’t tell us apart. If we’re not in the eMpire, or the Group of Death, do you even care?
A lot of people are intimidated by you. They see your name on the call sheet and they shit themselves. I’m not gonna lie, in the past, I’ve had to change my underroos a time or two because of you. But, here? Today? As Kendrix would say, Nah Bruv. I’m not afraid of you any more.
That’s hard to believe, I know, but it’s been a long time coming, that’s for sure! You see, I’ve heard your insults. I’ve taken your elbows. I’ve been your lapdog. I’ve been your yes man. I was your Cecilworth Farthington before there was a Cecilworth Farthington. I was laid up in a hospital bed, shit I was in a coma for a month because of you.
What more could you possibly do to me that you haven’t done already?
Come Refueled, you better be ready to cross that final line. Mike, you’re going to have to kill me, because, Mother Fucker, that’s the only way you’re gonna walk out of the Allstate Arena with that title still strapped around your waist.
Everyone knows I have a fear of the Gold. Well, I guess the proper way to say that is, everyone knows I *had* a fear of the gold. Maybe this victory over MJ Flair is exactly what I needed, because I woke up this morning feeling like a brand new man. Or maybe it’s the nose candy?
I know you’ve got Eric Dane chomping at your heels, and we all know he’s probably a bigger threat to that title of yours than I ever will be. But, I’m 1-5 baby! I’ve finally broken my slump. I’ve finally managed to turn this ship around. My bow is pointing to open waters and the only thing standing in my way from smooth sailing in the choppy waters of HOW is the Island of P****y!
Maybe it’s time for me to be a little less Bobby and a little more P****y?
As you know…