Moist Tongues Gyrate

Moist Tongues Gyrate

Posted on March 19, 2024 at 5:08 pm by Evan Ward

Evan strained as he lifted the metal be, his elbow bending, straining his muscles as he sweated profusely. Down it went and back up again. This rigorous training he was putting himself through was all to be in top shape, peak performance for March To Glory. After failing to make it through to the LBI finals he had a grudge to pick against all the assholes who stopped him achieving that goal. Sadly none of those twats were in his match at March To Glory so he had to settle for facing a disfigured bugger, a total noob, the worst World Champion the federation had seen and a joke of an LSD champion… Then alongside Scott Stevens he would also be facing Drew Mitchell, Hugo Scorpio and our glorious general manager, Jace Parker Davidson. It wasn’t what he wanted, but to call it a consolation prize would be doing the match a disservice. Despite falling at the last hurdle this was the pay off for all Evan’s hard work and he would be damned if he let the opportunity go to waste.

Every curl of his biceps, lifting the weight up and then back down, every grunt of effort as he felt the heat burn through his muscles, would be worth it when he entered that ring in Madison Square Gardens and set himself on the path towards, eventually, becoming the greatest LSD Champion in history. It would take so much work and effort, Jace had raised the bar so high few wrestlers could ever hope to leap over it but Evan was determined he could be the one to surpass the greatest and become the World’s Strongest.

So he trained. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Alternating one arm then the other, keeping the burn going as the aromatic stench of training permeated his clothing, his very being. Anyone within a hundred yards could give one sniff and know exactly what he had been up to. His face was bright red with the effort, sweat pouring like a waterfall, but he wasn’t going to give up.

The door swung open behind him but Evan paid it no mind as Trent stomped in.

“What the fuck’re you doing?” Trent demanded as he glared at his business partner.

“Training!” Ward grunted back as he lifted again. “Gotta be ready! Can’t give up now!”

“You’re gonna fucking give your fucking self a fucking injury if you keep that shit up! You need to take some fucking breaks, dude!” Trent took the ladles off Ward and sniffed the curry in them but recoiled at the smell. “Fuck, man, this shit’s fucking leathal. No wonder you look like you’ve been fucking boiled like a bloody lobster. Guzzling this shit over and fucking over. Do you even have any fucking taste buds left? Fuck. Look, fucking try this.” Trent lifted up his eyepatch and pulled a small pouch out of his socket, opened it up and sprinkled a few pinches of the herbs and spices from inside over the cooking pot, mixed it in and passed one of the ladles back to Ward.

Ward did another few reps. Down into the pot. Up to his mouth. A grunt as he swallowed the noxiously strong curry. Down. Up. Grunt. Down. Up. Ward licked his lips. “Damn, that’s good. Real good. The fuck is in that?”

“Eh, it’s just my fucking super secret spice mix.” Trent said as he casually tucked the pouch back into his empty eye socket. “I mean, it’s nothing fucking out of the ordinary, you just got to fucking get the right balance and shit. The fucking trick is to make sure you put enough fucking Purple Haze in there, but don’t go fucking overboard with the fucking psilocybin, you know?”

“Fucking brilliant, this is why I pay your wages, this absolute culinary genius.” Ward nodded as he had one final mouthful of the sludge and collapsed onto the bench. Trent threw a towel over Ward’s shoulders and started giving him a massage to loosen his muscles after such an intense training session. It might have been the curry, but Ward felt on fire, like he could take the world on… though it might need to wait until after he destroyed a toilet bowl. He felt fine for the moment, but there was an audible gurgling from his guts which could end up being a concern later on.

“Dude, fucking seriously, don’t push yourself too fucking hard.” Trent again showed concern. “You don’t want to fucking burn out before the match even fucking starts. I fucking get it, you’re pissed the fuck off that Witness beat you, it sucks to fucking lose, especially to a cunt like that.”

Ward turned to look over his shoulder and shoot lasers from his eyes which melted Trent’s face. Okay, that second bit didn’t happen, but it would have it Ward had laser eyes.

“Witness didn’t fucking beat me!” Ward growled through gritted teeth. “He didn’t win. I lost on a technicality! He never set me on fire, he didn’t even dodge out of the way of the best knee in the whole company, he just fainted! He passed out from me beating far too much shit out of him. He didn’t have any more shit to give. You check his toilet after the match? Not a single shit was dropped in there because I beat them all out of him. If Lee and his Alliance cunts hadn’t rigged the flames to jet at that precise moment I would’ve been in that final!”

“Dude, lay of the fucking copium.” Trent slapped him on the back. “You fucking lost, stop being a pissy little bitch and fucking deal with it. That fucking LSD match ain’t anything to be fuck sniffed at, is it?”

“Fuck you.” Ward angrily grabbed the towel and mopped the sweat from his face. “But you’re right, this match is going to be awesome. It isn’t the story I wanted to tell, you know? I was so hyped to have gone from planting my flag in the main event of March To Glory last year, when I shocked the world with a knee to Connor Fuse’s face to ending the main event of March To Glory by doing the same to Mike Best to take the World Championship. Book-ending my comeback year with two history making, Award Winning Knees. That would have been perfect… but life isn’t perfect is it? This… This is still good. Any championship in HOW is a tier above a World Championship anywhere else. It’s the way things have always been.”

“Ain’t your boss gonna be fucking pissed at you if you steal his fucking belt?” Trent asked as he served up a giant bowl of the inedible curry of doom. “Ain’t fucking like you two haven’t had a fucking history, is it?”

“Dude, we’re professionals.” Ward replied. “Sure, we’ve had disagreements in past runs, fought tooth and nail against each other from opposing angles, but that’s all in the past. Right now our motives are aligned, allies working together to take control of the federation and raise it from the ground up to the position of supremacy it deserves in this industry. We have a mutual respect for each other. The three other plonkers in this match basically have to take on two of the craziest motherfuckers in the business in a handicap match.”

“Three on two? That’s tough odds, you gonna be fucking okay taking that on?” Trent said before slurping down the curry straight from the bowl.

“No, no, dude, I mean it’s a handicap in our favour. I mean, look at it, you’ve got the world’s greatest LSD Champion and the world’s most dangerous chef on one side, but on the other you’ve got a rookie who can’t wipe his one ass without instructions from that MVW bitch and a feeder fed flop with delusions of grandeur being held back by Scott Stevens. They’ve got a real uphill battle, dude.”

Trent glugged a bottle of vodka to wash down the curry he had scoffed. Who knows where he produced that from.

“Dude, Scorpio ain’t a fucking slouch.” Trent dropped the vodka bottle in the bin. “He was on a fucking roll in XPro. I ain’t at fucking all surprised he’s kicking up a storm here in the big leagues, especially not with that cunt Jatt in his corner. If I were you I’d fucking take him seriously.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t ever write him off. A fellow victim of horrific disfiguration, majorly scarred just like me, totally deserves my respect.” Ward replied. “He might have lived with it longer than me but I know what it’s like to be judged and ostracised for our disabilities. I get it, we’re the same, we’re both trying to break out from the misconception that we are our scars, we’re trying to reclaim our identities! So many people are repulsed by our deformities, it’s sickening how sickening they act when they look at our horrific bodies. He’s like a kindred spirit, us gruesomely disfigured individuals gotta stick together, we shouldn’t be fighting and putting each other down…” Ward pauses and shrugs. “At least if we weren’t in a match where we’ve got to pretty much kill each other to win a championship, which we are, so you know, I’m going to make that cunt a dead man and all.”

“The fuck are you talking about, dude?” Trent frowned as he looked at Ward’s almost immaculate being. For all he had been through in his career, despite turning into one of the most vile, hateful individuals in the company, he still looked as babyfaced as he did a decade ago. “You’re not fucking disfigured. That dude’s got half his fucking face burnt off, you don’t have a single fucking scar on your body!”

Ward’s mouth dropped, looking shocked and insulted to his very core. “How dare you! I thought you of all people would sympathise with a mutilated bastard like me! I would never have taken you for an ablest bigot!” Ward lifted his leg onto the bench and rolled up his sweatpants to show his fairly normal looking shin. “Look! I’m hideous! That massive scar is disgusting!”

“There’s no fucking scar there!” Trent scoffed.

“Look! Right here!” Ward pointed just below his knee. Trent leaned in close, scrutinising the leg, trying to find what the little cannibal was talking about. “There! There!”

But Trent still couldn’t see it. He pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight, waving it over the leg in the hope it would highlight the deformity. “Aha! That fucker?” Trent said, pointing to a tiny blemish where the leg had been set on fire on Chaos.

“That’s it!” Ward exclaimed. “See? Such a horrific scar, that inferno match has left a permanent mark on my body. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to score chicks when you’re walking around with such a hideous scar on your body. They take one look at it and they fuck off without so much as a blowy!”

“Dude, it ain’t the fucking scar they’re repulsed by.” Trent stood up straight, his knees and back audibly creaking as he did. “And don’t you fucking have a wife and kids? The fuck are you doing chasing birds? You used to cry about them all the fucking time last year, now you don’t even fucking mention them.”

“Could say the same to you.” Ward shrugged. “At least my family thinks I’m dead, what’s your excuse for fucking off for years?”

“Fuck. Touche.” Trent conceded the point. “Hang on, you’re a fucking global wrestling fucking superstar. You’re all fucking over TV. There’s no fucking way they think you’re dead!”

“Tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh.” Ward shook his head and waved a finger. “Don’t you go opening up that plot hole, we’ll get dragged down into dealing with family nonsense and I can’t be fucked with that. They think I’m dead. That’s my head-canon and that’s the end of it. Case closed.”

“Dude, this is fucking real life. There’s reality and there’s fucking delusion and what you’re bloody talking about is fucking delusion.” Trent snapped. “This ain’t a fucking movie or some shit, you ain’t the fucking centre of the universe. Just because you don’t see shit happening, just because you don’t give a shit about anyone else’s fucking life, doesn’t fucking mean it don’t fucking happen, mate.” The big man towered over his colleague and jabbed a finger at Ward’s chest.

Ward shoved the finger away and stood up. “Look, I know you’re drunk and tripping off the curry, so I won’t take that personally, but fuck you and your pound-shop psychiatry act. I honestly couldn’t care less if you think I’m no more fucking important than anyone else, because I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am. I’d go as far as to say I’m the most important motherfucker alive today. Without me, HOW would be a boring-ass hug-fest between the Final Alliance wankers while Connor Fuse would still be happily pretending to be a gamer. Legends like Jatt Starr and Rhys Townsend would still have an aura of grandness about them instead of being tired old men who can’t compete. Without me, pal, HOW wouldn’t be the Chaos driven machine it is today. It’d be boring. Predictable.”

He strode angrily across the gym-slash-curry kitchen, making a very determined beeline for a very specific spot on the floor, though nothing was there. Bit of a strange thing to do, but he felt it made for a dramatic moment, a pause in his monologue to give the audience a moment to recover before the ensuing onslaught, though he only had one one person’s attention so the effect was a bit diminished. He pivoted on his heel to face Trent as he continued.

“A year ago I set the butterfly effect in motion to change the very landscape of the federation. I threw everyone’s plans into the tumble-drier and set it on ultra-spin and now look at the insanity happening around us. I did this, Trent. Follow the threads through all the shows, all the PPVs since March To Glory closed its curtains last year and you’ll find me, the gremlin orchestrating the distraction and destruction of every goal everyone in HOW had. Who made the Final Alliance implode from the most deadly force in HOW history to being forgotten they’re even a thing? Me. Who lit a fire under Sektor’s ass so big that he decided to actually win matches and never feel the embarrassment of losing his belt again? Me. Who ultimately bares the responsibility for ending the careers and-slash-or lives of a sad cowboy, a gaming poser, two tag team champions, a taco magnate and a mass of muscles on legs? Me, me, me, me, me!” Ward bangs his chest with each point.

So, Trent, as you can see, I most definitely am the centre of the universe.” Ward strode back to the bench and picked up the towel to mop his brow again and heaved a sigh of relief. “Phew. That was a tough workout.”

Trent was silent, utterly perplexed and confused about the tirade he had just been a victim of. “What the fuck was that?!”

“Mental gymnastics, obviously.” Ward rolled his eyes. Trent was such an idiot. “Gotta keep my brain as limber and agile as my body. Can’t just do physical gymnastics training without the mental gymnastics to balance it out.”

Ward whistled nonchalantly and turned off the cooker, taking the pots and cutlery over to the sink and began washing. Trent, meanwhile, was utterly speechless, his face contorted trying to make heads or tails of what parts of Ward’s rant was what he believed and what was just utter nonsense. He decided to stop thinking about when he felt smoke coming out his ears, though that might have been the curry.

A knock came from the door, catching both lunatics by surprise. Ward shot Trent a look, nodding his head towards the door.

“Fuck off, answer it yourself, twat.” Trent told him.

Ward let out a frustrated sigh and stomped over to the door to open it. “What the fuck do you want?”

The man at the door held up a badge. “Evan Ward? We’re with the FDA and-”

Evan slams the door. “Fuck. Trent, we’ve got a to-be-continued situation here.”

“The fuck is a to-be-continued situation?” Trent was fed up with being confused this evening.

“You know, it’s when that whole-”

To be continued…