One is Enough and even that’s too much

One is Enough and even that’s too much

Posted on September 29, 2023 at 11:11 pm by Jatt Starr

It was right there.  How could he resist?  To be fair, it was her own fault for leaving it on the table where he could get it.  While Natalie was in the powder room snorting cocaine.  That’s what happens in the powder room, right?  It would not surprise the Thane of Starrkarth if she was doing lines in the bathroom of Nadine’s by Niagara, after all she married Jatt Starr while completely wasted during a gal-pal divorce party in Las Vegas.  She clearly is a bit unhinged.  Who orders Cabernet Sauvignon with Mahi Mahi?  


The Hero of Jattlanta looks over his shoulder and around the restaurant to ensure there are no looky-loos gawking at a celebrity of Jatt Starr’s status and wondering what he ordered.  The coast was clear and he stealthily swiped his wife’s mobile phone.   He typed in her password and the phone illuminated.  He accessed her text messages.   The last message was from Russell, her ex-husband, requesting a rendezvous for the Toronto Maple Leafs Opening Night.  A text from her good friend Emmanuelle talking about some “zaddy” they met in a bar recently.  Then he saw it.  A text from Natalie to Conor Fuse.  “Good luck sweetie Hope u win this weekend”.


Does she not realize that her son is taking on the Sovereign of Starrgentina this weekend?  


The King of Jatten Island felt the betrayal like a dagger to his gut.  He stared at the message for a moment, his face morphing from shock to disgust to anger.  He could not prevent his left eye from twitching.  He could feel the urge to throw the phone against the wall and kick their waiter, “CHARLIE”S”, maybe shove that open bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon up his stuck up ass.   And how insensitive it was for her to order a bottle of wine in front of him.  He is an alcoholic, dammit.   


Jatt Starr turns off the phone and puts it back on the table in front of her seat.  He places his elbows on the table in a clear violation of dinner etiquette and places head in his hands.  Multiple thoughts swirl through his mind but there is one clear thought.   Natalie will never ever choose him over Conor and since he won the HOW World Championship, she’s been a mother proud of her little boy’s accomplishments and the not the filthy, dirty sex kitten she had been over the past couple of months.


Why the hell did he have to win the HOW World Championship?   


Fucking STRONK.   More like stronk


Yeah, he is no longer worth punctuation.


It is not even like Conor is deserving of this praise.  There was not one text back from Conor on that phone.  The Marquis of MadagaStarr knows all too well how Conor’s ghosting of his mother has affected her.  Before the championship, he could tell Natalie was disappointed that Conor’s texts to her were rare and superficial.  He offered to talk to the young rapscallion about his lack of maternal communication but she relented and made him vow not to bring it up to him.   But now?  “Look at how amazing Conor is!  A champion! Can you believe it?”


If it wasn’t for the Jatti Master, Conor would still be downing Hawaiian Punch and Cool Ranch Doritos in his mother’s basement lamenting to the Game Boy on how his wrestling career is in shambles and he should just stick with playing Super Mario Brothers on the Nintendo.


The HOW Classic rises from his seat, adjusts his tie, straightens his suit jacket, and proceeds to exit the restaurant.  It is an emotional decision, a decision he has to live with.  He is very aware that she will be upset and he will need to hear about it.  That is future Jatt Starr’s problem.   


As he passes by the youthful, bubbly host with a voice squeakier than a Muppet with a Helium addiction, is he really going to punish his wife because her son is a success?


The answer:  Yes.  Yes he is.


Conor Fuse is a fraud.  This “harder” Conor Fuse is just an act.   Conor is still the goofy, juice box slurping, Cheeto popping, video game nerd he always was.   You can cover a marshmallow in chocolate and call it a Mallomar but it is still a fucking marshmallow.     


Clearly he had been mistaken.  It was not just a lack of a strong, accomplished, ridiculously handsome father figure with awesome hair, there was also the element of his mother coddling him.  He was probably breast fed until he was five years old.  He was probably making “boom-booms” in his diaper until he was in the second grade.  This new “edgier” Conor Fuse was a front to mask his insecurities and the Mayor of ManJattan knew it.  And the Vintage’s own mother was enabling this behavior.


And if there is one thing he has learned during recovery, enablers are the worst.  


Jatt Starr still loved Natalie.  She had the potential to be everything he could ever want.  The problem was, as long as Conor Fuse was acting like his shit smelled like roses and rainbows, flaunting the HOW World Championship from arena to arena, her focus would not be where it should be:  On the Rembrandt of Wrestling.


Standing outside the restaurant, the Grand Overlord of Jatturn was conflicted.  Should he just go back home (although lately, he had been feeling like it was less “their” home and more “her” home) or  should he take the next available flight to Chicago.   Ezster and Bela had room for him.  He was funding a three bedroom apartment.  Ezster had been opening up to him, not verbally but emotionally.  She actually hugged him last week.  She looked at him with genuine care and adoration.


Of course, it was not lost on the Earl of GlouStarr that it could all just be an act.  She could just be a gold digging trollop using him for his money and celebrity to live a comfortable life.  Well, at least more comfortable than whatever dingy, underdeveloped village she had been taken from.


As the traffic passed, he looked down at the sidewalk.   He loved his wife.  He was growing to despise his champion stepson.   


He could look for guidance from Lee Best, but his response would something in way of “Fucking pussy.  Get the sand out of your vagina, grow some balls, drink some fucking whiskey, and tell that bitch to suck your dick and then dump her old ass as you explode into her mouth.”


Vulgarity aside, Natalie has the ass of a fit thirty year old.   And that advice is peak toxic masculinity, something Jatt likes to avoid.  Plus, the insensitive jerk would demand he drink alcohol.   Not the best example of a role model.


He could call on his fellow PWA Co-World Champion, Dan Ryan.   He would probably say to Jatt, “I don’t care.  Do what you want.  I am emotionally stunted and refuse to have any meaningful friendship out of these sweet PWA CO-WORLD CHAMPIONSHIPS!!!”


Maybe not exactly like that, but that is what he would mean.


Steve Solex?  Or Eric Cartman?  Bazooka Joe?  Or whatever his other personality is called?   He would not even entertain Jatt Starr’s request for advice.  If anything, he might recommend that Jatt Starr channel his inner Ike Turner and slap her around as a message to Conor Fuse.   


Jatt is not going to do that.  It is not 2005-2006.


What about Sektor?  Screw Sektor and his perpetual midlife crisis.  There was no way in hell he was going to say two words to that selfish scumbag.


The Sultan of SeaJattle looked back at the large wooden door to the French-Italian fusion restaurant.  He started to feel the guilt begin to stir within his stomach (or maybe it was an ulcer).  She could be back at the table right now, probably upset that he went to the bathroom and left her phone on the table for anyone to take not knowing he would be hightailing out of there.  How long would she wait before realizing what he had done?   Ten minutes?  Twenty?  Thirty?


Who cares?  She’s Canadian.  She will apologize whether she is in the wrong or not.


The Ruler of Jattlantis turns around and walks away from the restaurant hoping to flag down a taxi.


Are taxis even still a thing?



Spawn of Kostoff.  Sorry, the Starrabian Knight did not bother to learn your name.   Honestly, you look like the result of a Kostoff, Barbi, and Clay Byrd threesome.   You are one inbred looking dunderhead.  

By the way, how is dear old dad?  Dead yet?

No, of course not.  Kostoff, like the cockroach he is, never dies.  He’s been resurrected more times than the “Halloween” franchise.  

Your dad and I go way, way back.  To the days of the legendary war between the Legion of Darkness and the Best Alliance.  Overkill, gone.  “Demonic” Michael Hunter, who? Darkwing, my bitch, forgive the salty language.  And Kostoff, an obsolete loser.   

Don’t get me wrong, Pampers….your father was a monster.  A bonafide monster.  He was what nightmares were made from.  He was Grendel.  He was Dracula.  He was Godzilla.  

Did you ever see “Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan”?  No, probably not.  Well, on Ceti Alpha V, there are these indigenous creatures, like a cross between an insect and a slug.  It enters through your ear canal and attaches itself to the brain.  That’s what your father is to me.  A Ceti Eel.  There are some nights, not often, where I dream of him performing acts of violence only Max Kael would love.  Except, these aren’t dreams.  They are memories.  He did not give a rat’s rectum about wins and losses, he only cared about destroying Lee Best and anyone aligned with him.  I don’t mind saying, Lee screwed up angering your father.  Lee’s got the scars to prove it.  I suspect that Lee can’t even fall asleep because his Boogeyman, Kostoff, is going to get him the second he closes his eyes.  I suspect that Lee does not sleep.  I suspect he passes out.  He drinks himself stupid until…BAM!  Dreamland.

Kostoff was a man to be feared.     

You, Son of Kostoff?

You are a platypus dropping.

In fact, much like a platypus, you defy existence.  You are an abomination of science.  I am shocked your parents did not sell you to a research lab when you were but a fetus.

What am I saying?

That would have been the smart thing to do.  And we both know as terrifying and imposing as Kostoff could be, brains was never his strong suit.  In fact, rumor has it, his Kryptonite was the New York Times Crossword.

All kidding aside, though, Kostoff the Inferior, you do not belong in the HOW.

Go do something more in line with your skillset. 

Become a male prostitute.  You can make your own hours.  And hey, maybe you’ll get people to do what you do best: Go fuck yourself.  

Sorry about the language, I am going through some stuff so it kind of sneaks out.  

But you know what?  An American Gigolo you are not.  Definite a Gigo-No.    

Maybe instead, you should be pumping gas in the dingiest gas station off the New Jersey Turnpike.  That’s honest work!

No!  Wait!

You should be cleaning the semen, shit, piss, vomit, and blood in the filthiest, most diseased infested crackhouse in all of Detroit.

What am I saying?  Even that’s too good for the likes of you.

No, you belong in PRIME.

And after “Chaos”, maybe, just maybe, after Dan Ryan, Solex, and YOUR Wrestler of the Month, the Rembrandt of Wrestling get through destroying you and Conor Fuse and that other guy you are teaming with, you know he’s less talented than Zion but more talented than you, Aromatica Xardinecrotch, something….forget it….

At “Chaos” in front of my people in the sold out Insurance Company Arena in JATTLANTA, Lindseeeeeeeeeee Troy will take pity on you and give you a job..  I hear they have an opening or two.