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Gather round crotch noobs, I want to ask you something serious.
You ever met some queef greased bitchprick who has the uncanny fucking ability to make mere moments of conversation seem like they’ve lasted a goddamn lifetime? This was like that. THEY were like that.
“That’s not a thing.” He says, for what must be the twentieth time in either the last three minutes or thirty years. Eye-dee-kay dude, it’s either one or the other. I can’t tell anymore.
“Yes it is! There’s a name for it.” She counters, crossing her arms over her chest like a petulant child which is fitting considering she pretty much is a petulant child. “It’s called Frisbeetarianism.”
“Not. A. Thing.” As if the tone in which he says the words will deter her at all. Poor dumb bastard.
“Wait, what’s Frisbeetarianism?” The gargantuan Ken Doll to my right interjects as his eyes ping pong ball back and forth between the two of them which is surprisingly easy for his eyes to do considering the lack of any discernible brain that might trip up the moist little ocular meatballs.
She makes an exasperated sound as if she is not the problem in this situation. Spoiler, she is the problem in any situation.
“It’s when you die and your soul gets stuck up on the roof of a house forever like a frisbee.” Vhodka settles back against the chair with the air of superiority that only really really wrong people ever have.
“The word you are looking for is purgatory.” Vincent shoots back as he stares at his wife with the entirely wrong expression for a man married to a bitch this dumb. Instead of looking at her like he’s just realized that he’s going to have to spend the rest of his life with a woman so stupid that she thought a clover patch was proof of the existence of leprechauns because, and I quote, “they come from leprechaun pubes” – fuck me, I wish I was making that up – he looks at her not with regret but instead with the kind of soft wonderment and awe usually reserved for no survivor plane crashes or, like, a laundry basket full of puppies or some shit.
Vhodka opens her mouth to speak again but stops (a miracle in and of itself) as a door opens and closes further inside this technicolor crackhouse only seconds before a barefooted Asher Jules trots out into the living area and throws his body down on the small loveseat situation across from Vincent and Vhodka. The loveseat that JJ and I had been occupying. There was a time that this would have been strange but it’s been a weird fucking year.
Our mentors exchange a weighted look before Vhodka seems to concede with a small nod.
“We’ve made a decision…” Vincent starts but does not finish on account of I’m not willing to let him.
“Sterilization really is the most humane option for her.” Vhodka snaps her fingers in my direction before making the American sign language symbol for needing to go to the bathroom but for what she undoubtedly thinks is a severe bodily threat.
“…after the royal clusterfuck you three managed to make in Mexico we think that the smartest thing for you is to get out in the public eye.” His eyes scan myself and JJ before uncomfortably resting on Asher who is doing his best to appear asleep.
“You’re obviously the experts but doesn’t that seem counterproductive to what we should be doing?” JJ is worried, as he looks back and forth between Vincent and Vhodka. His fingers nervously fidget with the hem on Asher’s pajama pants where his feet rest in the other man’s lap. This is nothing new though, JJ is always worried because he is a bitchmade pussyhole.
“Yeah, Vin, doesn’t that seem counter abductive?” Vhodka asks as she draws her knees up underneath her to peer at her husband with the obvious confusion of a goldfish who has suddenly found itself operating an adult human woman’s body.
“Fran, you were there when we discussed this.” Vincent raises his eyebrows, slowly nodding his head as if he were using his sheer force of will to make her understand this conversation. He senses it is not working and throws the Hail Mary. “They brought you an off brand Hi-C and you tried to set the table on fire because you said it was a sign they were part of the reptilian army.”
“I was advised by my lawyer not to talk about that. Anyway, yeah, so we talked to some of Damon’s guys who know about this sort of stuff and they said that the best thing to do was to get you back out there in front of people.”
“JJ and Noelle, you’re both due at Icon Statys headquarters this afternoon to go over the preliminary details of your contracts and representation moving forward.” The intensity of Vincent’s gaze burning into my forehead told me that he expected me to protest.
“Just us?” JJ asked.
“Just you.” Came the response from Vincent.
“Bullshit, why should he get special treatment?” Asher hardly shifted as I shoved at his shoulder in irritation. Little fucker always got preferential treatment.
“Because we said so.” Vhodka giggled, leaning over towards Vincent to stage whisper. “Always wanted to say that.”
“Worry less about Asher and more about yourself, Noelle. You have a title match this week. Congratulations.” I stared at Vincent trying to figure out of he was fucking with me or not. He’s not exactly known for his sense of humor but he had to have one to willingly walk around looking as he does.
“The fuck you say to me, Dafoe?” I call him that on account of him looking like Willem Dafoe if he was someone’s sleep paralysis demon further proving my previous point.
“He said you had a title match.” JJ smiles at me, as if he’s been helpful.
“I’ve never even wrestled a match there. I don’t even know where THERE is. Why the fuck would they give me a title match?” What the ever-loving fuck was left unsaid. I felt it was implied.
“Tits, luv.” Asher mumbles, hardly reacting as I flicked his closed eyelid with my thumb and forefinger.
“I mean, it’s as good a guess as any. We didn’t ask for it… they just sort of gave it to you. For some reason.” Vhodka looks genuinely confused which would be cause for concern if that wasn’t just how her face always looked.
“Who is she facing?” JJ asked, leaning forward slightly in his interest. He would. Fucker.
“I don’t know.” Vincent shrugged his shoulders. “Does it really matter?”
My turn to stare motherfuckerly at the man sitting across from me. VeeVee (as they called themselves) had been around this business for a long time which like pregnancy was a double edged sword at times. Like, they knew their shit if you could tolerate them long enough to decipher anything useful but also they’d become bored with the business as a whole and had taken up stupid ass games to keep it interesting. Like that time she made him cut an entire promo on some poor fuck using only Tom Jones song lyrics. Withholding the name of the company and person I was set to face is exactly the kind of shit they would purposely do to amuse themselves.
“Just do what Warstein does.” He waved his hand in the air nonchalantly.
“Drugs?” Of course meth was their answer to everything.
“Not that part. Sometimes he doesn’t mention the person he’s facing at all. Just do that if they make you do a promo.” He paused to look over at his wife. “Why have I said so many words? This isn’t how this works.”
Vhodka shrugged her shoulders, leaning her body forward to indicate that she would be taking point on the conversation from this point forward.
“I want you to go out there on… whatever day their shows fall on and show these people why everyone you’ve ever met has regretted meeting you. Except only this time using your wrestling skills and not your personality. You’re my protégé, the lifeblood of my immeasurable skills and charisma. When you come from the meaty flaps of my talent, walking into a place and winning belts in your first match is just what you do.” Vhodka said this as if it were just a simple fact of life, like taxes or OJ Simpson not being allowed around white women and sharp objects at the same time.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I’m not like you.” They didn’t have to add an extra H to my name to denote the herp, for example.
“Of course you’re not!” Vhodka exclaimed incredulously. “I’m a beloved cultural icon and you’re—”
“Contagious?” Asher screamed as I leaned down and clamped my teeth around his exposed nipple. “OI! The succubus is trying to eat me tommyknockers again!”
“Noelle stop eating your brother’s nipples or so help me god I’ll turn this car around.” Vhodka stood, wiggling her fingers in Vincent’s direction as if she was signaling for something. Wordlessly, Vincent retreated into the kitchen only to return a moment later with a medium sized box wrapped in newspaper that I swear to god came from their cats litter box. She took the package from her husband’s hands and stepped forward to extend it to me, making a frustrated grunt when she realized I would not willingly touch whatever fucking monkey paw she was about to give me.
“Don’t be a twattapus, Noelle. It’s a gift.” She thrust the box into my face and confirmed my previous suspicions about the gift wrapping.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of. I’ll pass, thanks.” The sheer thought of what this rabid carny would consider to be a gift made me shudder. Like, at best it was a bag of half eaten marshmallows and twenty bucks. At worst, it was a hand-me down diaphragm that she would swear was only “gently used” despite the discoloration and fossilized pubic lice. When she realized that I would not willingly take the box she settled for tossing it down on top of Asher who was either now actually asleep or dead.
“It’s a good luck charm to use in your match, just in case you need it. It’s something that always brought me a lot of luck early in my career and I thought it would be nice to pass the torch on to you. Anyway, you’ll know what to do with it when the time comes.” Vincent wrapped an arm around his wife’s waist, guiding her through the front door as she spoke.
As soon as the front door closed and the parental’s took their leave Asher rolled off our laps and wordlessly retreated back into his room, leaving the wrapped package forgotten on the rug in front of us. JJ and I both stared at it for a while before we (I) eventually decided that he was the best person available to carry it to my room and remove the newspaper from it. After some convincing (threats) he made good on the task, leaving it sitting in the corner of the room across from me before he left to go back to playing Call of Duty with twelve year old’s.
Shit had taken an unexpected turn. I didn’t expect them to sign us somewhere so soon after Mexico nor did I expect to be having a fucking match this week for a company I didn’t even know the name of. I could bitch about V Squared not giving me any of the pertinent information but lesbihonest it’s not really like it really matters in the first place.
Every company thinks they’re on the forefront of the business and that they’re doing something spectacularly different than any other two dollar circle jerk out there today. They aren’t. You change the logo and move the show to a different day and no one would be able to tell the difference. Even the cast of characters is indistinguishable since wrestlers are literally the most thin skinned crybabies known to humanity. Lose a few matches, throw yourself a toddler tantrum on your twitter and pay your high priced lawyers to get you out of that contract so you can move to the next company you haven’t burned any bridges with thinking the outcomes will be any different. Wash, rinse, repeat.
With that thought in mind, it wasn’t hard to imagine who my first opponent might be. It’d be some mouth breathing neckbeard – because it’s literally always some mouth breathing neckbeard – who would find out he had to defend his title against a five foot tall teenage girl and start thrashing around in his indignation like that fish in the Black Hole Sun music video. Though realistically, most of them don’t even get as far as things like age and size. All they hear is one word playing on a loop over and over in their brains: Woman.
He’ll go home and stew in his outrage, angrily fucking the space between his mattress and box spring while thinking about the fuckin’ lesson he’s going to teach this dumb bitch that the cock-n-balls politics running the place got him booked against. When he awakes the next morning it will be time to go on the offense and make sure that he talks a good enough game that the other soft cocked colon demons in the back never suspect that he’s sweating like a whore in church over what might happen if this opponent, this WOMAN, is able to tear through his tin foil façade and expose him for the piss baby bitch he really is. You know, just like that goddamn slut Nancy Taylor did back in high school that time he got a boner in biology during the frog dissection.
He won’t know anything about me because I’m not worth knowing anything about. So he’ll have to resort to the tried and true strategies of his forefathers. Sexism and denial.
The low hanging fruit is the easiest and because he’s likely not very bright he will resort to calling me a whore and make suggestions about what creative objects could be shoved into my various holes for his amusement. Fuckin obviously he’ll have an opinion about how I finagled my way into a title shot in my debut match. Spoiler, it’s going to involve gargling some dudes homemade tartar sauce. When we finally meet on the ring he will be proficient because even nature isn’t that cruel. It will be the only time in his life a woman calls him proficient.
And when it’s all said and done maybe he’ll win. Maybe he’ll go out there like the big man he is and give me the ol’ Alabama teapot with a heaping side of gentleman’s relish just for the emphasis. Because he’s bigger than me. Because he’s got more experience than me. Because when he looks at me he sees the mother that hugged him too much or too little and this is his time to stand up to mommy.
But it won’t be because he’s better than me. It’ll be because he didn’t inspire me enough to care. And at the end of the day, isn’t that really the problem he’s had with women all along?
The box that had been covered in the piss stained newspaper was unassuming. Too small for a clown car but big enough for Gwynth Paltrow’s head. Against my better judgement, of which I have very fucking little, I slowly pulled back it’s flaps (put the lotion down these ones are cardboard) to retrieve what laid waiting inside.
It was a hearty nine inches long, girthy in a way that promised to be uncomfortable without proper stretching. The color was that of uncooked poultry and written in black marker along the side were words that had almost faded away due to time or use.
“HERE COMES MAMA”
It was a funny thing to write on a dildo.
Suck it, Lee. <3