September 7, 2021
An Agreement Is Made
“Hi, sweetie pie! You’re looking mighty tasty today.”
A man calling himself Jacob Kuntz really doesn’t need much in the way of description. By handle alone, any assumptions one could dream of about his appearance were likely accurate. Two-hundred fifty pounds of skin that had likely never been blessed with an ounce of moisturizer, save for a special occasion when he dropped a helping gob of it into the palm of his hand. Even if he had followed the advice of a dermatologist, it wouldn’t have mattered: as a healthy coat of bacteria and grime covered every inch of him.
The dusty mop that hung off his scalp and grout-covered Brillo face made his head resemble a living tumbleweed. Until he parted his lips amidst the scruff, that is. Within the mouth of the deathmatch wrestler contained a palate of dark purple. An artist’s rendering of the Greek underworld, with the occasional stalagmite and stalactite jutting through the gums. His few teeth were the color of pus that had been hardened by a welder’s torch, and based on his history, it wasn’t a stretch to believe that’s what they actually were.
It didn’t really help his campaign for senate that he had opted to greet QT Reese in little more than a pair of briefs. Apparently, the same flame that was used for his dental work had made a few lasting impressions on his body hair. As if his torso held a thousand inchworms that were struggling to get out, only to curl up and wither in their failed attempt.
Oddly enough, there was one piece of his wardrobe that had some level of sophistication. A snazzy pair of canary yellow wingtips.
“Oh my FUCKING god,” Reese bellowed as he stared down in horror at the custom-made suede oxfords. “Get your NASTY HOOVES out of my FAVORITE SHOES!”
Not only had Jacob Kuntz taken siege of the brick-and-mortar mecca of Reese’s business, but he’d also rummaged through his personal executive washroom to play a little dress-up. The vagrant sneered as he tapped the rubber heels onto the white cement of Reesemart’s entrance.
”Whoa now, Christmas,” he responded. “I thought we were gonna have a gentleman’s conversation. No need to be rude, especially when I’ve got something that you want.”
Kuntz nonchalantly motioned down to the unsightly bulge within the confines of his off-white Hanes. His spindly, nicotine-stained index finger pointed toward exactly what QT’s heart desired most.
“EWWWWWWWWWWW! I don’t want your dirty old dick!” Reese recoiled, his mustache almost retreating into his nostrils with disgust.
Jacob smirked once again as he used the same finger to fish around inside of the underpants. From within the oniony abyss, he retrieved a set of keys and held them up for QT to see.
Reese nodded. The squeezable ostrich on the chain was a dead giveaway that those were the keys to his beloved Reesemart. For those unfamiliar with the storied past of the little Newfoundlander, QT had encountered two brushes with death over the past three years. The first of which was at the beak and two-toed feet of one of the majestic flightless birds. He had made the critical mistake of mocking them while visiting an exotic nature preserve, and in an appropriate twist of fate, one had escaped the pen and trampled and pecked him until he stopped breathing.
You would assume that the ornament might have had some deeper meaning for him, like a daily reminder that he should be careful whom or what he pisses off. Since then, he’d also been kidnapped and locked in a basement for weeks without food or water, as well as had his pinky finger removed with the blade of a chainsaw. So that wasn’t it. He honestly just got the key chain so that he could punch and stomp on the tiny figure because he couldn’t do the same to a real one.
“What do you want for it?” Reese sighed. The hyper-pervert that stood in front of him likely had an unfulfilled fetish in mind, and he knew Kuntz would happily exploit his desperation. “Jerk you off with my kneecap? Jerk me off with your kneecap? Have me sit on balloons while I’m dressed up as a Disney princess? I’ll just tell you right now that you cannot use my mouth as a fun hole.”
This was a lie, as QT will do pretty much anything to get his building back. However, he’d read in a business magazine that it was always wise to start off the negotiations as ruthless as possible before meeting in the middle.
“Nah,” Jacob responded, shaking his head. “You’re too ugly for me.”
Reese’s jaw sunk low, extremely offended by the insinuation that he was below the standards of a man who had probably fucked the inside of the shoes he was currently wearing.
“HEY! No, I’m NOT,” QT objected, pursing out his lower lip and putting his hands on his hips. “You would be HONORED to get a SUCK JOB from me! I’m a HARD eight!”
“You’re a two at best,” Kuntz snickered.
“Oh, come on!” Reese whined, taking the bait completely. “I’m at least a five!”
“Eh,” Jacob muttered, scratching the cleft of his chin in faux consideration. “Soft four. But I’ll give you that extra point in exchange to see what that mouth do.”
QT removed his palms from his hips as if he was genuinely contemplating the offer. He grinned with a sense of stupid confidence as an imaginary light bulb glowed over his outdated blond hairdo.
“I’ll take the four,” he finally decided, “unless you promise to give me those keys.” Of course, it had taken all but a minute for QT to rescind his claim that he would not blow the man to regain possession of Reesemart.
“Calm down there, sugar bear,” Kuntz chuckled, reaching in the back of his underwear to retrieve a pack of cigarettes. “No need to take the romance out of our relationship by bringing business into it. I’ll have you know that I don’t fuck where I eat.”
Reese furrowed his right eyebrow.
“Alright, alright, that’s not true,” Jacob admitted. “But in this instance, it’s not gonna go down like that. Truth is, Christmas, I’m a nomadic farmer. I can’t just stay in one place when there is so much dirt out there to harvest my corn on, so I think it’s time that I pack up and head for a new pasture.”
Like a puppy who had watched his master reach for a bag of bone-shaped biscuits, QT perked up. He could barely contain his tongue from spilling out in excitement.
“You mean, you’re just gonna GIVE it back? THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE! I’M SO HAPPY! THERE IS A GOD AFTER ALL!”
Kuntz is sly to allow Reese to enjoy this moment of ecstasy as he watched his counterpart shout to the heavens with glee. He could simply not contain his laughter though when Reese danced the Watusi in near perfect step: arm jitters, hip shaking, and all.
“Wait,” Jacob interjected, which froze QT in a position to where his ass was jutted straight out like a sassafras. “I am gonna need something in return from you, cutie.”
Reese blinked twice as he felt his world collapse underneath of him.
“Well, my real estate agent tells me it’s a seller’s market out there,” Kuntz joked. “And right now, my investment guy tells me I’m not in a cash position to be able to withdraw the money for a down payment on a new piece of property. So, I’ll hand you over the keys in exchange for exactly $4,032.64 in cash. No checks. No money orders. Dolla’ dolla’ bills y’all. Right in the palm of my hand.”
“And you do that?” Jacob emphasized, obviously high as a kite to have been able to have laid out such an elaborate reasoning, “Reesemart is all yours, never to be defiled by my blood orgy again.”
Back in an upright position, QT’s jaw quivered. Normally, his brain could only process one emotion at a time, as his wiring typically cranked up any feeling that he had to its maximum volume. But presently, his mind was a wrestling ring hosting a triple threat match. Anger, shock, and panic collided in the center in order to capture the Extreme Reaction Championship, only one of which could walk out of his mouth that instant with the title.
He was angry because of the specific amount that Kuntz had requested, for housed inside a lock-box was exactly $4,032.64 that had been “found” by one Genie Carlson at his first pop-up location during the Murderhaus Wrestling inaugural event. If there was one person who he loathed more than Jacob Kuntz right now? It was her.
He was shocked because it registered that the two of them were obviously in cahoots: both aware of the fact that Reese was presently broke.
And he was panicked, because something told him it would be much more difficult to get that lock-box back than simply breaking into her house, peeing on her carpet, and stealing it back. It was apparent that these two had a plan in place, and QT himself had walked right into the trap.
“I’ve got a friend that might help you out if you’re strapped for cash,” Kuntz proclaimed, breaking the silence and saving Reese the trouble of second-guessing himself.
He was right.
This was going to be bad.
Ask any grizzled veteran about their life as a professional wrestler, and all of them will probably divulge some story that took place along a long car ride to the next show. It’s material that any fan would gobble up. Not only because they were thoroughly entertaining, but also offered a glimpse behind the curtain. Outside of their unforgettable moments inside the ropes, making towns contributed the most towards fond memories of their careers.
Of course, since QT Reese had no one that actually wanted to travel with him, he preferred the convenience of flight. This was no longer a luxury he could afford, though. Not just because of the ticket price, but his dwindling bank account had created a necessity to make extra revenue over and above what he typically needed to keep Reesemart afloat. Which is precisely why he found himself at a strip club on a Wednesday with his pop-up shop positioned right next to the restrooms.
Despite the handbill for tonight’s event having all the appeal of an open grave (as well as a substantial possibility for multiple copyright infringement lawsuits), QT was pretty excited about the turnout. The Fun Hole rarely strayed from the path of your typical strip club functionality, so the allure of something as gimmicky as its employees engaging in a sexual Kumite had brought out a pretty decent crowd for the evening.
“Are you all ready for your next big breasted and bootylicious battle royale?”
“Get off the stage, VIRGIN!”
Sadly for QT, no one gave a shit about the fact that he was there. His “sponsorship” of the event had a clause to where he would also handle the emcee duties for the night. A cruel twist of irony given Reese’s general hatred for ring announcers. He’d endured just about every slur you could hurl from the audience who simply wanted to see women roll around in a vat of whip cream.
That aside, the man still came prepared with the right merchandise to shill. While most of his weaponry selection comprised shoddy modifications to basic household objects, there was a bit of work ethic displayed in his line of Reesemart hand towels. As it turned out, QT was pretty handy on a sewing machine, and had spent days embroidering small logos on the white linen he’d stolen from various hotels.
Unfortunately, the craftwork had mostly gone unappreciated as the patrons shelled out $20 for the towels, only to immediately walk into the nearby restroom and convert them into rags. The wrestling entrepreneur didn’t seem to care too much, because both those and the Reesemart “Pretty Good Stuff” lubricant were netting a nice profit for the night. It was well worth being a verbal punching bag for the sake of rebuilding his brand.
“Alright then,” QT remarks, shaking off the patron’s observation of his sexual experiences. “You know her and love her here at the Fun Hole, so give a warm round of applause to the runner-up of the 2005 Miss Cheddar pageant: the lovely Chardonnay, everybody!”
The beauty queen from over 15 years ago comes strutting out to the tune of Christina Aguilera’s “Dirrty,” delivering her best interpretation of what a professional wrestler would do for their entrance. If wrestlers popped their thonged-clad asses in the fans’ faces, that is. To her credit, Chardonnay was able to remember to cross the inflatable “ring” and raise her hand to throw a #1 symbol toward each side of the audience. AKA the most overused cliche in combat sports.
“And her opponent! She comes to you all the way from Luckenbach, Texas,” Reese announces, barely able to pronounce the city correctly. “Straight off the ranch and ready to lasso her way to a Whip Cream Wrestling championship, please welcome Miss Bonnie Clydesdale!”
Appropriately, “Save A Horse (Ride A Cowboy)” is the choice of theme as a pair of denim cutoffs and a modified gingham picnic blanket barely holds in the body parts of the rootin’ tootin’ brunette. However, QT opted not to stick around and ogle her from a close distance. Setting the microphone down gently on the wooden stage above the dessert pit, he shuffles off to make his way back to the Reesemart booth.
“Nice molestache, pussy,” another voice bellows out as he walks by. Under normal circumstances, Reese would have immediately flipped the switch and screamed directly into the woman’s face who’d said it as well as anyone who was laughing. But the retail baron maintained his composure. He wasn’t here to indulge the audience like it was expected of him at an actual wrestling show.
They’d have to pay $35 for a “real life wrestler interaction”, as he was also selling that at the booth, too.
Taking a seat, QT reaches down and grabs a fuzzy purple mitten off of the floor next to him. Attached to the upper part were two yellow skewers, typically reserved for shoving into the adjacent ends of a corncob. This was the initial prototype for one of his latest Reese’s Choice limited edition death match accessories. Retrieving a spool from out of his cash box, he resumes work on his worst invention to date.
While QT appreciated this individual referring to the recent addition to his name without it sounding sarcastic, his eyes peer up with visible irritation.
“Twenty for the jizz rag, thirty for the jack off lotion, forty if you want me to make fun of one of your physical defects,” he grunts.
“Oh,” the man replies, fishing into the back of his jeans for his wallet. “I uh, I don’t really want to buy anything. I just wanted to meet you.”
Reese’s expression shifts to a slightly warmer tone. He takes another look at the portly, spectacled lad and notes the Group of Death logo on his black T-shirt. A fan. An actual fan! This was a pleasant surprise!
“Thirty-five bucks,” QT asserts, extending his palm out towards the patron. “And hey, I’ll throw this in for you.”
Reese retrieves a Fun Hole cocktail napkin from a stack sitting nearby with his free hand. He uncaps a magic marker and scribbles his signature on it, offering it to the HOW enthusiast as an additional perk. The mark shrugs and forks over the cash for the autograph and a little bit of conversation with an “enormous star.”
“Check this out,” Reese beams, picking the spiked mitten up and showing it to the fan. “It’s your lucky night, because no one else has seen this yet. I call it the Inverted Ty Cobb. Just like the ol’ Georgia Peach and his cleats, you slide this baby right into someone’s eye sockets and it’s all over. Plus, it’s perfect for enjoying corn on a blustery winter’s day!”
The fan chuckles nervously, pushing up the bridge of his glasses with his thumb as he grins.
“That’s awesome man,” he sputters. “Are you gonna use that on Saturday?”
“It’s September, pal,” QT replies matter-of-factly. “I don’t need a mitten to eat corn with yet.”
“Oh, uh,” he corrects, shoving his left hand nervously into his front pocket. “I meant on Jace Parker Davidson, like, during your match against him.”
Reese shakes his head, almost appalled at the suggestion.
“Absolutely not! I mean, don’t get me wrong here my guy. I’m sure a few scratches to that million dollar face of his might help level the playing field for the rest of us with the babes,” QT admits, “but Refueled is free! Nah, you and the rest of the High Octane viewers are going to have to buy Rumble at the Rock to see the goods in action. Just like how this fucking dump charges twenty bucks a head and a two-drink minimum, it’s not good business to simply give away quality like this.”
“Ah, I understand,” the fan nods, continuing to play nice with the sociopath sitting in front of him. “Well, I still hope you’re able to beat him for the HOTV Championship. That guy is such an asshole.”
“Well, sure,” Reese agrees, in one of the most blatant displays of pot and kettle ever uttered. “But can you really expect a guy like Jace to be nice? Good-looking, confident, a stalwart competitor, sticks to the message, and most importantly: badass tattoos on his arms! Let me ask you something. You ever wake up in the morning and feel a little depressed because you wish you could have woken up in a body like JPD’s?”
“Of course you do,” Reese plows over. “You probably even fantasize that you’re someone just like him throughout the day. Hell, you might even take it to an unhealthy extent where you write fanfiction about your other cooler alter ego for others on the Internet to read and share! Living in a dream world where all you do is win win win win win, because your reality is nothing but lose lose lose lose lose. No offense, but anyone that pays to see something as fucking stupid as ‘whip cream wrestling’ probably isn’t enjoying their life that much. Which by the way, I’m going to need another five dollars since I just insulted you.”
“Actually,” the fan objects, going back into his wallet to comply with Reese’s request, “I didn’t come here for the strippers. I’m here for you.”
Reese’s mouth forms an “O,” followed by a fist being raised up to his chin in thought.
“Well, if you’re expecting me to take you back to the champagne room for a lap dance, that’s going to be at least $200. Also, you have to buy a towel.”
The man puts his hands out in protest. “No no no no no, I don’t want that at all. I meant I just wanted to meet you, that’s all.”
“That’s fucking weird, dude,” replies the wrestler who just offered a stranger a lap dance.
“Yeah, I guess it is a little sad,” he admits. “Still, the point stands that you got me wrong. I don’t have the best life, sure,” the guy continues, letting his guard down a bit with the Reesemart mogul. “But I definitely don’t want to be a guy like that. Just some jerk who thinks he’s better than everyone else? No way.”
QT rolls his eyes in disbelief at first, but poses a follow-up inquiry.
“Would you want to be a guy like me?”
“I mean, not really,” he blurts out. “No offense.”
“That’s fair. With my type of passion and devotion to back-breaking labor in running a small business, I don’t think anyone envies the struggles I have to go through,” Reese says, his warped brain spinning his response into a compliment.
“I’m still rooting for you to win the title, though. You would be way more interesting to watch every week than he is.”
QT nods in agreement. “You aren’t wrong. But compared to everyone else he’s defended that belt against? Not a chance! See, it’s appropriate that Jace has been the champion of television. And you can take my word for it, because if there’s one thing I know besides how to run a successful enterprise and sew corn holders to mittens? It’s fucking TV! I live for the canned laughter of sitcoms. I bleed for the Daily Doubles and the Phone-A-Friends. And I will lay my body down on the rails and be squished by the freight trains featured on an educational series about freight trains.”
“But you know what TV needs that Jace brings to you and the rest of these ungrateful fans don’t seem to appreciate week after week? I’ll tell you,” QT rants, holding up an index finger to emphasize his point. “A glimpse into the life of a HANDSOME man who rides in a limousine, looks down upon the female gender, and constantly feels the need to remind us about all the SEX he’s having with said female gender! All of the things that meant you were successful in the year 1998! And if Jace isn’t the one out there relying on tropes that were considered really cool and edgy back then, who else in HOW is going to fill that gap?”
The fan simply blinks as Reese waits for a response. Eventually, the silence is broken.
“I mean, I don’t think TV really needs all of…”
“Of course you do,” QT interrupts yet again, bulldozing over the conversation as he is prone to do. “So yeah, I’ll probably get the pinfall over a pinnacle of entertainment like Jace just because that title means more clout for the Reesemart brand. And it’ll probably be really easy to do since I can reverse pretty much any neckbreaker or suplex that exists in the world. And I’ll probably be taken back in a limo to the fanciest hotel suite in Minneapolis, which is probably a Hampton Inn or something. And I’ll probably have sex, maybe even without my boxers on!”
“But I refuse to taint the legacy that JPD has put on the HOTV Championship. Because he is an honorable hero and the second-most valuable asset that this company has. For that, he will always have my respect! And you should respect him, too.”
Reese looks up at the stocky fan, his receding forehead wrinkling up a bit as he stifles a laugh.
“Wait, man,” the guy inquires, “do you normally leave your underwear on when you fuck?”
“IT’S JUST MORE COMFORTABLE TO STICK IT THROUGH THE HOLE FOR ME, OKAY?”