Posted by Christopher America
As Fans Leave Refueled LXXV
Envious of Sloth
“Fuck you, Bobby.” My throat hurts as I choke the words out, still feeling the effects of Jingleheimer Robert’s shooting star guillotine from my match against Wrath that went down not long ago.
“Whaaaa-” My menacing glare stops the rotund wrestler, known to some as Sir Robert, from completing the first word out of his mouth since sitting his fat ass down across the room.
Just seeing him over there with that smug ass smile of his, resting his right hand in a bucket of ice because he must’ve strained that one pinky finger he lifted to defeat Lust, pisses me off beyond belief. Even that dumb ass, doughy face looking at me like a deer caught in headlights can’t calm me down like it used to.
“You could literally not give a shit less, but somehow still find ways to pick up a win here and there.” I shake my head slowly, still unable to cope with the fact. “While I’m busting ass in the gym everyday, glued to a screen watching tape every night, treating my body like a fucking temple in between… and you.”
I throw up my hands in defeat.
“You gonna finish that, buddy?” The asshole asks, like he hadn’t heard a word, eyeing the half finished chicken caesar salad on the table next to me.
The bewilderment onset by Bob’s interest in my post match meal exacerbates my ill will toward the old friend and fellow, former eGG Bandit.
“I was…” A heavy exhale ensues, accompanied by a shoulder shrug. “Fuck it. Take it. I’m not even hungry anymore. You know it’s just grilled chicken and lettuce, though, right? I told them to hold the croutons.”
“Yep! But I still have some leftover ranch I got on the side to dip my extra bacon cheeseburger in!” A smile stretches across Dean’s cherubic face. “You know what I always say, Dooze! Wasting even a drop of ranch dressing should be considered a SIN!”
Speechless, I stand up from my seat, grab the remains of my salad, walk it over to the fat ass in front of me, and drop it down beside the remnants of his burger. Without a word, Dean snaps his hand out of the ice bucket and his chubby fingers grab the ranch packet like it was about to run away. He squints, in deep concentration, his pink tongue peeking out between his lips, while squeezing out every last drop onto the salad.
I slowly shake my head, for what feels like the millionth time in the past few minutes, and quietly make my way to the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Bob frowning. Always being quick to blame myself, I let out a deep sigh of regret before opening my stupid mouth again.
“Look man, you know I tend to get worked up and all. Just jealous, I guess.”
My comment turns Dean’s disappointed expression into one of pure confusion.
“What? Oh, no! To be honest, I wasn’t paying a lick of attention, I’m not even sure what you said. I just realized that I didn’t have as much ranch dressing as I thought.”
I can feel my eyes nearly pop out of their sockets as my jaw nearly hits the floor. Before I can even muster a response, he adds on.
“I think I have a spare in my locker. Could you snag that for your old friend, Bobbo?” He bats his eyes at me like somehow that’ll help his chances.
It doesn’t, but the fatass has me nearly beaten into submission at this point anyway.
As I walk toward Dean’s locker, the hair on my neck stands as I can feel another request on the tip of his salivating tongue.
“Oh, buddy! I also busted open a twinkie by accident a few months back, but never ate it since Lee was making me go on that horrible diet. Should be hard enough to crumble into some tasty croutons by now, ya think?”
I freeze. The only muscles that work are those in my neck, allowing my head to turn so I can stare at Bobby over my shoulder in bewilderment.
“How the fuck do you do it?” The words slip out from under my breath before I can stifle them.
“Oh, easy! You snap the twinkie in half, lick out the filling, you have to lick it real good to soften it up first. Then you just break up the hardened pastry part!”
My head hangs.
“I can’t even.” I mutter to myself as I walk out the door, leaving Bob’s locker door ajar.
Just as I turn the corner and head down the hall, I hear him plead, “Yeah, ya can! Just take the ranch and the opened twinkie and toss ‘em my way, buddy!” He chuckles like only a chubby fuck like him can. “Sheesh, you got the easy job, if ya ask me! I’m the one who has to perform a miracle on this crappy salad you went and ordered!”
I stop dead in my tracks. I slowly turn back and reenter the locker room. I slap the locker door so it swings wide open and hits the locker beside it. I reach in, grabbing the ranch packet and twinkie and throw them at Bob.
I can feel my blue eyes on fire as I stare down Dean.
“Look, I’m not about to say anything you haven’t heard already.” I start in, spitting each word. “But you have to be THE BIGGEST, and that has nothing to with your weight, disappointment in High Octane Wrestling.” Without even knowing it, my right hand is raised, pointer finger extended toward my fat friend.
“Oh, thank you Doozey!” Bobby says with genuine warmth.
I elaborate, “And that’s coming from me; a former star brought into this damn place who’s accomplished next to nothing. And what I HAVE accomplished is mainly credited to someone who keeps getting locked out of our fucking venue.”
Bob’s head cocks to the side like a confused dog, “Clay?”
It wasn’t the time for a joke.
“Fuck you, Bobby.”
“You slack jawed, sloth motherfucker.” His innocent eyes pop as the words leave my mouth. “You have the talent to beat the best fucking wrestlers OF ALL TIME at this place and what do you do with it? Fucking nothing. Do you have any idea what I’d do to have what you have? To be able to go toe to toe with Mike again, and actually have a realistic chance of winning? To be able to take out Sutler when no one else could touch him? Jesus Christ, man. You just don’t get it, do you? Fuck, maybe you do get it and you just don’t care. I don’t even know anymore. All I know is that I can’t fucking stomach you right now. So, before I really say anything I MIGHT regret, probably won’t, but just in case… I’m just gonna go. For real this time. Congrats on yet another undeserved win tonight. Hope you… what in the actual fuck are you doing now?”
In the brief moment the blood drained from my eyes enough for me to see straight, I noticed that during my tirade the Beautiful Man from Honalee wasn’t even looking up at me anymore. Nope, instead he was busy digging a fat finger into his belly button.
Again, I’m frozen. But I can’t let it go.
Yep, I hate me for that, too.
Suddenly, Bob looks back up at me, surprised to see me still standing there.
He chuckles, “Twinkie crumbs! Just like sand, huh? Coarse and getting everywhere, am I right?”
“I really fucking hate you right now.”
Looks like Cancer cleared this place out.
No hanging picture frames.
No fucking fern.
Guess it’s not all bad.
I never thought the idea of tagging with Brian Hollywood would be something I’d welcome, let alone anticipate. But this might just be the only way I can salvage my friendship with High Octane’s Sloth. By beating the shit out of him within the ring, where rules exist, instead of losing my COOL and beating the shit out of him in the parking lot.
And I know, better than most, that there’s nothing more sobering in the land of High Octane than losing to Brian Hollywood. Plus, old Dollar Menu Doozy is lower on the totem pole than Darin Zion right now.
God that hurt.
So I guess it took a friend, of all people, to change my approach leading up to Rumble at the Rock. Up until now, I haven’t cared about the outcome of my matches against the other SINS. I’ve just wanted to take my opportunities against them to study their tendencies, strengths and weaknesses.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ll still be studying you, Eli. Although I do believe LUST is the weakest of the SEVEN. You’re still a target, barely visible or not.
But this match? I want to win. And, as weird as this is to say, I know with Hollywood by my side, I can. Sloth and Lust have a nearly nonexistent history compared to Greed and Envy. While you two chucklefucks struggle to show up, at least I know Bri-Guy and I will be prepared. Much more important than that, too, is our knowledge of each other. While that long history has led to plenty of competitive, back-and-forths between the two of us exchanging victories… it’s also what will give us the edge against you two.
I know Hollywood’s style within the squared circle as good as any. As he does mine. If you think that won’t translate to an efficient and effective partnership this Saturday in Los Angeles, then you’re in for a not so pleasant surprise.
So I’m game, Brian. Consider this a temporary truce.
Let me even align with your style…
It’s time to get Doozed and Abused!