09-25-2019, 09:00 PM
OOC: This role-play contains visuals, statements, inappropriate jokes and language people will inevitably find offensive. You've been warned.
The God of Wrestling, Part One: Fuck wrestlers, fuck their fans and fuck their families. Fuck them all with double-sided, spiked, and dipped in acid dildos made out of laser beams
Once upon a time, I loved wrestling. This was a long ass time ago.
By wrestling I mean professional wrestling. Where everyone is a giant narcissist who babbles on about how great they are before resorting to chairs, five billion people interfering, and ten stray bullets to hit the seventy-five pound woman they're facing to finally manage to have the strength to pin them to the mat for three seconds. It's not the wrestling in high school or in college stuff, because that Ancient Greek shit is flat out gay. You don't have the shining bright lights, the booming theme songs, the absurd moves that would literally do nothing but probably get you murdered in a real fight or the level of attractiveness anywhere else outside of Hollywood and porn.
As a child and a fan, it's so easy to get mesmerized by all of this. I was obsessed. It's magic in an otherwise boring world. We look to our entertainment for strife. At least I did. I remember sneaking into my first show. It's not like tickets were expensive or anything, especially at that small gig. I just grew up broke as can be in the lovely shit hole we all know as Detroit. I was fifteen. Sophie came with me when I said I could get us tickets. To be fair to myself, I was convinced I could get tickets by being a God damn ninja and ripping them out from behind the counter whenever the guy there turned his head. No, I wasn't a stupid fifteen year old, just one with a fantastic imagination.
This didn't happen. While I would later on throughout much of my life make a habit out of sneaking into places I wasn't supposed to be, she was the one who decided to just go in. Which only felt fitting, she was the one who got me into wrestling to begin with. Along with alcohol, cigarettes and a disdain for people who had more than us. Of course, my disdain would grow for humanity and we both on our own would find ourselves a love for every narcotic mankind could produce.
The show was amazing. Now, I couldn't tell you a single performer from that show. I have no clue who did what. I think one guy fell and bounced his head off the apron in an uncomfortable moment of bewilderment and alarm. Maybe he died? Fuck if I know, that's not what is important here. The important bit from this show was at some point during it Sophie kissed me. This was a big deal to me because at the time and pretty much from then on I had a giant crush on her and she liked fucking around with men in their early twenties who drove cars and probably had twenty inch cocks. I was a boy who couldn't drive and I didn't have a twenty inch cock. It just wasn't a fair battle for me. This was a very rare time in my life. It was a time where I in that moment developed hope from something as simple and innocent as lips meeting lips.
Hope is a terrible and meaningless concept but it makes for a fantastic lesson in life. Hope exists to crush your feelings and show you what reality is. Write this down children; Reality is a sadistic tyrant.
Sophie left home shortly after. I kind of got the hint she never wanted to be home anyways, what with the whole will do anything to avoid it. I didn't know if her dad was throwing her the dick or something. I wouldn't have blamed him, I wanted to too. However had she asked I probably would have murdered her family. Spent the next three lifetimes in a cell somewhere never getting visits. Life would have sucked but that's just what you're willing to endure for love, damn it.
Instead I just lost my first and only real crush in life and my best friend. Being sixteen at that point, I can vaguely remember coming home from school to my lifeless grandmother. She'd be sitting in front of a television, never really watching it. Never really muttering a word from her drunken slumber. That shit was depressing after eleven years. I never wanted to be home either. I'd leave and hang out with anyone and everyone I could find willing. I would sleep anywhere that wasn't my bed. One friend had a treehouse. We'd stay up there and I'd even listen to his garbage music and pretend to be into his card game. Then when his parents left I'd goad him into taking us to the liquor cabinet to play a game of drink until it tastes good. It went too far one night and I couldn't play with that friend anymore.
That was something I guess I missed out on was proper parenting. Because I never asked for permission for shit. If I wanted to drink, I drank. If I wanted to smoke, I smoked. If I was horny well, that was the one exception I guess. I have yet to rape anyone which I guess is a good thing. Either I fucked or I jerked off. Even if someone was willing to let me fuck them I still likely jerked off that night. I probably spent the entirety of my teenage years at a certain point smoking, drinking, chasing a potential host for my parasitic ass and jerking off. I could stub my toe and get an erection but that's normal I think.
It took me a long time to realize it but I never in life really aspired for anything. Not once. Even with wrestling, wrestling was never my dream. It was Sophie's dream and my way of trying to find her. Everything I've ever chased outside of biological cravings and wants I've taken from someone else. Do I have a single original thought or notion? Am I real or just a machine? A water and meat-filled programable fuckwit. I don't know. It's how I see everyone else, how am I any different?
Whatever drive people have to be their own people, I don't have one. I don't have a life mission. If I had one I accomplished it already. Were it up to me society would probably just be one giant mosh pit with orgies, stockpiles of cocaine and dark corners to hide and jerk off when you're tired of participating in the orgies.
We'd never progress as a society. There would just be the stench of death and cum everywhere.
Later on I'd become a wrestler. Later on I'd reconnect and actually be in the relationship I always wanted to be in with Sophie. Later on we'd win the Tag Team Championship belts in the biggest promotion in the world. And later on I'd stop looking at wrestling or the people involved in it as the superstars they've spent generations building themselves up to be.
It's like when you're a kid and you look up to your mentors or adults in general. I don't know. Then you become an adult and realize in that moment that the people you looked up to are just as stupid and flawed as you are.
In wrestling it's worse. It's not an act. It's not for fun. These people are legitimately this self obsessed, this psychotic mess of delusion and grandeur. They believe their own hype, they love the smell of their own shit; hell, they probably fucking eat it convinced of their divine nature. They go on twitter and post the entire timeline of their supposed lives, talking about how great of a time they're having. They're having such a great time they have to distract themselves from the fun, it's just too much. Everyone else needs to see how sexy they think they are. If you're in a relationship with one of these lunatics you better post a picture of them every other day and tell the world how lucky you are or some stupid shit or they'll probably slit their wrists.
These pathetic fucking narcissists are roleplaying their own lives on display like it's Twitter Meets Real World and they don't want to be voted off the island. Is that Big Brother? I don't know. I don't fucking care, they're posing as people with lives because if you talk to them backstage, they talk and act like the sound bytes to their promos. Fucking soulless puppets who for the love of God need to remind you that their lives are in fact great and they are hot. If I haven't gotten the picture through here, wrestlers are fake and vain bitches with the actual personalities of instagram models.
They're terrible human beings. Don't idolize these monsters. That includes me, although I know there is no legit reason to fear that. Would fans remember me? Doubt it.
I was shocked I even got in. I remember getting the phone call while sitting on the toilet playing Clash of Clans.
"I am in the tournament?! Fucking a-plus man!"
"It's not that surprising. World renown competitors get in easier," The agent had responded. "Even the less successful world renown ones."
I was so happy at the time, my ego ignored the verbal jab to the balls. The God of Wrestling Tournament didn't come around very often and you never knew who was going to participate in it. Usually half of the thing would be premised of the SCW roster but then you'd get some fresh blood in there too. I just wanted to win so I could call myself a God and tell everyone in the wrestling world to suck it. I wanted to win for someone else who deserved to be in it far more than I did. I wanted to win hoping it'd pay the bills. I wanted to participate just so I had an excuse to quit my part-time job as a casino mascot.
If you've been to Vegas any time recently you may have seen in one casino(I refuse to name) a child scaring slot machine with eyes, legs and arms. That was either Jerry, Amanda or me.
Now, you may be wondering why, oh fucking why would I be wrestling if I hate it so much? Ignoring the reasons I just listed as to why I'd want to win. That's easy. I'm not really equipped to do anything else legitimate. Even this mascot job is only going to last until I am caught taking chips and the free drinks offered to every person in the casino looking to have won a buck or two. I am a heathen. A heathen who despite being disenfranchised know there aren't too many better jobs out there for me. I tried selling drugs there for a while. I didn't like having to look over my shoulder all the time, waiting for the crackhead or thug who was going to stick me up. Plus I was using it which makes for a terrible business model. The profit margin goes to shit.
What else is a passion? I tried working at a bar. That job was okay I guess. Apparently you're not a good bartender if you give out free drinks trying to bribe the panties off the patrons and being drunk all the time is frowned upon too.
I wanted to try porn but after dating a porn star that ended. She made my narcissism look childish in comparison. I loved poking fun of her. Most porn stars I swear to God are like hobbits. It's easier to make those rich directors look hung like horses when they're shooting with tiny women.
Most people would settle for real jobs at some point but I refuse to. My goal is to do fuck and all generally until I hit fifty, at which point I shoot myself in the face live on a social media platform. Or go be one of those school shooters or something and get gunned down by police while screaming Lucifer and the end is nigh. I'd leave a suicide note and farewell, blaming General Mills and the Illuminati.
It would be my last act of being edgy.
I guess that is one thing that killed my drive in wrestling, nothing is really sacred anymore. Nothing is out there or taboo. To be edgy now I'd have to go out clean shaven, dressed up praising Jesus Christ. Everyone is an atheist now and they hate the Christian God. Wrestling under the name Jesus Christ would do nothing for me. Everyone is a drunk, a hedonist, a narcissistic mess of this is me!
If not a Christian I'd have to go join the Klu Klux Klan and cut promos on killing all niggers and fags or something. While this would do fantastically at turning the world against me, it wasn't really viable. I'd never work anywhere ever again. Just blacklisted from every promotion around the world. I mean, maybe I could wrestle in Saudi Arabia, I don't know.
So no edgy front or gimmick. I am just going to be me. Which is pretty boring.
I was going to try this year to be more optimistic. Maybe I could cut these short parodies on the show giving tips on how to better your life and be happy? I don't know. I was just told everyone is getting time on every show to say their piece which sounded painful. I hope we're not being required to watch all of this.
There are only so many times I can listen to someone on the spectrum go on a rant over their own percieved superiority. I just wish I could help the rosters of the world in their epic quest to finally be able to bend themselves in half so they can rightly blow themselves. Or I guess lick themselves seeing as half of this tournament is going to be premised of some obnoxious women going on about how they'll be the Goddess of Wrestling because they've been oppressed for so fucking long, Goddess damn it now is the time to fight the penis and take the power! or something. I swear to all the cloud deities if I have to ever see another Syren life as a woman promo in my life I'm going to complain about it.
Taking a drag from my cigarette and probably what was left of my dignity, I continue pondering. I like gimmicks. Wrestling was supposed to be a legitimate alternative to the circus. Not an alternative to Housewives of the OC. Everything else is so dull.
"Ya know," I start while still debating what I was going to say. I had to pause and take another drag. "Lucas Knight, while you sit there and judge... Um. Hmmm."
I have no clue just yet what I should say on the air. Staring at Lucas Knight even now, face to face, I don't know if I should even be directing my words toward him. I'm sure he'll give some generic smug speech and make it clear he's looking forward to smacking David Helms in the third round because we really needed half of the 2011 SCW main event in this fucking tournament well after they're all retired. Between Steward, Cruze, Valley clown, Helms, Knight, Hudson, and the carcass of what was once known as Thirteen, no one else in this tournament is likely expected to win.
Not only are we not expected to win, I imagine no one really wants us to either. Fans will be showing up wanting nostalgia and to cheer them. Everyone else is a nobody compared to these names which I guess makes sense given these fuckers are somehow still alive at the young and spry age of one hundred and seventy-eight.
I hate these people. They retired from the ring and show up randomly in one offs because they didn't bury enough young talent in their careers as head of industry. I guess I should be thankful the old people are sponsoring us with their rum?
Looking between all of the competitors now, or, at least what I set up to be my audience, I grimace. The question keeps nagging at me. Why am I even here?
The teddy bears refuse to respond. I had set nineteen of them around in a semi-circle with little outfits and pieces of paper stapled to their heads, each of one of the competitors. I couldn't find the other four I'd need for the whole tournament. Lost opportunity. It's funny, I remember being in school and being terrible at taking notes. I wasn't anymore, these obstacles had representation. Documented well indeed.
"I am here because fuck what everyone else wants."
Putting my cigarette out over Lucas Knight's eye, I smirk as the paper around the circle curls up and goes black and there is a low hiss as it goes into the teddy bear's black eye. What are those eyes made of again? Plastic? Why am I wondering about something so trivial? Sighing I pull out the pack of smokes and pull another one out. I always chain smoke when I am thinking, so it doesn't happen often.
I start to wonder what they would do if I won. Probably nothing. Make some excuse or pretend it never happened. I can pretend they'd go on a mass suicide endeavor but let's be real, this tournament isn't as important to them as it is to others. I could cut a promo about how much I care about it but the reality is I care about me just as much as they do. I am just nice enough not to go on a speech about me in front of the world. I like making people laugh or boo. It's what we're supposed to do beyond the town and bar hopping or at least that's how I felt growing up and watching it. I romanticized the industry like I romanticize everything. It's why I am always let down. Probably now why I am so jaded.
While I had fun going out and finding a way to steal teddy bears one and two at a time for this exercise because fuck my life, the charm of this exercise had died almost as soon as it had be begun. I want to do something special God damn it. It's how my ego gets it's fix I guess.
Instead of focusing on how to accomplish this I am now watching videos on youtube with my phone that is resting on it's own little stand on the floor and doing arm curls with some weights. I don't have a TV. Outside of a mattress laying in the center of the room I don't have much of anything. Don't need anything beyond the tools to my demise, possessions are for bitches. I don't think bottles count as possessions, aren't they perishables? Short-lived commodities. Some doctor was recently in the news for giving out over seventeen-thousand subscriptions to a hardcore pain killer. Man I wish I was one of them.
I don't think people realize how significant that number is.
I also don't think people really care. I really don't either, it's just a fun thought running through my mind now while I look into the soulless eyes of the pieces of paper stuck to the bears. I am going to crash and burn so fucking hard, it doesn't matter how many times I pick these weights up. I am a pathetic loser. I don't have a yacht, I am not married to some famous wrestling family girl, I haven't adopted some kid from the third world country known as New Jersey, I don't have a sexy British accent.
I don't have shit.
I do push ups so my pecs look nice. I'll run later to burn carbs from the restaurant I ran out on. It doesn't matter how many push ups I do because I bet every mother fucker in this tournament not named David Callahan has been knighted by the Queen.
What if the Queen of England was struck by a meteor? Wouldn't that be awesome? It's been the same Queen since fucking World War two. She needs to go already.
I do pull ups from the trim of the door leading into the bathroom, the only feature this shit hole has, even if there is no water. There are three other rooms that I have literally no use for. There isn't power either, not like it matters. I do these pull ups until I fall and hit the floor and it's just as well that my head hurts.
I still can't think of what I want to do on the air. I don't want to be everyone else. I don't want to be anyone else. Didn't I already say I don't have a self? Like who the fuck am I? Just some guy. Some boring, lame fucking guy.
Maybe I'll go at it like the everyday man. Make an appeal to people. You can't tell me everyone is going for the nostalgia. Then when they least expect it I try to go ham on a MAGA chant. I think they'd boo that? I don't know. Make Wrestling Great Again.
Everyone has a catch phrase and it generally is a quick summary as well on the type of idiot they are. I don't have one so I probably don't have a soul.
I start drinking and looking at my cellphone. Waiting for a call. I've been waiting on this call for a while. It's never coming. But if it does I'll be staring at this phone ready for it.
I feel an erection coming. I don't feel like doing anything about it. I am trying to figure out something cool to do on the air, not looking up hardcore threesomes and rape fantasies.
Looking at the bears I am just thinking American Pie now. Taking 'Lucas Knight' I contemplate if I can get off using a teddy bear.
Won't know until I try. Taking this bear with his face on it just gives it serious sentimental value.
"Well Luke, it's come to this. I'll only be slightly more gentle in our match." Rotating the bear over I take both thumbs and index fingers and tear the material back over where I speculate it's asshole would be if it had one.
Unzipping my pants I grab my cock and rub it until it hardens fully. While the cotton initially feels interesting as I set the bear down into a leaning up cow girl position, I just don't see this working. I try anyways, it's not like I am doing anything else tonight. Lucas just keeps smiling. I half debate recording this and posting it on youtube. Everyone would think I am crazy though. Not sure why, they're the lame prudes.
Unsatisfied after maybe five minutes of trying to fuck this teddy bear I fall back while letting it go. That just isn't going to work.
Groaning I go into the bathroom with my phone in one hand and the bottle in the other. With the phone I could at least look up porn but there are also nudes Sophie sent me last year. They will do the job.
Ten minutes later I am walking out of the house I've been squatting in for a couple weeks now. Not too far of a walk, maybe a half hour away at a steady pace from there was is a convenient store. I can buy another pack of smokes and hopefully something flammable. They have WD40 which should do the trick.
I raped a bear, I had to get rid the evidence. I also bought a pair of scissors to cut up the other ones. I would imagine they are real people and maybe drop some acid. I could die tonight and no one would care. Although if I raped Lucas Knight and then used a lighter with WD40 to set him on fire I bet a lot of people would care then. Just fun thoughts I get sometimes. I'd never do this unless of course I had the means to do it and get away with it. Then I would have to debate on whether or not this exercise stood to bring me pleasure.
Taking the bears outside I make a little pile and with the little red straw-thing the WD40 comes with in hand, I begin spraying it over everything in sight. I decided against the acid, I didn't like doing acid alone. I wasn't sure how it would do but the new asshole of Teddy Lucas Knight went up without a problem as the starting point of the teddy bear holocaust.
It was a slow death as the fire grew, the fluffy cotton material didn't burn as fast as I thought it would but it burned none the less. Pulling out the pack I take from it it's last remaining cigarette. It occurred to me people might notice the fire from the distance. I wasn't in Vegas so much as just outside of it in the suburbs. I doubted all of the places here were just empty. Unfortunately I only had a mattress and I needed it for mild comfort. How possessions end up owning ups. If I heard sirens I'd just have to leave. I could get a room somewhere legit but I'd rather spend money on the things in life that matter. The poison that destroys our minds.
I still didn't know what I was going to say on air. Sighing I walk off. The only benefit to Vegas was it never slept and I shouldn't have to go too far to find a red haired prostitute into being dominated. I wish life was exciting. Everything always just ends up being the same normal shit. What was the name of that Nine Inch Nails song? Every day is exactly the same? I reminded myself as I did daily that the only way to change a cycle is to be active, not just say it. I will always have to be the change I want to see. If I wanted to see something exciting I'd have to do it. I just wasn't sure what that would be, the last time I tried bring ostriches and riding them to the ring they were immediately taken from me.
Whatever I do at the God of Wrestling event, I'll have to sneak it in. It's just hard concealing a eight foot tall bird that shits everywhere.
I wanted to prove them wrong. I wanted to prove her wrong. And I wanted nachos. I needed to find a restaurant with nachos.