Post by adm on Mar 17, 2009 22:38:52 GMT -6
The pain coursing through my body is intense. Who knew I could take a bump like that and survive, let alone be booked the next week at my second Pay Per View against a man I’ve already beaten before. The king of Hardcore. The god of Barbed Wire, Mark Evil. But that doesn’t scare me, Evil doesn’t scare me. I fear no Evil. What I fear is what I must ask my wife in a few days. But for now…I need to take some pain killers cuz my whole body hurts so badly I can’t think.
The pills work fast, my body calms down, perhaps too calm. My mind is reeling, brain is fuzzy. Can’t think, can’t think straight…just like…
“Hey, Bates, you want to go out for a drink.”
My college friend somehow had followed me into this new town. He surprised me by showing up to Trauma, having witnessed the biggest match of my career to date, only to follow me again and be my roadie to the least-important title defense I’ve ever had.
“I’m sorry, but I have to drive this rental to the next town.”
“That’s ok, I’ll just come with.”
He always imposed on road trips in college. Just like the one time we went to Cancun for Cinco De Mayo. And that’s just the way he was. The way he’s always been. Party-hearty, and that’s what we were going to do when we got to his home of New York, where he’d let me stay with him for the week. I’d be able to save money on a hotel and buy a replacement to the other suits I had ruined being the Xtreme Champion, on the condition I went out to drink with him…again.
“So you’re one funny guy, Bates. A real joker.”
“I’m not really that funny, John.”
I wasn’t that funny, even when I was drunk I was rather serious. Though I sometimes thought about the things I had been spending time watching on Television lately. Something I rarely did at home being too tired from working my 9-5 and taking care of the kids. Burn Notice, and John was the Sam to my Michael Westen.
“I’m no Spy, I’m no hero, I’m not really anything. Were I a hero, I’d have saved Harold already.”
“You can’t save him; he’s hopeless as a three dollar bill in a quest for fire.”
“What?”
“You heard me; Harold is as hopeless as a three dollar bill in a quest for fire.”
“That makes no sense whatsoever.”
“So does you facing Evil for the Xtreme championship after you defended last week against Harold.”
“I think they want me to be a “fighting” champion. I think they want to use me as an example of why you pick a side in this dumb war that should never have happened. It’s like both sides are filled with children arguing over what flavor of ice cream is better. They can’t agree even if they are trying to figure out if it’s Regular Vanilla or New York Vanilla that is better. Same thing, different name.”
He got very huffy at that point. I knew why, he’s a New York boy now, and he was insulted I didn’t realize the difference in the esoteric relationship between New York and Vanilla Ice cream. As if you could have asked for a place “so exciting” to have any less meaningless a fame of food like New York Vanilla.
“Now you see, Vanilla is a bean and it’s been long used to get a “feel good” feeling out of people. It’s been used to cook, for healing and medicine since like the ****ing Egyptians. And the Egyptians, is like those guys, you know, the retired guys like Spike Kane or Lance Ryan…They are just so high up on their thrones they don’t give a **** anymore. But that’s beside the point; Vanilla is like the go-to flavor for everything. SO you can see why such a thing as distinctions between “Flavor” and “quality” of Vanilla is needed.”
I couldn’t believe this tripe was coming out of my old friends’ mouth. I sat there, sipping my beer as it slowly became warmer within the glass at the bar, looking at the odd excitement in his face as he explained the intricacies of Vanilla to me as if I actually needed to use it this week.
“So what you’re saying is there are grades of Vanilla and…wait, does this have a point?”
“The proof is in the pointlessness of it all, Bates. You’ve always thought so hard about what makes sense or is NORMAL, think abnormal while drunk and the secrets of life is revealed. Like the reason why your original analogy sucks. Because it should be French Vanilla and New York Vanilla, not regular and New York.”
“Wait, French Vanilla? Is that because the Revolution is Gay?”
“Exactly.”
So the Revolution was like French Vanilla, but where was the Resistance?
“So that means the Resistance is New York Vanilla? Making them the good guys?”
“Actually, no. You see, New York is you, the Traditional, the old stand-by while plain vanilla is a bastardized version of you and they THINK they are the good guys when in the end they are fighting for something completely asinine and worthless. While you are the TRUE GOOD, while nobody realizes it yet, you, and anyone who’s stayed out of the war like your “idol” Hammond, are the real good guys. You just do what should always be done, but nobody realizes that the true evils are both sides. There’s no reason they should have done it in the first place. That’s why New York Vanilla in Hammond and Bates rules…and freaks like Evil and Harold are either gay French Vanilla or some bastardized, weaker version of the true Vanilla.”
“You just blew my ****ing mind, John.”
And he did, as I finished off my third drink of the night. I was getting mighty buzzed and somehow everything made perfect sense. It shouldn’t, why would Ice cream relate to ANYTHING in nCw, but yet it did. It fit perfectly. The perfect tasty metaphor to use to alienate and disturb my opponent.
“So Mark Evil is Vanilla, I’m New York Vanilla. Same barbed-wire, better execution?”
“Yeah, something like that. But if you add the Barbed-wire to ice cream, it cuts your mouth something fierce; I’d leave it to your weapons and not your food.”
“Exactly, the weapons. Like my Briefcase.”
“You know, you need to improve your efficiency in the match by 10% this week. You may be hurt, but booze helps, I swear.”
“Really? It’s a pain-killer?”
“Wait, you’ve got beer…give me a sec.”
He waves over the waitress and we both get a good eye full of her busty figure. A perfect 10, even my wife couldn’t compare the day of our wedding, and I had fifty bucks on her having fake tits.
“Hey, can I get my friend a martini?”
“Coming right up, sir.”
I watched her shake her voluptuous gluteus maximus as she went to get my martini. Were I not a married man I’d plow through that field daily. Though I couldn’t help but think she had fake breasts. Nothing that large or beautiful could be real. When she was away, I discussed with my friend.
“John, you think those are real?”
My drunken stupor had negated me to the point of being a regular sick demented sexual pig like every other man, but it felt good to re-live my college days before marriage. If only for a minute I didn’t remember about the lies my wife and Harold had been spreading. For a moment my eyes were on this waitress, not sexually, but inquisitively.
“I don’t know, but I have a hundred bucks on that they are.”
“Alright, when she comes back, I’ll ask. You pay me the hundred; you know I need to replace my suits.”
“Damn right you do, you look better in the ring with that suit on, even bloodied, than anyone else in nCw. And I say that without being a drop gay.”
“You’re a good friend, John. Now…”
“Here’s your drink, darlin’.”
I couldn’t bear it, looking at those giant DD breasts made me wish I was a baby and I could wrap my lips around them suckling day in and day out. But if I was Mark Evil, I’d wrap them in Barbed wire and make myself uglier than I already was if I were him.
“I have a quick question, miss…”
“It’s Lucy.”
“Lucy, all respect you are a beautiful waitress.”
“Thanks, darlin’.”
“But I can’t help but wonder, are those real?”
“Sorry, babe, but these aren’t fake like you think. They are 100% natural. I have other things done to me but not my breasts. God gave me these guns, we’re not in California.”
She didn’t seem upset, as if she got that question a lot. I kept looking as she walked away.
“You owe me a hundred dollars, John.”
“And you need to talk about Evil more. Those cameras aren’t here to witness two friends talking about ice cream, or…are they? We’re drunk…thank god for New York’s subways and cabs.”
I turned to the camera, and let out a large belch after taking a sip of my martini.
“Mark Evil, the “Barbed Wire Messiah” or whatever you call yourself these days. You have met your match. That match is XTREMELY NORMAL Kristoff Liam Bates. You use barbed wire. I MASTERED Barbed Wire in my first Xtreme match where I won this title. I use office supplies to disrupt the “normal” weapons used by you FREAKS and now, you will see yourself become another statistical win in the already unprecedentedly amazing record I have in this, my first federation. The new guy, the “young” and “green” Kristoff Liam Bates takes out the best of the best and can rub elbows with them as if he’s been doing this his whole life. I have one thing I need to tell you before we cut for the day. And that thing is…FLAMING BARBED WIRE BRIEFCASE!”
“Wait…that’s it? That’s all you have to say to him? Nothing cryptic like someone else we know? Nothing awesomely badass like that other guy we both know? No threats on his life?”
“Nope…just FLAMING BARBED WIRE BRIEFCASE!”
“Wow…that’s heavy, man. Real heavy.”
Indeed, because when Sovereign comes, I will let Mark Evil meet my briefcase wrapped in barbed wire. And with all luck and intentions, it will be lit on fire, and he will know what it’s like to face XTREMELY NORMAL in HIS YARD…correction…MY YARD! For I am the Xtreme Champion, and I have taken his job…as the new king of Xtreme.
The pills work fast, my body calms down, perhaps too calm. My mind is reeling, brain is fuzzy. Can’t think, can’t think straight…just like…
“Hey, Bates, you want to go out for a drink.”
My college friend somehow had followed me into this new town. He surprised me by showing up to Trauma, having witnessed the biggest match of my career to date, only to follow me again and be my roadie to the least-important title defense I’ve ever had.
“I’m sorry, but I have to drive this rental to the next town.”
“That’s ok, I’ll just come with.”
He always imposed on road trips in college. Just like the one time we went to Cancun for Cinco De Mayo. And that’s just the way he was. The way he’s always been. Party-hearty, and that’s what we were going to do when we got to his home of New York, where he’d let me stay with him for the week. I’d be able to save money on a hotel and buy a replacement to the other suits I had ruined being the Xtreme Champion, on the condition I went out to drink with him…again.
“So you’re one funny guy, Bates. A real joker.”
“I’m not really that funny, John.”
I wasn’t that funny, even when I was drunk I was rather serious. Though I sometimes thought about the things I had been spending time watching on Television lately. Something I rarely did at home being too tired from working my 9-5 and taking care of the kids. Burn Notice, and John was the Sam to my Michael Westen.
“I’m no Spy, I’m no hero, I’m not really anything. Were I a hero, I’d have saved Harold already.”
“You can’t save him; he’s hopeless as a three dollar bill in a quest for fire.”
“What?”
“You heard me; Harold is as hopeless as a three dollar bill in a quest for fire.”
“That makes no sense whatsoever.”
“So does you facing Evil for the Xtreme championship after you defended last week against Harold.”
“I think they want me to be a “fighting” champion. I think they want to use me as an example of why you pick a side in this dumb war that should never have happened. It’s like both sides are filled with children arguing over what flavor of ice cream is better. They can’t agree even if they are trying to figure out if it’s Regular Vanilla or New York Vanilla that is better. Same thing, different name.”
He got very huffy at that point. I knew why, he’s a New York boy now, and he was insulted I didn’t realize the difference in the esoteric relationship between New York and Vanilla Ice cream. As if you could have asked for a place “so exciting” to have any less meaningless a fame of food like New York Vanilla.
“Now you see, Vanilla is a bean and it’s been long used to get a “feel good” feeling out of people. It’s been used to cook, for healing and medicine since like the ****ing Egyptians. And the Egyptians, is like those guys, you know, the retired guys like Spike Kane or Lance Ryan…They are just so high up on their thrones they don’t give a **** anymore. But that’s beside the point; Vanilla is like the go-to flavor for everything. SO you can see why such a thing as distinctions between “Flavor” and “quality” of Vanilla is needed.”
I couldn’t believe this tripe was coming out of my old friends’ mouth. I sat there, sipping my beer as it slowly became warmer within the glass at the bar, looking at the odd excitement in his face as he explained the intricacies of Vanilla to me as if I actually needed to use it this week.
“So what you’re saying is there are grades of Vanilla and…wait, does this have a point?”
“The proof is in the pointlessness of it all, Bates. You’ve always thought so hard about what makes sense or is NORMAL, think abnormal while drunk and the secrets of life is revealed. Like the reason why your original analogy sucks. Because it should be French Vanilla and New York Vanilla, not regular and New York.”
“Wait, French Vanilla? Is that because the Revolution is Gay?”
“Exactly.”
So the Revolution was like French Vanilla, but where was the Resistance?
“So that means the Resistance is New York Vanilla? Making them the good guys?”
“Actually, no. You see, New York is you, the Traditional, the old stand-by while plain vanilla is a bastardized version of you and they THINK they are the good guys when in the end they are fighting for something completely asinine and worthless. While you are the TRUE GOOD, while nobody realizes it yet, you, and anyone who’s stayed out of the war like your “idol” Hammond, are the real good guys. You just do what should always be done, but nobody realizes that the true evils are both sides. There’s no reason they should have done it in the first place. That’s why New York Vanilla in Hammond and Bates rules…and freaks like Evil and Harold are either gay French Vanilla or some bastardized, weaker version of the true Vanilla.”
“You just blew my ****ing mind, John.”
And he did, as I finished off my third drink of the night. I was getting mighty buzzed and somehow everything made perfect sense. It shouldn’t, why would Ice cream relate to ANYTHING in nCw, but yet it did. It fit perfectly. The perfect tasty metaphor to use to alienate and disturb my opponent.
“So Mark Evil is Vanilla, I’m New York Vanilla. Same barbed-wire, better execution?”
“Yeah, something like that. But if you add the Barbed-wire to ice cream, it cuts your mouth something fierce; I’d leave it to your weapons and not your food.”
“Exactly, the weapons. Like my Briefcase.”
“You know, you need to improve your efficiency in the match by 10% this week. You may be hurt, but booze helps, I swear.”
“Really? It’s a pain-killer?”
“Wait, you’ve got beer…give me a sec.”
He waves over the waitress and we both get a good eye full of her busty figure. A perfect 10, even my wife couldn’t compare the day of our wedding, and I had fifty bucks on her having fake tits.
“Hey, can I get my friend a martini?”
“Coming right up, sir.”
I watched her shake her voluptuous gluteus maximus as she went to get my martini. Were I not a married man I’d plow through that field daily. Though I couldn’t help but think she had fake breasts. Nothing that large or beautiful could be real. When she was away, I discussed with my friend.
“John, you think those are real?”
My drunken stupor had negated me to the point of being a regular sick demented sexual pig like every other man, but it felt good to re-live my college days before marriage. If only for a minute I didn’t remember about the lies my wife and Harold had been spreading. For a moment my eyes were on this waitress, not sexually, but inquisitively.
“I don’t know, but I have a hundred bucks on that they are.”
“Alright, when she comes back, I’ll ask. You pay me the hundred; you know I need to replace my suits.”
“Damn right you do, you look better in the ring with that suit on, even bloodied, than anyone else in nCw. And I say that without being a drop gay.”
“You’re a good friend, John. Now…”
“Here’s your drink, darlin’.”
I couldn’t bear it, looking at those giant DD breasts made me wish I was a baby and I could wrap my lips around them suckling day in and day out. But if I was Mark Evil, I’d wrap them in Barbed wire and make myself uglier than I already was if I were him.
“I have a quick question, miss…”
“It’s Lucy.”
“Lucy, all respect you are a beautiful waitress.”
“Thanks, darlin’.”
“But I can’t help but wonder, are those real?”
“Sorry, babe, but these aren’t fake like you think. They are 100% natural. I have other things done to me but not my breasts. God gave me these guns, we’re not in California.”
She didn’t seem upset, as if she got that question a lot. I kept looking as she walked away.
“You owe me a hundred dollars, John.”
“And you need to talk about Evil more. Those cameras aren’t here to witness two friends talking about ice cream, or…are they? We’re drunk…thank god for New York’s subways and cabs.”
I turned to the camera, and let out a large belch after taking a sip of my martini.
“Mark Evil, the “Barbed Wire Messiah” or whatever you call yourself these days. You have met your match. That match is XTREMELY NORMAL Kristoff Liam Bates. You use barbed wire. I MASTERED Barbed Wire in my first Xtreme match where I won this title. I use office supplies to disrupt the “normal” weapons used by you FREAKS and now, you will see yourself become another statistical win in the already unprecedentedly amazing record I have in this, my first federation. The new guy, the “young” and “green” Kristoff Liam Bates takes out the best of the best and can rub elbows with them as if he’s been doing this his whole life. I have one thing I need to tell you before we cut for the day. And that thing is…FLAMING BARBED WIRE BRIEFCASE!”
“Wait…that’s it? That’s all you have to say to him? Nothing cryptic like someone else we know? Nothing awesomely badass like that other guy we both know? No threats on his life?”
“Nope…just FLAMING BARBED WIRE BRIEFCASE!”
“Wow…that’s heavy, man. Real heavy.”
Indeed, because when Sovereign comes, I will let Mark Evil meet my briefcase wrapped in barbed wire. And with all luck and intentions, it will be lit on fire, and he will know what it’s like to face XTREMELY NORMAL in HIS YARD…correction…MY YARD! For I am the Xtreme Champion, and I have taken his job…as the new king of Xtreme.