10-02-2020, 06:09 PM
10-06-2020, 07:17 PM
“What are we doing out here?” comrade, Adam subconsciously adds that after every Petya sentence. Like a period, or a question mark, either way, born a Soviet, always a Soviet communist pigdog. Petya waved his barrels for arms at the white farmhouse. Behind a vast corn field spread out for the eye can see. Adam didn’t answer him; instead, he puffed out his chest and plopped his hands onto his hips, proud of his initiative; for the first time in years, Adam was going to be a homeowner. Best part yet, he wasn’t going to have to stress about mortgage payments.
Anastasia clicks up next to Adam in some high heels. She struggled on the gravel driveway to keep balance. She whined, “Daarrrlling… darling, please… why have you dragged us out here to middle of bum-fuck-too. This reminds me of the Urals, and you must know, no one cares about the Urals, they’re so dreadful!”
“You better deliver on that promise of breakfast. I’m mad hungry, man,” Bison exclaimed, having zero interest on the morning’s proceedings. His curly beard had conquered his face, hid his salivating mouth, or at least that what Adam imagined.
“So, instead of having to deal with landlords and asshole neighbors who call the cops on the drop of a moan, I thought why not go out to the countryside. The nearest neighbor is a million miles away. Plus, there’s a pool and a huge ass garage that could easily be transformed into a porn studio. Isn’t that right, lady?” Adam turned towards the realtor. He’d best describe the woman as foxy, cleopatra. A thick African-American woman (see how progressive he could be?) shoved into a business suit, busting at the steams to earn her the status of ‘busty’. He’d pick her as his vice-presidential candidate any day, because an ass like hers parked on his ticket, he’d never see the end of his first term. He’d wouldn’t even lie about it, he’d tell the press that he tapped that while in the Oval Office, Clinton was nothing but amateur hour.
“Ah… yes, yes, the garage is huge and your closest neighbor is across the corn field, at least a few football fields away. They’re never hear you guys, be it partying or whatever kinky fun you white folks have planned,” the realtor responded. Her widened eyes, hunched shoulders, foretold that she didn’t want any knowledge in the planned use of the property. She just wanted it gone. Adam glanced back at Bison, who is swinging his hands, trying to convince the woman that he was not involved in the fun and games.
“I’m very concerned about the neighborhood. Is it a bad neighborhood?” Adam asked.
“I wouldn’t call it a neighborhood.”
“Well, let me rephrase the question. In here neck of the woods, are they dem missing teeth methheads who pass them time going zoom zoom zoom on there minibikes?”
“If you’re asking if there are some rednecks up in these hills? I bet you find some, but your close neighbors, they’re well-to-do… white people like yourself. In fact, the man across the way, he’s a professional wrestler… can you believe that? One of those muscle-bound idiots jumping off high things… hmmm, what was his name again? Allen- Al-, god it’s just on the tip of my tongue,” the realtor answered. I wish your tip of your tongue was elsewhere.
“Alistaire Allocco?”
“That’s it!”
“Hold up… hooold the fuck up. Pump the brakes. Let go of the gas,” Bison roared as he suddenly bulldozed his way into the conversation, getting in between the realtor and Adam. He turned towards Adam, who looked around him to continue enjoying the view. “You plan on buying this house to piss off your estranged son, aren’t you? You know, the same son that told your white ass to stay the fuck away from him. The saaaaammme asshole who avoids you like the plague, even when we’re in the same locker room?”
“Bison, my man, we all due respect. I would remind you, you have no business digging into my family affairs. That’s between a man and his son, you have to respect privacy,” Adam said in a flat monotone voice, sounding more distracted by other thoughts than warding off Bison’s concerns.
“Adam, please explain to your good friend, Petya… why this house?”
“Like the lady said, this is a great place for us white folks to do some kinky stuff. Come on, imagine the possibilities… it’s perfect! Plus, everyone can have themselves a bed. No more sharing that pull out couch,” Adam nodded, hopefully that Petya signed off on the plan. After all, he never ever wanted to wake up with a hangover, playing little spoon to Petya again. One time was enough, the second time felt so wrong.
“There’s no way I’m staying in the rustic whole in the ground, darling. What type of sophisticated lady you think I am to have me reside in a hobbit hovel,” Anastasia sounded off, keeping up that haughty tone. No one paid her any heed. The three men huddled together, all trying to speak up at once, with Bison protesting.
“ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT! Petya understands… apartment’s no good. Big house in the country is perfect. Maybe we can even see to bringing in some horses. No? No horsies?” Petya acted disappointed when Adam shook his head at the last part. He didn’t know what was on Petya’s mind. He didn’t want to introduce any elements he would be forced to use in his shoots. Despite all the disgusting, deprave shit he gladly took on in his field of work and in his personal life, directing a full-length Catherine the Great film was a step too far. Petya turned towards the realtor, “Hey, sexy lady, how much for the house?”
Petya’s jaw dropped at the answer while Adam patted him on his back. He wished he could listen in on the conversation when Petya broke the news that he bought Adam an expensive ass house in the middle of Timbuktu…
---------------------------------------------
Well, well, well…we meet again Jake.
Once upon a time, I used to consider you a rival. I hated you. I couldn’t stomach you. I vowed to spit in your coffin at your funeral. Your promos were what I expected from a virgin teenager with more zits on his face then pubes on his chiny chin chin. I considered you an imbecile that appealed to such juvenile tastes, the less savory demographic professional wrestling craters to. A bunch of freeloaders who, if lucky, get their parents to buy the pay-per-views.
You are said to have changed the game. You’re remembered, enshrined even in the Hall of Game. Funny really, seeing how instead of raising the level of competition, the bar, instead you ushered in an era of soft, dimwitted, insecure crybabies who all have a hair trigger sensitivity, so offended over the smallest iota of politically incorrectness, rudeness, or heckling. We now live in an age where Disney princesses raging on periods without the proper decency of using a rag is considered iconic, brave, courageous, heroic. Frozen Hell might have beaten the Golden Boys, but we all know who won war. We did the moment we triggered them over some lighthearted jests.
If you can possibly laugh at yourself, then you should find the nearest bridge and toss yourself off. That’s what I always say.
And if anyone needs to laugh at themselves now, it’s really you Jake. You’re at the bottom of the barrel now, scraping for whatever you can manage. It’s a sad sight. Reminds me of watching a racehorse limp on the track… you know, right before the put a slug in the back of its head to put it out of its misery. You’re better than this. You used to be that stupid dog that humped everything and pissed everywhere; but now since you got neutered, you more often have your tail between your legs than probably spending any time between someone else’s.
Angry enough? I would hope so. I hope I set you off. Bring some of that fire back. A pissed off Jake Starr was always the toughest. I remember the Rise to Greatness where you squeaked one past me. You were fuming, all that pent-up anger from the fact I ended broke your initial stride in this company years before. The only difference between those two matches, you lost when you were complacent and you won when you were pissed.
Why am I trying to motivate you, Starr? Sometimes you have to toss a dog a bone. No, no, really… I do it out of that small, winsy little part of me that actually respects you. I want this tag team match in the middle of October to be something… magical. See, everyone already has forgotten the Golden Boys, wrote us off because we hit our first real road bump at Apocalypse. But it’s all whole new day, a chance redeems ourselves… but that goes for you and Jason, doesn’t it? I don’t know much about Jason, other than he’s the uglier of the Helms brother and never got the memo that perm went out style about before he was born. But hey, you gotta do what you gotta do to get some attention when you’re forever doomed to live in your brother’s shadow. A bad hair cut is a shot in the dark, but desperate times called for desperate measure.
But all seriousness, it’s a brand-new day for all of us. And fortune favors the bald.
Enough about cosmetology.
More about this World Tag League. You know, what I wanted to do four months ago if only I had more backing from the SCW Brass. Drachewyches were never original, so no surprise there. I mean the least the boss lady could do is throw the Golden Boys into the same group as Frozen Hell, you know the champions we almost defeated at Apocaplyse. Of course, she didn’t. She knew that we would have seized that second chance and now her company has a porn icon as their poster boy. I know she’s going to the extreme trying to keep this a family-oriented television product, so she can keep tapping in on Selena Frost plushies for the kids and Cookie’s special medicine ball for the moms. But you know what, I’m very good at playing the role of the spoiler. I am the bump in the road. The hiccup. The unexpected ruin to whatever mice and men got planned.
I know that you know that I know that you know everything I’ve said up to this point is the truth. Deep down inside, you’re breaking down man and Starr, you’re going to be holding on that small thread of hope, that this World Tag League is going to blast you into a renaissance, just like that Taking Hold of the Flame did for your buddy David. You’re desperate now. You’re treating everything like your last chance. Your team already stumbled out of the gate, but you’re clinging on to that hope. That type of desperation breed depravity, and depravity makes even the small mice cannibalistic. You’re dangerous. Jason’s dangerous too, needing to find some way to stand out.
Unfortunately for you, the Golden Boys aren’t going to let you pass go and collect 200 dollars. No, straight to the streets, we’re here to make you homeless. No, this is our story, our narrative, and I’m the playwright. The entire world’s a stage, that’s a lie. The entire world’s a pus-beep, just waiting for us to fu-beep.
Anastasia clicks up next to Adam in some high heels. She struggled on the gravel driveway to keep balance. She whined, “Daarrrlling… darling, please… why have you dragged us out here to middle of bum-fuck-too. This reminds me of the Urals, and you must know, no one cares about the Urals, they’re so dreadful!”
“You better deliver on that promise of breakfast. I’m mad hungry, man,” Bison exclaimed, having zero interest on the morning’s proceedings. His curly beard had conquered his face, hid his salivating mouth, or at least that what Adam imagined.
“So, instead of having to deal with landlords and asshole neighbors who call the cops on the drop of a moan, I thought why not go out to the countryside. The nearest neighbor is a million miles away. Plus, there’s a pool and a huge ass garage that could easily be transformed into a porn studio. Isn’t that right, lady?” Adam turned towards the realtor. He’d best describe the woman as foxy, cleopatra. A thick African-American woman (see how progressive he could be?) shoved into a business suit, busting at the steams to earn her the status of ‘busty’. He’d pick her as his vice-presidential candidate any day, because an ass like hers parked on his ticket, he’d never see the end of his first term. He’d wouldn’t even lie about it, he’d tell the press that he tapped that while in the Oval Office, Clinton was nothing but amateur hour.
“Ah… yes, yes, the garage is huge and your closest neighbor is across the corn field, at least a few football fields away. They’re never hear you guys, be it partying or whatever kinky fun you white folks have planned,” the realtor responded. Her widened eyes, hunched shoulders, foretold that she didn’t want any knowledge in the planned use of the property. She just wanted it gone. Adam glanced back at Bison, who is swinging his hands, trying to convince the woman that he was not involved in the fun and games.
“I’m very concerned about the neighborhood. Is it a bad neighborhood?” Adam asked.
“I wouldn’t call it a neighborhood.”
“Well, let me rephrase the question. In here neck of the woods, are they dem missing teeth methheads who pass them time going zoom zoom zoom on there minibikes?”
“If you’re asking if there are some rednecks up in these hills? I bet you find some, but your close neighbors, they’re well-to-do… white people like yourself. In fact, the man across the way, he’s a professional wrestler… can you believe that? One of those muscle-bound idiots jumping off high things… hmmm, what was his name again? Allen- Al-, god it’s just on the tip of my tongue,” the realtor answered. I wish your tip of your tongue was elsewhere.
“Alistaire Allocco?”
“That’s it!”
“Hold up… hooold the fuck up. Pump the brakes. Let go of the gas,” Bison roared as he suddenly bulldozed his way into the conversation, getting in between the realtor and Adam. He turned towards Adam, who looked around him to continue enjoying the view. “You plan on buying this house to piss off your estranged son, aren’t you? You know, the same son that told your white ass to stay the fuck away from him. The saaaaammme asshole who avoids you like the plague, even when we’re in the same locker room?”
“Bison, my man, we all due respect. I would remind you, you have no business digging into my family affairs. That’s between a man and his son, you have to respect privacy,” Adam said in a flat monotone voice, sounding more distracted by other thoughts than warding off Bison’s concerns.
“Adam, please explain to your good friend, Petya… why this house?”
“Like the lady said, this is a great place for us white folks to do some kinky stuff. Come on, imagine the possibilities… it’s perfect! Plus, everyone can have themselves a bed. No more sharing that pull out couch,” Adam nodded, hopefully that Petya signed off on the plan. After all, he never ever wanted to wake up with a hangover, playing little spoon to Petya again. One time was enough, the second time felt so wrong.
“There’s no way I’m staying in the rustic whole in the ground, darling. What type of sophisticated lady you think I am to have me reside in a hobbit hovel,” Anastasia sounded off, keeping up that haughty tone. No one paid her any heed. The three men huddled together, all trying to speak up at once, with Bison protesting.
“ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT! Petya understands… apartment’s no good. Big house in the country is perfect. Maybe we can even see to bringing in some horses. No? No horsies?” Petya acted disappointed when Adam shook his head at the last part. He didn’t know what was on Petya’s mind. He didn’t want to introduce any elements he would be forced to use in his shoots. Despite all the disgusting, deprave shit he gladly took on in his field of work and in his personal life, directing a full-length Catherine the Great film was a step too far. Petya turned towards the realtor, “Hey, sexy lady, how much for the house?”
Petya’s jaw dropped at the answer while Adam patted him on his back. He wished he could listen in on the conversation when Petya broke the news that he bought Adam an expensive ass house in the middle of Timbuktu…
---------------------------------------------
Well, well, well…we meet again Jake.
Once upon a time, I used to consider you a rival. I hated you. I couldn’t stomach you. I vowed to spit in your coffin at your funeral. Your promos were what I expected from a virgin teenager with more zits on his face then pubes on his chiny chin chin. I considered you an imbecile that appealed to such juvenile tastes, the less savory demographic professional wrestling craters to. A bunch of freeloaders who, if lucky, get their parents to buy the pay-per-views.
You are said to have changed the game. You’re remembered, enshrined even in the Hall of Game. Funny really, seeing how instead of raising the level of competition, the bar, instead you ushered in an era of soft, dimwitted, insecure crybabies who all have a hair trigger sensitivity, so offended over the smallest iota of politically incorrectness, rudeness, or heckling. We now live in an age where Disney princesses raging on periods without the proper decency of using a rag is considered iconic, brave, courageous, heroic. Frozen Hell might have beaten the Golden Boys, but we all know who won war. We did the moment we triggered them over some lighthearted jests.
If you can possibly laugh at yourself, then you should find the nearest bridge and toss yourself off. That’s what I always say.
And if anyone needs to laugh at themselves now, it’s really you Jake. You’re at the bottom of the barrel now, scraping for whatever you can manage. It’s a sad sight. Reminds me of watching a racehorse limp on the track… you know, right before the put a slug in the back of its head to put it out of its misery. You’re better than this. You used to be that stupid dog that humped everything and pissed everywhere; but now since you got neutered, you more often have your tail between your legs than probably spending any time between someone else’s.
Angry enough? I would hope so. I hope I set you off. Bring some of that fire back. A pissed off Jake Starr was always the toughest. I remember the Rise to Greatness where you squeaked one past me. You were fuming, all that pent-up anger from the fact I ended broke your initial stride in this company years before. The only difference between those two matches, you lost when you were complacent and you won when you were pissed.
Why am I trying to motivate you, Starr? Sometimes you have to toss a dog a bone. No, no, really… I do it out of that small, winsy little part of me that actually respects you. I want this tag team match in the middle of October to be something… magical. See, everyone already has forgotten the Golden Boys, wrote us off because we hit our first real road bump at Apocalypse. But it’s all whole new day, a chance redeems ourselves… but that goes for you and Jason, doesn’t it? I don’t know much about Jason, other than he’s the uglier of the Helms brother and never got the memo that perm went out style about before he was born. But hey, you gotta do what you gotta do to get some attention when you’re forever doomed to live in your brother’s shadow. A bad hair cut is a shot in the dark, but desperate times called for desperate measure.
But all seriousness, it’s a brand-new day for all of us. And fortune favors the bald.
Enough about cosmetology.
More about this World Tag League. You know, what I wanted to do four months ago if only I had more backing from the SCW Brass. Drachewyches were never original, so no surprise there. I mean the least the boss lady could do is throw the Golden Boys into the same group as Frozen Hell, you know the champions we almost defeated at Apocaplyse. Of course, she didn’t. She knew that we would have seized that second chance and now her company has a porn icon as their poster boy. I know she’s going to the extreme trying to keep this a family-oriented television product, so she can keep tapping in on Selena Frost plushies for the kids and Cookie’s special medicine ball for the moms. But you know what, I’m very good at playing the role of the spoiler. I am the bump in the road. The hiccup. The unexpected ruin to whatever mice and men got planned.
I know that you know that I know that you know everything I’ve said up to this point is the truth. Deep down inside, you’re breaking down man and Starr, you’re going to be holding on that small thread of hope, that this World Tag League is going to blast you into a renaissance, just like that Taking Hold of the Flame did for your buddy David. You’re desperate now. You’re treating everything like your last chance. Your team already stumbled out of the gate, but you’re clinging on to that hope. That type of desperation breed depravity, and depravity makes even the small mice cannibalistic. You’re dangerous. Jason’s dangerous too, needing to find some way to stand out.
Unfortunately for you, the Golden Boys aren’t going to let you pass go and collect 200 dollars. No, straight to the streets, we’re here to make you homeless. No, this is our story, our narrative, and I’m the playwright. The entire world’s a stage, that’s a lie. The entire world’s a pus-beep, just waiting for us to fu-beep.