-- 0Ne-- [A Pleasant Return For The Royal Rumble!]
Jan 4, 2020 23:21:11 GMT -5
BonnieBlue, Spartan, and 1 more like this
Post by provocateur on Jan 4, 2020 23:21:11 GMT -5
Flashback time. You know you love this type of shit.
A voice calls out from the darkness.
Its distinct echoes journey into a vast unknown. That's fancy-speak for we don't have a clue where we are, what's happening, or who is talking. Heh.
Among the void, a triumvirate of beeps sing through the atmosphere with a measure of regularity. Another voice calls out, this time followed by intensely atmospheric hullabaloo.
“Three broken ribs. A dislocated shoulder. Multiple lacerations and puncture wounds. Christ..”
“And a partridge in a pear tree. Yeah, this one’s special alright.”
“You know who this is, right?”
“Yeah, that crazy guy from that wrestling promotion. Alpha Pro, right? Arthur… something…”
“Jesus. What kind of a wrestling fan are you? This is Arthur PLEASANT!”
The hither and thither of these additional voices, combined with the machine-driven background noise, suggest that we are in a hospital. The reverberations of those unnamed voices linger as we continue to see nothing but darkness before our very eyes.
“Whoa. D-did he just try to say something!?”
“Mr. Pleasant. Can you hear me? If you can, nod your head.”
“There it was again. Jesus! He's... he's fighting unconsciousness!
“How is that possible!?”
“We pumped him with enough sedatives to knock-out a damn elephant!”
“Speaking of elephants, does anyone else smell that?”
“Is that… is that shit?”
“He may have defecated himself.”
“No, we checked. I think he was involved with animal feces.”
“Okay, so am I the ONLY one here who watched HorrorKore or what!?”
The faceless voices continue bantering back and forth. Arthur could not get through to them. He just could not break this invisible barrier that seemed to be actively preventing him from communicating with anybody.
It was at that very moment when the voices stopped.
Present day. Try to follow along, will ya? By the way, welcome back, dickfaces! How I, the greatest promotional video narrator of all time, have missed you afterbirth eating parasites.
Arthur Pleasant, absent from television for something like two and a half months, stands before us all. Old scars. New scars. Burn marks. Hoo-boy. The Nuclear Arms Race match with -- !! START: Netflix Edit!! THE GUY WHO GOT SHIT CANNED -- !! END: Netflix Edit!! [Voiceover provided by the esteemed and not totally rapey like Kevin Spacey is, Morgan Freeman] at HorrorKore certainly took its toll!
But, despite popular belief, he didn’t die. He is very much alive. Patches of his head had been shaved for, presumably, surgery to remove splinters of wood and metallic objects. But his wonderfully macabre taste in obnoxious suits remained intact. Masterfully so. He is wearing a WHERE’S WALDO? suit, after all. No joke. And an ID badge with the name "Raul Russel" on it. Hm, interesting.
The curiosity and inherent nostalgia of our cameraman presented itself as he unambiguously began zooming in on the suit. Probably trying to find Waldo, Wenda, Wizard Whitebeard, and Woof. Then of course there’s the items to find after you’ve found all the characters from Waldo’s House. The key, his walking stick, a kettle, sometimes a mallet, a cup, binoculars, a camera, a snorkel, John Blade’s imagination, a belt, a bag, a shovel, some books… and basically everything else that was used in the main event at HorrorKore.
“I’m feeling a bit like Alice.”
Oh, he finally speaks. Nice. With the drag of a cigarette tucked between his dry, chapped lips, he ambles headlong into the collective consciousness of those remaining few who didn’t ditch Netflix for Disney+. AKA, you amazing douchenozzles watching.
“No, not traveling down the rabbit hole over there in Wonderland. I'm feeling a bit like Alice... In CHAINS.”
He sings the lyrics to ‘Grind’. Incredibly off key, I might add.
“In the darkest hole, you'd be well advised… not to plan my funeral before the body dies…”
Fantastic song. A cough escapes his mouth. Water. He wanted lots of it, but for dramatic effect he decided to swear it off for. You know, so his already fucked up voice could have that raspy, desperate quality added to it. Or whatever.
“One minute I’m for the Hardcore Championship and delivering Chef Bombs on top of food trucks, and the next minute I’m… waking up in some random fucking hospital in Some Random Fucking Town, USA? I mean, how did they even pass my ass through customs? How the… what the… why the…
… ugh. That’s not okay. Apparently… get this… my stupid body DOES have limits!! Hahaha… who the fuck knew THAT was possible!?”
A grimace escapes his façade as he walks into the face of the camera, centering himself for everyone's viewing glory. Since the camera guy was zoomed in a little too closely thanks to the suit, he had no choice but to zoom outwards.
“Maybe the coma was for the best. Things weren’t exactly going my way, it seems. One loss, another loss, who’s the boss, do the floss. Fuck. I’ve lost to a plethora of people who seem hellbent on being mediocre on the mic and yet supremely good when they compete in that ring. So, with that said, what does THAT say about ME?
It says I need to step up my game when I’m setting my skinny-fat cock into that ring. It says I need to start putting my money where my gingivitis is and start living up to all my incredible hype. And… you know something? It’s true. And I can’t think of a better time to do that than at Monday Night Metal. Specifically, at the Rumble de Royale.
Because otherwise? I’m going to be just another fucking Jaice Wilds. Silver tongued and point driven, but the drizzling shits when trying to close the deal.
As for the rest of the spoiled cow silage in this match? I don’t know much, or even fuck all, about a good majority of you. Lex Collins? Raging Dead? Ashley Derringer? Wait, they actually let a feeble, weak-minded, sammich-making fucking GIRL play with us? Goddamn #MeToo Movement is alive and well I see… but a certain General of Iran ISN’T!? How the fuck is THAT fair!?
Hehe. Kidding, ladies. Kind of.”
The cameraman manages to pry himself away from the object hunting on Arthur’s suit long enough to inform our promotional video luminary that Ashley was in fact, a ‘he’. Haha. Oh, Arthur..
“Oh. Well, that’s a little… weird? What the fuck is with these dumb unisex names these days!? Whatever. I digress. Point is, there’s a lot of new faces around here. And, sure, I could spend the allotted points of my middle skill tree in research and development and do my due diligence on each every one of their lame asses, but I’m not going to. I don’t care if I’ve been out of the loop with the goings on of Alpha Pro for a hot minute… nothing about that fact changes what’s going to happen in this match. Because at the end of the day, I don’t need to hear your sad-bullshit-backstory-sob-saga-Hallmark-Channel-special to know that everyone falls over the top rope pretty much the same way when they take a clothesline, dropkick, or Hadouken. And trust me, you’re looking at the motherfuckin’ MASTER of all three. (In a terrible Yoda Voice) Find out the hard way all of you, you will.”
Flashb-
“Shit, hang on. This is the part of my promo where I do another flashback. Be back to lay the last of y’all to rest quicker than one can say ‘Seek The Vacant In Thyself’.
As I was saying before I was so brilliantly interrupted..
…FLAAAAASHBACK!
Arthur is currently sitting up in a hospital bed. Gauze covers nearly the entirety of his head as he stares up at the TV. He sways ever so slightly, suggesting a weakened state. A nurse wearing lime green scrubs wheels in an ice-cold dinner sitting on a barely washed metal tray. She was remarkably hot, though, so he probably didn’t mind much. I know I wouldn’t.
“Good Evening, Arthur. How are you today?”
Muffled through the gauze, he weakly says, “Raul Rubble.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Raul... Rubble.”
“I apologize, Mr. Pleasant but I don’t know who ‘Raul Rubble’ is.”
“Raul Rubble. RAUL RUBBLE. RAAAAAAUL RUUUUBBBBBBBLE!!!”
“Well, I’ll go and find the Doctor and try to figure out who you mean. In the meantime, you enjoy your dinner, dear! Tonight is Salisbury Steak!”
Clearly thinking this was some sadistic “REDRUM” shit, the nurse flew the coop after wheeling Arthur’s meal a bit closer to his reach. Arthur’s gaze did not waiver from the small TV up above.
“Raul… Rubble…”
“Raul… Funyun… Rubble…”
A bandaged fist comes down HARD onto the food cart with an Earth shattering crash. It immediately dents the surface as instant mashed potatoes, something that could be misconstrued as Salisbury steak, and fluids from an IV that was just violently pulled out of his own arm from the sudden impact of his tantrum all went flying in every which direction.
Reaching up towards his face with his free and much-less bandaged hand, he began unraveling the bandages from his face. Almost like THE JOKER from BATMAN. Circa 1989, bitches.
“RAUL… FUNYUN… RUBBLE. RAUL… FUNYUN… RUBBLE. RAUL… FUNYUN… RUBBLE.”
Slowly, the dressings peeled away from his face. Thinner and thinner the layers grew until there was nothing left but his mug. A much uglier mug than we last saw, but one that is still recognizable nonetheless. As clear as day, he whispered with a reserved intensity.
“Royal… Fucking… Rumble.”
Seeing the advert for APW’s upcoming Second Season premier triggered something inside of him as he began to breathe heavily. Checking his face for any open wounds, he smiled once he realized there were none.
Just… scar tissue. Scar tissue and slightly ruined pieces of flesh.
“Mr. Pleasant?”, said the nurse as she returned with a Spanish looking fellow wearing a lab coat. Presumably a phlebotomist, given the lack of Doctor’s credentials on his ID badge.
“I found Raul Russel. Is this who you were looking for?”
Raul waves with an awkward laugh.
Arthur simply waves back with a Cheshire Cat’s grin.
Present day, again. Still with us, tard-o's? For your sake, I sure hope so.
Arthur remains upright, still as a statue. The cigarette he took a drag from before has burned enough of the cigarette’s wrapping that the ashes have formed a stick and curve downward towards the cement of the hotel patio they were filming at. Black circles from what could only be magic marker speckles throughout suit, ruining the fun of trying to find Waldo and Friends ever again on this damn eyesore of a suit.
The sound of a cap being popped back into the place of a marker is distinctly…. DISTINCTLY……………………heard from behind the camera.
“So here’s the thing. Let's look at the playing field for a minute. We’ve got our Zombies and our Osbornes. Our Ghosts and our Flops. Our Franks and our Trolls. Our fucking Big Nasties and fucking Dot Com Moguls. Our Savages, Destroyers, Dawgs, Blazers, and whatever the fuck a Diakos might be. Excellent. Now, here's an idea: throw White Gandalf Returning From The Dead Version of Masuda Jubei in there while you’re at it and let’s have some goddamn fun already! Because I’ve had MORE than enough time to rest. In a semi-unconscious state for a month-plus with IVs keeping me healthy(ish), yes… but I’ve had time to rest, nonetheless. And during that time? My wounds, or at least the deepest ones that could’ve legally prohibited me from competing in a wrestling ring anymore, have healed. Thank God for radiation and Chernobyl Super AIDs having a black magic healing effect on me.”
Wait, what? Um, he just continues on from Super AIDs as if there wasn't anything to explore there, I guess.
“Season DOS (holds up three fingers, but who’s counting?) is here, and my plans, priorities, and perfectly primed process of pain has never been as resolute and steadfast as it is right now. I don’t care if I walk in first, last, somewhere in the middle, towards the end, towards the beginning, or I jump the gun entirely and fucking bash someone’s brains in with a skull-caving Provocation while I go on to take their spot. Wherever I START, you can all bet your best, most hilarious, most shameful, public masturbation stories that I’m going to be the one that actually FINISHES this shit show.
Because while the year may be Two-Thousand and Twenty… and there may be Two-Thousand and Twenty ways to die…
… make absolutely no mistake about it...
... Arthur Pleasant is the ONE who...
Unfastening the ruined suit jacket one button at a time, he slowly removes it from his person. Placing it on the cement ground, he reveals a torn and tattered white undershirt that has the portrait of former APW World Heavyweight Champion Smith Jones printed on it with 8-bit, digitized hearts plastered all over. Now available on Alpha Merch dot whatever, by the way.
Kneeling onto the jacket, Arthur flicks some of the ashes from his lit cigarette so that they scatter in midcourse like orange fireflies. Placing the tip of the burning end, he puts it out directly on the forehead of Smith Jones. Perhaps symbolic of things to come, perhaps just another insane moment from a competitor who is crazy like a fox.
Closing his eyes, he stifles a chuckle as he holds his arms out as if to invite everyone into a warm embrace.
“Bring it in, friends. Bring it in.”
This is your Narrating God with the voice of three and a half angels signing off, and bidding you all to go fuck yourselves with a rusty dildo.
Static.
A voice calls out from the darkness.
“What the hell…?”
Its distinct echoes journey into a vast unknown. That's fancy-speak for we don't have a clue where we are, what's happening, or who is talking. Heh.
“Where am I? Is anybody out there?”
Among the void, a triumvirate of beeps sing through the atmosphere with a measure of regularity. Another voice calls out, this time followed by intensely atmospheric hullabaloo.
“Three broken ribs. A dislocated shoulder. Multiple lacerations and puncture wounds. Christ..”
“And a partridge in a pear tree. Yeah, this one’s special alright.”
“You know who this is, right?”
“Yeah, that crazy guy from that wrestling promotion. Alpha Pro, right? Arthur… something…”
“Jesus. What kind of a wrestling fan are you? This is Arthur PLEASANT!”
The hither and thither of these additional voices, combined with the machine-driven background noise, suggest that we are in a hospital. The reverberations of those unnamed voices linger as we continue to see nothing but darkness before our very eyes.
“I… I don’t know what’s going on. Fuck. Why does EVERYTHING hurt!?”
“Whoa. D-did he just try to say something!?”
“Mr. Pleasant. Can you hear me? If you can, nod your head.”
“Whadda ya mean nod my fuckin’ head!? I just fuckin’ spoke!!”
“There it was again. Jesus! He's... he's fighting unconsciousness!
“How is that possible!?”
“We pumped him with enough sedatives to knock-out a damn elephant!”
“Speaking of elephants, does anyone else smell that?”
“Is that… is that shit?”
“He may have defecated himself.”
“No, we checked. I think he was involved with animal feces.”
“Okay, so am I the ONLY one here who watched HorrorKore or what!?”
The faceless voices continue bantering back and forth. Arthur could not get through to them. He just could not break this invisible barrier that seemed to be actively preventing him from communicating with anybody.
It was at that very moment when the voices stopped.
If this is what death is like, then I'm gonna fucking KILL somebody!!
Present day. Try to follow along, will ya? By the way, welcome back, dickfaces! How I, the greatest promotional video narrator of all time, have missed you afterbirth eating parasites.
Arthur Pleasant, absent from television for something like two and a half months, stands before us all. Old scars. New scars. Burn marks. Hoo-boy. The Nuclear Arms Race match with -- !! START: Netflix Edit!! THE GUY WHO GOT SHIT CANNED -- !! END: Netflix Edit!! [Voiceover provided by the esteemed and not totally rapey like Kevin Spacey is, Morgan Freeman] at HorrorKore certainly took its toll!
But, despite popular belief, he didn’t die. He is very much alive. Patches of his head had been shaved for, presumably, surgery to remove splinters of wood and metallic objects. But his wonderfully macabre taste in obnoxious suits remained intact. Masterfully so. He is wearing a WHERE’S WALDO? suit, after all. No joke. And an ID badge with the name "Raul Russel" on it. Hm, interesting.
The curiosity and inherent nostalgia of our cameraman presented itself as he unambiguously began zooming in on the suit. Probably trying to find Waldo, Wenda, Wizard Whitebeard, and Woof. Then of course there’s the items to find after you’ve found all the characters from Waldo’s House. The key, his walking stick, a kettle, sometimes a mallet, a cup, binoculars, a camera, a snorkel, John Blade’s imagination, a belt, a bag, a shovel, some books… and basically everything else that was used in the main event at HorrorKore.
“I’m feeling a bit like Alice.”
Oh, he finally speaks. Nice. With the drag of a cigarette tucked between his dry, chapped lips, he ambles headlong into the collective consciousness of those remaining few who didn’t ditch Netflix for Disney+. AKA, you amazing douchenozzles watching.
“No, not traveling down the rabbit hole over there in Wonderland. I'm feeling a bit like Alice... In CHAINS.”
He sings the lyrics to ‘Grind’. Incredibly off key, I might add.
“In the darkest hole, you'd be well advised… not to plan my funeral before the body dies…”
Fantastic song. A cough escapes his mouth. Water. He wanted lots of it, but for dramatic effect he decided to swear it off for. You know, so his already fucked up voice could have that raspy, desperate quality added to it. Or whatever.
“One minute I’m for the Hardcore Championship and delivering Chef Bombs on top of food trucks, and the next minute I’m… waking up in some random fucking hospital in Some Random Fucking Town, USA? I mean, how did they even pass my ass through customs? How the… what the… why the…
… ugh. That’s not okay. Apparently… get this… my stupid body DOES have limits!! Hahaha… who the fuck knew THAT was possible!?”
A grimace escapes his façade as he walks into the face of the camera, centering himself for everyone's viewing glory. Since the camera guy was zoomed in a little too closely thanks to the suit, he had no choice but to zoom outwards.
“Maybe the coma was for the best. Things weren’t exactly going my way, it seems. One loss, another loss, who’s the boss, do the floss. Fuck. I’ve lost to a plethora of people who seem hellbent on being mediocre on the mic and yet supremely good when they compete in that ring. So, with that said, what does THAT say about ME?
It says I need to step up my game when I’m setting my skinny-fat cock into that ring. It says I need to start putting my money where my gingivitis is and start living up to all my incredible hype. And… you know something? It’s true. And I can’t think of a better time to do that than at Monday Night Metal. Specifically, at the Rumble de Royale.
Because otherwise? I’m going to be just another fucking Jaice Wilds. Silver tongued and point driven, but the drizzling shits when trying to close the deal.
As for the rest of the spoiled cow silage in this match? I don’t know much, or even fuck all, about a good majority of you. Lex Collins? Raging Dead? Ashley Derringer? Wait, they actually let a feeble, weak-minded, sammich-making fucking GIRL play with us? Goddamn #MeToo Movement is alive and well I see… but a certain General of Iran ISN’T!? How the fuck is THAT fair!?
Hehe. Kidding, ladies. Kind of.”
The cameraman manages to pry himself away from the object hunting on Arthur’s suit long enough to inform our promotional video luminary that Ashley was in fact, a ‘he’. Haha. Oh, Arthur..
“Oh. Well, that’s a little… weird? What the fuck is with these dumb unisex names these days!? Whatever. I digress. Point is, there’s a lot of new faces around here. And, sure, I could spend the allotted points of my middle skill tree in research and development and do my due diligence on each every one of their lame asses, but I’m not going to. I don’t care if I’ve been out of the loop with the goings on of Alpha Pro for a hot minute… nothing about that fact changes what’s going to happen in this match. Because at the end of the day, I don’t need to hear your sad-bullshit-backstory-sob-saga-Hallmark-Channel-special to know that everyone falls over the top rope pretty much the same way when they take a clothesline, dropkick, or Hadouken. And trust me, you’re looking at the motherfuckin’ MASTER of all three. (In a terrible Yoda Voice) Find out the hard way all of you, you will.”
Flashb-
“Shit, hang on. This is the part of my promo where I do another flashback. Be back to lay the last of y’all to rest quicker than one can say ‘Seek The Vacant In Thyself’.
As I was saying before I was so brilliantly interrupted..
Arthur is currently sitting up in a hospital bed. Gauze covers nearly the entirety of his head as he stares up at the TV. He sways ever so slightly, suggesting a weakened state. A nurse wearing lime green scrubs wheels in an ice-cold dinner sitting on a barely washed metal tray. She was remarkably hot, though, so he probably didn’t mind much. I know I wouldn’t.
“Good Evening, Arthur. How are you today?”
Muffled through the gauze, he weakly says, “Raul Rubble.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Raul... Rubble.”
“I apologize, Mr. Pleasant but I don’t know who ‘Raul Rubble’ is.”
“Raul Rubble. RAUL RUBBLE. RAAAAAAUL RUUUUBBBBBBBLE!!!”
“Well, I’ll go and find the Doctor and try to figure out who you mean. In the meantime, you enjoy your dinner, dear! Tonight is Salisbury Steak!”
Clearly thinking this was some sadistic “REDRUM” shit, the nurse flew the coop after wheeling Arthur’s meal a bit closer to his reach. Arthur’s gaze did not waiver from the small TV up above.
“Raul… Rubble…”
January 6th, 2020
Live From: ”The Pit”, Albuquerque, New Mexico
Seating capacity: 15,411
Exclusive to NETFLIX©
“Raul… Funyun… Rubble…”
Main Event
ROYAL RUMBLE
(Winner challenges #1 Contender Smith Jones at 2020 Ways to Die PPV!)
A bandaged fist comes down HARD onto the food cart with an Earth shattering crash. It immediately dents the surface as instant mashed potatoes, something that could be misconstrued as Salisbury steak, and fluids from an IV that was just violently pulled out of his own arm from the sudden impact of his tantrum all went flying in every which direction.
Reaching up towards his face with his free and much-less bandaged hand, he began unraveling the bandages from his face. Almost like THE JOKER from BATMAN. Circa 1989, bitches.
“RAUL… FUNYUN… RUBBLE. RAUL… FUNYUN… RUBBLE. RAUL… FUNYUN… RUBBLE.”
Slowly, the dressings peeled away from his face. Thinner and thinner the layers grew until there was nothing left but his mug. A much uglier mug than we last saw, but one that is still recognizable nonetheless. As clear as day, he whispered with a reserved intensity.
“Royal… Fucking… Rumble.”
Seeing the advert for APW’s upcoming Second Season premier triggered something inside of him as he began to breathe heavily. Checking his face for any open wounds, he smiled once he realized there were none.
Just… scar tissue. Scar tissue and slightly ruined pieces of flesh.
“Mr. Pleasant?”, said the nurse as she returned with a Spanish looking fellow wearing a lab coat. Presumably a phlebotomist, given the lack of Doctor’s credentials on his ID badge.
“I found Raul Russel. Is this who you were looking for?”
Raul waves with an awkward laugh.
Arthur simply waves back with a Cheshire Cat’s grin.
Present day, again. Still with us, tard-o's? For your sake, I sure hope so.
Arthur remains upright, still as a statue. The cigarette he took a drag from before has burned enough of the cigarette’s wrapping that the ashes have formed a stick and curve downward towards the cement of the hotel patio they were filming at. Black circles from what could only be magic marker speckles throughout suit, ruining the fun of trying to find Waldo and Friends ever again on this damn eyesore of a suit.
The sound of a cap being popped back into the place of a marker is distinctly…. DISTINCTLY……………………heard from behind the camera.
“So here’s the thing. Let's look at the playing field for a minute. We’ve got our Zombies and our Osbornes. Our Ghosts and our Flops. Our Franks and our Trolls. Our fucking Big Nasties and fucking Dot Com Moguls. Our Savages, Destroyers, Dawgs, Blazers, and whatever the fuck a Diakos might be. Excellent. Now, here's an idea: throw White Gandalf Returning From The Dead Version of Masuda Jubei in there while you’re at it and let’s have some goddamn fun already! Because I’ve had MORE than enough time to rest. In a semi-unconscious state for a month-plus with IVs keeping me healthy(ish), yes… but I’ve had time to rest, nonetheless. And during that time? My wounds, or at least the deepest ones that could’ve legally prohibited me from competing in a wrestling ring anymore, have healed. Thank God for radiation and Chernobyl Super AIDs having a black magic healing effect on me.”
Wait, what? Um, he just continues on from Super AIDs as if there wasn't anything to explore there, I guess.
“Season DOS (holds up three fingers, but who’s counting?) is here, and my plans, priorities, and perfectly primed process of pain has never been as resolute and steadfast as it is right now. I don’t care if I walk in first, last, somewhere in the middle, towards the end, towards the beginning, or I jump the gun entirely and fucking bash someone’s brains in with a skull-caving Provocation while I go on to take their spot. Wherever I START, you can all bet your best, most hilarious, most shameful, public masturbation stories that I’m going to be the one that actually FINISHES this shit show.
Because while the year may be Two-Thousand and Twenty… and there may be Two-Thousand and Twenty ways to die…
… make absolutely no mistake about it...
... Arthur Pleasant is the ONE who...
{5P01L3R}
WINS THE ROYAL RUMBLE.
WINS THE ROYAL RUMBLE.
Unfastening the ruined suit jacket one button at a time, he slowly removes it from his person. Placing it on the cement ground, he reveals a torn and tattered white undershirt that has the portrait of former APW World Heavyweight Champion Smith Jones printed on it with 8-bit, digitized hearts plastered all over. Now available on Alpha Merch dot whatever, by the way.
Kneeling onto the jacket, Arthur flicks some of the ashes from his lit cigarette so that they scatter in midcourse like orange fireflies. Placing the tip of the burning end, he puts it out directly on the forehead of Smith Jones. Perhaps symbolic of things to come, perhaps just another insane moment from a competitor who is crazy like a fox.
Closing his eyes, he stifles a chuckle as he holds his arms out as if to invite everyone into a warm embrace.
“Bring it in, friends. Bring it in.”
This is your Narrating God with the voice of three and a half angels signing off, and bidding you all to go fuck yourselves with a rusty dildo.
Static.
