Post by Deleted on Oct 10, 2015 20:03:31 GMT
1… 2… 3.
And just like that, it was all over.
I got up and did the walk of shame back up that ramp, assailed from all sides by insults and heckles from an audience that got their money’s worth.
“Hey Crazy! You suck!” said a particularly spirited and enthusiastic heckler who grabbed me by the shoulder and screamed in my face, after I leaned over to flip a double-bird in response to the barrage of insults being thrown my way.
I singled out the cocksucker and grabbed him by the collar with my sweat-coated hands. I have to admit, I did get some measure of satisfaction from seeing the color rapidly drain from the shit-talker's face.
“There’s two things wrong with you amigo…” I begun as I stared down the heckler through the eyeholes in my mask before tearing him a proverbial new one, “…The first was your father fucking your mother, that was a bad call. The second? Your mother not having the good sense to scrape the shit out of that womb with a straightened-out coat hanger.”
Despite having had my ass handed to me by everybody’s favorite tecnico, El Vainillo, it felt good being back in my element.
As soon as I stepped through the curtain and away from the fried-chicken loving masses, I was met by some pencil-necked geek sporting one of them production staff headsets. He stopped me in my tracks and raised the clipboard he’d been clutching in his hand.
“You’re booked for the next show at San Antonio,” he said aloud as he studied the scribbly words on his clipboard. I could’ve probably snatched the damn thing from his hands and found out for myself, but I figured I’d be doing his job for him. Pollomania didn’t look like the kind of outfit that’d reward such proactive action from its employees with another paycheck. Besides, he probably had a ball-and-chain waiting somewhere with a bunch of kids to feed.
I asked him who was I going to be up against, and he shook his head in response; which had my brain doing cartwheels, somersaults and backflips for a split-second: What the hell kind of match was I signed up for that didn’t involve an opponent? I thought I was going to be beating myself up as part of some surrealistic performance-art piece.
I mean, I’m working for a fried chicken chain: anything was possible at that point.
“You’re going to be participating in a six-man Chicken Scramble match at our next event…” he had begun explaining before I interrupted him to ask what in the blue-hell was a Chicken Scramble match.
“No-Disqualification, falls count anywhere with a 10 minute time limit, and before I forget, the winner gets the Scramble Championship.”
He waited for a reaction, but I just smiled and sidestepped him on the way to a hot shower and fresh change of clothes. I had my work cut out for me in San Antonio.
Winner winner, chicken dinner.
And just like that, it was all over.
I got up and did the walk of shame back up that ramp, assailed from all sides by insults and heckles from an audience that got their money’s worth.
“Hey Crazy! You suck!” said a particularly spirited and enthusiastic heckler who grabbed me by the shoulder and screamed in my face, after I leaned over to flip a double-bird in response to the barrage of insults being thrown my way.
I singled out the cocksucker and grabbed him by the collar with my sweat-coated hands. I have to admit, I did get some measure of satisfaction from seeing the color rapidly drain from the shit-talker's face.
“There’s two things wrong with you amigo…” I begun as I stared down the heckler through the eyeholes in my mask before tearing him a proverbial new one, “…The first was your father fucking your mother, that was a bad call. The second? Your mother not having the good sense to scrape the shit out of that womb with a straightened-out coat hanger.”
Despite having had my ass handed to me by everybody’s favorite tecnico, El Vainillo, it felt good being back in my element.
As soon as I stepped through the curtain and away from the fried-chicken loving masses, I was met by some pencil-necked geek sporting one of them production staff headsets. He stopped me in my tracks and raised the clipboard he’d been clutching in his hand.
“You’re booked for the next show at San Antonio,” he said aloud as he studied the scribbly words on his clipboard. I could’ve probably snatched the damn thing from his hands and found out for myself, but I figured I’d be doing his job for him. Pollomania didn’t look like the kind of outfit that’d reward such proactive action from its employees with another paycheck. Besides, he probably had a ball-and-chain waiting somewhere with a bunch of kids to feed.
I asked him who was I going to be up against, and he shook his head in response; which had my brain doing cartwheels, somersaults and backflips for a split-second: What the hell kind of match was I signed up for that didn’t involve an opponent? I thought I was going to be beating myself up as part of some surrealistic performance-art piece.
I mean, I’m working for a fried chicken chain: anything was possible at that point.
“You’re going to be participating in a six-man Chicken Scramble match at our next event…” he had begun explaining before I interrupted him to ask what in the blue-hell was a Chicken Scramble match.
“No-Disqualification, falls count anywhere with a 10 minute time limit, and before I forget, the winner gets the Scramble Championship.”
He waited for a reaction, but I just smiled and sidestepped him on the way to a hot shower and fresh change of clothes. I had my work cut out for me in San Antonio.
Winner winner, chicken dinner.