Inappropriate Behavior
Oct 25, 2015 19:27:13 GMT
ISM Office, Buck U Productions, and 1 more like this
Post by Deleted on Oct 25, 2015 19:27:13 GMT
Say what you will about alien technology; that Mind Control Ray was nothing short of a godsend when it came down to the wire.
I should’ve sent a Thank-You card to Zargnax with a bottle of semi-decent scotch for his troubles. Then again, I decided against it after briefly considering the potentially adverse affects of mixed-grain scotch whiskey on that green-skinned alien physiology of “The Intergalactic Conquerer”.
And of course, there’s also the whole rubbing-salt-in-the-wound thing. It didn’t make sense to piss off an alien with a Boxing Glove Ray Gun anymore than I had to, less I go down in history as the masked lunatic who started an intergalactic war.
Sounds like the plotline for a Z-Grade science-fiction midnight flick?
Welcome to Pollomania.
I had expected to stagger out of there with a paycheck and all of the bruises I could handle from having been conscripted into the Chicken Scramble.
What I didn’t expect though, was that I’d be leaving San Antonio with the Scramble Championship.
Just when I thought I was finally getting somewhere, I got the newsflash regarding the gig in Houston from a pimply-faced intern they probably seconded from some minimum-wage job behind a fucking fryer.
“Next show, you’ll be teaming up with El Tigre De Jengibre against Grin and El Vainillo,” he said, before adding, “Please don’t kill me.”
I had the little shit up against the wall as I released the death-grip I had on the poor bastard’s collar, letting him slide out from underneath me before wisely fucking off as fast as he could.
I remembered walking out of that dressing room and making a beeline for the nearest television screen in the backstage area. I barely caught the end of the Gravied Alive match and marveled at the sight of a fat, grinning bastard pouring hot gravy into a hole that contained both my employer and my future tag-team partner for Houston.
For a moment, all I could think of was piping hot gravy over mash potatoes. Garnish the damn thing with a medium-rare steak, and I’d happily beat a man into a vegetative coma for a plate of that goodness.
I guess The Ginger Tiger was going to be hauling ass to Houston with more than just a chip-on-his-shoulder.
Mmmm… gravy on chips; now that’s something I’d gladly take a hit from Zargnax’s patented Boxing Glove gun for.
Just as I was thinking about dinner, I ran a female intern on the way back to the dressing room. She had a look that screamed “Media Student” all over the goddamn place.
Actually, she had been screaming out loud. I instinctively looked down and realized that I was still wearing my sweaty birthday-suit, stark-naked and resplendent with my family jewels all hung out to dry.
I thought about it for a moment before I decided on an appropriate response:
“That’s a mighty cute looking eye-socket you’ve got over there.”
Guess what? HR sucked just as bad in Pollo Bucket.
I should’ve sent a Thank-You card to Zargnax with a bottle of semi-decent scotch for his troubles. Then again, I decided against it after briefly considering the potentially adverse affects of mixed-grain scotch whiskey on that green-skinned alien physiology of “The Intergalactic Conquerer”.
And of course, there’s also the whole rubbing-salt-in-the-wound thing. It didn’t make sense to piss off an alien with a Boxing Glove Ray Gun anymore than I had to, less I go down in history as the masked lunatic who started an intergalactic war.
Sounds like the plotline for a Z-Grade science-fiction midnight flick?
Welcome to Pollomania.
I had expected to stagger out of there with a paycheck and all of the bruises I could handle from having been conscripted into the Chicken Scramble.
What I didn’t expect though, was that I’d be leaving San Antonio with the Scramble Championship.
Just when I thought I was finally getting somewhere, I got the newsflash regarding the gig in Houston from a pimply-faced intern they probably seconded from some minimum-wage job behind a fucking fryer.
“Next show, you’ll be teaming up with El Tigre De Jengibre against Grin and El Vainillo,” he said, before adding, “Please don’t kill me.”
I had the little shit up against the wall as I released the death-grip I had on the poor bastard’s collar, letting him slide out from underneath me before wisely fucking off as fast as he could.
I remembered walking out of that dressing room and making a beeline for the nearest television screen in the backstage area. I barely caught the end of the Gravied Alive match and marveled at the sight of a fat, grinning bastard pouring hot gravy into a hole that contained both my employer and my future tag-team partner for Houston.
For a moment, all I could think of was piping hot gravy over mash potatoes. Garnish the damn thing with a medium-rare steak, and I’d happily beat a man into a vegetative coma for a plate of that goodness.
I guess The Ginger Tiger was going to be hauling ass to Houston with more than just a chip-on-his-shoulder.
Mmmm… gravy on chips; now that’s something I’d gladly take a hit from Zargnax’s patented Boxing Glove gun for.
Just as I was thinking about dinner, I ran a female intern on the way back to the dressing room. She had a look that screamed “Media Student” all over the goddamn place.
Actually, she had been screaming out loud. I instinctively looked down and realized that I was still wearing my sweaty birthday-suit, stark-naked and resplendent with my family jewels all hung out to dry.
I thought about it for a moment before I decided on an appropriate response:
“That’s a mighty cute looking eye-socket you’ve got over there.”
Guess what? HR sucked just as bad in Pollo Bucket.