Post by Deleted on May 3, 2016 1:11:38 GMT
A father and son enjoy a peaceful afternoon fishing from a small dock on a pristine lake, a steaming Pollo Bucket family meal set between them. The son's line grows taut, as the father points to the fishing cork a moment before it sinks beneath the water's surface, leaving only a faint ripple. The two exchange a look, as a moss-covered humanoid bursts from the lake, giving a monstrous tug on the fishing line that catapults the son into the water. The feed interrupts.
Cut to a shot of a banner bearing a stylized cockroach logo, haphazardly hanging from one side of a brown van, as the sounds of unseen traffic drift in from the background. POLLOMANIA's favorite under-25 Canadian luchadora stands in front, dressed in her domino mask and ring attire.
La Cucaracha: I'm not necessarily a bad winner, because I gloat all the time anyway. But I'm definitely a bad loser, Deezy, and considering our saga so far is 1-2 in your favor, I know I need to bring my A-game at Cinco De Mayo. But y'know something? My A-game isn't necessarily enough. You're a pretty goddamn good wrestler. I figured that out, even when I was shilling merch and shamelessly posing for photo ops. You're about as likable as gonorrhea, and if this were for the POLLOMANIA Congeniality Championship, you wouldn't be able to velcro my boots.
See, that tag team match got me rattled. I figured Ursula Areano and myself were gonna waltz right through you, Holly Guacamole, and both of Holly's brain cells. That didn't happen and now I have to prove to the world that the Rotisserie Rumble wasn't a fluke. Which means beating you in a wrestling match. And there's a good chance you're a better wrestler than me.
Here's the thing, Deechebag. I'm a better cheater than you. Sure, you're an underhanded, loathesome, garbage person, while I'm an underhanded, LOVABLE, garbage person. But if my truckload of charisma alone was enough to crush you, you'd be a pancake already. Instead, I'm going to have to go to my well of low-blows, eye-pokes, closed-fists, feet-on-the-ropes, unpadded-turnbuckles, and foreign objects.
There's nothing I would love more than to start our match by shooting you in the junk with an official POLLOMANIA La Cucaracha t-shirt. Because I think it'd massively pop the crowd and because I hope it'd keep you from making any Deezy Guacamoles for the heirs of House Cucaracha to deal with in the year 2099. I gotta protect the future here.
Kicking you in the balls is good for humanity. Plus, as a woman, I have no idea how much that actually hurts and don't automatically wince every time I see it. Your testicles will get no sympathy at Cinco De Mayo. Try a low blow on me. I dare you. You'll find out the hard way whether or not I have vagina dentata.
I'm not just a cockroach because I'm brilliant at merchandising. I'm a cockroach because cockroaches are the dirtiest creatures in the world. We thrive off garbage and we'll do anything to survive. I'm the Queen of Cockroaches, and I want my belt back. You might be dirty, Nintedo-Wi.
La Cucaracha pauses a moment and frowns.
Goddammit. That one sucked. You might be dirty, um, dick-tits, but I guarantee I'm dirtier. I've never filed taxes. I always sneak Monopoly money from the bank. Once a week, I steal a license plate from car and use it to replace the one on my van. I'm currently receiving a massive allowance from an insane auteur who's convinced I'm his daughter. I'd rather unplug my PS4 than lose a game online.
One thing we got in common, we're both sore losers. Last time we met, I lost. And I'm pretty fucking sore about it. I'm not about to let that happen again. I mean, not unless I get to keep my belt if I get disqualified. I should really look that up.
Her gaze shifting downward, La Cucaracha raises her smartphone into view and pokes at the screen, before noticing that the camera is still on.
Oh shit.
The feed cuts and the Pollo Bucket commercial resumes, with the family reunited on the dock. The father is enjoying a chicken leg, as the son sits wet and miserable. The lake monster, still half-submerged, greedily scoops at a bowl of mashed potatoes with his webbed fingers. The father shakes his head and chuckles good-naturedly.
Cut to a shot of a banner bearing a stylized cockroach logo, haphazardly hanging from one side of a brown van, as the sounds of unseen traffic drift in from the background. POLLOMANIA's favorite under-25 Canadian luchadora stands in front, dressed in her domino mask and ring attire.
La Cucaracha: I'm not necessarily a bad winner, because I gloat all the time anyway. But I'm definitely a bad loser, Deezy, and considering our saga so far is 1-2 in your favor, I know I need to bring my A-game at Cinco De Mayo. But y'know something? My A-game isn't necessarily enough. You're a pretty goddamn good wrestler. I figured that out, even when I was shilling merch and shamelessly posing for photo ops. You're about as likable as gonorrhea, and if this were for the POLLOMANIA Congeniality Championship, you wouldn't be able to velcro my boots.
See, that tag team match got me rattled. I figured Ursula Areano and myself were gonna waltz right through you, Holly Guacamole, and both of Holly's brain cells. That didn't happen and now I have to prove to the world that the Rotisserie Rumble wasn't a fluke. Which means beating you in a wrestling match. And there's a good chance you're a better wrestler than me.
Here's the thing, Deechebag. I'm a better cheater than you. Sure, you're an underhanded, loathesome, garbage person, while I'm an underhanded, LOVABLE, garbage person. But if my truckload of charisma alone was enough to crush you, you'd be a pancake already. Instead, I'm going to have to go to my well of low-blows, eye-pokes, closed-fists, feet-on-the-ropes, unpadded-turnbuckles, and foreign objects.
There's nothing I would love more than to start our match by shooting you in the junk with an official POLLOMANIA La Cucaracha t-shirt. Because I think it'd massively pop the crowd and because I hope it'd keep you from making any Deezy Guacamoles for the heirs of House Cucaracha to deal with in the year 2099. I gotta protect the future here.
Kicking you in the balls is good for humanity. Plus, as a woman, I have no idea how much that actually hurts and don't automatically wince every time I see it. Your testicles will get no sympathy at Cinco De Mayo. Try a low blow on me. I dare you. You'll find out the hard way whether or not I have vagina dentata.
I'm not just a cockroach because I'm brilliant at merchandising. I'm a cockroach because cockroaches are the dirtiest creatures in the world. We thrive off garbage and we'll do anything to survive. I'm the Queen of Cockroaches, and I want my belt back. You might be dirty, Nintedo-Wi.
La Cucaracha pauses a moment and frowns.
Goddammit. That one sucked. You might be dirty, um, dick-tits, but I guarantee I'm dirtier. I've never filed taxes. I always sneak Monopoly money from the bank. Once a week, I steal a license plate from car and use it to replace the one on my van. I'm currently receiving a massive allowance from an insane auteur who's convinced I'm his daughter. I'd rather unplug my PS4 than lose a game online.
One thing we got in common, we're both sore losers. Last time we met, I lost. And I'm pretty fucking sore about it. I'm not about to let that happen again. I mean, not unless I get to keep my belt if I get disqualified. I should really look that up.
Her gaze shifting downward, La Cucaracha raises her smartphone into view and pokes at the screen, before noticing that the camera is still on.
Oh shit.
The feed cuts and the Pollo Bucket commercial resumes, with the family reunited on the dock. The father is enjoying a chicken leg, as the son sits wet and miserable. The lake monster, still half-submerged, greedily scoops at a bowl of mashed potatoes with his webbed fingers. The father shakes his head and chuckles good-naturedly.