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Session I: The Adventure of the Final Problem

The room struck a tenuous balance between bland and comfortable. The walls were eggshell, the carpet taupe with a geometric grey rug neatly laid between the plush, charcoal couch and the matching chair across, a glass topped table on top of that with a box of tissues perched on it. There was a mahogany desk almost in the background, diplomas and other qualifications in simple frames on the wall. A large window provided a fine view of a park nearby, marred as it currently was with fat raindrops that were occasionally joined by more, each making a soft, wet ‘plit’ sound as it hit the glass. John sat on this couch, his body language rigid, eyes tracing over new surroundings. He had a suit on. Similar to what he’d wear to an appearance that required such attire. There was an older woman sitting across from him in that chair. That assumption only made by her short cropped grey hair because her face despite the telltale signs of aging was still youthful and exuberant as she observed him. She was dressed professionally: white blouse, dark colored slacks, and high heels. She adjusted the thin black framed glasses on the bridge of her narrow nose as she noticed the man looking at every bit of the room except right ahead at her. “Good morning, John,” she flipped open a manilla folder that had been on her lap, quickly moving past the cover sheet of the packet inside, “I’m Doctor Jillian Moriarty...” She trailed off, seeing how he would pipe in and there was no response. Time moved slow as John finally turned his attention on her, or actually looking out the window behind her. “Like The Adventure of the Final Problem.” “That’s right,” she smiled, making a little note on the first page but then she pressed on, “Doctor Richards recommended we meet.” “Okay,” John checked his watch despite the one on the wall. The doctor was unphased by what could be construed as rude behavior. She had after all been doing this line of work for thirty one years now. She knew that it took all kinds of people to make the world work but she did enjoy the no nonsense approach. “John, may I ask you some questions?” Nothing. “So I’ve read a lot about you. You’re a popular subject in some communities. Thing is, that’s all conjecture. John, tell me about yourself.” “I turned forty two on March 15th.” “Oh, happy belated birthday. Mine’s not until November. The big sixty,” she paused to take another note, “So I want to speak a little about you. It may be some of that conjecture I just mentioned so feel free to correct the record.” “Okay.” “You spent twenty years…” “19 years and six months. People like to round up but the first six months were spent in county during all aspects of the trial.” “Thank you, John. Nearly twenty years at the Ely State Prison. Death row,” in polite conversation, she’d dance around the implication but something told her that would bear no fruit, “Convicted of the murder of your wife Christina and your unborn child. Anyway, forgive me if I sound like a Wikipedia article here. You were exonerated. Most legal experts agree that the evidence and timeline was crafted through the aid of a coerced confession. Most believe that Christina’s death was an accidental overdose of your prescription painkillers. Most believe that your only crime so to speak was the improper disposal of her body.” “She liked that tree. So I buried her there.” The questions one would normally ask didn’t apply here. John continued to look anywhere except at Moriarty as they conversed. “Are you angry about that?” “About what?” “I’d be angry in your situation.” “Nothing I can do about it.” “You’re right. We can’t go back and change all of that. But what about what happened during?” “That, too.” Another response, another note. She then turned to a questionnaire that John filled out online,  “That’s okay. Thank you for filling this out. I also spoke with Mike on the phone,” and then casting out questions for obvious answers, “Who’s Mike to you?” “My partner.” “What does that mean to you?” “I don’t understand.” “My husband is my partner, too, John. Is that what you mean?” “No. We aren’t married.” Moriarty nodded, “Frank is my best friend, too. Is it like that?” “Sure.” “Anyway, this isn’t about Mike unless you’d like it to be.” “Mike isn’t here. That wouldn’t be fair.” “Right. They’re just outside this room. This is about you, though. But if you think Mike is your best friend - we may end up talking about them in the future. Is that okay?” “Okay.” “John, I’d like to help.” “With what?” “That’s a loaded question but that’s why we are here right now. What if I were to tell you that I’ve met a lot of people just like you?” John shrugged, but for the first time, he met the doctor’s dark brown eyes. “People who don’t like their routines disrupted. John, you wrote that you have breakfast at 7:05AM every morning. What happens if you don’t?” “I don’t think about that.” “Are you ever frustrated that people don’t understand you? In our short time, I’ve understood you loud and clear but … has anyone ever been angry at you just from talking to you?” There is a very long moment of silence between the two, John fidgeted with his watch. “John?” Uncharastically, his absolute nature wavered, “Maybe.” “I know people that may just be like you. And if that is the case, I could help you.” That’s the second time she said that. John repeated the same answer, his tone raised just a little. “With what?” “Whatever you’d like,” she closed the folder, setting it aside on the arm of the chair, “But I can tell you that this has got a little scattered. By design, mind you. We touched on a lot of what makes you who you are. I do appreciate you interrupting your day to speak with me. So I’d like to give you some of that time back if you’d like. But, John, I’d like to speak every time you circle back home. I understand your schedule is very busy. Mike told me you two have a flight scheduled in a few hours so I think we could accomplish more when you aren't in a time crunch. Plus ... well, just think about our conversation. I'd like to help if you'd let me." Third time. Different answer, however. “Okay. I’ll have to ask Mike.” Doctor Moriarty nodded in response, “Certainly.”

#location: dr. moriarty's office #Solo CD: John

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NSFW #2.5: Zombie Flesh Eaters

It was always astonishing how small the world really seemed from this high up. NSFW would be landing in Medellin in an hour or so. They had left their home base after only a sparse couple days in Pittsburgh. They could have made a straight shot right from Cusco to Medellin- it would have meant less time airborne and more sightseeing- but they had an important appointment that couldn’t be delayed. So home they’d gone, and in their brief time there they hadn’t simply dealt with what was necessary, they’d spoken at length of things they wanted to see and do while in Colombia. However, at the end of the day, it all cycled back to what they were going there for in the first place. The ascent back up to the top- perhaps less literal than the ascent they’d taken together back in Peru, the grand pinnacle being the city full of the ghosts of a long-passed civilization, but no less strenuous. To prove to smirking, haughty Cross Reboca and his vicious, desperate partner that they weren’t going away, that they would be breathing down their necks as long as they held the Chimeras. Of course, that meant clearing away any obstacles in their path. The obstacle now, strangely enough, was the team that they first thought they would be chasing upon their imminent arrival to Valor Pro. Things had changed rather quickly. Now, with Cuba below them, its buildings in miniature from this altitude, Mike found themselves musing about the peculiar pair, representatives of an even more peculiar group. Giving a glance to their partner, who seemed enthralled by the view of the world from above, Mike looked to their phone, raising an eyebrow at the camera. “To be honest, I don’t really get it. I mean I wanna get it. I want to like you guys. You seem cool, and your mission statement is on point. I mean, after spending the last couple shows fighting against the fuckin’ paragons of self-serving bullshit, a team whose mission statement is to improve the world around them is a goddamn breath of fresh air.” Tucking their hands behind their head, Mike glanced past their partner out the window, shrugging. Their Mets cap was turned to the side, the brim tilted in an almost jaunty manner over their left ear. They and their partner were both clad in jean shorts and sneakers, as well as tank tops to beat the heat wave that’d been gripping Pittsburgh when they left it- Mike’s a plain white ribbed Fruit of the Loom number, John’s a heather grey with deliberately faded text reading ‘Property of Pittsburgh Penguins Hockey Club’, likely a gift from the redhead at his side. “And it ain’t like we don’t got shit in common. For one, we both got screwed worse than the recipient of the world’s biggest gangbang by ReKota- you got screwed out of the Chimeras, and we got screwed out of obtaining them, because actually playing fair and winning by your own goddamn mettle seems to be a foreign fucking concept to them. They don’t care as much as we do. You two. Me and Church. Those belts mean more to people like us than they do to a rich boy and his spoiled bitch. In all of this, Zombie Vice Squad and NSFW agree.” Their lips twitched as if in thought, and then pursed into a thin line. Their eyes narrowed to match. “But then I really start to think about your methods. It sounds nice on paper, yeah? We’re here to make the world a better place. We’re here to bring everyone up to our standards. And this is where you guys stop sounding magnanimous and start sounding fucking authoritarian.” John listened intently. He began to speak and his tone was just audible enough for the camera to pick it up. His fingers touched the window lightly.   “Mike. Kowloon, Siberia, they’re as legitimate as tag teams come. Inaugural champions. Impressive pedigree,” maybe perhaps dismissively, he waived that off, “that won’t matter. It never does. Ours didn’t matter. What mattered is one malicious act and three seconds later and our claim to the throne evaporated. But nowadays, you tune in and it's an alphabet soup of irrelevance. Spending precious time talking about anything but Valor Pro. Our little piece of this sport has been overtaken by complaining, petty vengeance, legal proceedings, and the melodrama of who created who.” His shoulders shrugged, eyes still towards the glass. The camera was angled so by Mike that it caught John’s reflection in the window anyway. “Getting away from what matters. Tag team wrestling.” “That’s what it’s all about. That’s all it should be about. If you have some kind of bigger agenda it should be secondary or you’re never gonna win. Not because you ain’t talented. I mean, Kowloon seems to make a point that he worships the Gods of Swole at the Temple of Iron. Dude, you might be cut like a gemstone but that ain’t gonna make a lick of difference. That conditioned body of yours might look nicer than mine…” Mike looked over their bare arms, their toned musculature going taut as they tighten their fists, but the scars of assorted shapes, lengths, and ages standing out even more against their skin. If they were self conscious about them, they were doing their damnedest not to show it. “...but that just means it’ll make a prettier picture when I lay you out flat. Again, I ain’t saying this outta fuckin’ disrespect. I’m sayin’ it cuz that’s what’s going to happen. Of course, you probably think the same damn thing. You’re a lot like me, Kowloon- a two fisted fighter with a temper on you. Which is real interesting, especially when you think about your partner. Siberia, as cool a customer as my partner. It’s almost like you two are some weird alternate universe version of us.” They smirked a little. “In another circumstance? It’d be cool to get to know you better. You two… probably all four of you… sound like you’ve been through fresh fucking hell. You smell like smoke cuz you’ve walked through fire. We can relate. We saw what you said about us before- you were smart enough to see through Berlin and Brenna’s bullcrap and we like that too. We could almost be friends, or at least allies. Least… till we start falling short of whatever gold standard you’ve set for humanity in fuckin’ general.” “We aren’t those two. Whatever they have outside of all of this clearly did not translate well as a tag team.” A slight curve of his lips appeared in the reflection. A tiny bit of him felt the development was serendipity as Brenna’s biting words had been silenced in such a casual fashion. But most of all, he felt the act was cruel. “And who would doubt the tenacity of the inaugural Chimera Tag Team Champions? In one form or another, the Zombie Clan buzzsawed their way through a myriad of now imploded, temporary, and dearly departed teams to secure that honor. But we aren’t them either.” “You may come kinda close, but the fact remains- there ain’t no one like us but us. Where others falter and fall back, we stand tall. We’ve seen teams come and go- hopefully the ones here’ll have a bit more fuckin’ longevity than the ones from where we left. We call things as we see ‘em, and never mince words or shy away from calling people out where it’s warranted. But Church and me, we would never be so fuckin’ self important, so dismissive of peoples’ fuckin’ free will, that we would go about whooping the tar ouf of people who didn’t live the way we thought they should.” Mike’s jaw set, eyes flashing a bit. There’s a slight quaver in their voice- not from lack of constitution, but from trying to keep their voice at an airplane-appropriate volume. “People are gonna do stupid shit. Stuff that’s maybe not that great for them. Or the people around them. They’re gonna… I dunno. Snort a line of coke off the giant yet perky titties of a military themed stripper named Major Gunns while totally blasted off Jaeger Bombs at the Pink Cannonballs in Orlando, Florida. Is that a good course of action? Probably fucking not. Do they deserve to get their teeth kicked in until they course correct? Fuck. No. Learning from bad life experiences is part of being fucking human. If everybody behaved themselves like good little drones under threat of beratement or beatings, it’d be under duress and nobody would ever learn a fucking thing.” For a moment, John turned to Mike, giving them a curious eyebrow raise to this oddly specific tale. He had a question on the tip of his tongue but with the camera on, he felt it better to barrel on through. “So spare us the moralizing. The Zombie Clan has aspirations to spread itself far and wide. And as of now, things seem to be working.  And while we respect those aforementioned accomplishments, Mike and I find it interesting that there seemed to be little resistance to when those championships were stolen from the Clan. Seemingly content with moving on to other matters. As vague and mysterious as those are, it seems a bit strange that Zombie Vice Squad rides again after we walked into this company … stepping over them.” Mike tisked, shaking their head. “And you could say that wasn’t your fuckin’ fault and I’d believe it. We know what happened and we already touched on it. That wasn’t a gaffe on you guys’ part, that was you getting screwed. But you know what WAS a gaffe on you guys’ part? Kowloon kapowing Siberia’s cute blue-haired butt right out of the ring during the Rite of Kings battle royal. Now, accidents happen, fuck knows. Kowloon, you seemed pretty fuckin’ distraught about it. But one’s gotta wonder…” They tapped their temple, a cheshire cat-like grin playing over their features. “...how does Miss Siberia feel about that? I wouldn’t blame her for being a tad bit fuckin’ miffed at you.” “We aren’t trying to create any dissension,” John’s smile was wry, “Trust us on that. Maybe that’s all been ironed out. Understand that we aren’t here to play for other prizes. There is only one that matters.” “No split vision here. My partner doesn’t have his sights on the Apex- let Callum and Cross and Cooper squabble about that shit. I don’t have my sights on the Unleashed Title- though honestly I’d love to fucking fight Aoki just to see how I do. The Chimeras are all we want. They’re worth being all we want. Those beautiful babies deserve better than to be someone’s second choice.” “They deserve better than to be held by a team that can’t go one week without bickering for the most inane reasons.” John’s thoughts went towards their defeat and despite the measure of comeuppance served to one Dakota Jennings, both of them were still empty handed. “But our claim to those championships has expired and we need to earn that chance all over again. Can’t think of a better way to make our case, Mike.” “Just call us a couple of zombie hunters. We know exactly what we need to do.” There’s that shark grin. Mike leaned into the shot, their devilish look filling up nearly the entire picture. “Look out for the teeth and aim for the fucking head.” The shot lingered on that grin another moment before the picture clicked off.

#location: en route to colombia

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I don’t ‘write’ my characters, I just watch them do stupid shit and write up the incident report.

Inebriatednovelist (via inebriatednovelist)

#ooc #mod j #actually how I write mike

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#john's garden #voodoo rose

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Game #8: The Pretender

Hard open. Mike McGuire stared intensely at the camera, background obscured. Their emerald gaze was unwavering, a frigid glare. This image held in silence a moment before their lips twitched a couple times, followed by a snort issuing from their nose. The edges of the eyes crinkled a bit and the lips pursed inward, cheeks puffing slightly as if trying to hold something inward. And then it happened. “BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” The camera pulled back a bit to reveal the full extent of McGuire’s laughter- they went from holding their sides to smacking their knee, taking a few gasping breaths to try, against all odds, to regain some form of composure. “Aw, fuck. Aw, s-shit, I’m sorry, I just… you’re gonna… you’re gonna take me out back and…” More laughter. Almost as if this very notion was the most hilarious thing they’d ever heard in their entire life. “...s-shoot me like Old Yeller! Oh my fuckin’ god I’m gonna pee. Okay. Okay. Shit.” A few more inhales and exhales. In through the mouth, out through the nose. The Bronx Brawler’s surroundings appeared to be her and her partner’s hotel room in Cusco, and Mike themself is currently clad in hiking gear- sturdy boots, cargo shorts, a black tank with the baseball-sugar skull and bat-crossbones logo of Los Veleros de Columbus, and, of course, their Mets cap. They sat on the end of the bed, bouncing a bit. “Me and Church are about to go hike up to Machu Picchu. I was thinking of responding to whatever you planned on saying on the way up. You know, about how you were gonna be a tough mountain to climb or whatever ridiculous bullshit. Make the most of the surroundings to make a fuckin’ point. Then I wondered why the holy blue fuck I would want to waste even a few minutes of a life-changing experience like this talking about you. Oh, and then I saw what you actually put together. Girl. I can’t. I have lost all fuckin’ ability to can. Did you seriously fuckin’... okay.” Reaching behind them, Mike retrieved their laptop, cracking it open. “I don’t know if you know this is what you fuckin’ sounded like, and I ain’t no goddamn’ computer artist, but I had to make some kind of visual aid. ...Where the fuck did I.. ah. Here we go.” Spinning the laptop around, the viewing audience was treated to a rather hideous image that, frankly, could’ve been put together better by a middle school student. “Onions have layers. Dakota Jennings has layers. And as you can see, ogres have layers, so the best I could put together that you were tryin’ to fuckin’ tell me was that you, Jennings, are a fuckin’ ogre. Which makes a whole lotta fuckin’ sense, to be honest- I mean, you’re ill tempered, not overly fuckin’ bright,  and have the kind of fuckin’ attitude that points to you bein’ born and raised in a goddamn swamp. But, y’know, maybe I don’t have much room to talk on those points. So let’s get serious.” The laptop is snapped shut and tossed on the bed behind them, their hands folding on their lap, the intense expression from before finding its way back onto their face. “I really do find your threats cute. You’re gonna take me out back and shoot me. You’re gonna make me cry my eyes out. Do you think I ain’t heard that shit before? I can’t count how many others have tried the same lines on me. I ain’t scared. I ain’t fucking intimidated. After all the punishment I’ve taken over the course of my career? I don’t sweat anything anybody has to dish out. So all your fuckin’ yapping is just the angry barks of a pissed off Pomeranian to me.” Mike waved a hand, scoffing. “You’re also making a big deal pointing out just how wrong my assumptions are. How, ‘no! I was only pretending to be a fuckin’ twit! I really am fuckin’ awesome when I don’t have a chair handy! Behold my… two whole fuckin’ video clips illustrating this fact! I was in MMA! I have a chokehold!’ Great. Wonderful. You keep running your mouth and showing me home movies and I’ll continue to not fucking believe you till I see it myself, mano e womano. If you really needed to use a chair at Rite of Kings just to put me down, cuz you couldn’t get the job done otherwise? Woman, you just admitted with your own damn mouth that on an even playing field, I am better than you. And if that really ain’t the case? And you haven’t needed to stoop to the tactics you’re known for at all, cuz you really are an awesome wrestler, really, honest? Then Jennings, that just means you’re fuckin’ lazy.” They sat up straight. “I stand by what I said. And it counts double now that you’ve gone and made such a big honkin’ deal about it. If you make a fucking hypocrite out of yourself, I am not gonna be a happy goddamn camper. And my threats? They ain’t cute. I ain’t no little ginger Pomeranian, I’m a goddamn junkyard Rottweiler with giant fuckin’ balls. I will rip your fuckin’ windpipe right out of your neck if you try to screw me. But hey, you’re not gonna have to worry about that, right? You’ve shown me what a straight shooter you are. And you’re nothing if not trustworthy, Jennings.” They got up, and looked down into the camera, their expression utterly wicked. “Least, for your sake, I hope that’s the case. See you real soon.” Click to black. Several hours later, NSFW were well on their way. Mike had a large hiking pack, complete with packed-up bedroll, tucked on their back, and John had likewise. It would take all of their ‘vacation’ time to make it to the ancient Incan citadel and back, but in Mike’s mind, at least, it would be worth it- the hike would serve as a good extended workout, and besides, this was a once in a lifetime experience. Every international destination they visited promised something like this- one of the best perks of their job was the opportunity to see the worlds’ greatest and most breathtaking landmarks. So far, the hike along the Lares Trail was amazing even in its early legs. The ground they walked was a well-trodden dirt pathway, and the sky was as clear and blue as Mike had ever seen. A small herd of llamas, likely property of a nearby Andean village, grazed on the low grass. Eyes wide, Mike turned to their partner. “Incredible, ain’t it?” John didn’t say anything, he looked about - absorbing his surroundings. There was a faint smile on his face that may tell Mike just what he thought. Mike quickened their pace just slightly, allowing themself to walk at his side, keeping pace just a ways behind their guide and the same ways behind the pair of donkeys that served as pack beasts. Their hand slipped into his easily. It was refreshing to do so- even if there were only a few others around, minus the residents of the village, it was still a more public display of affection than they usually displayed. They didn’t have to hide. They were as a rightful part of the world as the ancient city they were heading toward, as the little villages they passed through where the Andes people had lived in the same way for thousands of years. “...we belong here.” It was part of their thoughts escaping aloud- just loud enough, however, for John to hear it. The guide motioned that they’d be stopping for a break, and Mike took a seat on a nearby rock wall that was probably ten times their age. John sat beside them. “Makes one envious even,” John’s voice was just above audible, “I’m good with coming back. But I meant it. And while I feel invigorated... one day we need to step away. Satisfied with what we’ve accomplished. Because there is always more that we could do. Always more.” “I know.” They always did. They always knew this story, or at least this version of this story, would end one day. Where they’d reach the last page of the book called ‘NSFW’ and put it up on the shelf so they could start writing the book called ‘John and Mike’. “I still wanna do this though, when we can. I never wanna stop seeing things like this. Experiencing the fuckin’ world. I know we probably won’t be able to travel’s easy or often as we do now, cuz we got the perk of not having to pay for airfare an’ shit, but… yeah. Promise me we can still do this?” “I like doing what you like,” he paused. He knew that was something that stuck in Mike’s craw lately. His mind clicked and whirred as it struggled to clarify his stance, “I like it, too.”   “I’m glad. … Holy shit, check that out!” Mike pointed upward. Soaring over their heads was a magnificent bird. Even from high up, Mike could tell that it was enormous- the biggest bird they’d ever seen in their life. Their hand gripped onto John’s super tight. “...he reminds me of you. Huge and regal as fuck. I bet he could swoop down and carry off a whole fuckin’ llama but he doesn’t. He just wants to fly where he wants and be awesome on his own terms.” “He seems nice.” There was a pause. And then Mike laughed. Not the harsh, mocking laughter they’d recorded that morning, but something far sweeter. Fonder. They cracked a couple of energy bars out of their pack and opened up their canteen, handing John one and going back to watching the bird- an Andean Condor, though they didn’t know that- circle majestically around the valley. “Yup. He sure does.”

#location: peru #solo match: Mike

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Sanctuary

They were set to leave for Peru the next morning, and Mike for one was excited. For the time being, they had their anger, their desire to shatter one Dakota Jennings’ orbital bone into so many pieces that she’d be a droopy-eyed cunt for life, tucked on the back burner and were enjoying both a peaceful evening and the prospect of seeing one of the most spectacular ancient ruins in the world. They never thought in a million years they’d be so enthused about really old buildings, but one would be surprised about the tastes one picks up in the course of world travel. For now, though, their bags were packed, their Uber scheduled to take them to the airport the next day, and NSFW were seated on the back porch- a brick-laid affair housing a Weber grill, a small fire pit with a flame crackling in it, and a set of wicker backyard furniture- two chairs, a small couch/loveseat, and a pair of side tables- one to the left with a can of lemon La Croix on it, and one to the right with a can of Leinenkeugel shandy. Mike was leaned against their partner’s side, smiling a bit at the occasional wink of greenish light that heralded the arrival of the years’ first fireflies. “...I used to catch those things in a jar and carry ‘em around all night like a lantern. Always let ‘em all go before I went to bed, though. I didn’t once and in the morning they were all… heh. Anyway, I felt so fuckin’ bad about it that I never made that mistake again.” Reaching over, they took a sip of their beer before setting it back down again, re-settling in their comfortable place against John’s side, looking up at him. “You ever do anything like that?” “No.” That was what one could call a teaching moment in regards to the pitfalls of mortality. John held the coolness of the can to his forehead before cracking it open slowly as to make the least amount of noise possible. He took a sip. He dug back into those lessons - to those realizations and corrected himself. “Probably.” “Tell me?” They kept their eyes on him, attentive. They never wanted to yank anything out of him by force, but sometimes it occurred to them that he knew a lot more of them than they of him. Sometimes it was if he’d tumbled out of an egg at some point, fully grown and exactly how he was now. Mike treasured any information they could get out of their beloved partner’s formative years, and sometimes, they thought, getting him to talk about that stuff was probably good for him. They remembered the beach in Morocco several weeks prior. Mike had gotten John to speak at length- well, length for him- about his mother, and he’d abruptly stopped, the look on his face sadder than they’d ever seen it. As if he’d just remembered after all this time to let some restrained part of his grief process. It had hurt them to see him so melancholy, but they also knew it was important to deal with things like that. You keep your feelings internalized too long, it never had a good result. They took another sip of their Leine’s. “Everyone has,” John cleared his throat, “Everyone learns where the gifts under the tree come from eventually. Also that everyone and everything eventually dies. Your first pet. Fireflies. Your loved ones.” Mike went quiet a bit at that, the silence filled by the crackling of the fire and the sound of chirping crickets, the near imperceptible fizzing of carbonation from their respective beverages. It was such a sad thing to say, but it was said matter of factly. The weather’s nice. I like that shirt. This book’s okay. Everyone you love will die. Mike appreciated, as always, their partner’s forward earnestness, but something tickled at their mind. Not just that he rarely spoke of himself anecdotally, but the fact that sometimes when asked for details pertaining to his past, the answer was the same. They looked up at him again, brows furrowing a bit. “There’s a lot you can’t remember, isn’t there?” Not an accusation, or a smartass inquiry in any fashion. In fact, they asked it in a tone of almost tender concern. John took another sip, “Some things aren’t worth remembering.” “Well, yeah, but a lot of things are. And even the things that ain’t…” Mike huffed a bit, sighed, tried to think how to place their words. “When I woke up there was a lot of things I had to re-learn to do. For a couple weeks I couldn’t even walk. I had this physical therapist, Lilly. Had the patience of a fucking saint and the wisdom of one too. Gave me lots of little nuggets that helped me get through a really frustrating time. Don’t know if I would’ve got through that shit without her help. Anyway. I think I was at a low point and said something like I wished I’d woken up an amnesiac or some self-pitying shit like that. And Lil said that even the worst memories are worth keeping because they help make you who you are. The good ones give you touchstones to lift you up. The bad ones make you stronger so you can overcome the pain.” He nodded, listening, absorbing their words. He looked inwards to dredge up anything. It would be easy to scrape along the top layer. His first meet. His mother’s funeral. His father’s alcoholism. That time he thought he felt something, not sure what it was, for someone else. John didn’t want to take away from what Mike said here. They had made it clear of what made them the person they are today. Something concealed whispered to him that there was an attempt being made to help. “Never thought of bringing this up. Don’t think anyone would believe me anyway. The detectives, I didn’t have much to say to them. Three hours in, one of them, the one’s name I can’t remember, he turns off the tape recorder. Ray checks my handcuffs. I can’t remember if I had already been charged. They were just waiting for me to say what they knew. They look at each other briefly. And then Ray broke my nose. My arm being fractured wasn’t him directly. That was because I had fell out of the chair backwards and my right forearm cushioned my fall.” He shrugged. “Even though I had came with them voluntarily, the officer’s, now the arresting officer, report had said that I had resisted. Still does to this day. Ray’s dead now so ...” John stopped abruptly before switching away, “You know the rest.” Mike kept a reactionary ‘Jesus Fuck!’ from popping out of their mouth. They knew what happened to that particular fucker- according to the research they’d done, he’d died a long and miserable death from cancer. Couldn’t have happened to a better person, Mike thought bitterly. Instead, they sat up a bit, leaning forward, scrutinizing slightly. There, they could see it now, faintly. Signs of not one fracture, but two, one far older but just evident. They couldn’t believe they’d missed it before. Gently tugging him down a little, they kissed it. “You should talk to somebody about all this stuff. I mean, of course you can talk to me, about anything anytime, you know that, but… it’s gotta be a lot. You can get by and think it’s fine but if you don’t process this shit than…” They sighed, pressing themself close. “...I can’t help in some ways. I’m dumb like that. I hear about bad stuff happening to people I love and the way I wanna help is to hurt whoever did it ten times worse. Which usually either ain’t possible or ain’t legal. But you’ve dealt with more than any fucking human being should ever be expected to deal with. I don’t want you to have to carry that weight anymore and there’s only so much I can do by myself.” They wished that weren’t the case. If they could carry every ounce of that weight for him, they would in an instant even if it buried them. Another stretch of silence went by between the two. John didn’t care about what happened. It already happened so there was nothing he could do. But Mike was stating the contrary. Part of him liked to do what Mike told him to do. It helped create the routine he craved. Part of him, though, wanted to be angry about what had transpired. Just not what he shared. All of it. “Okay.” To anyone not named Mike, the lack of inflection would imply blowing off this suggestion. “I know you’re just doing this cuz I asked. I appreciate that. But I wouldn’t fuckin’ ask if I didn’t think it’d do you good.” It would, at least they hoped it would. Nobody could go through that level of trauma without needing to sort out something. And in addition… perhaps as a recognition by someone who knew better than them… there would be an answer on that other question, the one that Mike felt ill equipped to ask. Mike gave John another kiss, on his forehead between the eyebrows this time, and nestled back close to him. “It can wait till we get home. I’m glad you’re gonna be with me for this.” He responded with a nod and that slight smile of his, and the two went back to gazing out upon their personal sanctuary, finishing off their drinks as evening gave way to night.

#Location: Home #cd

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Game #7: I’m Bad

The ring gave a noise somewhere between a clatter and a creak as Mike McGuire flopped to the canvas, panting. They had been doing solo workouts for the past hour and their black and green ringwear was quite damp- half from sweat and half from the bottle of water or two they’d drenched themselves with to cool down. Propping their chin in one hand, they looked across the yard toward the garden. A small plot of assorted flowers centralized around an orange Voodoo rosebush at the beginning of the summer, the garden had grown substantially since to include not only more flowers, but fruits and vegetables as well. A small patch of strawberries yielded a steady output of plump red berries, a few heads of leafy green cabbage were coming along nicely as were green beans, snap peas, and, Mike assumed, a row of carrots. Right now, the garden’s tender was seeing to several stakes of tomatoes, the bountiful crop a deep ruddy orange in the early summer sunlight. “Hey. Church. Gimme one of those, wouldya please?” He paused in his inspection of the leaves for any signs of beetles, turned to his partner slightly, and shook his head with a small smile. “They’re not ripe.” “C’mon, I don’t care, they look juicy as shit and I’m thirsty.” They pouted, but John was unmoved. “You’ll get sick. They’ll be ready in a few days.” He turned back to his work, putting a wordless finality on the subject. Mike groaned a bit and rolled to the side, snatching a half full bottle of Gatorade off the ring steps as well as their GoPro. There was a third object stowed to the side as well- a classic black and white mottled composition notebook neatly labeled ‘DAKOTA JENNINGS’. As with every other opponent they’ve ever had, John had used his keen observational skills and insight to keep a well documented record of the Firecracker, and had even made a few updates as pertaining to the match they’d had with her and her partner at Rite of Kings. Mike frowned sourly as they thought of it, rubbing the back of their head. They’d been lucky not to need stitches or come away with a concussion, but the spot where the chair had made contact was still sore even days after the fact. They’d had it. The Chimera Tag Team Championships were in their grasp, and ReKota had known it too. So out came the filthy tactics and steel chairs and at the end of it all, before Bishop Church could even see what was going on, Mike McGuire had hit the canvas and been rolled up for three. The ovation from the crowd, while appreciated, didn’t take away the sting as much as they would have liked. That had been that. And Mike was still angry at themself for it. Angry, and raw, and not just because of the screwy loss- because of what had played out on Twitter afterward. A typical snarky back and forth banter had ended ugly, and Mike wasn’t even sure that Cross or Dakota were aware of just how cruel what they’d said was. How could they? It’s not like Mike advertised the ugliest parts of their past. Huffing out a breath through their nose, Mike took a deep glug of the Gatorade- not, they sulkily thought, a juicy garden-fresh tomato- and wiped their mouth on the back of their hand, setting the GoPro across from them and clicking the record button on. You know, people say stupid stuff on Twitter all the time. The whole platform is made of people’s stupid comments, after all. I’m hardly immune either. Which is why 90 percent of what you jokers say on that thing doesn’t bother me. Hell, bantering back and forth with you and your… boyfriend? Fiance? Eh, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, it’s actually kinda fun. And then you went and ruined that. Let me let you in on something. You’re not the first people to tell me I have a hittable face. You’re not the first to tell me I’m about to get my face caved in. Let me tell you, Jennings, you and Reboca don’t want to be in the same league as that person. I doubt even you are that low. “Fuck.” Mike had clicked the GoPro off and was staring at it. That was stupid. The specter of Steve Archer hadn’t been exorcised half as much as Mike would have liked. A couple of sleepless nights prior had made that perfectly clear. Just thinking about it made Mike almost want to call out across the yard and have John join them for a little bit, hold onto him until they felt safe. But they were stronger than that, right? Besides, they had that… that one thing they couldn’t keep putting off. John was going to need them for support, not the other way around. Mike would be fine. They always were in the end. Reaching forward, they picked up the GoPro and erased what they just recorded, as if those words had never existed. Goodbye. They closed their eyes and took a few deep breaths. Felt their old reliable steel slide into place. No, there was no sense showing vulnerability where it wasn’t necessary. Dakota, whether on Cross’ direction or her own volition, would eat that shit alive. It’d be like a drop of blood in a tank full of starved great whites. They turned the camera back on and set it across from the ring, starting again in earnest with  that big sharkish smile. “So. How about Rite of Kings, Valor Pro faithful? Crazy as fuck, wasn’t it? I mean, Jesus Fuck, did Spiral vs. Aoki nearly make you hurl, too? Shit was fucking insane. Sure hope they catch that pale stickyfingered fucker- after all that, Aoki deserves that strap. I mean, I like the Zombies. They’re weird, but they’re my kind of weird. Cosmo Cooper… STILL has that Apex Championship, which I’m sure has Cross Reboca’s underwear in all kinds’a fuckin’ knots. Oh. And speaking of…” Mike’s face went utterly sour then, one hand combing sweat-damp hair out of their eyes. “Ya boys got beat. But it weren’t for lack of trying, Faithful, and it weren’t for lack of cheating on ReKota’s part. I mean, you all saw it, yeah? And if you didn’t, feel free to check out a summary on YouTube. I’ll wait.” The Bronx Brawler paused a moment, twisting their wrist as if looking at a watch. “Yeah, there, you see what I’m talkin’ about? This close. Just a fuckin’ hair, and all of the sudden Jennings and Reboca devolve into their cheap fuckin’ ways because at the end of the day? They know they can’t win fair against a team like me and Church. And it was a damn shame because we were actually having a good time. But, one thing led to another. Broken up pin, then a wallop to the back of my head, and good ol’ N-S-F-Dubs come out of our first Valor Pro Wrestling pay-per-view empty handed.” Tisking and shaking their head, Mike gave a sigh. “Which leads us to here. I’m going solo this week. Me vs. Dakota. And I got all this shit running through my head like a fuckin’ freight train about it. Lots to unpack, so let’s start with bitches talkin’ shit, shall we? Any idiot can talk shit these days. You just get yourself a Twitter account and start running your fool mouth, regardless of whether you got anything fucking relevant to say or even if you know what the blue hell you’re talking about. My opponent this week is no fucking exception. If she knew what the hell she was talking about, she’d know that the last thing my partner is is a ‘meathead’. But I digress.” They snorted, and in spite of themselves cast a look off camera that caused their expression to soften slightly. It’d be missed if you happened to blink, though, because a split second later had Mike facing forward once again, a cool smirk on their face. “Between calling herself our ‘daddy’ and calling me a fucking drunk, Dakota Jennings is proving herself to be just another internet tough guy who thinks they’re ten feet tall with their dick hanging in the dirt. Least, they were until Church said something in particular that seemed to sting a little. My partner, in his infinite wisdom, pointed out that your tendency to go all El Fucking Kabong on people when the chips are down was compensating for a lack of, y’know, any real fucking talent. And at that point, Jennings had a major case of e-cock shrinkage and started whining that such an accusation was ‘hurtful and untrue’.” That smirk began to grow into something distinctly more vicious. “Methinks the lady doth protest too fucking much. Now, I’ve done my homework. I know all about you. And I could sympathize. It fucking sucks to bust your ass and not have anybody take notice. There’s a few ways to tackle that problem constructively, none- I’ll repeat to get it through your skull, NONE- of them involve cracking skulls with wild abandon. But that’s what you did. That’s what you keep doing. And now? I think you’ve been relying so much on the chairs that you don’t know how to get by without them. Now, I challenged you to leave your folding steel special at home. And you said you would. But I don’t fucking believe you, Jennings. Why should I? Why would our little date in Peru be any different than the past few weeks?” Mike rolled their shoulders and tipped their head to the side twice, cracking their neck. “On the other hand, maybe this wouldn’t be the match you’d want to fucking ditch your only real advantage in. Do you know who I am? Have you done your homework like I have? In case you haven’t got yourself out from under Cross’ dick for the last few days, let me educate you. My name is Mike McGuire. I’ve trained at the feet of King Race himself. I’ve gone at people wrapped in barbed wire. I’ve dropped big hairy bitches fuckin’ thrice my size with a single punch. I am one half of the greatest pure tag team of this generation, and if I’m bragging about all this? I’m still being fucking sincere.” Suddenly, Mike’s expression darkened. They leaned forward, their tone gaining something borderline ominous. “I can play fucking dirty if I have to, Jennings. I relish that shit. You’ve been in that ring with me, you know what I can do with backup. You won’t be able to tag out this time, though. You won’t have anywhere to run. But I double dare you. Break your word and go for that fucking chair. Do that, Jennings, and you will be one fucking sorry bitch, because I ain’t gonna play that shit twice. You slither one more cheap victory against me out of your ass and your rich little boytoy is gonna be pushing you to the next show in a fucking wheelchair. See you in South America, Firecrotch.” Their harsh expression remained on their face, even as they reached forward to click off the camera. Mike leaned back against the ropes, letting out a long exhale. Perhaps, they thought, they shouldn’t show John that one. They were pretty sure he wouldn’t approve of the violent threats that they’d dropped. But the thing was? Mike meant every last word. They were as sick of Dakota’s shit as they imagined Ms. Byrne was, but Mike didn’t have the power to fire anyone. They did, however, have the power to do horrible things to people. Things they hoped it wouldn’t come to, but couldn’t make promises it wouldn’t. Sighing, they rolled over, laid on their stomach in the shade of the spreading maple, and watched John tend his garden with a tender affection they almost envied.

#Location: Home #Singles Match: Mike

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

Yarbrough Delivers 7 2/3 Sharp in Rays' G1 Win

John slowly opened his eyes. This one, again. Sort of. He had already lived it. It’d been awhile since he bothered to remember the same tired old sequence. It has been even longer since he had tried to commit it to memory. But even then, there was always a mistranslation due to … whatever. He had the utmost idea as to what he wanted to say and then it’d come out … wrong? He wondered if that was the right word for it. Anyway, this lapse in time, it was different. He had learned by now that it was much wiser to squint through the light the fluorescent tubes brought forth. He rolled on his side and faced the white cement wall. The shade of paint was just as unforgiving as the lights above him. He traced a finger on the groove of the wall. He guessed it was morning. The slot in his door would open and they would slide in breakfast. John rolled over and swung his legs off the bed. His bare feet touched concrete floor and the chill was a jolt to the system. He raised his arms into the air and stretched while omitting a long yawn. John listened for the footsteps. They weren’t there. Not normal for him to deviate from his routine but stranger things have happened. He usually woke up just in time for the morning shift to begin. In the year and a half since, he had become aware of when this happened. He always considered it a callback to a routine that essentially defined him half of his life. He got up. Stripped off his underwear. Relieved himself. Brushed his teeth in the sink built into the same stainless steel toilet he just used. He sequestered the previous day’s dirty laundry in a closed container under his bed. He looked into the bin right next it to find a stack of carefully organized clothing, retrieved them, and put on his clean underwear, white jumpsuit, and slippers. He made his bed. It had to be just right. He stripped the non standard linens and pillows he’d earned as some pittance for good behavior. He examined them meticulously. He would make sure that they didn’t need be laundered along with his previous day’s clothing. After the bed was made to his satisfaction, John stood around with his hands on his hips. He was getting a little agitated now. Most likely due to hunger. This was usually where this charade exposed its purpose. He looked to the drain set right before his toilet. Any moment he’d hear his voice. He had never learned the name that owned the voice. It happened. And then by happenstance, he’d been there all those years. There was a part of John that wondered if he was ever real after they’d encountered each other the first time. There was conflict in everything that defined reality. That’d been so long ago. And besides, one day, the voice had gone away by itself. Last thing he said is that he couldn’t wait to see Johnny in hell. John sat back down on his bed. A couple months back, he’d confided to Mike maybe to the nature of these encounters. What had possibly happened to him. Didn’t take them much to put two and two together. He hadn’t been seeking out some absolution as to what happened. The act was after all part of him. The absent voice, the man it belonged to, they would always be a part of him. And so in a strange way, John was disappointed that they wouldn’t reminiscence about old times. And he always had something to say about the present. And then he would join him. But that wasn’t happening. He clasped his hands together, cracking his knuckles in the process. He didn’t like this. It wasn’t part of the routine. Finally, there were footsteps approaching. Eventually ending at his door. There was the jingle jangling of keys, the scrape of metal on metal as the right one was inserted and turned just so. The release of the lock. The creak of the hinges as the door is pulled out, light pouring in. Partially blinded, he could only make out the figure’s broad form. Very familiar. It stepped into the cell. John sighed, “Me.” He had become very accustomed to what one would consider putting his best foot forward. And so here he was, in the dark grey suit he’d worn earlier in the week. “Really? This is just confusing.” The suit shrugged, “What did you think you were doing all along? This is a work of fiction, transcribed or not. Why are you writing these down afterwards? Half the time, you crumple up the page and toss it.  I mean I’d rather not obscure things by implying some disorder because that isn’t it. This is just you lost in thought. Mike and you are in the hotel room. You two are watching the Red Sox get their shit kicked in. Mike’s words, not mine.” “I know that. Just doesn’t make any sense to me.” “Me either,” the man, well, John, joined the other by taking a seat beside him on the bed. Bed was a generous term as it was a frame bolted to the wall with a sliver of a pad for comfort. He clasped a hand on the inmate’s shoulder, “Tell me something, and by that I mean, tell yourself something. You considered walking off the first night you were invited to stay in the guest room. Why is that?” John hated dredging up that mess. “I mean, depression, right?” “Probably.” “Actually, I’m asking the wrong question. Why’d you stay?” “Didn’t have anywhere else to go. Was tired of being alone.” The man in the suit bursted out laughing, even slapping his knee. It was a mischaracterization.   It was contrary to everything John was, “That’s, Church, that’s pretty funny. You could have surrounded yourself with all manner of people. The business being what it is and you chose to linger around the one person who takes you in like a lost dog.” “They seemed nice.” “Okay, okay,” the suit had now been prone to sudden peels of laughter and he had to wipe tears from his eyes due to the sheer hilarity of it, “Fair enough. And so what is this?” “What is what?” John wanted to run out that door, maybe it’d end this. He’d like to just explain everything to Mike. Stop playing around. Stop mixing up his thoughts. Stop being so … not sure? “Is this pretend? Just like before?” “No,” he said adamantly. “You sure keep quiet about all of this.” “Easy enough to find out. Seems like everyone knows more than me anyway.” The suit stood up, separating himself from the gloom of that statement. “I feel like a pinball, you know that? Just bouncing around from thought to thought,” he gestured towards the open door, “Funny enough, I don’t know what’s out there. There isn’t anything beyond this silly little cell. You think it represents clarity or self actualization or … eh, probably not. Doesn’t work like that. Sort of like how you’re handling, you know, life about now.” “I’m trying.” “At what? What do you think Mike is all twisted up about? I can’t tell you what it is. Again, I’m you. There’s something beyond an eighth grader’s first relationship. The chaste kisses. The hand holding. Then acting like you’re exploring the unsettled lands, step by step.  The haphazard gratification. The handjob under the bleachers. I mean, it wasn’t there literally but Jesus Christ, John. Saying you two are partners.” “We are.” “I’m … I’m trying to help you but John Bishop Church isn’t equipped to help himself. I’m just whistling in the wind. I’ll just go.” The suit turned his back to John, stepped towards the exit. “Game’s over. Four fuckin’ runs at the top of the 9th. Get fucked, Boston. Anyways, Mets’re on later tonight or whenever, timezone’s got me all fucked up, but you don’t gotta watch on the account of me. Your turn, John. Your turn to stop watching reruns of your life.” “I, I don’t know how…” Out the door, “Fuck if I know either. Figure it out.” The door slammed shut behind the suit. But the door didn’t lock. John slumped over, face buried in his hands, muffling his exasperation, “I don’t know how…” “Don’t know what, bud?”

“N, nothing.”

#Location: Home #Solo CD: John

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

NSFW #2.4: Make Your Mark

The sun hung high in the clear azure sky, casting the cliffs and sandy ground in a light golden hue. The setting was one that called to mind any number of stories, mental images of camels and oases and, of course, pyramids. But to the contrary, NSFW were not visiting the Great Pyramids, one of the legendary Seven Wonders that happened to be in the city where Valor Pro was hosting their event. Instead, they’d traveled several hours away to Luxor, the fabled Valley of the Kings. It brought them to where they stood now- inside of a magnificent three tiered temple that seemed to glow in the same golden cast as its surroundings. Several groups of tourists wound their way up the grand staircases and through its ancient halls. Bishop Church and Mike McGuire, however, were already in an area only restored a few years prior, taking a moment to appreciate what lay before them- and turning an eye toward their GoPro camera, set up on its portable tripod. Their outfits coordinated well- both in khaki shorts and sturdy hiking boots, sporting their new ‘Cherry Bomb!’ tanks. Bishop sported an NSFW branded ballcap to shield his eyes from the sun, while Mike opted for their ever present Mets cap. They hadn’t made a habit of wearing their own merchandise lately but someone special was bound to get riled up when they watch. “Welcome to Egypt, Valor Pro faithful! I gotta tell you, there ain’t a better place the brass coulda picked for this show. The whole country is soaked in history. Legendary kings hundreds of thousands of years old have left their marks all around us. And this here? This grand piece of fuckin’ architecture is dedicated to one of ‘em- Hatshepsut. Now, Hatshepsut was an interesting piece of work, different from any other of the great Pharaohs of ancient Egypt. And that had a lot to do, well, with who she was.” They were in a long, somewhat narrow room with an arched ceiling. The walls were adorned with murals, colorful in spite of their age even though there were quite a few pieces of imagery missing, and the ceiling a still vivid blue sporting row after row of yellow stars to mimic the desert sky at night. While Mike spoke, John observed with his hands behind his back. For someone so broad, he did his best to minimize his impact on this ancient ground. “In modern times, everything about her is accessible within seconds. But here,” John’s right hand gestured to the pictures in front of him, “is one of the major ways the ancient Egyptians  communicated. And so despite Hatshepsut’s accomplishments, she was slowly erased and when she wasn’t? Her ascension and motives were all questioned and scrutinized.” “There’s been lots of speculation on why her successor- her stepson- did that. A common theory goes that he didn’t hold her any ill will personally, but didn’t want any other women getting ideas on doing what she did and becoming Pharaoh themselves. But whatever his motive was? It didn’t fucking work, because, as my partner said, you can look up her reign in seconds. We’re talking about her right now. Which is a testament to the fact that true greatness can’t be buried forever.” Mike went to lean against the wall in a casual manner, but a somewhat alarmed look from their partner stopped them and they folded their arms instead. “Of course, chipping away cartouches and pulling down statues ain’t the only way to try to diminish someone’s mark on the world. Trying to muddy the narrative’s the bog standard these days. Kicking up so much shit that what makes someone shine is lost in a storm of crap that either ain’t true or doesn’t matter.” John finally turned around to face the camera, he stood close to his partner. “We’re somewhat used to it,” John paused, “A business decision was made to not renew our contracts in our previous place of employment. There were whispers circulating as to why. And within moments, our tenure had been rewritten by those that linger like wraiths. Coming to Valor Pro was our way of saying to them, to anyone, that our legacy is ours. But here we are, contenders already, and yet the focus has shifted to something that is less than desirable. That’s why we feel that it is on us to remind everyone just who we are.” “We are the kings of tag team wrestling. The falling Icarus, the Cherry Bombers, the Bishop and the Queen. Our bond is fuckin’ unbreakable and our faith in each other is unshakable, no matter how much shit tries to cover up our legacy.” Mike shifted their hat to the side. “And here you are, Reboca, stepping up to us with your fuckin’ arrogance and cracks about our age while conveniently forgetting to say boo about the fact that your fiance's job is hanging in the balance. Too busy sucking yourself off to remember that detail? Or do you really not give a shit?” “Maybe you do. Maybe you’ve got that card clutched to your chest. But Cross Reboca, we understand where your priorities lie. You took one look at us and you dismissed us. You see NSFW as an appetizer to your grand feast. Dakota Jennings, though,” he turned to Mike, “Her actions are debatable but even then, I like her.” “Me too. In other circumstances, we could be friends. She’s totally my kind of gal. There’s just one eentsy weentsy little thing wrong- girl, you’ve got a real whacked out view of your current situation. Let’s break this down. We’ve talked about this and I don’t wanna hang on it too long, but let’s play devil’s advocate and say Vannah had it coming. That doesn’t mean you got carte fucking blanche to wallop everyone with a chair who looks at you goddamn cockeyed. Holy shit. I mean, I’ll admit to playing fast and loose with the rules, but when you go around making modern fucking art with steel chairs and blood? And the brass gets sick of your goddamn shenanigans and calls you to the carpet? There’s only one person responsible for the predicament you wind up in, and I’ll give you a hint- it ain’t Ms. Vanessa Byrne. And even so? And this is the kicker, Jennings- you cry foul on getting punished for your shit at the same time you’re selling fucking t-shirts of it. Wow.” Mike let out a subtle ‘whew’, having said all that in a minimal amount of breaths. Their partner graciously picked up the thread. “And so that’s why you’re here. Back against the wall. Wounded animal. Against all odds. All of those cliches. It puts Mike and I in an unfortunate predicament. We are the arbitrators. We have the final say on your career in Valor Pro.” There was a poignant pause. Footsteps going away from them in the distance can be heard. “Right now, right here, it gives me second thoughts. To extinguish a young career would be no proud achievement. But Mike knows about me. Knows how I handle business in that ring. Once I step between those ropes, friend or foe, I don’t care who you are.” “That’s true. We got a little saying between ourselves- ‘it’s different in the ring’. Now, that phrase has a few meanings for us, most’re personal. But the one you need to be concerned with is the one my partner just alluded to. Because he’s dead serious and so am I- soon as that bell rings, we don’t care. Soon as that bell rings, our sole fuckin’ sphere of concern involves watching each other’s backs and making sure one of you stays down for three, no matter what we have to do to make that happen. Reboca has his arrogance and skill. Jennings has her violence and moxie. That may or may not be enough, but we will do horrible fucking things to you to make sure’s shit it isn’t.” Mike’s eyes were hard-cut emeralds in the dim light, narrowed, sharp, and dangerous. “Three seconds is the easy way out,” John’s fists balled up, the muscles in his arms taut with tension, “I’d need about nine myself. First, blood flow is cut to the brain. All of those vibrant colors become muted. Vision fails. Then like pulling a plug, the ability to move, to speak, to remember, to feel love - that all goes away as the frontal cortex shuts down. A second later, unconsciousness. The bell rings. You don’t hear that. It takes three seconds for normal brain function to resume. And when it does, Dakota Jennings, you’ll come to the realization that while Cross Reboca still has his greatest opportunity to date, you will have nothing.” “Shit’s cold. But that’s the business. I’m sure you two understand.” Mike shrugged. “Also understand we ain’t selling you short. We know we’re in for a hell of a fight. We know you two won’t be split easy- no matter what Cross does or doesn’t say, even if he is the guy in this fight with the least to lose, you two are gonna get married. And it’ll probably be a big, fancy affair, destination venue, celebrity appearances, gourmet cake personally barbecued by Guy Fieri guaranteed to take you to fuckin’ Flavortown, the works!” John mouthed the words to himself, ‘barbecued cake?’ “You got that to look forward to. You got love for each other that nobody’s gonna deny. Nothing can take that away from you…” Inhale. Exhale. Their expression sets in a certain sort of determination and defiance.  They looked to their partner, who responded with a slight nod. “...just like nothing can take what me and Church have away from us. Nothing. We don’t have the glitz, the glamour. The fancy cars an’ movie stars, the high roller suites. You live like superstars. But we’re Not Superstars- we’re Fuckin’ Wrestlers. And that fact? That is why we’re going to be Valor Pro’s next Chimera Tag Team Champions.” Giving that crooked grin of theirs, Mike clicked off the camera. It wasn’t a moment too soon. Before Mike could even say anything about what they’d just recorded, a stampede of footfalls echoed through the ancient stone hallways, and a small throng of people came into the shrine where NSFW had just finished recording. They cut between them, the two of them momentarily on opposite sides of a small Nile of humanity, occupying the empty spaces in the murals long since partially erased. Their eyes stayed connected, even as the tour group made their way around the chamber and took pictures. When a part of the room thinned out, they made their way back to the center. Mike held out their hand. John took it, and the two of them joined the group in their appreciation of ancient history.

#location: luxor

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

Cuts Deep

The two walked off the interview set in stride. Passed a couple stage hands, took a turn into a vacant conference room. Mike gave a furtive glance to the left, then the right. Made sure no one was following or had seen them slip away before closing the door, twisting the little in-knob lock. As soon as the lack of intrusion was guaranteed, Mike buried their face in their partner’s chest, fabric and flesh muffling a long, frustrated scream. This was supposed to be different. Everything was supposed to be better now. And in a handful of careless, caustic words, a dumpster that Mike had thought was welded shut had burst open. There’d been support that they had to admit was sweet, including a few adorable bits of fanart, but right along with it had been nasty jealous salvos on both sides- and some even worse garbage, from pearl-clutching ‘concern’ over a possible case of Stockholm’s to even more ridiculous accusations of being an accomplice to a false exoneration of a man an entire country away that Mike hadn’t even known yet. All of it laced with the same question varying in tone and verbiage. Are you Together/In Love/Dating/Fucking. How long, why didn’t you say so, isn’t it hypocritical that you hid it? They just couldn’t hold it in any longer, but something audible- truly audible- would’ve just raised even more eyebrows. So Mike screamed into the only- and frankly, best- safe haven they had close at hand, until they physically couldn’t anymore and were left panting, shoulders trembling hard. Their face stayed where it was. John stood there, weathered the storm. A multitude of things rushed through his mind including a promise made a few months. But this wasn’t on Mike or his terms. John was used to that by now. Used to being stepped on, used to having special moments ripped away from him. But that was never his concern.  It was the mystery of all of this that concerned him, “What now?” “I don’t know. I have no fuckin’ idea.” Their words were breathless, panting, as well as muffled. They felt like something in them was cracking like the face of an antique doll and yet were unwilling to break. The pressure was terrible yet they were unwilling to crumble. Maybe if it were just them it wouldn’t be worth it. Maybe if it were just them they’d curl up into a ball and vanish and before long everyone would forget they even existed, and move on and find something else to torment having used up their current source of sport to nothing. But it wasn’t just them. He was there. He was worth it, it was worth it to steel up and do their damnedest to try and carry him over ten thousand hells, because he just didn’t deserve it. None of it to now and not an ounce more. That was what Mike believed. Letting out a shuddering sigh, they pulled back just enough to allow themselves to look up. They looked very tired, not just the sort staved off with a nap but something that cut deep. Perhaps they were aware of that fact because they cleared their throat a bit, bringing up a hand to rub a slight smear of dampness from their eyes. Tried to put their brave, resolute face back on. Everything’ll be just fine, yes sir. Maybe not now, but soon! Really! “...what do you think?” The same question pitched at Emily before. Completely different tone and context. John looked at them blankly but there was something going on, something formulating. “With this?” he paused, it would be easy to leap to conclusions, “Nothing changes for this business.” That could be construed as naive. Frankly, much has changed. John felt anger towards Brenna Gordon but she wasn’t responsible for observing what was clearly there. There was a part of him that wanted to back him down but that person seemed unreachable. Can’t go back. “I guess people know.” “Yeah. Kinda woulda been nice to tell ‘em ourselves. In a way that woulda resulted in less of a monsoon-level shitstorm.” They stayed close even as they tugged themselves back from a probably unknown brink, face unburied but cheek finding a comfortable place against now slightly rumpled and dampened cotton. Silence reigned for a few moments. Mike’s breath was finding a more normal cadence, the steady sound of John’s heartbeat soothing what was frazzled, jangling, and frayed inside them. There was the previous temptation lurking about. There was a sneaking suspicion that if they’d altogether disappeared that the detractors would revel in it. But maybe he would, too. It was an ugly thought but not unfounded. He had to combat the notion of the comfort or maybe just complacency towards being forgotten about for nearly half his life. And then one day, he is ripped from that protective yolk and exposed to everything he had been hidden away from. And here comes Mike McGuire. Showing that someone, if even just one person, understands what it means to be John Bishop Church. So after all of this, hiding wasn’t an option. And in these situations, he usually stood, rigid as a pillar - unsure of how to reciprocate. At this point, he felt like the two were mourning a poorly kept secret. He felt anger coursing through him because all signs seemed to be pointing at him. “Mike. I don’t know what this is. Maybe you do. I know others can probably draw their own conclusions. But I guess what I’m trying to say is that sometimes I feel like I’m keeping secrets from myself about myself. And the most frustrating part of that? Seems like everyone else knows. It feels like I’m the problem.” “You keep saying that. It’s not true,” their tone wasn’t annoyed so much as it was sad. Something danced to the tip of their tongue. Something suggested to them by a friend several months back, something that made uncanny sense at the time and made more sense the more research they did. It was something that they’d been trying to think of how to pass along for ages. There just seemed no easy or opportune way to break it to him. But the more they held it off, the more John seemed to turn the problem inward and assume that the problem was himself. It was something that hurt Mike’s heart more than nearly anything else. Looking up again, they reached up, one hand caressing his cheek with a tenderness no one else was privy to. “It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna go to Egypt and we’re gonna win those titles. But I think…” Inhale. Exhale. “When we get home after, there’s somethin’... well, we’ll figure it out together.”

#location: valor pro studios #cd

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

NSFW #2.3: Watch The Throne

The setting was nondescript. It could have been a room or soundstage anyplace, mostly dark save some strategic lighting and a director-style chair occupied by a lovely, chipper young blonde woman wearing a dress tastefully straddling the line between professional and provocative, a microphone clipped to the collar. “Greetings, Valor Pro Faithful, Emily Burlingame here. Rite of Kings is just around the corner. We’ve already heard from the Apex Champion but well, I wanted to speak directly to a tag team that also doesn’t seem to lack in confidence.” The camera pulled back, revealing Emily’s interviewees. To her left was Bishop Church, clad in a pearl-grey suit with a darker shirt unbuttoned at the collar. At her right was Mike McGuire, their outfit mirroring their partner’s- a charcoal grey affair with a white shirt, similarly undone- with the exception of a well-loved New York Mets cap that rested atop their short, fiery hair. “Joining me right now are Mike McGuire and Bishop Church, better known as NSFW,” Emily looked to John to kick things off. He just stared right back so she repeated herself, “...better known as NSFW.” Precious seconds passed by as Emily watched John fidget with his watch. “That’s us. And might I say, we’re awful happy to be here. Starting to think we oughta’ve done a formal-like interview sooner.” The redhead gave Emily a saucy sort of grin. “I’m sure I can speak for many that you two are a welcome addition to the Chimera Tag Team Division,” but with pleasantries exchanged, the interviewer retrieved an index card from her right side, “Mike. Bishop. You two busted on the scene with an impressive victory over Brenna Gordon and Berlin Anderson. That secured NSFW a Chimera championship bout against the current holders Rekota--” “--which ain’t gonna be a walk in the park. We’ve seen--” “But,” Emily interjected, “before we talk about that, I’d be remiss if I didn’t bring something up. We know you two don’t mince words. You said as much,” and she turned to Mike, “you also walked back what transpired in that match. It went beyond calling out each other’s methods. So what happened?” “Actually, if it’s all the same to you, m’dear, can we stick to the subject at hand? Big title match. Lookin’ to become the third Chimera Tag Champs in our second outing in this company. That’s not a small fuckin’ deal.” But Emily persisted, “You’re right, that’d be a pretty quick turnaround. But I think this is fair game. Moments after Brenna and Berlin uploaded their latest piece denouncing you two as hypocrites, Mike, you alluded that Brenna knew nothing. Then NSFW went dark. Uncharacteristically, you two show up after Blitz had already begun. And then left minutes after your match concluded.” Emily turned her attention to John, though. “That seems odd, don’t you think?” John shrugged in response. Mike sighed, adjusting their Mets cap in a manner that could easily be construed as annoyed. “Miss Burlingame, you’re really goddamn cute but you keep getting distracted by the shiny object. C’mon. Lot to unpack here. We’ll be glad to answer your questions but can we stay on topic?” Emily smiled wryly at Mike’s compliment but she barreled through, “Mike. Bishop. Are you two together?” “Yes,” John finally piped in, “we’re a team.” And the blonde shook her head and she repeated herself emphatically stating each word, “No, are you two together?” The air was terribly tense. One of Mike’s hands had curled into a noticeable fist, their jaw ticing slightly. Their eyes flicked over to their partner. Back to the journalist. Then they closed, the Bronx brawler breathing in and letting out an exhale. The sharpness of their words had probably been dulled by the cooldown breath they’d taken, but it still lingered in the undertone. “What do you think?” “I think Brenna Gordon struck a nerve. She called out your hypocrisy for denigrating what they are. And despite this,” she pointed back and forth at the current seating situation, “You walked on the stage before you thought anyone was here, holding hands.” “It was cold.” Emily stifled a chuckle at John’s retort, “There is literally no air conditioning in here.” “My partner’s actually right. It was cold of Gordon to run her yap about something she don’t know shit about. It was cold to stir up all kinds of crap that we got to deal with now, including questions like this. You ain’t the first Clark Kent who thinks they have some scoop and just bulldog the fuck onto it. No offense, I know journalistic persistence is a thing and I’d like to think you don’t mean no harm by it, but it’s got jack-all to do with anything.” “And no offense, Mike, it has everything to do with everything. What are you going to say about Cross and Dakota? Run them down for being what they are? Say what you want about them but they aren’t pretending to be something they aren’t. So, Mike, John, that’s not going to cut it.” “And here I thought we were gonna be friends. Jesus Fuck, this is Ace Heart all over again.” The hard tone crept back into Mike’s voice, dark green eyes narrowing. “But like I mentioned before, my first impressions ain’t been that spot on lately. Do me a favor, sweetcheeks. Don’t ever put fuckin’ words in our mouths again. If you would’ve asked us about Cross and Dakota first off, you’d know that what you just said is as full of shit as they are.” “Emily. My name’s Emily.” John cut in before anything else could be said about that, “Emily. It’s a matter of perception.” “What does that even mean?” “Let’s look back at the preview for our last match, shall we? Brenna Gordon is introduced as Berlin’s fuckin’ mistress. Cross and Dakota? The’re the Power Couple. And you could’ve asked us anything about our Chimera Tag Team Championship match, anything at all. Shit, we encouraged you to. But what do you go for instead? ‘Are you two together?’ What I would like to know is when the fuck any of this became relevant. When who anyone may or may not be fucking became the hot topic and not, y’know. Wrestling. The word on the goddamn marquee.” “Our intention wasn’t to denigrate anyone in the manner you’re speaking of. Brenna Gordon said what she said based on perception. But she also said it without any fear of the repercussions. That’s what happens when you choose to live in a seemingly different plane of existence. But in due time, Berlin Anderson and her will have to step back into the real world and square up,” he moved on, “Dakota Jennings. Cross Reboca. They speak for themselves. It’d be lazy for us to wade into that trap. Miss Jennings had fought against that perception for so long before she just gave in.” “A little research shows us what she did to her last partner. I’d feel bad for it if said partner and us didn’t have a history and we didn’t know she probably had it coming, but I digress. No more Ms. Nice Girl.” Emily didn’t take the bait, “You two try this often. Going for the divide and conquer tactics so to speak. Why is that?” “Church? Remind me that we oughta handle our own interviews from now on so we can channel out at least one line of crap.” Mike snorted. One could almost imagine a plume of smoke curling, dragonlike, from their nostrils. Both hands were tightened into fists by now, and trembling slightly. John turned it back towards the question. “Suitable tactic. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. And clearly it didn’t against those two. And yet,” John paused to signify their status, “here we are. Whether we are confident or arrogant, we got here by playing the game. And that means exploiting the weaknesses of our opponents. So Emily Burlingame, you’re probably right. We aren’t going to drive a wedge between Rekota. But through their actions and words they have made it clear, they are not worthy to represent this division.” “And before you make any cute comments, let me clarify,” Mike cracked their knuckles and placed their hands on their knees, leaning forward, “Anyone who either has a decent memory or access to YouTube knows where Cross Recoba’s head’s really at. He has a blonde-haired barefoot monkey named Cosmo Cooper on his back. He’s made no fuckin’ bones about the fact his sights are set on the Apex Championship and is practically obsessed with the idea of becoming the first Valor Grand Slam Champion. To be honest? I don’t think he really gives a crap how long he holds the Chimeras. All he needed to do was win them once to be one belt away from his precious Grand Slam. They never seemed to be his ultimate goal at all, and that should be fucking insulting. Not just to us, but every tag team busting ass to win them. But that’s alright. He ain’t never had a successful title defense yet, and we’re not about to let him start now.” “And Dakota Jennings, meanwhile, I wonder what is going through her mind. Losing the Chimera Tag Team Championships is one thing but …” John trailed off and Emily attempted to bring him back into the fold, “But, what?” “Unlike the modest Berlin Anderson, I’d never take pleasure in the fact but Miss Jennings knows very well that she is one defeat away from being a former employee of Valor Pro.” “Hey now, that’s exactly right.” Mike’s grin turned downright sharkish, “Now, most people would think that’d have us at a stark disadvantage. Dakota’s already shown herself to be violent and vicious as hell- that’s how she got herself into this little predicament. Her desperation’s only gonna make her moreso- her desperate to keep her job, and shit, Cross desperate to help her keep it. The thing about desperation is this- it makes you fuckin’ sloppy. People may turn up the voltage when under the gun but it rarely does crap for accuracy.” John nodded in affirmation, “But we’re patient. So color us surprised when we had the opportunity to jump right in. Maybe it's that whole perception thing again. We’ve heard a lot of this living and breathing as champion as of late. Here. Elsewhere. Out of our own mouths. I believe that to a degree. I know, Emily, that if Rite of Kings isn’t our night that we’ll be back the next. And this should send palpitations to your heart, but even in defeat, we have each other’s backs. But, Miss Jennings? There is no tomorrow. I mean, I suppose, Cross Reboca would be fine either way. Lofty aspirations and all.” “Okay, okay,” Emily set the notecard aside finally, format being out the window and all, “What makes NSFW worthy of being Chimera Tag Team Champions?” “You’d know that by now if you weren’t single-mindedly asking us about what ain’t your or anyone’s business,” Mike scoffed, “We’ve said it before and we’ll keep saying it as long as people keep asking. We ARE Tag Team Wrestling. The embodiment of what it is on its very best days runs through us. We ain’t looking beyond that gorgeous pair of belts. We’re looking straight at them. They ain’t a stepping stone, they are to be stepped to. What all too many outfits treat as an afterthought, we treat with the respect it deserves.” John slid off the chair abruptly, “Perception is that this division is secondary to the melodrama of two usurpers. That changes the same night that Rekota ends.” Mike stood up as well, “The name of the show’s fuckin’ apt. The kings have arrived and the crowns are there for the taking. Stop watching TMZ for five seconds… and watch the throne.” Almost simultaneously, NSFW unclipped their mics, dropped them, and left a slightly stammering Emily behind them without another word.

#location: valor pro studios

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

Reprieve

The Medina of Rabat was a bustling swirl of colors, smells, and sounds. Everywhere one looked there were all sorts of treasures, stalls filled to the brim with anything anyone could ever want- from shoes and clothes and fabrics, to fruit and flowers and fresh fish, jewelry of all sorts from gems in delicate filigree to colorful strings of beads, spices and teas of every kind. One stall was displaying gorgeous rugs and carpets, another intricate brass pots and kettles that it seemed almost a shame to cook with. There were stalls stocking curios and antiquities… and there were ones that sold, at least in this part of the world, something a little more unusual. Bookshops weren’t common in a country whose storytelling traditions ran, for the most part, orally. But true to form for everything imaginable being available in the bustling marketplace, there was one stall with a pleasant-faced keeper manning it that stocked several shelves of books in French, English, and Arabic, including quite a few large, colorful coffee table volumes. Several people stopped, perused, and occasionally a sale was made. But one fellow- a man with the body of a giant but the blonde hair and peaceful-looking face of something a little closer to heaven- had stuck around for quite some time, carefully looking through any book that happened to catch his eye. This was a welcome reprieve. Their first business trip for Valor Pro had turned vulgar. For John, he was used to hearing the ugliness that rolled off that woman’s tongue. It was more of the same and despite the voracity of those words, it was the nature of the beast when it came to competition. The hope that was after it was all said and done, they would respectfully separate. However one little turn of phrase had blown up all of their channels. John was sure that this “truth teller” would be apathetic to the consequences of such an action. After all, she didn’t have to live in their world. So John and Mike turned all of that off and stepped away to where they were just two of thousands of American tourists in a bustling city. But even in the unfamiliarity of it all, he still found a piece of comfort. He looked briefly at what he considered the books that weren’t aids for the visitor. He briefly glanced at the landmark maps, the language guides, and the history books and went to a place he had an outsider’s fancy for. He found it, eye level, on a shelf at the far end of the stall. His fingers traced down the spine of a leather bound tome. A side by side translation of Sahih Muslim. A book of sayings from a prophet. John, himself, had a hard time buying into what this was, literally in the same way with any holy books he read in the past twenty years. But as he pulled the first volume of seven from its place and flipped it open, the wheels in his mind begin to blur, and time and space became irrelevant as he began to read… ...and meanwhile, too far away to be seen but not too far away to be quickly accessed, an androgynous redhead was in a discussion with a different stall’s vendor. Different bottles of different colors, shapes, and aromas surrounded them, and while Mike had to be incredibly careful not to break anything by accident, they were enjoying themselves. They were on a mission- an adventure, even, as this was something not usually in their wheelhouse. Opening up one bottle, they took a sniff, lips quirking a bit in thought. It was good. But not perfect. After all, this wasn’t exactly for them- well, it was, but they wanted it to appeal to a certain sense. Something that reminded of home, of a gift given and cultivated with utmost care. “Close, it’s close. It smells really good. But it ain’t quite what I’m looking for.” The shopkeeper seemed perplexed as well. She was used to discerning customers perusing her wares, though. Shuffling through a few bottles, elegant fingers almost danced before settling on a phial of pale pink glass, the liquid inside swishing a bit as she handed it to the Bronx native. “One of my finest works if I say so myself. Made from the best oils from the rose harvest and other essences. This will surely meet your desires.” Mike carefully pulled the stopper from the bottle and inhaled. The heady floral scent of rose hit their nose first, but there! Right behind them were notes of sweet fruitiness- citrus oils, maybe- but mingling together, the scent was unmistakable. Just breathing it in brought to mind their own backyard. The visual of strong ungloved hands tilling up soil with a spade, nestling tender seedlings into the ground. Banishing any parasitic weeds. Tenderly pruning, never too much as if he didn’t want to cause the plants any more pain than necessary.  And all around it all, a fragrance exuded from the garden’s crowning glory- lush orange roses with a fragrance almost exactly like this. “It’s f… antastic! No, really, it’s perfect. Just what I was looking for. I’ll take it.” They smiled broadly. In this moment they could forget, almost. Forget about being misjudged and seemingly despised by someone they barely knew. Someone that they’d actually liked and yet had made all sorts of vicious assumptions and called it truth. Someone who seemed oblivious to the fact they were being a bitchy know-it-all and actually didn’t know a damn thing. But Mike could forget about that, and just focus on what John’s reaction would be to this fragrance. Paying the perfumier, they tucked the bottle carefully into their satchel along with the bundles of spices they’d picked up earlier… but not before dabbing a little of it on either side of their neck. After all they’d had to deal with in this first chapter, Mike hoped that John’d find the scent of home as soothing to the soul as they did.

#location: rabat #cd

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

NSFW #2.2: Chum

The crescent moon shone in the clear, star-dotted sky above. The warm air blew in a soft breeze, and all around were the whooshing of waves. The scent of salt gave the air a not-unrefreshing tang. And on this beach, far from home, the waves broke over Mike McGuire’s ankles, the Bronx Brawler wearing a black sports-bra like top under a gauzy vest of orange fabric they’d picked up at a trip to the marketplace along with black shorts that went about halfway down to their knees. Along with the moon, a few inflatable lanterns were placed strategically in a semicircle into the sand, giving the scene an air of quiet ambiance. There were thoughts running through their head, thoughts that were totally untoward with the serenity around them. They were bottled, for now, like a storm confined to a teacup ready to be unleashed at the proper time. But for this second, they breathed it in. “Mom used to take me to the beach as a kid. Pool, too. She taught me everything she fuckin’ knew and I took to it like a duck. Not as good as her but most people ain’t.” They sighed, and looked behind them to the person they were speaking to. “Sometimes I really wish I was a fuckin’ shark. I’d just swim all day and eat stupid shit-talking bitches alive.” John Bishop Church was near, also dressed for the setting, in a simple black tank and matching board shorts with green racing stripes down the sides. His arms folded over his chest and he frowned as his mind clicked through how to respond to such an admission. His shoulders slumped as nothing came through. The camera phone, set on a tripod, framed them both in the picture clearly. The scene faded to black. There were precious seconds in this blackness before a voice, John’s, chimed in, “That about sums it up, right, Brenna Gordon?” The picture came up again. A few more lanterns had been thrown in quickly, the inner LEDs glowing orange and green, the lighting a bit brighter now. Mike shook their head, letting out a harsh sigh. “You know what? I am fuckin’ disappointed. I mean, I could go with the standard ‘I thought we were friends’, but I’d just be kidding myself. I thought you were cool enough but facts’ facts, I didn’t really know you all that well. But I did think pretty good of you, enough to know you ain’t to be fucked with, you’re dangerous as shit in that ring, even enough that I didn’t think you were the kind of person to fuckin’ regurgitate the same tired BS already crapped out by silly douchenozzles I pictured you a better caliber of person than. Shows how the fuck much I know.” Their shoulders shrugged in a distinctive ‘oh well’ manner. “To say we haven’t heard all of that before would be an understatement. But I get it,” John nodded, “This is a new audience and so the old idiom of ‘If I haven’t seen it, it’s new to me.’ applies here.” John stepped further back into the water. “So let’s dive in,” his tone was dry but with a lilt of borrowed sarcasm, “This big conclusion, Brenna? I agree with Mike. Whether it's two malcontents in a department store, a braggadocious silver-tongued Texan, or YOU, Brenna Gordon, it all sounds awfully familiar. Because we say we aim to be the best, that we claim to be the best - we are self-righteous,” his gaze narrowed, “So tell us. How are we supposed to approach this?” He turned to Mike. “Mike, I hope we can manage to win. It’d sure be nice but if not, oh well, losing is just as fun.” “Golly gee willikers, Church, that it would. Also I’m sure glad we don’t have any aspirations about leaving this tag division or any others better than we found it. Who wants to elevate the game when the status quo is just peachy fuckin’ keen?” An exaggerated wink, accompanied by an ‘OK’ gesture. The pinky and ring fingers are then lowered as Mike’s cheesy expression melts into a glare. “And just as a side note, a heavy chunk of our merch proceeds go to shit like the Trevor Project, Project Innocence… you know, not that it matters but since we’re apparently playing Selfless Good Guy Bingo here thought I’d educate your lily-white ass. Not like it’s right there on our website or anything.” John stepped back to Mike. He put a hand on their shoulder. “I understand what this is about, though. Doing anything to blur and obfuscate what this is about. With your infinite knowledge, you try your damndest to stake claim to what we are, what we aren’t.  But we are here right now to put this ship back on course. Brenna, your partner Berlin seems to have the right idea. Tag. Team. Wrestling.” “See, I like him. But then, I liked Brenna, so I’m kinda not in the position to trust my initial impressions of people right now. If Brenna’s effect on you is to make you more like her? I’d head for the hills, my dude, before you start acting like you’re perpetually on the rag. But let’s play harpy’s advocate here for a minute. Let’s pretend that we really are writing you off because you don’t meet our standards for what a tag team should be. We’d be walking into an ass kicking. You know why? Because I see something. Something I don’t see very often unless I’m watching tapes of me and Church. Last time I saw it in another team we lost our straps, so you two had better believe the last fucking thing we’re gonna do is underestimate you. But I wonder… do you know what to do with that? Has your chemistry been tested and galvanized like ours has?” “Don’t know. We didn’t know much about Berlin’s history but thanks to him, we have somewhere to start,” and then John raised a finger up, “and yes, one of our golden rules is to never underestimate our opponents. That doesn’t mean we don’t listen and observe. Like what exactly stops Berlin Anderson from learning about us on his own instead of waiting for hearsay from a person who has never shared a ring with us before? Another thing, the greatest tag teams ever? They stood together, brothers-in-arms, and they did not speak at cross purposes.” “Are we one of the greatest tag teams ever? Nah. Despite what you may think we think, we ain’t that full of ourselves. Maybe one day we’ll stand with the Foundations, the Legions, the Busters, the Express. The same dedication to the art flows through our fuckin’ veins, after all.” Another wave broke around their ankles, perhaps a bit shallower as the moon pulled the tide back little by little. Step by step, they emerged out of the water. They both crouched in front of the camera. “One final thing, Brenna Gordon, only my friends call me John. You’ve made it abundantly clear what you are.” “Opponent. Adversary. But most importantly? In our way. Later, chum.” Grinning like a great white, Mike reached toward the camera and cut out the picture. Mike sighed as the extinguished light on the phone signified that their words and actions were once again private. They helped gather up the lanterns, turning off the lights and deflating them until just a couple were still lit. Holding onto one, they sat down on the sand, looking out to the water as it rose up to lap at their toes. “I thought we were done with this bullshit. I know you said we weren’t here to make friends, but not being treated with fucking disdain by somebody I thought was cool - again - would be nice.” Brenna’s words hadn’t been as devastating to them as other words and actions had been in the past. Still, though, it wasn’t pleasant. John sat down beside them. His hand squeezed around Mike’s wrist lightly, “I didn’t want to say but she never was going to get us. She doesn’t know us. Doesn’t need to.” “Does anybody?” It was a gloomy thought, they supposed. But who did they have but each other? Now that they thought about it, they could really count their friends on their fingers and have digits left over. Their fanbase was loyal and always nice to have, but Mike knew better than to equate fandom with friendship. John didn’t think about that too much. He liked what he liked. To a fault, whatever routine he was given, he would adhere to. For better or worse. And so their circle was tight. He deflected perhaps the morass nature of this query, “Sure. But present company excluded, this business isn’t much for that. And maybe we were accountable for some of that. But outside of that? Your family, I’d consider them friends foremost.” Mike smiled up at him in the way they wouldn’t consciously do if there was a camera on them, and scooted a little closer, their head resting on his shoulder. Something crossed their mind then, something they’d asked about once before. They’d gotten a little information then, but something in them always craved a little more. Anything that could get them closer to him. “...can you tell me a little more about yours?” There was an extended period of silence between the two. “Not much to say…” John trailed off. He wasn’t ending the conversation. However, it’d been so long. He had shared with Mike about the lack of contact. Relationship trends would indicate that the little notoriety that John had obtained in the last year in something other than what used to define his existence would draw that sort of attention. John was sure he had extended family. He didn’t live in a vacuum. But, he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t really remember who they were. And while it had been many years since he really thought about her, his mother, always seemed to understand who he was - even if he didn’t. As if in mid memory, he blurted out, “I didn’t want to join the wrestling team in middle school. My mother insisted. Said I had the right mind for it.” He didn’t want to admit that he could barely remember her face. His ties to that life had been washed away. John’s mother may have planted the seed but she never saw her son succeed and grow to love the sport of wrestling, in all its forms. The following tendencies may have sounded familiar to Mike. “I’d fill up notebooks for each event I’d compete in…” He cut himself off, clamming up. Internally, something utterly devastating pushed against him. It was an impossible desire to have something that he could never have. And while the details were blurry due to the passage of time, he could envision the enormity of that very moment that brought this on. John remembered clearly lamenting to his mother that she was the only person who seemed to understand his line of thought. She laughed at that notion. She said that it wasn’t too hard. And that she would hope John could find that elsewhere with someone else. A different bond. He was too focused on the breaking of his routine to attach any credence to what she said. And it was too late to share his enlightenment now. He lowered his head, the impact of that void finally hitting him after all these years.     Mike almost said something. The last few minutes had been nothing but the night wind and the steady sound of the ocean. Someone else might have been confused or annoyed at the drop-off, or have said something by now. They just pressed themselves a little closer. They wouldn’t invalidate his feelings by telling him not to be sad, especially about something like this, but there was no reason he had to be sad alone.

#location: morocco #valor pro wrestling

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

Here’s the rose by itself. This breed is called a Voodoo rose, and they are somewhat fragile, but have notably sharp thorns.

#john's garden #voodoo rose

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

NSFW #2.1 It All Begins Again

OOC: title is intentional :P

A few months ago, the two of them watched from their knees as their world was ripped away from them. After that, John felt it was necessary to reevaluate his worldview. A source of their misery had confided to them that now they finally understood the lesson he was trying to impart. To be like him. Those ideals would soil their legacy as champion just as John believed they defined this person that while he begrudgingly respected, cared very little for. And so he wanted to go home. His request was obliged by his partner, a person who, deep down, couldn’t deny him anything. If John Bishop Church asked for the moon, Mike McGuire would find some way to pull it from the sky for him, catastrophic tidal activity be damned. Yet, even though they granted him what he asked for- the immediate cessation of their current occupation- it didn’t sit well with them. Far from it. The abrupt loss of something they’d loved so much for so long, for the second time in their life no less, filled Mike with a heaving sea of bitterness. One night’s full expulsion in the form a destructive eruption of white-hot temper should have quelled it, at least they’d hoped. They didn’t want to direct their anger at John, as he’d had enough denied him in his life. And after a long discussion, Mike resolved to let it go, to get over their bad feelings over leaving what was, in truth, a toxic environment and start over. No more complaints were made on Mike’s part, no sulking or wanton destruction. There was, however, a slightly distressing amount of Labatt Blue. John noticed. Usually sat in his recliner and read as Mike imbibed. Whatever was on the television became the subject of their anger. The Mets losing. The Bruins winning. The worst though is when Mike flipped to their previous employer. The anger was laser focused. Two weeks prior to their sudden reemergence, it had been a night just like that. “Motherfucker.” Green eyes, slightly hazed over, glared at the handsome Texan brandishing the ornate gold belt, their lips curling into something between a sneer and a snarl. The ugliness being directed at the screen seemed out of place in the cozy, if not mismatched, living room. Their hands balled up into taut fists- well, one did, and the other gripped the amber glass bottle so tightly that it seemed that it might shatter. “Look at that fuckin’ pukestain. Sittin’ pretty at the top of the goddamn heap. Somebody shoulda knocked him into the fuckin’ pits by now. And a’course the tag division’s going down the diarrhea dumps. All that fuckin’ work for shit. Good job, guys, fuckin’ A.” There was a mild slur to their words, though it was hard to tell as they spoke through gritted teeth. The bottle was raised to their lips, sucked dry of its last dregs, and dropped to the side of the couch, clinking against two of its previously drained fellows. John looked up from Sue Monk Kidd’s The Invention of Wings. He adjusted his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose. “You could always change the channel.” Mike blinked as if they seriously had not considered this as a possibility, eyes flicking to the remote on the end table, staring at it bemusedly before picking it up and starting to idly run through the channels, little split-second mismatched bits of programming fusing themselves into an incomprehensible chain with every flick of their finger, before finally sighing hotly and clicking the TV off altogether. “Or turn it off,” he turned the page. “...don’t it piss you off at all, though? We busted our fucking nuts to make something outta nothing, and the moment we leave it’s just as big a pile of shit as before. It ain’t just pointless, it’s fuckin’ disrespect.” “Yes. We said as much,” John didn’t look up. He agreed to the joint statement but he also thought it gave people false hope as if the two were coming back to right a wrong. But that is where the business decision came in. He had concluded that they would never be featured and that tag team wrestling would never be taken seriously. It would always be considered an afterthought or a contingency plan. Jealousy was an ugly emotion to confront but it felt justified here. So he let go. Something tugged at the corner of his mind and it was an obvious declaration at this point, “Why not go somewhere else?” If they’d still been holding their beer bottle they would have dropped it, and legit surprise seeped its way into their somewhat drunken expression.“Are you serious? I mean… I mean I thought you were done, outside the one-offs here an’ there. All that stuff you said about not knowing how much you had left in the tank an’ not wanting to push it.” He remembered as such. Part of him enjoyed playing local celebrity. There wasn’t a day out there when someone didn’t ask about about NSFW. About reclaiming what was theirs. They shared his partner’s drunken sentiments. John marked his place and set the book aside, “You’re right. I don’t know what I have left. But I believe that leaving this unsettled could cause issues.” As if in a moment of sudden clarity, Mike glanced briefly down at the trio of empty bottles, and thought about the few others dropped into the recycle bin at various points in the day. Giving a soft sigh, they looked down at their hands, teeth nipping at their lower lip, “If it’s just because of me I don’t wanna do it. Look, I’m sorry. I’ve really been trying and maybe I ain’t being altogether fair. But I said I’d deal and I’ve been doing my best. It’ll come in time, I just don’t...” They swallowed, sighed. Looked up almost sorrowfully. “...don’t want you to do something you really don’t want to just cuz I’m being an ass who can’t cope like a normal person.” John leaned back in the recliner, “No, that’s not it. I wouldn’t still be training. But beating on kids fresh out of Race’s school at the fairgrounds is starting to lose its appeal. One of them asked for your autograph right before you broke his nose.” “His nose oughtn’a been in the way of my fist. Learn to dodge, kid, fuck,” Mike laughed, the peal fading off into a sigh, albeit a lighter one than before. “Alright. So if this is something you really want- and you know I’m on board- then where do we go? I mean we’ve been getting offers from everywhere from Atlanta to fuckin’ Zanesville, and I… heh. I may have been holding onto ‘em in case you changed your mind.” “I’ve seen those,” John didn’t mean to be dismissive of Mike’s excitement but he had seen those offers. Middling gigs that were of little substance. Although, a few weeks ago, they’d been walking out of the aforementioned fairgrounds. Someone, he couldn’t remember their face, handed him a flyer. The slip of paper had a curious logo on it. An inverted triangle made up of three letters. For some reason, John kept it. He retrieved it from his wallet and handed it to Mike, “But what about something more international?” They took the piece of paper, gave it a once over, and smiled broadly, “Valor Pro, huh? Shit, some of the best times we’ve had’ve been travelling the world. Let’s do it.” With business conducted, the newly minted Valor Pro Wrestling tag team looked ahead to a major challenge. Church and McGuire had talked a big game and their new employer clearly took notice. These sort of sessions between the two were usually private. But something about this place compelled them to be more intimate with their discourse. And so propped up on a kickstand, Mike’s phone filmed their discussion. Start of next month, NSFW would make their official debut in the capital city of Morocco. There was a palpable excitement between the two as they wouldn’t be hand held through a corporate approved set of appearances. Their promotion would be their own. That rush dissipated as the pair sat at the dining room table with an open manilla folder between them. Bio sheets of their opponents, scribbled with John’s notes and Mike’s doodles. Berlin’s mustache suddenly had roguish curls while Brenna had devil horns and a forked tongue. Mike gestured to the former. “If you want me to be honest, an’ I know you do? I got no clue what to make of this guy. I mean, Brenna we know, kinda. She’s dangerous as shit and just as unpredictable. This Berlin dude, though… damn. Might’s well be an alien landscape.” Mike looked up to their partner- he’d always had an uncanny gift of insight that would definitely serve them well here. “What do you think?” “It’s what we wanted.” “I know that. New places, new people. I’m excited. But what I mean is, I can’t get a bead on Berlin and you’re really fuckin’ good at reading people. You see something I’m missing?” “He seems nice.” Mike sighed, shaking their head with a mild chuckle. That, it seemed, was that. “Yep. He sure does. So… how do we approach this, you think?” John looked at the still photos of Brenna and Berlin. Notably, the warm expression lent towards Berlin after coming up short just moments prior. His fingers touched them briefly, “That’s new. Well, not new,” he shrugged and closed the folder. For a brief moment, John’s eyes steeled, “We aren’t here to make friends. These two are in our way.” “Good eye. But I’m wondering if the same kinda tactics people tend t’ try and use on us- the separate and destroy shit- would be an advantage or an invitation to get ourselves killed. Unless…” Mike’s eyes found their partner’s, a devious grin flicking over their lips. “...the one on the ‘destroy’ end is the one most likely to get all murderous-like.” “It’s a matter of not hesitating,” John answered, “because she won’t. Our association with her has always been at arm’s length and her career aspirations have always been unclear. And while these two have a history, she’s shown that walking out on her partner isn’t out of the realm of possibility.” “Yeah, just because she’s flirty as shit with me doesn’t mean she won’t beat me up. Nothing personal, but it is what it is,” Mike shrugged, “For that point, Berlin doesn’t seem like the type who likes being tied down to anything either. Talks a lot about nomadic wandering and shit.” “And so why is he here?” John’s question was rhetorical. Mike picked up on the flicker of sarcasm but not many others would, “This is our chance to reestablish just who we are. The premier tag team in this sport. And what I’ve seen out of Berlin thus far is a kind of lip service towards this business. Coasting on an undeniable level of ability. Thus far, I get the inclination that he thought he had it easy coming up on his last time. And for the first time, he faced some real adversity and the result was…” He tapped his fingers on the table three times in an all too familiar cadence. “And Mike, believe me, we’re a brick wall.” Mike nodded, beaming, “They’re good, but they’re still two guys. We’re a team. We’ll show ‘em what the difference is. This ain’t a hot date, this is a Number One Contendership shot for those gorgeous-ass Chimera Tag Team belts. They belong to a team who eats, sleeps, and breathes tagging, not just another combo of two people tagging cuz it’s convenient. I mean, fuck. It’s not like being a couple alone makes for a good t--” They stopped themselves. “And that, I think…” They looked to the camera, their palm hitting the lens in an abrupt cut to black.

#archive

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

NSFW #22: It All Begins Again

Mar 14, 2019 at 1:01am MNB, FSW, and 5 more like thisPost by bishopchurch on Mar 14, 2019 at 1:01am The setting was absolutely magnificent. It was a warm early spring day. The sky was blue with the occasional wisp of cloud, seeming to exist more for aesthetics than any threat of rain. The afternoon sun provided a refreshing warmth, welcome after a long winter chill. This glorious sky was reflected in the small lake, but still, this enchanting sight paled in comparison to the loveliness at its shores. This was Shinjuku Gyonen National Gardens in Tokyo, and Japan’s cherished sakura were in bloom. At the lakeside, and in fact, throughout the large garden park, stately cherry trees bore full, lush displays of sweetly fragrant pale pink blossoms. Several groups of people walked over the bridges and shady paths to see them, to fully appreciate their beauty while it was there to enjoy. And sitting on a picnic blanket under one of these beautiful trees, nibbling on a snack of mochi and amazake, were the EWC Tag Team Champions. Leaning back on the heel of one palm, Mike McGuire polished off her piece of red bean mochi, licked her fingers clean, and grinned at the camera. “Sorry if it’s a little rude to be chowing down on camera, Faithful. See, me and Church are partaking in a Japanese spring tradition. When the cherry blossoms start blooming like this, people from all walks of life like to have picnics and parties under them. Y’know, have something good to eat, enjoy each other’s company, and savor what I gotta admit are some really fuckin’ gorgeous flowers. They call it hanami, and the people here’ve been doing some variation of it for centuries.” A sudden breeze jarred a blossom loose from its mooring, and the flower drifted slowly downward. Reaching up a small cup, Mike managed to catch it. “This stuff’s amazake, by the way. All the tradition of sake without the booze. It ain’t half bad. But anyway. The cherry blossoms. They got meaning here. Cherry blossoms- sakura, as the people here say it- are a beautiful flower, but they don’t last very long. About two weeks, tops, then they rain down all their petals and they’re gone. They say that the short, beautiful life of the sakura is a metaphor for life and death, but since they come back every spring to blossom again, they’re also a symbol of renewal.” Looking down into her cup, Mike’s smile grew a bit wistful. “So, it’s been a whole year since these flowers’ve shown up. And y’know, it’s been a whole year almost since something else showed up, too.” John set his cup down in front of him. “The biggest show of the year.” “Stranglemania. The Grandaddy of ‘em all, like they say. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited as all hell. There’s something about this time of year. It’s kind of like a fuckin’ electrical current and I think everybody can feel it buzzing in their spines and teeth and tingling all over their skin. Everybody wants to make their best just a little better, reach a little higher, fight a little harder. Pull themselves… heh. A little higher up the ladder.” Sipping at the amazake around the blossom, Mike followed her partner’s suit and set her cup aside as well. “Let’s talk about one year ago.” John reached behind, just around the dark wood trunk of the cherry tree. He retrieved the prize of this upcoming bout: the EWC Tag Team Championships. He set them in front of Mike and himself. “One year ago, these were an afterthought.” And he let that statement hang in the air for a moment. “And the team that held them? They considered them secondary to their greater aspirations. Harvey Yorke. Toni Gunn. The Moors Murders held these titles for just about a year. And they talked a big game but at the end of the day, they were champions of an anemic division consisting of long defunct ‘teams’ and random pairings. And then for nearly six months, they were held hostage by one man. Then, transferred to a team that we knew…” John tapped the front plate of the championship. “We KNEW wouldn’t last. Mike and I? We liberated these and piece by piece we have rebuilt this division to something that is actually worth supporting. All of these new teams? They want these. And it’s because they want to face us.” Mike nodded, shouldering her belt. “Despite what some chumps may say, these two little golden beauties have, in the course of a year, become everybody’s darling. You got tag teams popping up like rabbits all wanting to get their paws on these karats. We watched them all line up and one by one, they all got knocked out, till we’re left with just one. One team that through sheer fucking mettle earned the right to face us and try their luck. But despite a juggernaut showing in the #1 Contender tournament, Shock and Awe are still new. So maybe we ought to fill them in on what they’re dealing with, y’know, just in case they haven’t done their due fuckin’ dilligence.” She leaned forward, fingers drumming over one of the sideplates on the leather strap. “You see, you two, Stranglemania ain’t the only thing that’s been a year in the making. This year, you’re the new kids in town. But a year ago? So were we. Shit, when we first met I wasn’t even a wrestler anymore.” “And me? I had just debuted. Killjoy Ito had just shown me in my debut that I was far from being in ring shape. And my contribution at last year’s big show was being attacked from behind by Dominic Sanders.” John shook his head. “Some things never change.” Mike tisked. “Hindsight’s 20/20. I shoulda thought of that before I got chummy with the fucker in the first place, but hey, at least I got a friend out of it. Just not him. But I digress. It wasn’t long after last year’s show that we debuted as a tag team. And after an early stumble that I can barely even remember? We took off running and never stopped. We ran all the way to my hometown, grabbed the gold, and we’re still running, stride for stride.” “And now we’re here. Lots of unknowns swirling together for a seemingly perfect storm to upend our reign. Last time we were in Tokyo, we ended up flat on our backs due to the aforementioned villain. And a ladder match? Never been in one of those before. You?” “Not that I can remember.” Mike shrugged. “But you know, I never really tagged before this and it seems to be working out pretty good so far. And heights don’t bother me much. So what the hell, they say you should try new shit while travelling abroad, and I’m willing to expand that to the business as well as the local culture.” “The biggest unknown to us out of all of this? Our opponents. Curtis Mars. Freya Hobs.” Mike tapped at her chin a bit, looking up through the pink blossoms in thought. “Yeah, our own due diligence has been a little lacking. I mean, you guys did just get here and all. But there’s some things that are plain to see- you just may be the only team we’ve faced so far that can come close to matching our synch. We’ve watched the matches you’ve had here. We see the way you communicate without even saying nothin’, the way you take each other’s direction by instinct. We’ve got that too. I mean, we don’t have the ‘pawing all over each other to the point of dry humping on camera’ thing going on, but hey, we ain’t gonna judge. You kids do you. But what it comes down to is, our synch alone ain’t gonna be enough to get us through this one- but neither is yours.” John gave Mike a quick look. It was shared. “To paraphrase the Stones: can’t always get what you want but you get what you need. Mike and I wanted The Limit. We wanted the culmination of our greatest rivalry on the biggest stage possible. But all of that talk about unlimiting themselves?” His shoulders slumped, showing his disappointment. “Just talk. And then we could have went another round with Criterion. We could have used another laugh. But Mars, Hobs, here you are. Our challengers. And after some deliberation, you two will probably be our toughest opponents to date.” “And that’s just fine with us. You two, you seem to thrive off pain. I can get that, kinda- the adrenaline rush, the taste of blood in your mouth, everything hurting but only wanting to get up and keep fucking pounding. But that ain’t what we thrive off of. What drives us in that ring is challenge. Competition. And to be frank, we’ve been disappointed in that regard by a couple’a Vikings before, but I got the idea in this head of mine that you’re gonna be different. I talked before about a fight that you can talk about in Valhalla. I have the feeling in my bones that this just might be it. But make no mistake. You’re gonna push us to that limit, that orange and green line that we’ve drawn out. But you’re not going to pass it.” Suddenly, John stood up, taking his half of the belts and putting it over his right shoulder. Mike’s last words hovered for effect as John took in his surroundings. “That’s cliche, I know. Anything could happen. But here’s why. We can’t let you. Curtis, Freya. Husband and wife. Tag team. You may move like us. You may speak like us. You may even win like us. But Shock and Awe is a pale imitation at best. Coming up from behind us, running through what we’ve already conquered. You two do your homework well enough. And maybe we could attribute all of this to how great minds think alike but that would be a lie. We are nothing alike except for what you take from us. But certainly not these.” Mike rose up as well, taking a slight step to the side to stand closer to her partner. “Remember what I said about the sakura blossoms? Life, death, and renewal. Both Church and I…” She breathed in. Exhaled. “We’ve had lives full of promise, and then both hit very different events that could’ve killed us literally and did kill us in different ways. Ways we lived through, but took something from us. The kind of pain I doubt even you couple’a masochists would get a kick out of. You talk about pain and brutality all the time, but I have a feeling even you would’ve squirmed at the stuff we’ve lived through. But then there’s that third factor. We came here a year ago as near strangers, and together? We fucking rose. Everything fell away, and here we are now. Alive again. Renewed.” “Thanks to Mike, I feel like I’ve discovered who I am.” There was a hitch in his words as he qualified his words directly to the camera. “In this profession.” Mike, for once, didn’t respond verbally, but gave a sage sort of nod. “But why can’t we let you take these from us? In the physical sense - these are what? Metal plates screwed into leather? They represent a status in this company. Champions. The standard-bearers. I wish I could explain it better but it’s more to us.” The Bronx Brawler nodded along with that, affirming her partner’s words. “You either get it or you don’t. The great champions in history, in any division, understood that. It’s an understanding that made any strap that you won through the sweat of your brow and the blood in your veins worth defending with all your fucking heart. Even the ones that seem beneath everyone else’s time and effort.” “So what would these mean to Shock and Awe? Apparently very little to Mars. Curtis, you admitted as much before relieving Xavier Reid of his. And to Freya and yourself, it’s just a means to an end. That’s why. That is why. These aren’t to be just had. We are THE premier tag team in this company. And that is because we give this division and these championships the respect that they deserve. That is why if we could we’d defend them every night we stepped into the ring. Shock and Awe as tag team champions returns us to where we were all before this.” As if on a subtle cue, the camera angle began to change, lowering and tilting upward into a distinct Dutch angle- from here, the already giant Church looked impossibly massive, and even the smaller McGuire looked distinctly more imposing. “That’s why we can’t let you take these. You don’t really care. We care more than you could possibly imagine. No. We need to hold on to these because with every defense, the Tag Team Championships become more synonymous with us. That fuckin’ synonymy solidifies our future spot in the Hall of Fame every single time we walk away with these. Not as two singles competitors, but as the very best pure tag team that the EWC has ever seen or will see again. The once, present, and future kings.” “Curtis, Freya, you two seem to know a lot about everyone. How much they weigh. What they call their moves. What they ate for breakfast. None of that matters. Those are the details you learn - not regurgitate into soundbytes. We know who you are and that is a return to the status quo. You shouldn’t worry much about that, though. You’ll have your singles careers to fall back on just in case things don’t work out. Ask Carlos Ruiz that. Iggy Swango, too. Great champions in their own right but unable to hang in a division where individual aspirations take a backseat. They’ve found their calling now. And so has Curtis with his nicknames and penchant for cruelty. Freya, as well, just within reach of her own opportunity that will certainly come in some other form another day.” “The slaughterhouse FSW is turning into seems right up her alley. So go. Curtis, you have a great run as X Division champion, make yourself the true Warden of Extreme. Freya, claw your way to the FSW Championship, if things don’t become so warped down there that any sort of victory is fucking impossible. We wish you the best of luck in your future endeavours. But don’t think you can just hold hands, decide just because you’re both married and nuttier than squirrel turds that you make a tag team worthy of carrying these, and beat us. Because let me clue you in on something.” Mike leaned down. Her green eyes were harsh and sharp. As if responding to the mood of NSFW’s words, a particularly fluffy cloud drifted lazily in front of the sun, casting the sunlit park in an extended pall of shadow. “Your concept of barbarism and mayhem isn’t new to us. A little of that due diligence I mentioned would’ve told you that.” The scene of the sakura-laden garden is interrupted jarringly with a flash-film montage. Grizzly Duggan being told, through a hard knee and a Mack-force punch to the mouth, to Batter Up, Motherfucker, a thunderous crowd leaping to their feet as new Tag Team Champions were crowned. “Violent.” Arya Melon struggling to no avail, desperate to escape Bishop Church’s ironclad grip before everything darkens for her, the Melon Wolf falling unconscious. “Brutal.” Mike being popped up in the air by strong, trusted arms only to plummet downward toward her target, the end result being a hard forearm crashing right into Yeshwa’s face. “Explosive.” Nina Samson hit with a vicious redheaded cannonball of a diving headbutt, the ambitious dreams of the young woman dashed with three slaps to the mat. “Sadistic.” All manner of vicious ferocity- not just from Mike, who one would expect that sort of thing from, but more jarringly from the outwardly gentle-natured Church as well. Both dispensing all forms of punishment both in pursuit and defense of their Tag Team gold. The scene reset back to them and visual softened back to normal, the camera angle straightening back to a traditional face-forward. “That’s us. You’ve talked and talked and talked about what you’re capable of to the others in your way and you’ve proven that you’re better against impromptu tag teams and a pair of braggadocious nobodies.” “But like we’ve said a few times before- ain’t nobody like us but us. We’re like nothing you’ve ever seen before or will again. There is no preparing for what’s ahead of you. Notethe Sakura Flower’s Wisdom- we live, we die, we live again. And we’ve crawled too far out of our own personal underworlds to be stopped by anyone. Try though. Try with all your might to shock us and leave us in fuckin’ awe, or you won’t stand a chance.” Mike sat back down along with her partner, poured them both another cup of amazake, and together, they tipped their cups toward the camera in a ‘salut’ gesture. “See you at Stranglemania.”

#archive

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

NSFW #21: Traded

The dark was absolute. There was nothing discernable about NSFW’s surroundings other than a slight lack of solidity of the ground under their feet, a mild chill in the air, and the faint scent of grass, beer, popcorn, and other snacks, all mingled together in a familiar, nostalgic aroma. Slowly, and with no small sense of deja vu, Mike McGuire began to come to. She groaned as she found herself, once again, seated in a wooden chair and tied back to back with her partner. “Nnnngh… Church? You okay, bud?” John opened up his eyes slightly. His mind felt like mush. He mumbled his response. “Not really.” “Don’t worry. I’m right here, we’ll find a way out of this.” “Wait a second…” “Yeah. This is all really fuckin’ familiar, isn’t it?” Mike didn’t have time to comment on the odd repetitive feeling of their predicament any further, because just then, there was a strange electrical hum echoing from above, followed by the growl of machinery works grinding to life. Slowly, far, far above them, two roof panels slid apart, the full moonlight splashing down on the bound champions like a natural, silver-tinged spotlight. NSFW were tied up on a grassy field, smack dab in the middle of a gigantic blue star painted on the turf. All around them were cavernous, upward sloping rows of navy blue chairs, concrete stairways slicing them into sections. The massive rectangular hole that’d opened up in the domed roof revealed the starlit sky above them. Before either of them could say a word, though, the rhythmic beat of a helicopter’s blades cutting the air echoed through the empty building from the air above. The shadow of a large, luxury model chopper obscured the moonlight and hovered in place. Then, even more strangely, the figure of a man emerged from an open side door and, after a moment’s hesitation, lept out, falling toward them for about ten seconds before a parachute, adorned with the same blue star painted on the grass, opened behind him and slowly carried him down. Sensible but high end business shoes hit the blue-stained turf. The man was dressed in a dark navy suit, perfectly tailored to his somewhat thin frame, and had a head of wispy but neatly combed white hair. His face was lined with age and his eyes seemed set just a little too far apart on his head. He smiled at the captive tag team, the toothy, practiced smile of a Texas businessman. “Howdy y’all! You’ve been traded to my team!” “Oh no, not again. We’ve been coll-” “Shhh!” Mike looked back over her shoulder to the best of her ability, eyebrows raised in alarm. “You wanna get us sued!?” “Look at ya, big boy. You got the looks of my newest war daddy.” The old man then looked Mike up and down. “What are you, 5’1? 5’2?” Still not addressing the old man, Mike’s face lit up in recognition of just where they were. “Church. You know where this is? We’re on the fucking 50 yard line at AT&T Stadium.” “Right. This makes total sense.” “Ya see, things ain’t lookin’ too bright for America’s Team this year. Or any year. But we got ourselves you two. Jason’s gonna give ya call later, get you all acclimated. First, the Dallas Starlets. Kinda strange a guy wanted to be a starlet but hey, we got them male cheerleaders now. And now you’ll be the Newest Stars in Fort Worth.” “Aren’t we in fuckin’ Arlington?” “Same area, fellas!” Church looks up and all around. “Why?” Clearly the question was posed to his partner and not their current abductor. “Fuck if I know. Apparently we’re in hot demand lately and people can’t just send shit to our booking email. By the way, that’s [email protected], and we got pretty reasonable rates depending on date and occasion.” Church stood up from the chair all of a sudden, visibly annoyed. At least for him. Not even bothering with the illusion of being tied up. He looked at the local actor and gave a polite nod. “Thank you for your time but this is unnecessary.” Mike opened her mouth as if to protest- after all, they had just dropped a chunk of change renting the place for an hour- but nodded, getting up as well and brushing the fake ropes off. “You’re right, bud. This is kind of dumb. C’mon, let’s go.” Slipping an extra fifty bucks to not-Jerry Jones for his time and trouble, NSFW exited the stadium, their title belts slung over their shoulders. The picture fuzzed a bit as the feed transitioned from a professional camera setup to Mike’s trusty GoPro. “You know, EWC Faithful, ya boys have maybe gotten ourselves into a pattern lately. Little bit of overproduction, maybe where it isn’t exactly necessary. But hey, we did get a pretty nice location shot out of it. Check out where we are!” The picture whirled a bit, from the stadium growing slightly smaller behind them to the cityscape of Dallas growing slightly larger as they walked down the sidewalk. “It’s okay.” “I know it ain’t where we’re technically supposed to be, and believe me when I say we’ll be in Minneapolis when it’s time. But we thought the hometown of our opponents for this week might be worth a look.” Mike rubbed her chin. “The Dallas Starlets in Minneapolis. You know, Minneapolis used to have a hockey team called the Northstars that came to Dallas… eh, nevermind, I’m gettin’ off track.” Mike shrugged the thought off, waving to some passing fans who hollered happily to them. “I see you two wound up in FSW’s fucking meatgrinder of a match. I’ve gotta tip my hat to that- you’ve got some balls going through with it. Just make sure there’s enough of you left afterward to give us a good fight.” John walked at a slow pace but his long strides kept him side by side with Mike. “Nina Samson. Uriah Long. You two seem nice enough.” Then he stopped. Mike kept walking near out of camera shot before she realized the abrupt break. Taking a couple steps back around, she framed them up properly again. “But honestly, I’m not in the mood for it. Last time around, we’re amidst of a new chapter of a great story and then something happened.” “And that ain’t your fault. Frankly, you could be damn near anybody and we still wouldn’t have much patience for you. Patience, my little shiny Starlets, is a commodity we’re running pretty fucking scarce on lately. You can blame a particular... collection of shitters for that. Sticking their noses into business that wasn't theirs and will never be theirs. Here’s a nugget of wisdom to guide you through your rookie career, kids- you aren’t part of a story just by barging into it.” Mike snorted. Obviously, the events of the previous show were still irritating them both in a significant way. “Maybe we’re paranoid. Maybe we’re looking over our shoulders for a trio of underachievers and their cartoon villian of a manager. I’m sure that’s what they want.” John shrugged. “But maybe The Limit runs through them like a buzzsaw and we move on with our lives. So Uriah, Nina, since we were robbed of that chance last time, Mike and I need to make a statement. And if it has be against fighting cousins from the heart of Texas, so be it.” Mike held up a finger. “You’re new here, so let me define something for you. When my partner says that? He means that all bets are fucking off. You can be as fresh and cute and bright eyed and fuckin’ bushytailed as you want- we are running through you like shit through a goose. It ain’t personal. Like he said before, and I concur with- you seem like nice kids. Were circumstances better, we’d probably be friendlier. But it is what it is.” The Bronx brawler leaned over, glaring into the camera. “We want this over fucking quick. The longer we take to rip you apart, the bigger the likelihood some douchebags come swooping in like goddamn George of the Jungle to try and make their names off us. Again. Now, if you think you can handle that? A pair of pissed off Tag Team Champions willing to grind you into sawdust just to get you over with? By all means, bring it. This is your Come To Jesus moment, and we’re feeling like holy hell.” “Mike, the reason to all of that? I feel like we’re on the cusp of greater things. We’re in the catbird seat, waiting for our next challengers. I feel that I can speak for my partner that with this storm coming, we need to weather it. We’ve worked too hard to establish this division for others to marginalize us. We’ve already shown the Criterion what NSFW means. Contemplate this, Starlets. Mike and I as a unit have not been pinned or submitted since last May. And maybe the good times can’t last forever but I can’t fathom the circumstances where a pair that are so muddled by their fears and insecurities will have enough to stop this ride. One could consider that arrogance. It’s a possibility. Every time I step into that ring, I feel more and more convinced that all of this - was destiny.” And on the surface, that is exactly what it meant. But John’s words splintered into a duality that Mike would only be privy to. “And we ain’t the type to let anyone- from three sick fucks with delusions of grandeur to a pair of sweet little cowboy cousins- tromp all over the will of the universe.” Her hand, just out of the view of the camera, slipped into his. Acknowledging the secondary meaning of what John had just said. “Twinkle twinkle, little Starlets. Fight us with all your might, and maybe you’ll shine bright enough to beat us. But with the mood we’re in?” Mike shook her head, expression grim. “I seriously fucking doubt it.” That hard expression remained on the faces of both champions as the picture faded to black.

#archive