#I will legit take a picture of the tag on my bra size to prove it to you | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

omgnsfwisnsfw-blog · 5 years

Text

Game #6: Mama Said Knock You Out

The usual camera phone feed clicked on, revealing Mike McGuire standing in her backyard, leaning against a tall privacy fence. She had her fists taped but was otherwise dressed casually- jeans with holes in the knees, sneakers, her Mets cap, and a brand new t-shirt touting EWC’s newest facial hair based team, The tMc Club. Her hands were tucked behind her back, and she addressed the camera frankly. “Well, EWC Faithful, this is it. Weeks and weeks of climbing, clawing, and scratching, and ya boys finally made good. Number One Contenders to the motherfucking Tag Team Titles. I got a feeling that shot’s gonna be coming sooner rather than later, but this week, in Miami? I got me a one on one with one big hairy drink’a whiskey named Grizzly Duggan. I’m sure people are gonna have their eyes on it. I mean, for one, it’s yours truly’s second singles match in EWC, not to mention my first freakin’ singles main event. But other than that? People are probably gonna be seeing it as something as a bellwether for the eventual title match. Which is smart, I guess.” She shrugged, reaching up and adjusting her cap. “I’ll get to Griz in a second. Firstly, I want to say a quick piece about my own partner. You’ll notice he’s not here at the moment- I told him to take it the fuck easy. I want that gash in his side to be a total non-issue by go time, both for professional and personal reasons. See, Bishop Church is a goddamn saint. He grounds me. Keeps me from getting too nasty. There’s a lot of terrible things I would’ve said and done to people if it weren’t for him- in short, he truly is my better angels given flesh. He is kind, he is self-sacrificing, he is morally upright…” Mike’s grin split from genuine, almost sweet fondness into something outright shark-like. “...and he’s watching Cloud Atlas right now, so I don’t have a fucking filter for the next three hours.” Reaching out, Mike plucked the phone from its tripod and swiveled it around- through the sliding glass back door, a glimpse of the living room could be seen. Bishop himself could be spotted nestled into a recliner wearing a too-small light blue Snuggie adorned with monkeys, absorbed in the first act of the multi-plot epic. Back over to her, camera set back in place. “So, with that established, let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Okay. I have wanted to fight fucking Grizzly Duggan one on one pretty much since I got here. Not for any personal reasons, but because I just want to test my mettle against somebody twice my goddamn size. I wanted to get in the ring and get scrappy as fuck with him just to see if I could. But outside that? Seemed like an okay enough dude. Not the brightest, shiniest bulb in the lamp, but eh. No real reason to dislike the guy. And I didn’t. Until he opened that fucking hole in his ugly hairy-ass face. But more on that in a second.” Picking the camera and tripod up, the picture moved across the backyard to the backdoor of the garage. Mike opened it up and stepped inside- in lieu of a car, it was filled with workout equipment. Jump rope, weight bench, dumbbells, mats on the floor for doing calisthenics on, and other such things. There’s also a table off to the side where several cardboard boxes and large plastic buckets were stacked, along with packing materials- NSFW’s own personal merch station. “Yeah, see that? We send out our own goddamn shit. Everything someone gets with the NSFW brand on it, they get right from us. Nice personal touch, yeah? I wouldn’t recommend you do it though, Duggan. See, we include an autographed picture with our swag. You’d probably just wind up including beard hair and armpit sweat, you uncouth fuck.” Shrugging, they turn their attention to the makeshift gym proper. Tripod is set down, and Mike took a seat on the weight bench. “You’re probably going to go on about how much you work out. How much you fucking lift. The only thing you probably lift on the regular is takeout bags, you fat sonovabitch. But oh no, you’re probably thinking right now, what did you do or say to deserve this? Why am I being so… gasp… mean? I’ll allow our personal motivational speaker to enlighten you, you living drain clog.” The camera was adjusted so it faced the wall, where a slightly terrifying enlarged cutout of David Scott’s stern face is hung up, with blinking red Christmas lights poked where the eyes were. Underneath was a whiteboard, usually adorned with some tongue in cheek inspirational quote and workout schedules, but this time, it bore Grizzly’s own words. Back on her. Emerald eyes flashed from the slight shadow cast by the brim of her cap. “How dare you try to psychoanalyze me, Sigmund Fuck? You ain’t got the skills or brains to do that. I mean, look at you. I bet you chew on your own fucking beard thinking it’s your girlfriend’s bush, you fucking moron. Or is that even a beard? It looks like your face is home to wild growing fucking pubes. I bet you just shaved your fucking undercarriage and glued it to your face, which sure explains why you always stink of fermented ball sweat.” Inhale. Exhale. There was a visible tic in their jaw, and they attempted to calm themselves down, at least a little. “So. The match at fucking hand. I mean, people probably have me pegged as the underdog here. I mean, for one, you outweigh me. By a LOT. I mean, you have bigger fucking tits than I do. You ever considered putting on a bra? Your goddamn business is always jiggling up front. You have protruding nipples, for God’s sake. Very disrespectful. Cover that shit. And maybe stop guzzling Campbell’s Chunky right out of the fucking can. Or maybe that’s part of your master plan, huh? I have it on good authority you only beat Annabelle because you farted on her and she passed the fuck out. The evil spirits in her head couldn’t fucking contend with the ones coming out of your hairy ass. You better not try that shit on me, big boy. I WILL wear a goddamn gas mask to the ring if I have to.” She rolled her shoulders, smirking. “Number two, some would say you outclass me. Don’t make me fucking laugh, you wouldn’t know class if you tripped through the fucking window of a high society party. Class wouldn’t spend each and every week droning on and on about how many matches you’ve had. Nobody cares how many you’ve won, nobody cares how many you’ve shat down your leg like the regular bouts of explosive diarrhea you get after eating an entire Taco Bell party pack by your lonesome and chasing it with two gallons of goddamn Schlitz. Nobody gives a fuck. So you’re on a hot streak. Big fucking deal, you leave hot streaks in your underwear fucking daily. Bet Candice loves doing your laundry.” Stretching, she stood up. Perhaps this all was a little much- she knew damn sure by this point that John wouldn’t really like it if he was here- but there was no sense in trying to re-cork the bottle now that the genie’d already flown the coop. “But fine, let’s humor you. You got some wins. Wins that you got through either Carlos- hey there, sweetie!- or dumb fucking luck. If I have to hear you crow about it for another fucking minute I’m going to beat your ass to death just so I never have to hear it again. There’s something else I never wanna hear too. C’mere, I wanna show you something.” The tripod was picked up once more, carried back through the door she came in. The focus now was on a different part of the backyard- a huge spreading maple, the leaves just starting to turn. Beneath it was a wrestling ring. The ropes didn’t match- red, gold, and green- and the turnbuckles were different sizes, the canvas stained and worn in places, ring apron patched here and there. But nonetheless, it was a ring, and she slid into it expertly, setting up the tripod in the center and leaning back into the corner. “This ring, it’s mine. I bought it before I even got a job at EWC. I wasn’t a wrestler anymore, just an auto mechanic, but I still bought it. I wanted to be in it, work in it, keep myself as fucking sharp as possible, because I love wrestling and I always wanted it to be a part of my life. That’s who I am, not what you’re fucking pigeonholing me into. But hold up… the shit you said about me, you haven’t said just about me. In fact, you’ve tried to chalk up the wills of damn near every fucking woman you’ve ever stepped in the ring with to some sort of personal fucking inadequacy. Abuse, trauma, illness, being bullied, something has to be fundamentally broken or we wouldn’t be fighting so hard to prove ourselves. Right?” She leaned forward, hands on her knees. Her teeth grit in an angry grimace. “Just last week you chalked Annabelle up to, I quote, a ‘scared little girl’. Fuck that and fuck you. I don’t get her much and I don’t like her much, but that woman is fucking legit. I got a scar on my head to prove it. She’s a fighter, and she’s eaten better men than you for fucking breakfast. You had weak-ass platitudes for Lavender, and you didn’t have the balls to say shit about Ruthann Hunter, a goddamn legend in this company, before she put you in your fucking place. And then there’s me. Are you right about me? Are you wrong? You ain’t never gonna know, because it ain’t your goddamn business, Duggan. It sure as fuck ain’t who I am. Let me tell you who I am.” She stood up straight, pushing the brim of her cap to the side with one thumb. Her face was full of hard, steely determination. “I am Mike Fucking McGuire, from New York City. I was trained by Harley Race. I’ve fought fucking harder and longer than you could even wrap your head around. I love this business more than your tiny mind could fathom. I. Am a Professional Fucking Wrestler, and I will NOT be fucking marginalized by you or anybody, you cuck. I’m not afraid of you. I’m not intimidated by your size, your weight, or your momentum.” She let out a brief, dry laugh. “I am Mike McGuire… and I’m gonna knock you out.” A taped fist went sailing toward the screen. The letters ‘KF6’ could be seen for a split second before the picture abruptly went dark. Mike tucked their phone into the pocket of their jeans and let out an exhale. They felt almost ten pounds lighter- there had been a lot rolling around in their head, festering like some vestigial gangrenous limb. The excision had been an absolute relief- they’d spat poison, true, but if they hadn’t it would’ve wasted no time eating at them instead. Enough was eating at them lately. The letter they’d gotten from Natalie was hanging heavily around their neck and they knew that they hadn’t been themself since the night they read it. They strode through the back door and padded into the living room. The movie was still going, at one of the parts involving the cute rebel waitress clone. Or something. A glance to the Lay-Z-Boy made Mike smile fondly- their partner had fallen asleep. At what point, they couldn’t say, but if this wasn’t a testament to the inherent dullness of Cloud Atlas Mike didn’t know what was. They turned it off, and watched him sleep for about as long as they could allow themselves without feeling like a creeper before nudging him gently. “Hey, buddy. I’m all done.” “Huh?” John’s eyes slowly blinked awake, and he yawned, rubbing them with one hand. Mike chuckled softly. He eyed the TV and then back to them. “I guess it wasn’t very good after all.” And then he sat up in the recliner, rolling the blanket off his chest to free his arms from its sleeves. “You feel better?” “Yeah, a little. I mean, I’ve felt a lot better since Monday, t’ be honest.” Last week had been truly terrible, and one of the worst parts was that their partner didn’t know just how awful it’d been. But they hadn’t told him what that letter’d said. It was too painful, even now, to try and speak it aloud. “Good. That letter from Natalie. Saw what was left of it, cinders and all, in the trash. What’s going on?” They closed their eyes. For a moment, John saw on their face an expression that’d been all too common in the last week- a sadness that was very unlike them. Something different than even the sadness that’d been there during the fight of sorts they’d had a few weeks ago- at least that came with an almost wild persistence to work things out. No, this was resignation, as if what was lost wouldn’t ever come back. Still, as unpalatable as the idea of talking about the contents of that letter was, they knew better now than to be elusive. They instead spoke earnestly. “I’ll tell you. I promise I will. I just can’t talk about it right now. Gimme a few more days and I’ll tell you everything, but it’s just… too raw to talk about at th’ moment. Okay?” John kicked off the blanket and stood up. Despite towering over them, he was far from intimidating in their presence. The usual blank expression that he sported turned to one of brief acknowledgement. “Okay.” “Okay.” They smiled, that sad expression melting back into the background, just visible if you knew where to look. “I don’t know about you, but I could go for some goddamn strawberry pancakes.”

#archive

0 notes