HONAKER CHURCH OF GOD
There’s no reason for Muriel Puddings to be here tonight. As a “manager” whose only client has never won a match in his career, she should be holed up in the war room, rethinking her strategy. A great time to heed Kim Kardashian’s recent advice for wannabe girl bosses.
But no. Instead, she’s hulking around the backstage area with her lips pursed and her shoulders haunched to give the appearance of a real “tough.” Dressed like the movie Goodfellas. Not in a 1970s Italian mob-style suit, though. A pair of black sweats and a t-shirt that literally reads “THE MOVEY GOOD FELLA S” in Comic Sans, almost as if she’d ordered it from one of those online stores that will print anything you want on a shirt. And by almost, I mean that’s exactly what she did.
Muriel Puddings: One dog goes one way, the other dog goes anoth…HEY! YOU!
While she had originally intended to wait right by the entrance curtain to pounce on her intended target as soon as he made his way back through, she’d been distracted by a pyramid of Reese’s cups that catering had set up per the rider request of Bobby Dean. Taking off at a breakneck jog, Muriel’s eyelids drop as she hones in on her victim walking sluggishly toward the locker room area.
Meanwhile, Garbage Bag Johnny had no reason to suspect that he’d be plowed against a rigging box by the world’s most insatiable locomotive. Sure, he’d given plenty of people throughout the years a reason for an old fashioned sneak attack. Most of them would at least offer the common courtesy of taking a post-match pee first. Struggling to collect the wind back into his breath, the fatigued composer of his own theme gasped directly into his assailant’s ear.
Garbage Bag Johnny: Your hair smells nice. Like Axe body spra–i-i-i-i-i-I–I-I-YEOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW!
Letting out an almost identical howl from famous cartoon cat Tom, Johnny’s compliment was interrupted from the indescribable pain of human molars biting down directly on his titty.
Muriel Puddings: Where’s my money?
Putting a palm into his chest to create a slight bit of distance, Muriel reaches into the cargo pocket of her sweatpants (you read this right) and fishes out a knife to add to the interrogation. Powering through the throbbiness of his breast meat, Johnny gets a good look at his assailant.
It was her. The one from the lighter, only without a flint and spark wheel! His gut began to flutter and his palms started to sweat: she was even more trampy in person. As a matter of fact, he was almost taken aback enough to completely ignore the knife slowly making its way toward a part of his body that had JUST SLIGHTLY spilled a little bit of urine on the front of his shorts. Or maybe that had always been there.
Garbage Bag Johnny: Hot dog! Am I dreaming, or are you the sexy lighter lady brought to life like in the movie Weird Science? If this is real, bite my other nipple and see if I feel it.
Muriel chooses not to respond to the request with words, but rather to jam the front of the blade against his pelvic region.
Garbage Bag Johnny: Okay, okay! What money?
Johnny initially winces to brace for the Lorena tribute, but is relieved to realize that the actual choice of weaponry was not quite suited for what she’d planned to do. Glancing back up at Muriel, he motions down toward his crotch. She sighs in response.
Muriel Puddings: Yeah. I’m still on the paper. So this is the only thing I can carry without going back to jail.
Garbage Bag Johnny: I know what you mean. ACAB, am I right?
Muriel Puddings: Sorry, I don’t speak German. Anyway, I’m gonna let you off with a friendly warning this time. You owe me one-hundred thirty two bucks for the Fire Starter Kit. That’s cost on top of interest. I’m Mob Boss Muriel now.
GBJ furrows a brow, but opts to choose his words carefully. He needed to play it cool. Play hard to get. Don’t let on that he might be into her. And for chrissakes, don’t let her get the upper hand!
Garbage Bag Johnny: How about an even one-forty?
CRAP! Muriel smiles and releases her grip from Johnny, twinkling her fingers in a “cough it up” motion.
Muriel Puddings: Works for me, Grizzly Man. I’ll take cash or Ross gift cards. No checks. Your girl’s got overdraft charges and Mr. Wells Fargo isn’t seeing a dime out of me!
Garbage Bag Johnny: What about Burlington Coat Facto-EYYYYYYYYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOUCH!
A second bite, this time to the left boob, came with an almost equal force from the Gem State Rhinestone. Ultimately releasing her tigerlike grip, she jams an index finger against his nose with a final warning.
Garbage Bag Johnny: Oh, yeah. This is really happening.
Muriel Puddings: The next time I see you? Cash or card. Or else.
Turning to walk away, Johnny admires the sway of the word “YUM” stitched on the back of her sweats and begins to rub his nipples. FROM THE PAIN, from the pain! Moments later, a brilliant thought occurs to him as he calls out to her before she is beyond earshot.
Garbage Bag Johnny: Tomorrow. The all-you-can-eat Potato Bar at Silver Legacy.
Muriel abruptly stops in her tracks and spins around.
Muriel Puddings: The one with twenty-two toppings?
Garbage Bag Johnny: Twenty-three if you count the fanny pack full of mixed olives I’m gonna sneak in. Meet me there. I’ll bring you exactly what you want.
Puddings, who obviously isn’t a woman that’s very hard to flatter, bats her eyelashes back at the man who she literally minutes ago threatened with a butter knife. Almost smitten at the thought of a buffet that featured her home state’s pride and joy.
Muriel Puddings: It’s a date.
GBJ cranes his neck to check out Muriel’s backside as she walks away, and when he’s pretty sure he’s out of ear shot, he whistles to himself.
Garbage Bag Johnny: Momma can kiss my pain away any day.