A bottle of Jack, a hot dog on a skewer, and a boat on flames.
This was the inevitable fallout from Tropical Turmoil. The rest of it didn’t matter so much. All the championship change ups in the world and Brandon Youngblood playing with himself was meaningless. Just like everything else in this fucked up, cursed ass ‘verse. From zero to hero and back again within a couple weeks. Couldn’t even have one fucking defence. And I won’t lie to you, dear reader, some of us were annoyed. Others were already doing what they could to move on.
“We broke one of our rules, Firebug.”, the misty image of the Prime swirled around at the corner of our collective eyesight.
Firebug, via the vessel, took a swig of the bottle. “Yep.”
“And what was the rule?”
An eye roll. “Never wrestle on a boat.”
We’re not very superstitious. We try to come at things with a certain bit of rationality. However, in this instance, we cannot help but come back to this one point. Every time we fight on a fucking boat, it never works in our favor. The first time, it was on a cruise ship that wrecked on a deserted island where everybody had to kill each other to survive. The second time was on our then-boyfriend’s yacht and he ended up ditching both us and Bucky a few months later. And this time, we lost our title to a French lizard-child being commanded by a mental lizard glue thing. WE HOPE YOU ARE WELL.
Firebug, to her credit, shrugged at this development. It gave her the excuse to do one of the few things she was good at. Hint: it’s in her name. “It could be worse. It could’ve been a carnival.”
Gods forbid. That’s another rule we have. Never wrestle on a boat, double check for pedos before wrestling at a carnival, and if you once again trip upon an ancient luchador that you murdered-turned-Sexbot with an eight year old girl’s soul, call the fucking cops. In fact, just look all robots you haven’t built with a certain degree of side eye.
Enough ancient psychic damage. Remember the taste of that charred hot dog. Remember the booze. Perhaps it was a good thing nobody else showed up to the bonfire of the Beauregard. We didn’t need anyone to have the shrunken balls on their body to criticize our drink of choice. The drink our husband was named after, the reason for our first kiss, the one of many substances we used when we revealed our feel–
Stop that. This isn’t about that either.
“One step forward and a thousand more back again. We had a goal and now we’re back to no goal.” The Prime paced on the edges of time and space as the vessel’s eyes linger on the bottle.
“Fuck does that matter?”, Firebug replied. “Everything changes at the drop of a dime here. You can’t really rely on anything or anyone to be even remotely stable in any version of the word. None of it matters and nobody cares. The only thing that matters is how close you can get to killing a person and how outrageously it can be done. Exhibit A.” She made a swooping gesture to the FLAMBOrghini’s final resting place.
And let’s face it. This old bitch is right. The biggest take away from the entire match wasn’t that there was a new champion. It was that said new champion and a bunch of fans nearly got ran the hell over by his own vehicle. Madness and violence go hand and hand. Sure, the bay now smells like copper. But that was a small price to pay.
Another chomp at the dog. “We should’ve broke the shit out of that belt while we still had a chance.”
The mist shrugged. “Well, since we can’t pull a Naito, might as well pull an Austin.”
“Aren’t you worried about Athena? Fuck knows we can’t mention anything without the dumb birds wanted to peck our eyes out.” A siren slowly started to fade into the background.
The vessel sighed as the Prime regained control again. Our tongue took one more lap around the Daniels wasteland. “Fuck that bird and all her shitty inbred relatives. Besides this is a character development post. Nobody reads these.”