The stage is set. The curtain is about to rise. My moment is now upon me.
Me, “Beautiful” Bobby Dean, standing here in wrestling gear that I haven’t had to squeeze my fat ass into for the past 2 years. Sweat oozing from my pores, soaking me from my head to my toes, (don’t worry the doctor gave me a cream for the toe sweat, told me I’m fucked for the rest of it.) My compatriots are all milling around, preparing themselves for their upcoming matches later on in the evening.
“You’re the Best” begins to play, causing the crowd to pop, eh, who knew the fans still liked this tub o’ lard. A hand slaps me on the butt as if we were football players, which was one of my favorite parts of playing football. I slowly begin to make my way forward, towards the curtain. People slap my on the back (and sometimes lower if their more familiar with me), some offer me nods of respect, while some simply look at me, like Eric Dane, and shake their heads in awe (or was it disgust?).
Before the curtain spreads I take a minute to catch my breath. You fail to realize those past 22 steps have winded me! But it’s time. Summer Games is upon us! My debut awaits and I’ve got to do my best, or else Mikey won’t be my friend again!
But I’m not scheduled to appear at Summer Games!
Oh, that’s right, I got a bit ahead of myself. Let’s Quentin Tarantino this shit.
2 Days before Summer Games
“Ugh, eh, uh, come huh on!” sounds of exertion can be heard as I try and squeeze my beefy thighs back into a small pair of baby blue (I’ve been told they’re “sky blue”) speedos, with a poofy cloud looking “bd” emblazoned over the crotch. “See!?” I shout out triumphantly, “They still fit. I told you!”
Suddenly a ripping sound emerges from behind me, as the seems seem to burst apart. A small asian woman stands to my side smirking at the sit of this 399-½ pound monstrosity stands before her half naked.
“I told you, you’re too fat, Blobby Dean.” she mocks with a sneer on her wrinkly old face. “I can have a new set made and ready but it’ll have to be expedited and that’ll cost double.”
“Double!?” I say in disbelief. “How can I pay double when I didn’t even plan on paying you single?”
She narrows her eyes, which, not to be racist, I couldn’t tell the difference as her eyes were already pretty narrow, what with her being Asian and all. “You weren’t going to pay?”
“No, of course I was going to pay,” I stammer, suddenly at a loss of words. “I mean, eventually.”
“OUT!” she screams, pushing me out of her store. My speedos ripped and torn, half a testicle sticking out from the bottom, and my ass cheeks completely available to the eye. “You better not come back here again!”
Walking down the street, I begin to reflect on my current situation. Trying to get booked by the CWF is almost impossible. Which is odd, considering they’ve signed guys like Wone, American Patriot, and Tim Allen’s little brother Jimmy. I mean, the least they could have done was hold out for the more famous brother!
For the past two weeks I’ve been trying to sign. First, I couldn’t pass a physical. Hell, I couldn’t even complete the physical. But come on, who could walk on a treadmill THAT long!? Second, I couldn’t pass a psych evaluation. Although not normally required by the CWF, they apparently have heard stories about me, and wanted to make sure I would be “safe” to employ. Thirdly, Mikey has filed a restraining order against me. Luckily it’s still under review, so this might actually be the last time I could see my bestest friend in the whole wide world.
I just HAVE to make it to Summer Games!
Day Before Summer Games
Insert Mission Impossible music here.
*whispering* “I’ve made it to the target.” */whispering*
I’m standing a block away from the FedExField, in Landover, Maryland. One of the numerous back entrances to the arena in view. Dressed all in black, with a duffle bag full of my wrestling gear slung over my shoulder, I stand there doing reconnaissance. Watching as various CWF ring crew and backstage personal meander around the parking lot.
“I think you’d be more stealthy if you would have waiting until it was night time, buddy.” the booming baritone voice of one TJ “Fridge” Flint calls out as he casually leans against the brick wall I was hiding behind.
He might’ve had a point. It was 2:30 pm in the afternoon, and it was hot as ballz out here.
“I know you, don’t I?” the Fridge asks, looking closer, trying to look beyond the smeared chocolate I used as my night makeup, which I will admit was not a good idea. “You’re that new guy who signed the other day, aren’t ya?”
I stand up straight and smile, before licking my lips (mmmmm chocolate). Nodding my head I hold out my hand. “Yes, my name is Ron. But I sometimes have a speech impediment and like to pronounce is Wone.”
“Yeah, I thought so, but you’re wearing a different kind of face paint than usual, huh?” he answers shaking my hand and patting me on the shoulder. “So what are you doing here? The show is tomorrow you understand?”
“Yeah, I’m just a bundle of energy and excitement!” I exclaim with a happy giggle. “I mean, it’s not every day I get the pleasure of working against Mikey Unlikely!”
Fridge looks at me with an odd tilt to his head. “You do realize you’re going up against him right?”
“Of course!” I shout, causing him to jerk upright and take a step back. “I’ve been looking forward to this one match ever since I signed with the CWF. I mean, after tomorrow night I could just vanish and retire, and you’ll never hear the name Ron again!”
“You mean Wone?” Fridge asks.
“Yeah, that’s what I said.” I reply, as Fridge and I start to walk towards the arena. “Anyway, I was getting restless at the hotel and figured I’d come by and see what I could do here at the arena to hold me over until tomorrow.”
“Well, my friend,” he says slapping my back joyously and causing me to grimace in extreme pain. “Have at it, but remember we lock everything up tight later tonight.”
And with that, the head of security, walks me into the arena. Past the security checkpoints, past the locker rooms, past the oblivious ring crew and backstage personalities and into the belly of the beast.
Night of Summer Games
Before the doors open to the public.
Mikey Unlikely stands backstage in full gear, stretching with elastic bands, getting warmed up. Suddenly there is a series of crashes and other various ruckus sounds leaving Mikey in a state of confusion as he slowly turns to look in the direction where the noise was coming from.
“Riding along in my auto-mobile…” a voice sings out happily.
“Fuck.” Mikey says quietly. “Me.”
“Yo! Mikey!” Bobby calls out in his faux italian accent. “Can you believe it?”
Bobby arrives, riding low in a golf cart (meaning the golf cart itself is straining under all that mass.) Bobby pulls the cart up, next to Mikey, almost running over his friend in the process. He climbs out, struggling as he does, while Mikey stands there flabbergasted.
“What are you doing here?” Mikey gets out, at a complete loss, he notices what his “friend” is wearing. “Why are you in your gear!? I can’t believe that shit still fits you.”
Bobby smile, pulling his robe close, well as close as he can get, which means there is a good amount of flesh hanging out the open robe. He twirls around with outstretched hands, and in the process smacks Mikey in the face with a backhand as Mikey was standing too close.
“Can you believe it still fits?” Bobby asks excitedly. “I had some troubles with the bottoms at first, but I’m like Martha freaking Stewart and patched them up myself! I’m good to go buddy!”
“Good to go for what?” Mikey shouts out. “You’re not booked. Hell, last I heard you weren’t even signed!”
“Yeah, well, I’m hoping I can kind of grandfather my way into a contract, you see?” Bobby asks as if it were obvious. “If I get a couple of gigs going, then remind them that I haven’t received my paycheck, boom, suddenly I’m employed.
“So you’re going to work for free?” Mikey asks, still confused.
“No.” Bobby answers growing frustrated at Mikey’s lack of sense. “No, I’ll work a couple of shows and then ask for my paycheck.”
Mikey shakes his head, trying to clear it, and probably trying to wish that this was all a bad dream. He opens his eyes, still seeing Bobby standing there, and groans.
“Alright, but you’re not going to start tonight are you?” Mikey can’t help but wonder.
“No, no, no,” Bobby says soothingly. “I’m not in the best of shape to work tonight. But I figured I’d be your valet tonight. You know, cheer you on at ring side, show a little T and A, and get the fans on your side and what not.”
“Bobby,” Mikey says slowly, as if he were talking to the slowest man on Earth. “First, I don’t think the fans want to see your kind of T and A. Secondly, I don’t work with vallet’s, I don’t like the share the spotlight. Thirdly, I’m a fucking heel.”
“No, you’re just a misunderstood babyface.” Bobby reasons back, completely ignoring the rest. “Trust me, with me out there with you, the fans will just eat you up, like a yummy upside down pineapple cake! Oh, speaking of which…”
The large man turns back towards his cart and climbs in, trying to reach over the back seat from the front of the cart. “I’ve got something for you, to sort of celebrate your impending victory tonight!”
In his maneuvering and attempt to pull forth a cake from the back seat of the cart, his foot slips and suddenly the cart juts forwards! The sound of a grown man whaling out in abject terror, followed by a thump, Bobby slowly exits the cart, cake in hand, wondering where his friend has gone. Hearing a groan, Bobby slowly walks towards the front of the cart looking down.
“MIKEY!” Bobby screams out, throwing the cake aside, as he crashes over his unmoving friend. “Talk to me Mikey! Please, talk to me! Oh, my, god! Please don’t die on me!” Bobby looks to the sky, “He’s too young to die! Please, take me instead! Damn you upside down pineapple cake!!!”
Night of Summer Games
Seconds from my Entrance
“I know you’re sitting in Heaven, watching me from above.” I call out softly, as “You’re the Best” continues to play. “I’m gonna make you proud buddy, this one’s for you Mikey.”
I push past the curtain to a huge pop from the crowd.