[Blue Gator]

Opponent/s who shall receive my scaly dick: Ginger 'Dyke' Snaps Special K - "Bubbles" I think I hear a metronome. Is that a metronome? Yeah. It is. I can’t sing though. Or rap. Nah, I’m a Lounge Lizard. I’ll think of something. Maybe some spoken word shit. Poetry? Could be. Or Henry Rollins type shit. Fuck me, I never was musical. It’s so… enchanting though. Ever read To Kill a Mockingbird? Imagine doing just that but… with like two mockingbirds. And one stone. Oh shit yeah that bitch died the other day. The author I mean. Is it like distasteful to say the word ‘bitch’? To describe a dead person? Maybe I’m too used to thinking of things as objects. I feel great. I’m a hamster. Dead. Lying on its side but the wheel that my owner finds joy in watching me run on is still turning. Could it be that if you expect something to happen, when you get in the routine of doing the same thing –over- and –over- it becomes eternal? Immortal. It continues forever despite your existence. Problem is, there could be holes in your existence. You know, like people see holes and they will reach inside with both hands and pull it wide open. That sounds like a prostate exam. One obvious… glaring hole is the illogical transformation of a paralysed chav with a Nigerian bodyguard into an entirely new creation, that of a man who speaks words of golden revenge and the sweet taste of fake tan to lonely lips of a woman, with false promises and… And… I made some really bad decisions. Some which may haunt me if people dig it up enough. What they don’t understand is that despite being the same person, we share absolutely no resemblance in our actions or way of thinking. For example, I can touch myself without worrying about being limp dicked, ugly or the rather large obstacle of not being able to move. I can’t move right now. I don’t know why. My vision is blurry, it’s like I went to the cinema with 3D glasses to watch a live flashbang go off and be disappointed. I know it’s hard to explain but in like the lower right hand corner of my eye… no fuck that… all over my eyes there are these patches. You know like when you stare at the sun too long? Like that. Just like that. You know when you put your ear to a shell and hear the ocean? It’s like that too. Except… muffled… with constant fucking tinnitus… I can’t do shit. For once since I made the transformation of man to reptile I’m not in control at all. I hate not being in control. I don’t even know what time it is. Am I late? Am I late to my Intercontinental Title match? Where I crush one of many ginger little sluts like I have many times before? I mean, I should be in favour in this match. No one as doubted me since my return, I have been showered with compliments in my opponents’ promos, I hear them talking about me backstage. It’s great. Though that slag beat Morbid Angel, surely that deserves some sort of… recognition? 6ft 10. 450lbs. Typical David vs Goliath and somehow that frail bitch with the visible ribcage emerged victorious in under a minute if you don’t count here struggling to get a ladder set up. I don’t know why I bother, no one can hear me. I don’t know if you can hear me at home. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. What does matter? This girl will view me as a rapist, a sleazy, slimy man, who has to use every trick in the book to get a lady. You’d be half right. I have a certain aura about me, there is no doubt. Everything I say or do turns to gold. I literally just lost a match and still emerged a victor. I was attacked on warfare by three members of the Black Hand and I still emerged a victor. I was paralysed by Doctor D’ville and I still emerged a victor, are you picking up a pattern here? I always win in the end. Am I talking to myself? That little kid, Ike, I’m going to keep him around. He was the only reason the Yakuza released me as they weren’t aware of the little sweatshop scene that guy I killed was running. He was proof. Not sure what the fuck to do with him now. I don’t know if he’s still here. He could just run away and I wouldn’t even notice. …being noticed. I sure have everybody’s attention now. Not like I didn’t have it before but I was merely a mosquito bite on a child in a Brazilian favela, only causing panic just as they realise the extent of what I do – and that’s not causing women to give birth to babies with deformed heads. I am a disease for my enemies and a euphoric state of pleasure for my victims. This is kind of euphoric right now, thinking about it. Am I chatting shit? The patchy bits are fading away now. I think I can see a bit clearer. Yeah, it’s clearer alright... Waking up to a fucking horrendous headache with the only thing comforting me is the hollow mahogany table pressing against my cheek. My ears are suddenly drowned in a swarm of voices, all saying different things. I then realise that I am in a bar, my second-home. “Awake then?” Some familiar sounding bloke says, though it sounds like it’s directed at me, so I roll my head off the table and into my lap, I feel stiff as shit. “You’ve been laying there for ages.” “Uhh…” Is all I can say as I finally raise my head, my neck clicking as I look into the bartender’s eyes. He looks middle-aged, with short brown hair and big ass beard. It’s Patrick, a friend of mine and owner of the most bustling hotspots in Wigan. Chuckling to himself, he points to two empty glasses on the table in front of me, one having the remains of some sort of white solution. Looks like I’ve been made the fool. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” “I told you Tush, you keep doing what you do, and someone will eventually turn the tables on you and look what happened.” Some bitch I was chirpsing with last night found out about my Special K and turned the tables on me, swapping the drinks that I put the drug in. Someone intelligent? That’s new. It also really pisses me off that I’d been outwitted. I have genuinely never encountered this before. “Where’d she go?” “Good luck with that, she left as soon as you passed out.” “Why didn’t you do anything?” “Why didn’t I…?! I don’t know why I never did anything before with what you did to all those other women! You think you’re a big shot now that the XWF let you drop your fucking comedy shtick?” “Come on, we’ve known each other for years… I just flew all the way from Las Vegas back to this shithole to speak to you before I’m off to slaughter some pale slag to win the Intercontinental Championship.” “The Intercontinental what?” “It’s a title thing, look. Sorry for snapping but I’ve just wasted precious time that I could be doing something productive.” “Like molesting one of my customers?” “Yep.” “I cannot sympathise with you at all… you’ve changed. I won’t let you sexually assault anybody as long as I can help it and this is coming from a friend. Somebody in the XWF is going to beat the shit out of you one day and I won’t feel bad about it at all.” I take a big sigh and look down at my crotch. I don’t know why, I just like reassuring myself that the Lizard’s tail is still there. Who does Pat think he is? Does he forget who I am? I don’t think he understands how serious the situation is. My precious dignity is at stake. “Pass me a shot of whiskey.” “Magic word?” That is so fucking annoying. “Pass me a shot… please.” I say through gritted teeth. Patrick slides over the glass and I take a sip, before standing up and leaning forward, showing off a completely genuine smile. “If you ever get clever with me again, I won’t spike your drink with ketamine… no… I’ll spike it with the stomach acid of a dead African cancer patient and then I’ll cut you up, scattering your parts across the ocean so the only thing they’ll ever remember you by is the smell of smoke from this disgusting bar – then I’ll set fire to this place so everyone will forget who you ever were. Capiche?” “Get out.” Replies a hurt Patrick, who refuses to look me in the eye. “Get out and never come back.” Hm. Well then. I pick up my shot glass and stumble away from the bar counter, not out of sobriety but of the effects of tasting my own medicine. Pushing some patrons out the way, I finally make it out the emergency fire exit door and am blinded by the light of the morning sun. Taking one last sip and finishing off the whiskey, I crush it between my fingers. “Time to go to London.”