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**Dolly Waters** · (09-29-2016)

Saturday, May, 23rd, 2015
AT&T Stadium
Dallas, TX, USA
…Backstage during Bad Medicine…

We see an eleven year old Dolly Waters, sitting infront of a television in the dressing room, intently watching the climatic ending to her father's Tag Team Championship Match

Scully suddenly seems confused by the concept of climbing the ladder. He begins to climb up a step but then shakes his head and looks up. Perhaps he's afraid of the height. Either way he turns and is met by FACE who smashes his head in with a steel chair. FACE climbs the ladder quickly as Carson and Muddy fight into the ring. Flynn detaches the belts and falls from the ladder!

Winners: The Brick Squad

Flynn and Carson celebrate with their titles as Muddy seems frustrated with his partner who had the match won essentially.

Now I aint too sure what it was when I watched the ending of that match, but it was as if something was nudging me, I felt it in my gut; something was telling me as I looked into Dad’s empty eyes, that things were never going to be the same.

You have to understand that up until that point, the last few months of my life had been a complete whirlwind. I aint one to bitch and complain, but looking back in retrospect, for an eleven year old girl to have gone through what I went through was really kinda’ ground shattering.

Let’s start with my whore Momma’, who I had known for months was sleeping around on my Dad with that disgusting pig, Pastor Buddy. Dad had no clue, but when he walked in that day and beat the holy hell, pun intended, out of Pastor Fat Ass I think Dad saw something in the way I looked at him… and he knew it was time for a change. I don’t even know if I intended to look at him any certain way, I just felt this yearning inside of me, this desire for a life free from day to day boring nuances of the trailer park.

I always wanted my father to be more than the drunken ass washed up highschool football star living life on his former glory. He knew that I knew he had something more inside of him to offer this world, and boy oh boy was I right.

Even as all these assholes back in the locker room walk by obviously patronizing me with that: “Don’t worry kid” and: “It’ll be alright, he’ll bounce back” patting me on my back because I look upset bullshit, I know that my father has made a hell of an impression here. My father went from piss poor drunk, getting fired from his job and his wife leaving him, to piss poor drunk, XWF superstar main eventing Warfare and fighting for championships on pay per views… I don’t care who you are, and I don’t really give a damn what you think, but that’s pretty impressive.

I look over to see Dad literally fall into the locker room. It scared me bit, with the growling and drooling and all that shit, so I jumped back some. Desperately he started scrambling for a small wastebasket he knocked over, and while sitting Indian style on the floor he tucked the trashcan between his legs and started violently vomiting into it. He looked up at me, and behind the bloodshot glossiness, I could see the despair, I could feel the hurt; it looked like the culmination of twenty-eight years of knowing that you’ll never be anything other than a disappointment. For some reason, I just had this urge to walk over and kick him square in his face, is that wrong? I don’t know.

But I took the high road, and went to help him up, but he wanted no part of it, shoving me away as he said: “Git the fuck away, Dolly.” I'll never forget that the ferocity in his voice, and how bad it made me feel. Dad got up and started rummaging through his bags, grabbing a bottle of Vicodin and turning it back in his mouth, chewing them up like skittles. He grabbed his shit and stormed out of the room, and just like the little confused, overly emotional square ass I can be sometimes, I slumped into the corner with my head resting on my hands while the tears began to stream down my pale cheeks.

And so that was it, life sucked again… and you know my gut was right, things were never going to be the same. Dad was gone, and I obviously wasn’t invited, so there I was: broken, broke, hungry and afraid I only knew one person to which I could turn…

Morbid Angel.

O’Yippie…

To be continued…

We see Paul Heyman standing in the ring.

Oh boy, oh boy, look who has decided to try and join the party of one; Chris Chaos and Kitt Kennedy have finally decided to pry their heads from their collective asses and make utter fools of themselves, and my they have accomplished that so inexplicably.

Kitt Kennedy, President of the “I’m a worthless Irishmen’s Men’s Club”, decided to cut a tremendously terrible promo on my client, I guess because he feels that his skinny ball sack has finally dropped to a suitable enough level that he might actually have a chance of producing semen, thus finally entering manhood so he can pleasure that three legged dog looking wildabeast, Alex.

Listen up Kitt, you want to bad mouth me, you want to bad mouth my client, while spatting out the same old recycled garbage that every Superstar has tried to use against her?

“Oh, oh wee! You’re too big for your Disney’s Frozen undies!”

“Oh, oh wee! You’re a little girl!”

Well no shit Sherlock, and guess what dumbass? It didn’t work for Hunter Payne, it didn’t work for Doctor D’Ville and it sure as fuck isn’t going to work for you. But I am glad you at least have a concept on age limitations, how very scholar-esque of you Kitt, I’m sure that will work wonders for you when your washed up little career lands you managing some filthy little potato filled dive bar in Dublin, you prick.

McDouble Down on the same old bullshit Said:pubescent Polly Pocket

Just couldn’t help yourself could you? Just couldn’t help being an unoriginal shit stain, who has now landed himself in the same category of disgusting pederast wrestlers as: Tommy Wish, Nate Higgers and Pest; who creep around Dolly’s locker room looking for a pair of dirty panties to sniff before going home to masturbate while watching Barney and Friends.

I don’t even know why I’m even bothering with this dumbass. Kitt is your kilt too tight? Maybe try and stop drinking rubbing alcohol for breakfast before you go blind.

Have I ever heard of Achilles? Wow... that's fucking intriguing.

Why yes, Professor Who Gives a Fuck Because Ireland Has No Schools, I certainly have!

Have you ever happen to hear of Clifford the Big Red Dog? Well Clifford was a big, red, fucking dog. The end.

Point being is nobody gives a fuck you pretentious dipshit, how about you tell me the story about the time you got your ass handed to you by a twelve year old girl, then slumped away with the heroin junkies and started trading sexual favors for drugs to deal with your depression… Now that’s a great story. It’s going to be a Bestseller Kitt!

Dolly Waters isn’t just going to beat you, Kitt. No, no… Dolly Waters is going to break you, she’s going to break your spirit, and she’s going to feast upon your flesh like a man high on bath salts.

She’s going to break your jaw Kitt, in fact, it’ll be so bad that while you’re lying in a hospital bed, the XWF will start running ads for a promotion called “Kitt’s Cure” where they’ll sale stupid little shirts, and stupid little bracelets with some stupid little picture of your stupid little face you drew on it, and they’ll pocket ninety percent of the proceeds leaving you to die in the hospital due to an acute pathetic disorder!

Goddamnit I’m on a roll!

Now seeing as how I’ve got about… 798 seconds worth of allotted promo time left, I’m going to move over to that other dimwitted dingleberry who finds redundancy amusing.

Yes Chris, you somber dumbass, I’m talking about you.

You see, unlike you and Captain Obvious…ly Queer, Kitt Kennedy, I consider myself smart enough not to waste my time muttering mush mouthed moronic mic work on competitors who are smart enough to stay far away from my client on Saturday. Unlike you Chris my client doesn’t have to walk around the room with a giant chip on her shoulder, and do you know why?

Because my client, Dolly fucking Waters, already knows that she is the best that this industry has to offer.

I can sit here and genuinely tell you that I can’t recall a single fucking word you said against my client. Something about listening to a grown man blandly groan on and on about destiny, and about Destiny’s Child, while portraying a false grandiose gimmick that’s been so overdone that even Ghost Tank thinks you suck, makes me just want to stuff my ears with live electrical wire. I’d rather drink bleach, I’d rather go to a Minnesota Twins game, I’d rather watch Peter Gilmore and Mia Dim finally act on their long standing sexual temptations for one another; I’d rather do all of that at the same time while dying from cancer then to listen to another one of your promos.

I can’t stand it, I really can’t. The whole edgy tough guy who has a dark past act… it’s the exact same thing Kennedy is trying to pull off but is even worse at it then you are.

The Rated R <img src="https://i.imgur.com/pUgtAVa.gif"> was HIS belt, and he knew it in his heart. He knew it in his soul. They made a belt for him in Phoenix Wrestling, and they were doing it here. [/quote Said:Aww, isn’t that great? Isn’t life a beach? Have I got palm trees growing out of my ass or something? What in the blue hell is Phoenix Wrestling, and who on God’s green earth gives a fuck? Kinda of fits your whole persona though doesn’t it? Phoenixes, dark clothes, rock music, being misunderstood, listening to Nickleback, watching anime; god you’re so clandestine and cliché it’s kind of comical.

[quote=Chris Chaos, or Kitt Kennedy, or thirty other people]Isn’t this bitch like 12 or 13 years old?

BINGO! DING, DING, DING, DING-A-LING DING DONG THE GODDAMN WITCH IS DEAD, AND WE HAVE US A WINNER FOLKS! Chris you too have won an award for being an unimpressive, unoriginal blowhard who blows dogs for quarters and dreams of one day mustering the courage to do something productive rather than playing World of Warcraft.
I know you’re used to taking sloppy seconds, or thirds, or fourths or thirteenths on the regular, just like that overused one-liner, but there’s going to come a day when you catch something that not even Ajax will be able to clean, and the ghost of Billy Mays will come trying to sell you some Oxy, and you’ll buy It because you’re a dumb fuck. Try saying something for once that hasn’t been said a gazillion times already, try not being so abundantly you Chris.

I understand that you’re on cloud nine right now, you’re winning matches, you’re working real hard, you’re getting shit faced off of a six pack of shitty beer, and you’re starting to see some of your hard work pay off, but let me bring you back down to reality bub. In reality you’re going to lose Saturday, and it’s not your fault… oh wait a minute, it is, it is your fault.

It’s your fault because you’re too

not to realize that being a redundant cum wad lands you right with the rest of the redundant cum wads… wrapped in a tissue lying on the floor next to Frodo’s bed.

You won’t be drinking the beer after Saturday Chris, you’ll be getting pumped full of anesthetic just before the doctors have to surgically remove your teeth from your throat after you eat a knee from the new Savage Champion: Dolly fucking Waters.

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