offensive
noun
noun: homo; plural noun: homos
1. a homosexual man.
adjective
adjective: homo
1. homosexual.
Gabe Reno wanted to live up this trip as much as possible. He had his biggest test since watching 2 girls 1 cup sober coming up, and he wanted to have fun and climax before what many were calling a career defining event at Warfare. Holding up his hand as a visor to the bright sun; the sound of ocean waves and splashing can be heard. A giant Yacht drifts into view. Gabe sits comfy in a kitty inner-tube being pulled by tether to the back of the yacht as beautiful models swim around him nude in the sweet warm pacific liquid. He sips his umbrella cup, then puts it in the built in cup holder. Adjusting his Captain's hat, he picks a magazine up off of his lap, which reveals a censored area, because he is also in his birthday suit. The Magazine has a picture on it, and an XWF logo in the corner.
"XWF: THE MAGAZINE"
Let's see here, Oh yes... page one... "Who will win the epic brawl between Caedus and Ravenwolf? Mike Stump breaks down the strategy each will need to come out on top!" No, no, no... we all know whoever wins that match that a beast will rise... and maybe into Isabella's THIGHS! HAHA! Hmm... what's next, oh, here we go! "Thaddeus Duke takes on The Dark Warrior in X-Treme rules!" Wow. That sounds exactly like his match with me last week... only it caused me to have extreme drools. God Thaddeus Duke is bland. I bet his mattress gets tired of him.
Flipping obnoxiously through a few pages toward the back of the mag. He smiles, then shows the page he found to all the models who swim toward him to take a gander with their hooties peaking above the surface like semi-natural floatation devices.
THIS IS IT! YOU LIKEY LADIES!? OF COURSE YOU DO. A picture of yours truly with the ugly mugs of Chris Chaos and Thomas Nixon occupying the rest of the page. In what is being discussed as "the early candidate for match of the year 2017". Wow. This is big time. Kind of like that time Chaos was stuck in waves that had to be about 8 feet tall at their highest point. Thinking about being alone out there by himself... all alone. Because when the odds get tough, we all know this guy is no more than a transitional champion... like Peter Gilmour. Once one good wave crashes onto the deck of his metaphorical ship... he will jump off. Maybe he will drown. See, this is why 'The Radical' keeps big chested talent around at all times. Never know when you'll need a little TLC. Chris will be out there flailing begging for help in the depths of his own self-righteousness. But no life jackets will be available. Because Chris was pompous enough to think he didn't need one. Only... he does. He needs one now more than ever before... and he doesn't even realize it. With every passing gust, the wind causes the water to pull... making waves. Eventually, the waves will be big enough. At a time when his ego let him think he was safe and able, he will be in danger, he will be unable. That time will come in a few days. Just like the article says... "match of the year 2017"... the next edition will read; the story of Chris Chaos... "what could have been". Then, just as quickly as it all was published... we will turn the page. We will all go onto the next edition to satisfy our literary XWF appetites. To be an afterthought in the footnote of XWF lure.
The waves begin to get turbulent. The friendly daylight breaking through the majestic clouds turns to dark vengeful puffs of aggressive storm. The First-Mate, nude in her hat, runs to the back of the yacht, and begins to reel Gabe in. Most of the models grab on. The lesser mentally capable fall prey to natural selection. On the boat, Gabe tucks inside to dry off as the storm begins rocking it from side to side.
Maybe this is it... am I destined to follow in the soiled footsteps of Chris Chaos? To underestimate my opponents in order to feed my own self worth? Will the water crush my ability to go on, and leave me to be the sad story everyone mourns at Warfare, then forgets? Will I end up like Thomas Nixon after this, on the unemployment line, begging for handouts in the pouring rain because no one wants me to come in and over explain myself? Will Chris Chaos ever believe in the power and beauty of Unicorns or Dragons? WHO DOESN'T LOVE UNICORNS AND DRAGONS!? Is this guy for real? Come on, Dragons? Unicorns aren't even real... but DRAGONS!? Maybe that's where the 1 in 15-1 came from, a fucking Dragon. And as Radical as it may be to say... 15-2 will come from another fire breathing motherfucker tired of listening to your mouth. I bet you didn't think it would all get printed in that magazine article, did you?
"You see, Gabe. You think in color terms. Your cerebral cortex is like a crayon box. Everything is big lights, bright colors, and as much action as possible. With me, it is black and white."
The boat tips to one side, Reno braces himself by grabbing an ancient compass attached to the wall in front of him for balance. He opens it up; the magnificent colors in a kaleidoscope of fantasy overtake the room. A projection shows Chris Chaos in black and white on one side, and Gabe Reno in full color on the other.
Cerebral cortex... you really fucking went there? You attacked my cerebral cortex for being like a box of crayons? Well, this is the compass of Davey Jones. It only reveals the truth about what the deepest desires of the questions you won't be brave enough to ask are. And since you aren't brave enough, Chris... let me enlighten you with a brief analogy from my cerebral cortex. On the left, we have a man in black and white... you guessed it, that's you, pal. A man who, even when he wins gold, mucks it up with being shades of gray, though he claims to be black and white. But what color does black and white make, Chris? GRAY. You claim to be this straight up aficionado for the world to admire, with your cold used up phrases, and stringy died hair. But do they admire you, do they? What you see in the mirror isn't admiration... it's knowing that no matter how far you climb, no matter how clear cut and black or white you strive to be... that you'll always be... gray. And yet... what do we have on the right? Oh... Gabe FUCKING Reno! A man who doesn't fear being any color under the rainbow because he is all of them wrapped up in one. I don't wanna be black to white to hide being gray... I EMBRACE WHO I FUCKING AM, CHRIS! THE RADICAL! THE ERRACTIC ENIGMA! THE ROYAL PAIN IN YOUR ASS! THE THORN OF THORNYBROOK! THE ANNOYANCE OF ANNOYCANDER! AND THE MAN WHO WILL PULL OUT ALL THE STOPS TO SHUT YOUR MOUTH ON WEDNESDAY NIGHT! OHHHH SHITTT, GET CONTROL OF THE BOAT, BITCHES!
The projection turns off, while the elements outside wreak havoc on the boat from all sides, barely staying a float. The busty commando brigade of models all take their spots on the deck under the First-Mate's orders. Two pulling the sail line back and forth, the line shaped in a shaft of rounded form. Another spits out her chewing gum to relieve pressure from the penis-like release valve with the concaved gagging from the back of her throat. The First-Mate runs to the control room, and jerks knobs back and forth to get the propellers and steering mechanism to come around. Inside Gabe says a small prayer and starts to reflect on what could potentially be his final moments.
I wonder what is going on back home right now?
He thought about San Diego. He thought about the Chargers leaving, or the Padres inevitable collapse next season. The tailgating. About the 85 degree weather they had been having last time he was there. Something big was happening there right now, he could feel it. Was the announcement made that they were going to Los Angeles? But here he was, stuck in the middle of an ocean, with a naked crew who don't know how to run a boat except to make everything look sexually suggestive. He had no way to partake in the protests to keep the team local; or attend the fundraisers to convince Owner Dean Spanos to change his mind. His plan to be at sea for only a three hour tour had backfired. And his lack of hiring swinging dicks that know how to run a boat had become a catastrophe. The only thing left to do was sit and wait for the inevitable knock on his door from death itself.
God, I feel just as pathetic as Chris Chaos... well, I might as well read a little more if I am going to die anyway. Maybe his vocabulary of basic words will take me out so I don't have to watch my boat of beautiful naked models sink.
"All those fire fighters. Those car crashes. All of the "chaotic" events you mentioned. Yes, they were that. But do you know what they all had in common? They couldn't be controlled. They were going to happen anyway. Just like this week. I cannot be controlled. Chaos doesn't choose a victim....its victims are whoever happens to be in its way. This week, it is Thomas Nixon and everyone's favorite kid in class, Gabe Reno."
First, he accuses me as having crayons for a brain, now he says I do tons of homework? Make up your mind. You go back and forth more than Oprah at Golden Corral. Yes, we all get it... forces of nature, blah.. blah... blah. Cannot be controlled, blah... blah... blah. Small penis, blah... blah... blah. Local class bully, blah... blah... blah. Desperate for attention, blah... blah... blah. Un-manicured nails, blah... blah... blah. Trips out into the middle of nowhere... or somewhere, blah... blah... blah. A few weeks ago you wanted to tag with the most popular kid in class, because you and EVERYBODY IN THE BACK knows that I have what you DON'T... CHARISMA! I take nothing from no one, and make it known that I will beat any BITCH who comes in the ring, win, lose, or draw. Throw me through windows, blah... blah... blah. Hurt me so bad I wish I was never born, blah... blah... blah. I think you have RENO ENVY! You talk about me so much, maybe, just part of that chaotic side, has a little radicality, itching to get out. Wishing it could be my friend? WELL FORGET IT! YOU COULDN'T BE THE RADICAL! BUT THE RADICAL CAN BE CHAOS! Maybe if I close my eyes, spin around really... really fast... I can pretend to be a tornado.
A knock at the cabin door. He gets up carefully, having not thought a literal knock would be death's tactic, but while appreciating the courteous approach. He swings it open with his eyes shut, ready to meet his maker and become one with the storm he failed to plan for. Standing before him, the First-Mate soaking wet, and behind her the other crew members whose suggestive gestures to save the boat from peril and correct its course had caused them to get all worked up for a few entries from the "Captain's log". Gabe lets them in, then peaks out the door.
Nah, I could never be Chaos. He's a lifelong sufferer. and.. I'm not a homo.
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