"I really don't know why you're back on this grind. It's ridiculous, and that's coming from a guy who straps a lizard to his head. Look, I know you want your promo to matter, and to be important, but they're just not important at all. Don't you think if promos matter for shit, Butch Holliday would have put a promo up hyping himself up by now. Or Bearded War Pig, and Joshua Reno would have probably put more promos up to hype their match. The fact is that these don't affect ticket sales at all, you're just trying to justify your poor choice of words. Or, you're an idiot, and you truly believe in this bullshit. I'm going for the latter, which is why you're so hellbent on bringing them up constantly. You want me to talk about why I'm going to win? There's no need for me to explain it, you're too stupid to understand, you keep proving that. Stop with this obsession with promos, and what they translate to in ring. They translate to absolutely nothing. If they matter so much, go tell Peter Gilmour to cut a promo so he can sell more tickets than me, or whatever. You fucking loser.

Yeah, my gimmick is that I'm a wrestler, man. I don't have some ridiculous life where I run a vague company, that has freak shows and clubs, and other generic stuff from a CW tv show. I'm a guy who wrestles and wears a mask and long coat. That's my entire thing, I'm a guy in a mask with a lizard. Sure, I do things differently, like keeping eggs in my ass and hand twigs and berries over. But, come on, that's all fun and games. Why would I be serious? The quality of opponents I've faced has been you, Finn Kuhn, Scully, Jenny Myst and a girl named Miss Fortune. Where is the opponent worth my time? And what am I supposed to do to entertain myself while I have to deal with these generic ass opponents? Give me a reason to be serious, and I'll stop shoving things up my ass. But, yes, please tell us more about your warehouse, the one that totally sounds exactly what Oliver Queen did in season 1 of Arrow.

So, you're going to tell us how we're all subpar, and you're gonna run roughshod over the company, while you steal elements for your bullshit boring life from teen dramas, and rant on and on about how I'm not playing a game the way you like. Even though I'm not playing a game with you. Of course you'd call my wrestling bad, you think you're selling tickets by running your mouth. You think people actually give a shit about you and your stupid ass opinions. Just go ahead and leave the company like you're already planning to do. We don't really need you bringing us down by association. We don't need to be known as the company that employs the human equivalent of a teen drama villain. You're quite literally the Shannen Doherty of the XWF. Please, I am begging you, for the love of washed up actors and actresses stop stealing your ideas from celebrities. It's just not right, they do not deserve this, they just want to delight us with film and television.

Do you want me to tell you why I'm going to win? Fuck you, I won't play that game."

---

---

---

I walk out of the shower, with a trail of bed sheet hanging out of my anus, and Pickles stops me in the hallway between his room and the bathroom. He's wearing nothing but a bathrobe, and an apron. I guess he's been in the kitchen making waffles, I demand waffles.

"Hey, you. Did you sleep well?"

"My ass hurts for some reason."

He laughs, and slaps me on the butt.

"I guess that means I did a good job?"

I'm confused.

"Whatchu mean?"

"We had sex? And I put things in your ass, just like you asked?"

There do appear to be several things in my ass, including a bedsheet, so there is that. I just can't remember us fucking.

"That is odd. I don't remember it. Was Mike involved?"

Mike comes scampering down from my helmet, and curls up on my shoulder. That's right, I wear my helmet when I shower. I also wear it when I get a haircut, what's your point? Pickles goes and strokes Mike's back This causes Mike to coo, and lick the air. He's a good dragon pal.

"No. The first time was at the arena, I was getting things ready for the meeting today. You were asleep and missed it. Anyway, you gotta go get dressed. My mom will be here soon, and she doesn't know we hooked up."

I do need to get dressed, in fact. Standing in this hallway in the cold has caused my nipples to harden, and that's just good for business. When they're hard they chafe on the shirt, and that's just uncomfortable. Doing the only logical thing a man can do in this situation, I grab the dangling bits of wet sheet hanging out of my ass, and and wrap it around me as much as possible. I slowly walk into the room, when a thought pops into my head. I hope Pickles hasn't left yet, it's important that I ask him immediately.

"Oh, Pickles?"

"Yes?"

He turns to face me from halfway down the hallway.

"Did you know wallabies have their testicles above their penis? It's quite interesting, actually."

He shakes his adorable head and turns around to walk down the steps. I turn back into the room, and begin to dress myself. I guess when we went back to my dumpster I grabbed some clothes, or he washed my laundry for me. I put on my block XWF T-shirt, and a pair of jeans. For my little feets, I put on a pair of pink and black striped socks. I'm not sure if we're casual enough to go shoe-less or not. I'd ask him, but that would require me to be wearing shoes. This dilemma will be the death of me. Unless I think of a solution, and quickly. Wait, there's a piece of paper on the dresser, and a pen! I am saved. I go over to it from the closet on the other side of the room, tripping over his dog's steps, so the dog can climb up on the bed, as I do. Scribbling on a piece of paper, I jot down my important question.



Luckily I always carry string in the pocket of my duster, so I rush over and pull some of it out. I roll the note up, and tie to Mike's back. He curls up in my hands, and I pull my hand up so I can look him in his adorable beady little eyes.

"*I need you to go downstairs and deliver this to Pickles. It's of the utmost urgency that you deliver it, otherwise I could die."

Now, we wait, and waiting, as we all know, is about as much fun as a small game of darts with a horseshoe crab jammed in your Pancreas. I guess if you're Michael Ian Black that might be a good time. I am not Michael Ian Black, however, or at least I wasn't when I last looked. I should check again. Luckily, I'm standing by the dresser, which has a mirror attached, so that's easy. Lifting my helmet very slowly, it comes off, and gets placed on the dresser. No, I am still not Michael Ian Black, this is a good thing. I need a haircut, though. This is uncomfortable, I put the helmet back on my head. Much better, now the ambiguity of whether or not I'm Michael Ian Black returns, and that's what I want most in life. Whelp, since I've time to kill, I decide to do something productive. Opening the top drawer on the dresser, I begin to pull out socks, and unpair them. He doesn't ball them correctly, so I have to fix this for him. Each pair is unballed, and then placed flat one on top of the other, with the feet part of the bottom being by the hole at the top. Then, once they're lined that way, I push the bottom into the top, and the top into the bottom, to make a double ball loop.

I finish the entire drawer, and move onto the next one. This drawer is nothing but underpants, and I see he's also folded these incorrectly, so I begin to correct that. Since they're all boxer briefs, I fold them long ways, so the legs are laying on top of each other, and I lean them up on their side, so the fold is the only thing showing. This takes what feels like hours, but it's important, because Pickles folds badly. The shirts are folded worse, they're folded longways so that you can see only the side of it, this will not do. I save time by pulling the entire drawer out, and dumping it on the bed. This mess needs fixed, and only one person can solve it, me. This requires me to grab each shirt, and refold it. I do it pizza style. I lay it down flat, and tuck the lower half of the shirt under the upper half, with the arms folded on top of it. I fold another one exactly the same, and insert it into the space between the original shirt fold. This process is repeated for the rest of the shirts. As soon as I finish the door opens up, and Pickles walks in.

"Did you just refold all of my clothes?"

I look up as I slide the drawer closed.

"*No, just your socks, underwear and shirts. I need to fold your pants, I guess."

He laughs and sits down on the bed next to me. He leans his head my shoulder, and I'm not sure what I'm feeling. It's mushy, and warm.

"*What took you so long, I've been up here for ages."

He laughs again, and I really like his laughter.

"It's been five minutes since you got out of the shower. Also, yes, we're casual enough to not wear shoes around each other."

This is a really interesting feeling for me, I've never identified as gay before. I've never felt any attraction or love to anyone that wasn't Mike, and yet here's Pickles winning me over. I truly have no words for this.

"I do have a question, Ricardo. Or, two rather."

"*Yes, Pickles?"

He laughs some more at the Pickles comment, and pulls his head off of my shoulder. I turn to face him, and he places his hands on my helmet.

"What's your real name?"

This is a disturbing question, because I honestly don't know.

"*I don't know. I woke up one day with no real memory of my life before, just had this helmet laying by me, and the words Grande Ricardo were scribbled on a piece of paper by me. It was shortly after that that I found Mike, and we've been traveling together since. What's the second question?"

He longingly strokes the sides of the helmet.

"Can I take this off?"

I sigh. I thought it might come to this eventually, but I didn't expect it today.

"*No, but I will."

I slowly remove my helmet, and stare at him as his eyes survey my face.

"Beautiful."