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The Waltman Theorum
01-29-2018, 06:29 PM
Post: #1
We go deep within the bowels of the Trump White House. No, I meant deeper. DEEPER!

Ok, ok, we're in deep. You see, unbeknownst to the masses, the White House has long had multiple subterranean layers. The purpose of these levels has varied from administration to administration. Nixon mostly used them as cavernous sex dungeons. Nancy Reagan would send Ron down there from time to time when she needed a break, because as the senility crept on it would often take him days to find himself back up to the surface. Bill Clinton stored all his extra Bibles down there.

And then there is Trump.

Trump, seeing the benefits of keeping good healthy competition amidst the throngs of his rabid psychotic staff, would often condemn certain staff that had gone out of favor to these layers, forcing them to move house down there when they had inadequately complimented him on his latest power tie purchase or made an unflattering face when Barron shit his pants and wiped his itchy butt crack on the POTUS' desk for the eighth time today. Suffice it to say leaving these dank environs was a big motivator. And not the least of these motivations was the one member of Trump's staff who CHOSE to live in these depths. Who is that staff you may ask? Why it's....

Kellyanne! You're looking....uhhhh....svelte.

[Image: images?q=tbn:ANd9GcT9qZlZDVAItIZOVJUrsoM...Q8v1RmKvMg]

Madison Dyson slathers on a smile as she wades into Kellyanne Conway's dimly lit “office”. Although in all honesty it's less an office and more an unused set from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The shelves are lined with colorful fluid filled jar, each one bearing a different kind of mammalian fetus. The walls are adorned with medieval looking physician's diagrams, with crude arrows pointing to the locations of various humours. But strangest of all, behind KellyAnne's desk is an ornate gilded coffin.

Kellyanne's desiccated leathery body rises up from behind the desk, joints creaking as she extends a hand towards Madison. Madison looks at the hand timidly before finally taking it in a quick shake.

It has been a long time Madison. Not since Bilderberg....

Oh oh ah ah!

Madison motions to the camera and Kellyanne stops short.

Of course. So Madison, I received your proposal for this....Great American Shove Off.

Kellyanne exhales and a fine layer of dust passes through her lips. Her voice sounds cracked and aged.

It's a Shove IT, actually. And, uh, are you okay?

I'm quite alright I just....

Kellyanne pulls open a large drawer in her desk and pulls out what looks like an urn with strange glyphs on it.

What's that?

My lich's phylactery, it contains my necromantic essence. Please, don't mind me. Continue.

Riiiight, so as I was saying. Great American Shove It. It's a special XWF event I'm organizing and I would like to invite the president as the guest of honor, but for some reason despite the fact that Engy has him on goddamn SPEED DIAL, I have to jump through hoops and couldn't ask him directly.

Madison takes a moment to choke back her bitterness as Kellyanne unscrews the top of the strange urn.

But yeah, I'd love to have him there. And I think the optics could be amazing for him. Right there, enjoying some fine American entertainment with the salt of the Earth all around him. And, of course, a cut of the profits for his 2020 campaign stash.

With the lid off, Kellyanne proceeds to breathe deep from the opening. A black mist travels out of the urn and into her nostrils. Madison makes a disgusted face.

Oh Jesus, that thing smells like crotch rot!

Madison removes a hankie and holds it to her nose.

You get used to it. Go on.

I'm developing a presentation to give to the president that I think he'll....


I'm sorry...?

The president loves monkeys. Put some monkeys in it.

Kellyanne takes another deep drag from the urn and she smiles, causing the taut skin of her face to pull and audibly tighten like leather stretched into a pair of boots. Madison pulls the hankie even further into her face.

Could we maybe do something with that thing, it seriously smells like the death shits of a thousand lepers.

Very well.

She puts the lid back on it and carefully places it back into her desk. But as she closes the drawer a “crack” sound can be heard. When Kellyanne brings up her left hand we see that one of her fingers has been broken like a twig, it's swinging freely against her palm like a pendulum and she doesn't even seem to notice. Madison's eyes go wide.

Jesus Christ! Your finger!

Oh my. One of the downsides of all your nerve endings being dead I suppose.

Even as Kellyanne says that, one of her eye balls starts to recess back into it's socket, the pupil turbing upwards to stare into the back of her head. Madison starts inching towards the door.

Yeah, fuck this Death Becomes Her shit, I'll just suck it up and go deal with Pence.

Madison rushes out of the room, grabbing hold of the ring on the outside of the large iron door into Kellyanne's office and pulling it shut with a dolorous clang. Madison casts her gaze about as she tries to get her bearings and, finding a torch on the wall, picks it up and starts walking down the hall.

The things I do for his company, huh? Like come out of a state of quasi retirement just to hype my Shove It, which is coming to ass ram your minds and wallets on....


The date is called out in a big booming voice for added emphasis.

Totally gonna add in some audio emphasis on that baby post-prod. Now I'm not spilling any details just yet, but suffice it to say it's gonna make Doc Deville's Shove It look like Broken Oswald's Shove It by comparison.

Weeeeelllllll ok, because you twisted my arm, I'll spill one teeny tiny detail. It's going to be the First Shove it in history where where current reigning champions are NOT allowed to participate.*

*Desclaimer: This statement has not been verified in any way.

You heard that right. No disrespect to Engy, but I for one have heard the people loud and clear. And they are sick of the Motherfuckers and Apex circle jerk. We need to get some fresh blood pumping, and throwing the same guys into every main event and digging up admittedly stupidly handsome fossils like James Raven just ain't cutting it. At my Great American Shove-It, somebody's life is going to change forever.

But enough about that. Because...heh....XWF you never cease to amaze me.

Madison jerks the torch away from her hair is she realizes the flames are starting to lick a bit too close to all that product that keeps her do in place.

Now, I made it pretty clear when I opted in to Savage that I was only doing this to shill my event. So I was planning on beating up that Diarrhea chick again, or worse case getting in the ring with this week's “One Note Offensive Gimmick Du Jour”. But don't ya'll throw me right into a Bombshell title match.

Motherfuckers, I haven't even been in active competition since September. And now, all of a sudden, I qualify for a shot at Jenny Myst's title. At first, I was blown away. And I realized I was right. Which didn't blow me away because I'm pretty much always right. Like I was right about Jenny Myst ending up queen of a shit heap. Which is what her division is.

I saw it coming months ago. Hell, I even called you out on it Jenny and you didn't even bother refuting the point, instead choosing to oh so maturely send me a “middle finger” gif and thus solidify how goddamn right I really was. I told you that without me, you would be champion of a dying gasp of a women's division. A division where you would have zero challenging or even remotely interesting competition. A division that it turns out is so fucking tits up that me, a woman who hasn't even stepped into that ring in over 4 months, was hotshotted to the front of the line so fast that my lawyers are already drafting my personal injury suit for whiplash.

Jenny, sweet, simple Jenny. Does it now occur to you that you don't need that title to be relevant?, hon. You need ME.

Madison stops walking, torch still in hand. She turns to face the camera full on.

Honey, you have never ever been nearly interesting enough to pull it off on your own. You're too plastic, too cookie cutter, and too far up your own ass. You are the kind of performer who can only be truly defined by having an amazing rival. And don't get me wrong, you tried. You tried having a “thing” with that German kid Finn Kuhn (by the by call me and talk German to me baby).

Madison winks playfully.

And now you're doing a feud with the piss test lady I guess....but has any of that actually gotten you over? Has it really secured the legacy you want? Has it garnered you the respect of your peers? Locked in you in to one of those coveted Top 50 spots?

No, no, no, and fuck no on all accounts.

And do you know why? Do you know why nobody gives a shit about you? Why no matter how much you go around pushing turds out your throat about how Savage is “your show” people still fast forward right through all your promo's and any part of the show you appear on?

Two words bitch. Sean Waltman.

The following image appears helpfully on the screen, illuminated by the torch.

[Image: Superstar-Sean-Waltman-Image.jpg]

Are you familiar with the term “X-Pac heat”? I mean, being in this business and NOT being familiar with the term is pretty much inexcusable. It has it's own page on TV Tropes for Chrissakes. But you being you, I'm gonna assume you have no idea what I'm talking about. And just as a heads up for those at home with virgin ears....this is gonna be a SHOOT. So pop on the ear muffs or get ready to go for a ride.

You are a heel, Jenny Myst. That's wrestling lingo for a bad guy. It's ok, I'm a heel too. Now heels like us, we're supposed to be able to generate a certain kind of “heat”...another industry term. We're supposed to generate heat by getting people to hate what we do. We get them to boo us, or at worst we get a bunch of sexless virgin edgelords to cheer us to show the world and their mothers that they are capable of independent thought and totally not like all those other dumb sheeple **doffs fedora**.

Now, just because we generate that heat and that animosity doesn't mean people want us to go away. No no, because every good story, and every good, well, “good guy” needs a cool, unique, or fun foil to fight against. Hell, some movies and TV shows live or die on the strength of their villain. The fact is, deep down inside, people love to hate a good villain.

And then there's you. And Mr. Waltman. Because what you suffer from, Jenny, is X-Pac heat. People don't appreciate you as the villain. They don't love to hate you. They just HATE YOU. And they want you to go away. Forever. Because you bring literally nothing to the table. Nobody likes to watch your feuds because each and every one is full of the same dull, boring “Jenny is queen bitch of everything”, “Savage is my playground” and “THIS IS DAH BIG DAWGS YARD” horse shit that never got you or anybody else over EVER. And every time you tried to give yourself depth or be interesting you turned yourself into a pathetic rape bait cliché, or busted out some lame ass“Oh Chris and I fooled you into thinking we broke up because we're playing 5-D chess WARGAAARBLE I'M HAVING A STROKE”.

Dumb. Just dumb. And nobody cares.

So to wrap this up because this is Savage and it has different promo rules....yes, I am back. No I wasn't planning on it. Yes, my Shove It is gonna be bitchin'.

And yes, I do want to win the Bombshell championship after all if only to rescue it from this X-Pac heat having, no light escaping swirling vortex of ratings suck that is Jenny Myst.

A bone chilling cackle reverberates off the masonry of the hallway. Madison looks down the hall from whence she came, biting her bottom lip in trepidation.

Shit, it's Kellyanne. Gotta bail. But you think about what I said Jenny. I mean, there's really nothing you can do about it. But think about it. You'll see I'm right.

Madison darts out of range of the camera as the shot fades to black.

[Image: 9QBn3eQ.jpg]

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