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TBS · (11-15-2019)

She’s a goddamned liar. You sucktards actually believe I was that nice to her? That I showed compassion? That I let myself get sucked into the XWF vortex so much that I actually wasted a millisecond of my life outside of the ring considering Peter Gilmour or Kris Hanson Hammer as a threat? No, if you believe that shit I’ve got a bridge in New York to sell you. She’s worse than a liar, in our business she’s the worst thing someone can be, she’s a goddamned unreliable narrator!!

Or, hear me out here, it’s possible that I might be the unreliable narrator. But if you call me that, you’d better be able to back that shit up, because I will sue your ass for slander. Or is it libel? I always get that shit confused.

We came straight from the road to the casino. I sent my bags upstairs, handed my car keys to someone with questionable immigration status and immediately settled into a Blackjack game. I’m probably a bit punch-drunk from the drive, and I’m probably a bit real-drunk from the nonstop whiskey the waitress has been bringing me. But I’m here, I’m in Vegas and I’m about to make some bad goddamned decisions and some real goddamned money.

“Twenty-One. Blackjack.” The dealer turns over the King of Spades and the Ace of Hearts in front of Vita, giving her a twenty-one, a win, and sliding over three units for every two she bet. She’s a child, so she bet twenty dollars. There’s thirty dollars coming back to for her. You’d think she’d bet a little more based on her XWF salary, but you know what they say: with age comes wisdom.

“Twenty-Four. Bust.” The dealer turns over the King of Hearts, ironically the suicide king, and places him on top of my Jack of Clubs and Four of who gives a flying-fuck giving me a loss and taking away every single unit I’d bet. I’m a mental child, so I bet five thousand dollars. Gone. You’d think I’d bet a little less based on my XWF salary (working Saturdays is fucking peasant work, I tell you), but you know what they say: with age comes blinding, mind-numbing rage.

Did I say MAKE money? After this week, I’m definitely going to need a lawyer who understands the difference between slander and libel. Affording one might be a different issue, though.

“This is fun.” She takes a sip of the Cosmopolitan the waitress brought her. She thinks the cocktail waitress bought her fake ID bullshit, she’s stupid. Waitresses in Vegas don’t fall for fake IDs, but they do fall for fifty dollar bills handed to them by their tag-team partners. What? I told you this week was fucking expensive. This is my city, people love me here.

“This is bullshit.” I respond to her. “Cash out your chips, we’re going to a different table. This one fucking sucks.” I point in the general direction of the table so as to ambiguously make it unclear whether I’m pointing to the dealer or to the table. Nobody knows exactly who I’m talking to.

“Sir, I’m going to ask again, please don’t swear at the dealers.” A voice speaks to me from behind me somewhere. It’s security, no doubt, but I have no idea why they’re around.

I do. Vita here. First of all, he’s definitely talking to the poor dealer. Second of all, security is here because Shank has a habit of telling dealers, and I’m quoting here, to “die in a mother-effing grease fire.” Every time they beat him in a hand. I don’t understand, this game is so much fun, why swear and get angry? For a while the dealer thought it was funny, but when he screamed that he hoped the dealers offspring was sold into slavery I think she hit the panic button.

“On second thought, let’s hit the bar. It’s best to relax after learning Blackjack, don’t wanna burn yourself out too much.” It's a dumb thing to say, but what does she know? Vita cashes out her chips, I don’t have any left to cash out, but you win-some you lose-some, ya know? I should have known she was born lucky, after all, her name came up as my tag-team partner this week. Of course, after a week of teaming with The Hammer, maybe I’m the one that burned out all of my luck drawing the name of someone with a functioning brain this week. And boobs, did I mention boobs?

If I’ve learned one thing in my life it’s this: if you spend enough time with a person of the opposite sex and I don’t care what the circumstances are, you’re going to find yourself attracted to them. Unless it’s Mia Sanchez, fuck that bitch.

We walk over to the bar and Vita reaches into her pocket to hand that godforsaken fake ID to another fucking trained bartender in the city that invented bartenders.

“You’re holding a drink, just sit down and order another one. Stop giving people a reason to doubt you, is that your fucking thing or something?"

Uh oh, I realize two things as I go to sip my Manhattan. First, I realize that I hate Manhattans, but that’s my cross to bare. Second, I realize that my Manhattan is gone and that I might be approaching the part in the drunk-Shank cycle where I actually care about people. This is a problem.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that your dumbass looks for affirmation in all the wrong places. You argue with people with IQ’s the size of an ant-eater about whether or not you have some title that I’m not sure even exists. You’re on again off again with some doughball who you let call you ‘cunt,’ and I HATE that word, even I don’t use it, and I’m an asshole. You broke six laws to get your way into my car so you could spend fifteen hours talking wrestling. You want my advice, kid?”

I lean in. We all know where this is going. And honestly, who wouldn't want to suck face with a dude that knows how to use the word affirmation like that?

“I would love your advice. What should I order next?”

“Huh?”

I am Shank's drunken confusion.

“I mean I like this Cosmo and all, but it’s Vegas – I feel like I should try something exotic.”

She clearly wasn’t listening to me about anything I said, which in hindsight, is probably best for both of us given the amount of disgusting Manhattans I’ve already guzzled. But I heard her loud and clear, she wants something exotic.

“I don’t fucking know, the last time I drank with an eighteen-year-old girl I was twelve, I don’t exactly remember what girls your age like – but I bet it’s like riding a bike.”

“Oh man, I can’t wait to be eighteen.”

I am Shank’s sober disappointment. God, do I love ‘Fight Club.’

Like a giant wave of freezing cold water hitting me in the face I suddenly feel six shots less drunk. I replay it in my head, slowly, but surely. Yep, she definitely said she can’t wait to be eighteen. I’m not math genius, but that almost certainly means that she is currently NOT eighteen-years-old. I instantly lean back, and it sets in – I am in the sin capital of the world, but my sin of choice is not going to be getting accused of sexual assault by my jail-bate tag team partner. Fuck ‘me too’, that hashtag is not for me.

“But seriously, I was hoping to learn something from you on this trip, Shank. You know, something more than how to tip a dealer the bare minimum or how to check and see if a free drink is ‘too much ice and not enough booze.’”

She’s a naïve kid, but she’s persistent. And after putting up with my shit for a few days, the least I can do is indulge her just a little bit.

“If you want to learn something from me, learn this: stop explaining shit and start punching shit.”

--

And that’s exactly what I’m going to do, I’m going to start punching shit. Sorry, I know I haven’t been back that long but I know I’ve already set a bit of a standard for myself, you were probably expecting some witty transition or brilliant set-up where I say a few snarky things, hook you like Captain Ahab’s whale and reel you in as I lay my trash talk down like velvet – perfectly building towards a climax. I know the routine, after all – I invented it.

But this week, this week I’m not doing any of that. This week I’m just punching shit.

Because this week I’m punching Peter Gilmour and Kris ‘The Tool’ Von Bonn and ‘just punching shit’ is going to be plenty. It’s arguably more than they deserve, but that’s another argument. Wait, did I just cleverly refer to them both as shit? Maybe I AM good at this.

But honestly, even if I suck, I’m probably still good enough to beat you two knuckle draggers since I came up positive in the partner pool this week.

Vita is no joke. Also, public service announcement: She’s also not a slut, a whore, a cunt, or any of the other charming words that Peter uses to describe her. Pete, I gotta tell you, you make the rest of us straight dudes look pretty stupid when you talk like that. Just because she’d rather kick your ass than let you lick hers doesn’t mean she’s a slut, you DO get that, right? And sure, I know you spend a lot of time thinking about her ass when you talk about whipping it – but that’s exactly where we want your focus. Just like every other woman you’ve ever met in your entire life Petey, she’s just fucking with you.

And Kris – do you even like girls? You’d better watch your mouth walking around calling women *gasp* “crazy girls.” Golly fucking gee, do you kiss your sister with that mouth? I’m not sure what angle to take here; should I just have Vita dress up like your manager and see what happens? Do we just let this play out and see what happens? The one thing I know for sure regarding you and Vita, Kris; is that in the tag-team department she is leaps and bounds better than you. She has better legs too, but if I’m being honest, I’d probably score the better hair in your favor. So at least there’s that.

You know, it’s fitting we’re in Vegas for this match. Pete, you mentioned that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas but I actually beg to differ. Vegas is the city where anything can happen, but that dream never dies in Vegas. Rich white whales hit jackpots on slot machines all day, they cheat on their wives and then they go home and get divorced and pay over half of their winnings in alimony. Broke losers like you get lucky all the time in Vegas too, you know, provided they’re willing to pay for it at the Spearmint Rhino.

What I’m saying here Peter, is there is a chance you might finally get me this time. This might be the one time out of a million where your life doesn’t completely suck and you catch a lucky bounce. You might push all of your chips on black and instead of it coming up Shank, like it always fucking has whenever the two of us have gone against each other, that bouncing ball might actually land on black. It’s Vegas, baby, anything can happen.

Of course, you have a better chance of getting struck by lightning walking out of the casino than you do of getting that lucky, but who gives a fuck about the details of reality? Let’s keep living in your fantasy land!

Let’s pretend that at the Gilmour Casino, you actually do win occasionally. Sure I know in reality Vita beat your ass already, and I’ve beaten your ass a million times – but odds are for suckers at the Gilmour Casino. At this casino we cater exclusively to losers. Come on in!

In this casino people actually believe you when you say I’m an old crippled man who can’t hack it anymore. Put me in a home with Chris Page, Tristan Slater, John Gambino and FuZz. But since you brought all those guys up, by the way, have you actually beaten any of them? Fuck knows I don’t pay attention, I’m legitimately asking. Anyway, back to your fantasy, in this casino I am old and broken and you are going to send me back to my retirement home. Cool. Great.

Now, let’s go back to reality and talk about something serious. You’re not the first person to make this mistake, and you definitely won’t be the last, so I’d might as well burst your bubble now. What happens when this ‘old man’ beats your ass and fucks you with his walking stick? How are you going to show your face next week when this grandpa beats you with his wooden teeth after saying this old dude can’t beat you? How are you going to… Nevermind, you don’t think about shit. That’s half of your problem. And that’s free advice, Pedro. Start using the ‘ole noggin.

And the other half of your problem? The other half of your problem is I AM the same I used to be. I’m the same maniacal, egotistical, beat-your-ass-on-a-Saturday-and-find-a-Bloody-Mary-bar-on-a-Sunday-morning-mother-fucker I’ve always been. And honestly, even if I weren’t, I’d still shove my foot down your throat faster than you could get hard about it. Alright, so I do pay SOME attention.

This might be Las Vegas, but this isn’t the time you get your miracle. The only difference this time is that when YOU are looking up at the Las Vegas lights they’re a little brighter, a little bigger, and a little more famous. The disappointment you’re going to feel is the same old regular disappointment though, sadly there’s nothing unique about Las Vegas shame. And thanks to the dumb shit you’ve already said, that shame isn’t going to stay in Vegas, that shit’s gonna follow you like you follow… nope, not gonna say his name today either.

And that leaves us with Kris ‘The Screwdriver’ Von Bonn Bonn. I guess that’s not fair, I really do know your name kid. And it’s also not fair that you keep having to measure up to me so early in your career– either as my partner or my opponent – but life ain’t fair sometimes. But I do have to ask you something. You know me pretty well, so you know it’s important or I wouldn’t ask. Lean in closely. Ready?

..

DO YOU FUCKING REALIZE THAT MY NAME IS THE BIG SHANK AND NOT THE BIG SHANKS FOR CHRIST SAKE YOU’RE DRIVING ME CRAZY ARE YOU GERMAN OR JUST FUCKING STUPID OR BOTH?! NO FUCKING WONDER WE RAPED YOU AFTER WORLD WAR ONE…AND TWO FOR THAT MATTER, BUT DEFINITELY ONE!

..

Phew, I actually feel better, thanks for indulging me.

Look man, everybody in the XWF starts in the same place and it’s right where you are. From there they go one of two ways – they go up like mine where you win a few belts and get your name on the wall, or they flutter like Gilmour’s and you become the ass of every joke from everybody who has their name on the wall. To be fair, we really don’t know which way your career is going to go, so I’m gonna give YOU some advice now.

Fuck, I’m feeling really charitable with the advice today. You pop-tarts should take out a notebook or some shit, this won’t happen twice.

Here’s my advice for you, Flathead, don’t let the fact that I’m going to beat your ass on Saturday impact the rest of your career. I’ve beaten many asses in my day, you’re not special in that regard. Like I said, your XWF career is just getting started. The mistake you, or your dumbass manager, made is instead of letting you tread water for a bit you got your name tossed in with the sharks. I hear you have a Hart title match, that’s awesome, good for you – I hope you win. THAT is where you should be swimming right now, go win that damn belt in the water where you’re still allowed to wear floaties. Because you might be a hammer, but in these oceans I’m the motherfucking Great White Shank and the ecosystem rolls up through me.

You ain’t ready for this, kid. But on the bright side, your career is getting started in quite possibly the best way it ever could. You got to win next to me, and now you get to lose to me. But seriously, good luck with the Hart title, who has it anyway….

Seriously, Centurion does?

Nevermind, you’re fucked there too, but enjoy Vegas! It’s beautiful this time of year!!

Seriously, I hope you both enjoy Vegas. There are plenty of great things for you two to do this weekend while you’re here, it’s just beating me and Vita ain’t gonna be one of them. Kris, you can take out a futures bet on your career – it might pay off someday. Pete, you can keep pulling on a slot machine like it’s your bosses dick, maybe one day you’ll even set off the lights and hit the jackpot. Enjoy it, stay a while, after Saturday your schedule is going to be wide open.

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