X-treme Wrestling Federation

A gas station in the middle of scenic fucking nowhere, Iowa. That's where I am, seated in the front seat while my appointed driver grabs whatever the hell she decided to stop inside for on top of paying for gas. I blink twice and look away from the big glass windows that seemed to advertise just about everything inside the store, and to the cars lined up in the what I guess could pass for a parking lot. The pump she chose to stop by gives me a perfect view of all of them. All five parked cars and as I scan them, I come up with a couple of conclusions. How could I not? They're obvious. A couple of the cars, SUVs in reality, are so covered in muck and grime that it devours most of the paint job. I couldn't tell you what the original colors were for either of them but I could definitely guess they were locals. Something about going to a gas station to pick up some snacks in the vehicular equivalent of sweatpants with a giant hole in the crotch and no underwear gives off the impression of a level of comfort that really can only be achieved by a local. That and the Iowa license plates were kind of a hint. I don't know counties in this piece of shit state but I'm guessing I'm in their native county. Either that or somewhere close by; these hicks aren't exactly one for travelling.

I feel a set of eyes boring a hole into the back of my neck. Jerking my head around awkwardly, I find the cause for my discomfort in the form of some ginger guy. He tugs at the sleeve of his leather jacket and nods his head at me, to which I don't respond with anything more than an icy cold death glare. He grits his teeth, bringing his scruffy, unshaven chin into focus and squints at me. Something tells me there's a faint hint of recognition in his eyes. He knows who I am. So much for inconspicuous, eh? Yeah, I'm blending in real fucking well here. Jesus Christ how long does it take to get a bottled soda and some fucking M&Ms? Apparently an hour and a half, it would seem. I look down at my wrist to my watch. Oh, okay. I was off. Three minutes. Close enough. Fuck it.

My fingers drum against my knees as a force of habit, which I don't even notice until one of my nails scrapes against bare skin exposed via the torn hole in my jeans that splits further open every single time I bend my knee further than ninety degrees. Come on, hurry the fuck up already. While waiting, mostly to keep myself from going even more insane, I think back to the words I last heard before leaving on this little field trip, so to speak. That I was supposed to be going back to the XWF, like a soldier returning home from war. And better yet, the first thing I have to do upon reappearing is mentor a rookie and lead her to a shot at the tag team titles. Granted, said rookie is the one having to carry the dead weight of Steve Davids not even two days before this whole tag tourney is supposed to take place so I fucking hope she learns what the fuck to do if she doesn't already know through that torturous learning experience. Though now, I feel a little bad about coming back at the time I did. With my sudden reemergence, I wouldn't be surprised if Steve Davids tucks his tail in between his legs and runs the fuck away just like he did when I challenged him for his X-Treme title. Yeah, I oughtta apologize to the girl if I run into her before our match. Getting ditched by a partner would suck, though since her partner is Steve Davids, it isn't like he'd do much if he were there. I mean, that's just the rule of life. Grass is green, and Steve Davids is only passable in the ring when he's put up against the likes of Peter Gilmour, JTC, and GirlTC.

I look back at the giant display window and see my driver. Well, that wasn't really hard considering she sticks out like a sore thumb. Blindingly bright white T-Shirt, dull gray skinny jeans and a dyed black pixie haircut. She couldn't get dykier if she tried. Granted, this is coming from me, the dykiest dyke to ever fucking dyke. She's at the front of the line, behind only some fat guy whose gut protruded out far enough to be resting comfortably on the edge of the glass counter that displayed whatever shitty little knickknacks they thought they could charge for this time. His thigh of an arm is too thick and wide for me to see what he's buying but I'm guessing it's chewing tobacco and about seven of those shitty little hotdogs that are good for insanely fast weight loss and the subsequent possibility of dehydration from excessive diarrhea. Unfortunately for Lard-Ass over there, he'll probably eat back the weight in about five hours.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity spent watching this guy struggle to reach into his pocket and pull out his money, he snatches his stuff off the counter and waddles out of the store, towards one of the grime soaked SUVs. Of couse he's one of those owners. Washing his filthy fucking car would be more exercise than he's had since dodging Vietnam.

I turn my attention back to the window to see her putting the money on the counter and sliding the bottle of soda, some jizz colored concoction and a red, rectangular baggie over to her side before snatching them right off the counter. She turns and makes her way out of the store, jogging halfheartedly across the lot, completely paying no attention to the pick-up truck coming across it on her left hand side. He slams on his brakes and honks his horn, revealing that he paid extra to give his dinky little truck a semi horn. And instead of being totally ashamed of that and hiding his head, he screams something that I can't hear through the distance, but it's definitely not something flattering, as one look at my escort's face lets me know just how she feels. Boy, is her face red. I contemplate covering my mouth for half a second before throwing my hand down into my lap and staring her right in the eye before bursting out in laughter.

It isn't very long before she's back at the car, pulling open the driver's side door and sliding into the driver's seat, putting the baggie on the dashboard and the bottle in one of the cupholders underneath the radio. Peanut Butter M&Ms and Mountain Dew: Cum Smoothie. Sounds like a perfectly delectable combination. She takes a breath in through her nose and out through her mouth, before turning to look at me. Despite how angry she is, she can't help but smile when she sees me. I don't know why.

"I'm allergic to peanut butter, Anna."

"No you aren't, Kea."

I laugh, and pull down the sun visor, before flipping open the mirror.


Still photogenic as hell. Cool. Though, looking at my own reflection reminds me. I have another bit of business to attend to, and there's gonna be a whole lot of confusion come Monday.

Then again the latter is kinda the story of my life so if that changed, I think the universe would implode or something.