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B.O.B. D · (10-29-2019)

The Bar seemed rightfully named as such, as it was your typical drinking establishment. There were the usual patrons; some college kids pregaming it before going back to their dorms and getting some puss, as well as the pitiful husbands who drank their sorrows away instead of going home to their wives. In the back was a few pools tables, although nobody was currently using them, as well as one of those fancy touchscreen jukeboxes. It was currently playing some Lizzo, which I assumed the college guys intentionally played to attract some hoes. Unfortunately for them, it seemed to be quite the sausage party and my entrance didn't help their cause one bit. Nevertheless, not having a vagina wasn't gonna stop me from having a nice cold one or five.

"What'll it be?" the bartender asked as I sat at a stool and put my TV Title on the counter. He had to have been the least intimidating bartender I had ever seen. If he weighed more than 100 pounds, it would've only been by a couple feathers. Not only did I question whether he could lift a beer or not, I also wondered why there was not a secuirty guard in sight with such a worker on duty. This guy was easily begging for someone to rob him, and, unless he was packing, I didn't see him winning a struggle with a would be thief.

"I'll take a glass of Blue Moon," I ordered, scoping the place out.

As he poured my pint, I thought about Boris and his favorite drink: vodka. Back in the day, I used to drink the hell out of that stuff. Me and my friends used to spend $14 on a bottle of Hawkeye vodka, our cheap local option, and be able to party for at least three days off the stuff. Thanks to Boris's poison of choice, I became very good friends with a man by the name of Mr. Toilet. Sometimes I would spend hours at a time curled up next to my new friend, wondering why I would put my body through such hell. In reality, I'd take five shots in a row to try and score with the only chick at the party, but end up passed out in the bathroom while she sucked someone else off instead.

"Would you like an orange with that?" the scrawny bartender asked like it was his first day on the job.

"Noooooo," I replied sarcastically. "I'm just gonna drink my Blue Moon WITHOUT an orange....." You could tell my snarky remark annoyed him, but he wasn't in any position to talk back. He just grabbed a slice and plopped it in my beer before walking away to serve another customer.

As I sipped on my drink, I couldn't help but think about my match on Savage. Even though I wasn't threatened by either of my opponents, that didn't change the fact this match had alot riding on it. First and foremost, my TV Title was on the line. After my unsuccessful reign as Xtreme Champion, I couldn't afford to be one and done with ANOTHER Championship, it would make me out to be the least credible Champion since Arnold Fletcher's ghost held the Heavymetalweight Title. And second, a shot at the Universal Championship hung in the balance for the winner of Lethal Lottery and there was no way I could let that opportunity slip from my grasp, once again. I'd already failed once when I faced Robert Main, as well as at Leap of Faith. There just wasn't gonna be many more chances for Big D and I had to take advantage of it while I could.

"Excuse me?" I asked the bartender, who reluctantly came over to me. "Can I get a shot of your finest vodka, please?" I figured a shot would kick-start me towards getting drunk faster, as well as possibly give me some insight into how Boris thinks(if you can call whatever goes on in his head 'thinking').

As the bartender poured my shot, the door to The Bar opened up. I didn't bother to look, but I could see all the college guys desperately gaze in that direction out of the corner of my eye. They were practically drooling at the prospect of a loose woman strutting in for them to five on one, HOPEFULLY with consent.

"What the fuck are you cunts lookin' at?!?!"

There was only one person I knew that would use the word 'cunt' in their first sentence upon entering a building, and they certainly were no lady. I turned my head and was met with two familiar faces standing at the entrance: Noah Jackson and my partner for Savage, Fuzz.

"What are the odds?" I wondered as the bartender handed me my shot. I downed it quick, before motioning for the bartender to lean in close. "I need you to do me a favor......"

Before either man could see me, I grabbed my TV Title and disappeared from view. From my hiding spot(which was under a table in the furthest back booth), I watched as Noah and Fuzz walked up to the bar to order themselves some drinks. I could just barely hear Fuzz order a bourbon on the rocks, before watching as Noah made a scene.

"What kind of cooked cunt doesn't keep stock of VB you brain dead drongo ass fuck!?" Noah yelled as the bartender began to shake with fear.

"Well, we....... we have F-Foster's," the bartender replied, trying not to shit himself.

"Foster's!?" Noah asked, looking like he was about to explode. "FOSTER'S?!?!" He paused and began to pace for a moment before pointing a finger at the bartender. "Fucking Foster's!? First off, cunt...... RACIST! Secondly, you'd have to pay me to drink that fake Australian dingo piss, you scrawny little Michael J. Fox cunt!!!"

Seeing Noah's reaction as the perfect distraction, I decided it was time to come out of hiding. As Fuzz sipped on his bourbon, I ran up behind him, ready to strike. In one fluid motion, I yanked him backwards off the bar stool(sending his drink flying God knows where) and onto the ground, pinning him in a Schoolboy position. The bartender quickly jumped over the counter like his life depended on it(probably because I told him it DOES) and began to count my cover.

"DAD!!!!!" Noah cried out as he watched in horror.

"ONE.................. TWO.................. THR......."

To my amazement, Fuzz managed to kick out before the bartender could say 'THREE.' As I went to stand up and explain, Fuzz grabbed the stool he had been sitting on and broke it over my back. Thinking it was over, I tried again to get up, but was met with a stiff kick to the gut.

"What the fuck?!" Fuzz yelled, visibly frustrated. "This is EXACTLY why I don't leave the panic room!"

"Good going, cunt!" Noah exclaimed, looking towards the broken glass and spilled bourbon of his dad's former drink. "What the hell is dad supposed to drink now, fucking Foster's?!?!"

Defeated, I crawled over to the booth I hid at and limped my way into it. Noah and Fuzz turned their backs to me, mumbling to each other about how much of a cunt I was, or something along those lines. Not wanting to walk into Savage with my teammate upset with me, I motioned for the bartender turned part-time referee to come over to my table.

"You're not gonna assault ME now, are you?" he asked, shaking even worse than before.

"No," I replied, pulling out a Benjamin Franklin and stuffing it into the guy's shirt pocket. "Give those two a round of bourbon of me."

The bartender nodded and made his way back towards the bar. It was an awkward scene, like something you'd see in some cheesy teen movie. I'd look over at Fuzz, who'd look back at me and make eye contact, only for us both to look away abruptly. This happened several times, even Noah got in on the action, before the bartender poured two more bourbons and placed them in front of the duo. They seemed confused at first, until the bartender pointed in my direction. Fuzz turned and pointed at the glass, followed by himself, almost in a flattered manner. I simply nodded and the Two of them grabbed their glasses and headed towards me.

"I don't drink bourbon, ya cunt!" Noah said, as they both sat down across from me. Without a word, Fuzz grabbed his son's drink and downed it in one smooth gulp, before addressing me.

"We need to talk," he spoke in a serious tone.

"You're right," I replied. "I'm curious about your strategy for our match of not tagging in........" Fuzz seemed a little surprised, but didn't let my words phase him.

"Yeah? What part of it are you curious about?"

"Uuuuuuuuuuum, how do you expect to win by making ME do all the work?" I asked.

"Hey, do NOT talk to my dad like that ya cunt!!!" Noah blurted out.

"Do we really need the child here?" I questioned, wanting to discuss things with my partner alone.

"Ohhhhhhhhhh, that's it, cunt! You and me outsi........"

"Noah, maybe you should give us a few minutes," Fuzz interjected, surprising both Noah and myself. Noah looked from Fuzz to me, before standing up and stretching.

"Right, right," he said, giving me the stink eye. "I've got to take a big d, anyway........ as in a big dump........ because you're shit!"

"Ha, ha," I laughed sarcastically as Noah made his way to the bathroom. Once he was gone, I turned my attention back to Fuzz. "So seriously, though, are you REALLY not gonna tag in?"

"Thought about it," Fuzz shrugged before taking a sip of his bourbon. "I figure it keeps me from losing my belt, all the while risking yours."

"Seems smart," I responded, though I didn't actually mean it. "Except for the fact any old Joe could sneak up behind you during the match and pin you right there at ringside. And considering I'd be too busy wrestling a Handicap Match, I wouldn't be able to watch your back."

"Like you'd watch my back, anyway."

"Look, I don't like that we're being forced to team anymore than you do!" I insisted, annoyed at Fuzz's arrogance. "But if it's what we gotta do to advance in Lethal Lottery, then dammit, I'm gonna make sure we look like a better team than the 5'2 Mafia, Apex, AND The Arm Collectors all COMBINED!"

Fuzz didn't respond, but rather took more sips of his drink. He may not want to admit it, but I suspected he knew I had a point. At the very least, he probably didn't want to leave his chance of advancing in the hands of someone he viewed as trash.

"Scully and Boris may not be much, but they're still two people," I pointed out. "Put me in the ring with just one of them and I'll take home the victory everytime. But you add in the other one, and I can't guarantee it. While I THINK I could pull it off, I'd rather not leave our chances of advancing to the unknown. As much as you want to hang onto that belt of yours, I get the feeling you'd rather win Lethal Lottery."

Fuzz downed the rest of his drink, before shaking his empty glass. I looked over for the bartender, snapped my fingers, and he quickly made his way over to refill it.

"Don't you want to prove to everyone that you're a legitimate Champion?" I asked, wondering how a person holding the 'Xtreme' Title could be such a coward.

"I don't gotta prove shit!" Fuzz blurted out. "I already know I'm the best, and that's all that matters."

"I see......." I responded, genuinely concerned about his willingness to work with me. "Did your Hall of Legends induction go to your head?! Because if I'm not mistaken, Legends DON'T hide in panic rooms or expect other people to do their dirty work FOR them!"

"What the fuck did you just say?!" Fuzz stood up, mad that I had the audacity to call it as I saw it.

"You beat me for that belt, and now you've gone soft!" I bellowed, trying to light a fire under his ass. "If you don't want to help me Saturday night, that's fine, I'll do everything in my power to carry BOTH of us. But if I don't succeed, you'll have no-one to blame besides yourself and your stupid ego! Sure, you'll still be the Xtreme Champion, but that's ALL you'll be! No Universal Title shot, and hopefully no Anarchy Title shot, because why the fuck would Vinnie want someone too scared to tag in against fuckin' Scully and Boris to be the face of his brand?!?!?!?!"

Fuzz looked like he was about to knock me out. His face was redder than a McIntosh apple and his fist was clenched. To my surprise, though, he shook his head in disbelief and sat back down, finishing his drink with a quick swig. I could tell he wanted to kill me, Fuzz wasn't the type of person to admit someone he viewed as inferior was right. After sitting in silence for a minute, Fuzz finally spoke.

"So, what kind of strategy would YOU suggest?" he asked in a pissy tone.

"That's the thing, Fuzz," I began, knowing everything I was about to say was just as true as what I'd already said. "We don't NEED any sort of strategy! As long as we both show up and do our jobs, we'll win."

"That's it?"

"Yes, that's it!" I insisted, feeling like a broken record. "Boris is the current joke of XWF, no matter how much Centurion tries to pin that on Thunder Knuckles. There's been plenty of wrestlers like him before, and there'll be plenty more once he's long gone and forgotten. Someone like that doesn't measure up to either of us."

"Maybe me," Fuzz scoffed, proving moreso just how little faith he had in me. I was beyond the point of letting it bother me, he could think whatever he wanted as long as we walk away with the W.

"As for Scully," I continued, paying no mind to Fuzz's attitude. "He's too busy worrying about three-ways in his garage and his Universal Title shot to be bothered with us. His mind is distracted and it's only going to help us."

"Why worry about Lethal Lottery when you already have your shot?" Fuzz pointed out.

"Exactly," I surprisingly agreed. "He's gonna be so busy focusing on Unknown Soldier, he isn't gonna give a damn about our Titles. And considering Boris isn't a legitimate threat, I'd say as long as we keep ourselves fresh by tagging in enough, the match is ours to lose."

Fuzz didn't have a response, he just stared at his half empty glass deep in thought. I didn't know what was going on inside his head and, honestly, I didn't care as long as he was in it to win it. That's WHY we were teaming up, to advance to the next round and earn the Title shot we both felt we deserved.

The two of us sat there in silence for a bit, taking turns sipping on our respective drinks. We didn't look at each other, but we also didn't feel the need to go sit at separate tables, either. All of a sudden, the song 'The Real Slim Shady' by Eminem began to play and I couldn't help but chuckle.

"What are you laughing at?" Fuzz defensively questioned.

"This song," I answered, smiling from ear to ear. "It makes me think about you." Fuzz didn't seem too amused, but that didn't stop him from coming up with his own insult.

"Oh yeah? Well that reminds me of YOU......" He nodded his head towards a garbage can sitting over by the bar.

"Did you just point to a trash can?" I asked, not soured at all by his cunning response.

"Sorry," he responded, making me believe he was ACTUALLY apologizing. "The can is actually useful; I was talking about the trash INSIDE......"

Something amazing happened.......... we both burst out laughing. There I was, sitting across from the man who beat me for my Xtreme Championship and we had just shared a moment. It may not have been much, and we certainly weren't gonna become friends over it, but it may be enough to ensure we can work together successfully. And right now, that was all that mattered. And THAT was the Cold Big D Truth.......

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