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Bulk Logan · **11-03-2023, 05:47 AM**

Larry entered the room with an unexpected spring in his step.

The scent of victory was fresh, the air almost crackling with the excitement of Bulk’s triumph.

Bulk himself was sitting heavily on a bench, pounding away a few gallons of protein shake.

Gary was nearby, lost in his smartphone, likely reading through the flood of positive feedback on social media praising Bulk’s dramatic win.

As he moved closer to Bulk, Larry’s usual no-nonsense attitude was replaced by a warm enthusiasm. You could tell he was reveling in the success of his client. He clasped his hands together, his mind churning with ideas and plans to capitalize on the momentum.

“Bulk, my man!” Larry exclaimed with a grin slicing across his face. “You were a force of nature out there! Throwing that one guy into the electric chair to retain? Pure artistry, brother!”

“I'm the eye of the storm, brother!”

Larry’s grin broadened. “We’ve got to milk this, Bulk. It’s time to double down on the all-American hero image. Think of the merch, the posters, the kids looking up to you!”

Gary raised his head with a look of skepticism. “Larry, the match was brilliant, but we can’t keep playing the same old tune. We've spoken about this, Bulk’s got layers, man. Why not let him show a bit of edge? Something raw, something... real?”

But Larry shook his head. “Listen, I considered it. I did! But the sponsors, the networks, the advertisers, they all eat up the ‘Bulk the Hero’ narrative. Why gamble? People love what they know. They don’t want complex– they want the comfort of the familiar, the dependable.”

Gary’s face tightened. “But the audience evolves, and so should we. What’s the harm in testing new waters? We've already seen a positive response to Bulk breaking a rule or two.”

Bulk sat up straighter, looking to ease the tension. “Guys, guys,” he interjected, “I’m not exactly itching to switch things up either, brother. But Gary’s got a point. Maybe it’s time to show them a little thunder, a little lightning. A curse word here, a steel chair there. I'm not saying we turn heel or anything, but...”

"But the modern fan thinks Bulk's a dork!" Gary interjected.

Bulk's brow furrowed as he turned to Gary with a silent storm brewing behind his eyes. Gary's enthusiasm wilted under the intensity of Bulk's glare. He settled back into his seat with a soft thud.

Larry's mind was churning through figures, projections, and the comfortable predictability of Bulk's current image. "We're sailing smooth waters, Bulk. Stirring them up could capsize the whole ship. Stay the course, at least for now."

The tension melted as the conversation took a turn, with Larry segueing into the next big challenge on the horizon.

"Alright, let's park the character development for a sec," Larry said, pulling up a file on his tablet. "You've got Tommy Wish coming up, Bulk. This guy's a real wildcard."

Bulk, intrigued, shifted to get a look at Larry's screen. The image of a man with a rugged, almost destitute appearance filled the display.

"Tommy Wish, real name Thomas Jacobs," Larry continued, scrolling through the dossier. "The fans don't know what to make of him. He's unpredictable, a brawler with a Kendo stick and a... foot fetish, apparently."

Bulk snorted with laughter. "A foot fetish? Now, that’s a heel I've never grappled with, brother."

Larry tapped on his tablet. "He's got this whole dual identity vibe... Complete psychopath in the ring, street hardened everyman outside of it. The crowd eats it up. It seems that he even managed to maintain fan support during a brief stint in a Satanic cult... or two."

"Hmmm... This could be a good test for Bulk's character," Gary pointed out. "Facing someone who's not just a straightforward bad guy, but a complex character with layers and fan support."

Bulk’s expression hardened, the prospect of the match sparking a competitive fire within him. "Let's not underestimate him. This could be a real slobberknocker, brothers. Tommy's got win rust, but he's got that wild, brawling strength. And those chair shots, those Kendo strikes... I need to be ready for anything."

"Indeed you do, his win rust, as you put it, came to an end. Him and JB are on a 2 match win streak on Anarchy!"

"What the Hell is Anarchy, and why should I care about tag wins over jabronis, brother!?"

Before Gary could respond, Bulk’s stance widened, his voice deepened, and he seemed to grow in stature, the air around him charged with the same electricity that buzzed through the arena on Spooky Savage. His eyes, alight with the glint of showmanship, fixed on an unseen camera, his audience of two momentarily forgotten.

"You hear that, Tommy Wish? You haven't beaten anyone, and that ain't changing today, jack!" Bulk's voice boomed, resonating off the walls of the small room. "You think you can step into MY ring, into MY world, with your chaos and your Kendo stick, and shake me? Bulk Logan doesn't just stand firm, brother—he’s the bedrock!"

He paced a little, circling Gary and Larry as if they were the crowd, his fists clenched as if ready for combat. "You bring your chair shots, you bring your wild swings, but know this, the Television Champion stands before you not just as a man, but as a fortress, as an institution!"

With each sentence, his voice rose, his persona swelling to fill the character he portrayed so well. "I've taken on the best, the brutest, the brawniest that this business has thrown at me. And like the mighty oak, I’ve swayed with the winds of challenge but never, ever broken, dude! And come our match, Tommy, when the bell rings and the crowd roars, it’s gonna be more than just a fight. It’s gonna be an awakening for you, my man."

He looked squarely at Larry, then Gary, before his voice dropped to a growl. "Because I'm gonna show you and the whole world what it means when you mess with the storm. When you step into this eye, you better be ready to get swept away, brother!"

Bulk’s pacing stopped abruptly, his eyes narrowing with a glint of something feral. “And let’s chat about those, uh, peculiar proclivities of yours, Tommy Wish. This fetish for feet you parade around with, it’s… well, it’s damn unsettling, brother.”

He lifted his massive boot. “But you want feet, Tommy? You want to get twisted up in your own twisted game? Then the Bulkster’s got a one-time offer for you. For one night, and one night only.”

With a disgust wrinkling his nose, he leaned in as if sharing a revolting secret. “I’m gonna indulge that weird whim of yours. But not the way you like it, no sir. You see, Tommy, you might love feet, but I guarantee you won’t be a fan of mine.”

Bulk's nostrils flared as he spoke. "Because when it comes down to it, when all is said and done in that square circle, I’m laying down the challenge for an 'X-Treme Kiss My Feet' match, brother. That's right, every dirty trick, every underhanded tactic you've got, they're all legal. Bring your Kendo stick, bring your leftover Satanic rituals, bring you thug buddies, and every thumbtack in Texas, Tommy, because you’re gonna need it all, brother!"

He began to stomp back and forth as if he was already marching over his fallen opponent. "And when those tricks fail you, when the smoke clears and the Bulkster stands victorious, STILL your Television Champion, you’ll do more than just feel the embarrassment of defeat. Oh no, Tommy, you’re going to suffer the ultimate humiliation, brother!"

"You’ll be putting that fetish of yours on global display, dude, because you, the LOSER, will be on your knees, puckering up to plant a big, wet one on the size 20s of me, the WINNER, brother!"

Bulk’s jaw clenched, and his gaze became a penetrating stare. "But we gotta strip it down to the bare bones, Tommy. This ain’t just about making you grovel in humiliation. Nah, brother, it's about the sacred code. The code of honor in this squared circle that you’ve trampled with your bedlam, your brutal swings, and your... let’s not sugarcoat it... your perverse foot fixation."

"And what really grinds my gears, Tommy? You've hoodwinked some of the fans, convinced them you're the good guy, the fun one, a role model. You got'em cheering for a false idol, brother! But the Bulkster sees through your facade. You've cast yourself the hero of your twisted narrative, but in truth, you're the villain, reveling in anarchy, using your weapons not in the spirit of competition, but as instruments of chaos."

A sneer pulled at Bulk's lips, his disdain for Tommy as clear as the championship belt he wore. "You're strutting down a sinister path, Tommy Wish, leading your followers astray. One that ends in nothing but wreckage, brother. Because when the final bell rings, it'll be you sprawled out in the ruins of your own making, your deceit laid bare for all to see, dude."

"So, get this through your head, Tommy. When you square up against the Bulkster, you're not just facing a man. You're confronting a movement, brother! The pure, unadulterated force of Bulkamania. And at Weekend Warfare, I'm not just gonna be the champion—I'm gonna be the shepherd leading the flock away from your villainy, the thug life, to the promised land of true sportsmanship, brother!"

"And when all's said and done, Tommy, the world's gonna witness your downfall. That's when they’ll repent from following your scumbag ways, brother, and see the light of BULKAMANIA!"

He slammed his boot down with a thud that echoed like a judge's gavel. "And that's the absolute, 'X-Treme' reality, brother!"

Larry stood there, his tablet forgotten in his hand and his mouth slightly agape.

He blinked, his brain rebooting from the unexpected onslaught of showmanship that had just turned his modest office into an impromptu stage for a wrestling promo.

"Uh, Bulk..." Larry finally stammered, his voice a mixture of bewilderment and a touch of awe. "That was... something. You know we're not in the arena, right? You just went full throttle into promo mode here between the water cooler and the filing cabinets."

"Brother, when you’re the Bulkster, the whole world is your arena," Bulk said with a smirk, casually flexing his arms as if to emphasize his larger than life presence.

"There’s always a camera nearby, even if you don't see it." He gestured around the room as if a crowd of thousands were watching. "This is Bulkamania, brother. It’s a state of mind. And in the state of mind of Bulkamania, every moment is a main event, dude."

He slapped Larry on the shoulder, a move that seemed to teeter on the edge between a gesture of camaraderie and a potential submission hold. "Don’t worry about it, Larry. That promo wasn't just for you, Gary, or the fern over there—it's for the eyes and ears of every little Bulkamaniac that's tuned into the vibe of the wrestling universe."

"Besides, in this business, you gotta stay in character, brother. You never know who's watching or listening, dude."

"Now, Tommy, WHATCHA GONNA DO!?"

Bulks question hangs in the air as the scene fades to black.

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