Jeez, they couldn't have used a better picture of me? Bet it was that asshole Jerry. He thinks he's so funny with his club foot and stillborn daughter. Just wait, prick. I'm going to file a complaint so quick it'll make your head spin.
Oh, yeah. Right.
Hello, traveler! Wanderer. Explorer of these realms. Let me guess: you want to hear a story. More specifically: you want to hear a story from the twisted world of the X-Treme Wrestling Federation. Sure, you could turn on your televisions and find out exactly what your favorite wrestlers are all about - let's face it, none of them are particularly subtle. But that alone won't satiate your curiosity. No, you want to - nay, you need to go deeper. You need to see what they see. Hear what they hear. Feel what they feel.
You've come to the right place.
The X-Treme Wrestling Federation has been home to many, many odd figures throughout the years. Aliens, government agents, gangsters, and about thirty serial killers have all graced the cards with their presence. However, the story I want to focus on today is an ongoing incident, involving none other than XWF's favorite idiot: Shaun Crowe.
Anyway, here's Wonderwall.
What? I needed a transition. Oh shit, right. Onwards and upwards!
FADE IN
On a dingy, dirty basement deep in the heart of the Deep South. The stench of death hangs in the air. A mouse scuttles across the floor, feet splashing in a puddle of unidentified liquid. A woman sits, tied to a chair with a burlap sack over her head. An exposed lightbulb dangles from the ceiling above her, swaying ever so slightly.
The door swings open and the sound of a commotion permeates the room, drowning out the relative silence. Two sets of heavy footsteps stomp down the stairs, accompanied by a familiar voice.
"EYY WATCH THE FUKKKEN SUIT! WHODAFUKKK ARE YOU DELIVERANCE-LOOKIN MUHFUCKAS ANYWAY? SHIT, IF ONE 'A YA PULLS OUT A BANJO JUST FUKKKEN SHOOT ME BRO, I AIN'T BOUT THAT LIFE."
The two gargantuan hicks continue to carry the thrashing Shaun Crowe down the stairs, unperturbed by Ya Boi's outburst. One of the giants - the one holding Crowe's arms - sighs and looks down at the puny weakling before shaking his head.
"Why are we doing this again?"
Giant #2 grunts ambiguously.
"Fuck it."
"LEMME FUKKKEN GO I SWEAR TA GAWD Y'ALL ARE GONNA CATCH HELL! I'M A FUKKKEN CELEBRITY, GET ME OUTTA HERE!"
The two giants look at each other and nod, before swinging Crowe into the wall.
"AHHHHH! I DON'T NEED THIS SHIT! I CAN FLY, NIGGAS!"
Crowe continues his futile fight for freedom, trying to flap his wings like a bird. This of course goes absolutely nowhere, much like his XWF career. The giants just stand in the middle of the staircase, watching him thrash about like a spastic on cocaine for a few seconds before they continue their descent into the depths of heck. Pure heck.
Once fully down the stairs, the pair just chuck Crowe onto the floor. Crowe skids across the concrete and weakly sits up, before laying back down again with a groan.
"Now," Giant #1 says, cracking his knuckles. "You're gonna tell us about the briefcase."
The woman speaks, her soft voice muffled by the sack. Giant #2 walks over to the seat she's restrained to and rips the sack off her head.
"This idiot doesn't know anything about the briefcase."
Giant #2 promptly backhands our smart-mouthed contestant on Rural Georgia's favorite game show: The Love Dungeon.
"Zip it, sugartits. We didn't ask you."
The woman spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor and groans.
"If I had known I was going to die in a basement in the middle of scenic nowhere, I wouldn't have went to college."
Pow! A second smack from the arbitrarily numbered behemoth.
"I deserved that."
"YEAH YOU DID YOU PSYCHOTIC FLOOZY!"
The First Giant gets a jogging start to kick Crowe in the ribs. Crowe rolls onto his stomach and coughs.
"Start talking, now. Tell us everything. From the beginning."
"SHIT, WHERE ELSE WOULD YA BOI START FROM? THE MIDDLE?"
Giant #1 nods.
"FAIR ENOUGH."
"Get talking."
"Shit, shit. Alright. Gimme a sec."
FADE IN
Aight, so like, it all started about a few days ago, right? I was just chillin' at da crib in da heart 'a Chi-muhfuckin-raq-
"He does not live in Chicago."
Hey hey hey, no one asked you anythin' Doctah Strangelove. Pipe down 'n let da adults talk.
Anyway, as I was sayin. I was chillin' at da crib like a nigga do on a Saturday mornin', bored as hell, eatin' Lucky Charms while watchin' re-runs 'a Spongebob on da TV. It was the one where Spongeboi gets that gnarly-ass splinter, y'all know what I'm talkin' bout right? 'N his thumb just gets biggah 'n biggah cuz Patrick's makin' it worse - yeah, y'all know it. Fuckin' classic. All of a sudden, in da middle 'a it, right as I was gettin' invested 'n shit... Ya Boi's phone rings. Killed the fuckin' mood right quick buhleedat.
I answer da muhfucka 'n guess who's on the other end? Go on, guess.
Shit, I mean I guess you guys can't since like, y'all don't know my peoples. Shit, anyway it's my homie Trayvon. No relation. We been callin' him Trayvon No-relation since that kid got shot down in Ferguson and dat Eric Garner got off widdout even bein' indicted. Miscarriage 'a justice man buhleeyoume. So right, he calls 'n asks me if I wanted ta get paid. And shit, since I ain't been booked ta wrestle in foreva 'n a half - not that I was gettin' paid for that shit anyway - I decided I had ta take him up on his offer.
Dats when I first heard 'a da briefcase. Well shit, not actually but like, that's when it starts becomin' relevant ya dig? Ya dig? Yeah, ya dig. I can tell ya diggin' it. I can see it on ya faces. Along wit' da drool, 'n da deformities - shit dawg have y'all ancestors, y'know, kept it in da family for six, seven generations? Gotta be seven. Or eight. Shit, not like I'm judgin' or nothin'. Some 'a my best friends are inbred.
Shit shit shit movin' on. Where was I again?
Right, da briefcase. After he told me all he knew about whatever it is he was talkin' about, we decided ta meet at da local Mickey-Deez nuts - got eem! - ta plan out da next course 'a action.
We was chillin' in a booth, chowin' down on some high quality chickie nugs when he told me about what was really goin' down. I mean, there's just some shit ya can't talk about on da phone. Fuck da homie Big Brother. Dey can't hold me. We aren't far enough inta GAWD EMPEROR DONALD TRUMP's reign for him ta start makin' waves on repealin' dat Obummercare and stoppin' dat madness. Y'all feel me.
So, dis nigga leaned across da table ta me 'n he said, bro do ya know what he said?
"Bro," he said ta me, "bro listen ta me bro."
And I said "bro, I'm listenin' ta ya bro."
And he said "bro, I mean really listen ta me bro."
And I said "bro, you know me bro, you know I wouldn't say I'm listenin' if I wasn't bro."
And he said "das a good point bro but if you my nigga den you can't be fuckin' wit me on dis one. You listenin' bro?"
And I said "nigga dis gag's gettin' a little ol' ain't it?" And like he agreed 'n shit so he just said what he was gonna say like three or four minutes before we started gettin' on dat tangent.
Nigga looks me dead-ass in da eyes 'n tells me "bro, how'd ya like ta be rich beyond ya wildest dreams?"
Den he didn't even miss a beat before sayin' "all we gotta do is snatch a damn briefcase."
And so, our journey began.
"Wow, uh... Yeah. That was, a real eye-opening experience. Not at all like you rambled on and on without making any real progress into how we got-"
And there goes smack number three. If this were baseball, I'm sure she'd be out or something. I don't follow baseball; the only sport I care about is wrestling. Regardless, our friend is not looking very good: busted lip, bruised face, the works.
"And what about you?"
"I thought you'd never ask. Nice to meet you, Dr. Rebecca Annabelle Schrodinger, at your service. I've seen better days, of course, but that should go without saying considering I'M BLEEDING FROM MY FACE.
"I'm calm. I'm calm.
"Let me start from the beginning-ish."
FADE IN
It was nine-thirty AM on Wednesday when the briefcase fell into my lap. Literally. Well, maybe not literally, literally. Figuratively literally. I'm rambling. What I meant to say was, the briefcase was dropped onto my desk. Because despite having a doctorate, I work in a cubicle for a psychopath. Regardless.
"Y'know, I'd hate to interrupt Ol' Black and Blue Eyes over here... but, I think it's about time for a change in scenery."
TBC
Yes, to be continued. This is a long story, and I only like telling it in five minute intervals.
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Eric Garner got off widdout even bein' indicted. Miscarriage 'a justice man buhleeyoume. So right, he calls 'n asks me if I wanted ta get paid. And shit, since I ain't been booked ta wrestle in foreva 'n a half - not that I was gettin' paid for that shit anyway - I decided I had ta take him up on his offer. 
