Neighborhood Chili’s - 4:08 PM

Steve is nervous… It’s been a long time since he’s been on a date.

It’s been even longer since he was with a girl that he thought might like him.

Once, in the third grade, Steve asked a classmate if she like-liked him]

The girl immediately vomited.

It was pizza day.

Steve cringes, shaking off his horrifying childhood (which eventually became his horrifying adulthood).

Because now, four decades later, Steve Sayors sits across from a beautiful woman.

She’s a woman in her mid-40s, a long mink coat adorns her shoulders. Her eyes pierce furiously, scanning every inch of Steve.

…He tries to smile… “Um, are you enjoying the date, Claudette?”

“Steven, as my date, YOU have greater power than anyone else here over whether or not I ‘enjoy the date’.” The woman spits back like a coiled viper.

“What kind of question is that? Am I enjoying the date?” Claudette sneers, at the sheer audacity of Steve’s inquiry. “What do *you* hope I reply to that? Oh yes, Steven, I am savoring this neighborhood bar-and-grill, take me in your arms and pierce me with your flaccid, middle-aged penis.”

…

Steve clears his throat.

“...I was h-h-hoping you'd say... yes… uh… Y’know, I’m e-e-enjoying myself…. With you.” Steve says, with a simmering stutter.

“Are you, Steven? Truly, are you enjoying yourself?” She replies, both suspiciously and disinterestedly.

...Steve sniffs. Being questioned is almost as terrifying to him as getting beaten up. Which is nearly as terrifying as his $500,000 debt to the XWF.

A debt this clearly wealthy woman might be able to help with…

“...Yes.” Steve recites, staring at his date’s Gucci purse. “I am enjoying myself.”

“Naturally, you are, Steven. After all, you’re a worm. A fightless, subjugated, little insect who would take a stronger entity like me spitting on him and beg for seconds.”

...Steve cranes his neck closer.

“Is this like a… sex thing? Like a dominance fetish?” Steve queries, genuinely eager to please. He reaches under the table, retrieving an envelope. “Because, if this is foreplay for you, I actually have some pictures on my phone. I checked your OnlyFans account and saw you’re a platinum status subscriber of mine!”

…

“In fact, you’re my… only… subscriber. Platinum or otherwise.”

“So!" Steve claps his hands! "I h-hoped you’d appreciate some exclusive content! I brought pictures! Of my feet! An-”

“No, Steven.” Claudette mutters, disapprovingly. “No, I did not subscribe to your distasteful account to witness your markedly-unspectacular feet. Nor am I verbally abusing you for my own sexual gratification. My cruelty has nothing to do with arousal and is 100% from the heart.”

…

“Oh.” Steve disappointedly goes to stuff the photos back into the envelope, but…

It kinda… doesn’t happen.

…

Like, you ever gotten a burrito wrapped in foil? Then you unwrap, eat half… and somehow,, you CANNOT wrap the half-burrito using the same foil that JUST fit the whole burrito.

It’s like an anti-miracle, how’s that even happen? The half-burrito is SO MUCH LESS SURFACE AREA.

…Y’know?

…

Anyway.

Steve’s photos don’t fit in the envelope, flopping onto the floor, where other diners can see them.

Steve scrambles to the ground, embarrassedly trying to shield his softcore-work from the family of four at the neighboring table.

“U-u-uh, I’m not a p-p-pervert or anything.” Steve tries to assure desperately. “T-t-these are MY feet.”

…The family stands up from their table, one perfectly synchronized unit of disapproval. They leave.

“Steven.” Claudette snaps her fingers. “Look at me when I’m speaking.”

Immediately, Sayors snaps to, lifting himself off the floor, desperately stuffing his foot photos into his pockets, like wet spaghetti into a fannypack.

“This.” Claudette points from head-to-toe, from the top of Steve’s balding head, to the soles of Steve’s wholly-unappealing-and-similarly-unmonetizable feet.

“All of you.” She recoils with disgust. “You’re a frail, feeble, fragile, faint, finite, fun-sized failure of a FFFFFFFUCK.”

Claudette sneers, bile in her throat from unbridled detachment toward whether the man before her lives or dies.

…Every inch of Steve’s withered, filmsy spine wants to withdraw into itself, like a turtle hiding in its shell.

Every moment of Steve’s life is shame. But, this?

Steve hasn’t been able to be disappointed in decades.

…Yet His face reddens.

Because here we are.

“In other words, Steven…”

“You’re exactly what I’m seeking in a man.”

…

Steve’s face contorts in shock and awe.

“...W-w-wait! R-r-really?”

Claudette dispassionately dabs at her cheek with a handkerchief. “I’m certain an experienced journalist such as yourself has already sleuthed out my identity.”

…

Steve coughs.

“Well… I mean, yeah, obviously! I’m a newsman! I definitely... uh...” Steve blushes, “You’re… uh… Claudette!”

…

Steve gestures at Claudette’s nametag with a circular hand motion. “Claudette… uh… uhhhhhhhhhhh.”

“Claudette de Toilette.”

“Yes! Just as I was saying! You’re Claudette du…”

…

“Wait, of the Marseille de Toilettes?”

“The very same, Steven. My family owns 90% of the world’s toilet paper production plants. If you have the privilege of not shitting in your hand, you can thank my enterprises for that.”

Steve’s face shrinks in disgust… Then confusion.

“Wait… doesn’t ‘de Toilette’ mean ‘perfume’ in French? Not ‘toilet’?”

“I never said my last name meant ‘toilet’, Steven. Simply that my family owns the Northern Hemisphere’s largest toilet paper empire.”

“...Yes, but…”

“Would you complain if you met Bill Gates, and he didn’t sell GATES, Steven!?!”

…Sayors immediately lowers his hand subserviently.

“Ah, Steven. You immediately surrender at the slightest show of resistance. You’re perfect for my...requirements.”

…Steve tilts his head sideways, perplexed. “Well, Claudette… How am I… perfect for *you*? After all, you’re a… ssssstrong-willed… lady.”

“I’m an asshole, Steven.” Claudette corrects, swabbing spittle off her cheek. “And I speak harsh truths. When your business is toilet paper, one cannot sidestep the world’s leftover excrement.”

Claudette tosses the handkerchief into her bag…

Then twists the zipper.

The paper slowly dips to the bottom.

…

“...Did you just flush your purse?”

“WE ARE DISCUSSING BUSINESS, STEVEN.” Claudette raises her voice. “And T.P. is a cutthroat business, indeed.”

Claudette gently dabs at her eyes (front-to-back).

“For appearances, I require a man at my side. The toilet paper industry is as old-as-shit, (pardon-the-pun)…” Claudette spits. “No one wants a woman on the porcelain throne.”

“Hence, you, Steven.”

“...Me?”

“I need a man so weak-willed, so brutally incapable across every palpable channel of manhood, that he will quietly standby as I command my world of commodes! With a two-ply fist!”

“When I saw your subpar foot fetish offerings and researched your paltry wrestling journalist income… I *knew* you were exactly what I required.”

“You mean, wanted?”

“I MEAN REQUIRED.” Claudette spits back.

…

Steve’s… still summing figures in his head.

“So… wait, you… don’t… like me?”

Claudette sighs at Sayors’ human insecurities and pathetic need to be wanted and/or liked. “Nothing personal, Steve. I didn’t ‘like’ my last two husbands either. Both marriages of convenience. Both wrapped their hands around the pull-chain of success and attempted to seize the handle. Both wished to wipe away my role in the company. Both had to be… flushed.”

Claudette reaches across the table and grabs Sayors by his weak chin. “But, so long as you never cross me, you shall be tolerated. And, subsequently, comfortable.”

“Oh! You mean, you’re seeking a… trophy husband? And you thought of me!” Steve blushes… actually flattered!

“...Mmm.” Claudette hesitates. “I see your role as more of a… human pet. Perhaps, a dog.”

…

“No.” Claudette corrects herself. “Dogs make noise. You would be more like… an ant-farm. Or a small water bowl full of sea monkeys. Silent. Something I occasionally glance at… to remind myself of the limitless power I hold over you.”

…

Steve exhales, taking all this in.

Okay, clearly not a love situation…

…But, what about Steve’s debt?

“Okay. Full disclosure. I might not be the best trophy… pet. See, there’s a matter with my employer of…” Steve sweats thinking about the number… “Half-a-m-m-m-million dollars…”

Claudette scoffs. “Asking for an allowance already?” Claudette snaps twice. “JOHN!”

Claudette’s head servant, hovering behind her this whole time, steps forth, lifts a serving tray.

Under the tray is…

A $500,000 dollar check!

Made out to ‘Wormboy’.

…Steve’s eyes well with… pride(?).

After over a year of wallowing, toiling in an insurmountable debt… He was about to be free!

All it would cost him is his dignit-

“STEVE!”

…

Oh God.

Not now. NOT NOW.

…Claudette and Steve both spin…

Jogging toward the table.

Some… guy.

Some guy?

Yes.

That one.

Y’all-Know-Who.

Holding a… cake? With a woman’s face on it?

“FANCY SEEING YOU HERE, STEVE! WHAT ARE YOU TWO UP TO?”

…

“WAIT!” YKW smiles delightedly, like this is the biggest coincidence. “NO WAY!”
.
He points at Claudette, then at Steve.

Then at himself.

Then the cake.

“ARE YOU TWO ALSO HERE ON A DATE?”

---

The following is a promo delivered by Y’all-Know-Who (with live fact-checking by Steve Sayors!)

THIS IS GONNA BE CAKE.

…

Y’all-Know-Who steps away from the camera, revealing in his hands is a bowl of batter. He stirs with a whisk.

BUT ENOUGH ABOUT WHAT I’M BAKING…

Jesus Christ, that was awful.

IT’S TIME TO FOCUS ON MY LONGTIME ADVERSARY, WILLY WHISKEY!

That’s NOT Bobby Bourbon’s name. A man who has NEVER shared the ring with YKW… Or possibly ever heard of him!

THE PRIDE AND JOY OF THE FRATERNITY OF FRIENDS!

...Does he mean Brotherhoods of Bros?

LONG-TIME PARTNER OF LIGHTNING ELBOWS!

Thunder Knuckles

AND CURRENT HOLDER OF THE 365 SATCHEL!

...Okay, technically it’s the 24/7 briefcase… But it IS only usable for 365 days so… technically *not* inaccurate.

…

Although typically, satchels are made of less thick leather than a briefcase…

IT’S OBVIOUS TO ANYONE WITH AN EYE FOR WRESTLING AND A NOSE FOR OPPORTUNITY HOW YOU’LL BE USING THAT BRIEFCASE!

TO SCORE A CHANCE AT THE XWF RIO DE JANEIRO CHAMPIONSHIP!

Oh my god, not this again…

THE MOST PRESTIGIOUS BELT IN THE XWF!

As far as I can tell, no references to this belt existed before this guy started showing up around the company! No one knows what he’s talking about!

CASHING IN ON CASEY JONES, FROM THE CRYPTOFACIST MICRONATION, CASEYVILLE, OREGON!

...Oh, that… I guess he means Corey! …Y’know, in his own way.

BUT, MY FRIEND WILLIAM… CASEY IS NOT YOUR OPPONENT TODAY…

I AM!

That’s true!

AND ASK AROUND! I AM THE MOST WELL-KNOWN MAN IN THE XWF!

...Emphatically false. No one knows who this guy is.

AND AS WELL-KNOWN AS I AM IN THE WRESTLING WORLD!

See: Not at all

I AM EVEN MORE WELL-REGARDED IN THE CAKE WRESTLING COMMUNITY!

...What?

CHECK MY RECORD! I WON A RED VELVET MATCH AGAINST THE SCARLET STALKER!

...I… what?

I WON A GERMAN CHOCOLATE MATCH AGAINST FRITZ VON CACAO!

There’s… There’s no record of any of these matches!

AND WHO COULD FORGET THE MEXICAN WEDDING COOKIE MATCH AGAINST EL HIJO DE TRES LECHES!

...Wait, if his name is Son of Three Milks? Does that mean his dad wrestled as ‘Three Milks’?

EACH OF HIS THREE MILK MOTHERS WAS DEVASTATED AS I DUNKED HIM IN A GLASS OF MILK AND SECURED MY VICTORY!

....Okay, wait, he literally is the son of three… milk women? What?!?

POINT BEING, WILLY WHISKEY, YOU MADE A CAKE MISTAKE WHEN YOU CHALLENGED ME TO A FROSTING FIGHT!

...First. It’s an Icing on the Cake match.

Second, Bobby *definitely* did not challenge this man.

BECAUSE AFTER ALL YOU’VE DONE?

...Wait, what did he do?

Y’ALREADY KNOW THE PAIN WILLY WHISKEY HAS CAUSED!

Hold on, what are we talking about here?!?

TOSSING YOU IN A ‘BEVY’ OF CAKES? MAKING YOU LOOK FOOLISH IN FRONT OF THE GOOD PEOPLE OF WALLA WALLA, WASHINGTON?

Seattle*

WILL BE YOUR JUST DESSERTS!