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Brucette Blingsteen · (05-12-2015)

Here we go.

The scene opens to Bruce Blingsteen seated on a large log next to a roaring campfire, a golden brown marshmallow roasting at the end of the stick held in his hand. Bruce whistles to himself as he spins the stick around, roasting his gooey treat evenly on all sides. He knows the cameras are on him, he knows the people on the other end are expecting him to speak. But heâ€™s in no rush. If Ghost Tank and Thunderbolt X forced him to listen to that verbal sewage that those two called â€˜promos,â€™ then they could watch him roast a goddamn marshmallow. Whatâ€™s more entertaining, anyway? A man talking to his pet transvestite on a semen stained comforter in some roach motel? A man who could quite possibly be legally

struggle to spit out even the most basic of sentences in English? Or one fucking delicious cloud of sugary goodness, sensually tanning itself until itâ€™s gooey and moist?

The ringing of Bruceâ€™s cell phone drowns out the sound of the wood crackling underneath the heat of the of the flames. He groans and reluctantly holds the phone up to his ear. A quick, yet muted, voice can be heard buzzing along through the speaker. Bruce repeatedly nods his head, begrudgingly. Finally the voice stops and Bruce smiles.

â€Yeah, I saw them. Sounds to me like these two are actually going to show up for a fight tomorrow. Iâ€™m cool with that, thatâ€™s what I was hoping for. I was hoping theyâ€™d take it a little more seriously, but I guess I was wrong about how much they wanted it.â€

The voice on the other end begins talking again, but this time Bruce cuts it off with a laugh.

â€Bro Iâ€™ve got the preparation well underway. Iâ€™m communing with nature, Iâ€™m relaxed, Iâ€™m focusedâ€¦

And I got me a brand new strand of weed, Ghost Dank. Heard this shit fucks you up so bad you think youâ€™re going to die. Probably not healthy, but Iâ€™m sure itâ€™s an over exaggeration, right? Speaking of, I think itâ€™s high time for high time, ya feel me? Later homie.â€

Bruce tosses his phone over his shoulder and reaches down into his pocket. He pulls out a bag labeled â€˜Thunderdolt.â€™

â€Nah, this shitâ€™ll make you stupid enough to repeat yourself.â€ He says to himself.

He reaches back down and pulls out the Ghost Dank. He packs it into a bowl, fires it up and takes a few puffs. Away he driftsâ€¦

The scene fades to a haze.

And comes back in with a bang!

Bruce is dancing around the fire, nearly completely naked save for a large leaf covering his genitals, held in place by what appears to be the laces off his tennis shoes. He is covered in dirt and speaking in tongues as he kneels in front of the fire, slamming his hands into the dirt and spreading it across his face and chest.

â€HAHAHAHA! IDIOTS! BOTH OF THEM!â€

â€œThe Ghost Tankâ€¦ Ghost Tank, can you hear me? Listen up you giant moron, weâ€™re going to take you to Sesame Street. The word of the day? â€˜Favorite.â€™ Favorite, as in something you enjoy above all else. Seems like a pretty easy one to get, donâ€™t it? Well apparently you forget what it means. See, Tanky, I got bored one night while I was incredibly high and decided to look at your roster page on Xwf99.com and right there at the bottom of the page, clear as Thunderdoltâ€™s mental illness, was your â€˜favoriteâ€™ weapon: A ladder. Well fuck me running! That ainâ€™t no big deal, right? I mean who cares? I certainly wouldnâ€™t...had you not pitched such a fucking fit about having a â€˜boringâ€™ ladder match at Madfare. Am I missing something here? Your favorite weapon makes for a â€˜boringâ€™ match type? What kind of fucking sense does that make? Thatâ€™s like me saying Oreos are my favorite cookie but shitting in the face of someone who offered me free Oreo ice cream. Thatâ€™s like you being all smitten with your weird little transsexual lady but recoiling in horror when she puts you on your knees and her dick tries to use your uvula as a punching bag. Seems pretty fucking hypocritical to me.â€

â€œOr is it cowardly? Yeah, I think thatâ€™s it.â€

â€œI think you knew right from the very start that you didnâ€™t have a prayer and you started sweating like a whore in church, so to save face you tried to make yourself look too tough for me by throwing some bullshit match stipulation at me that you knew I had no interest in. Unlike you, Iâ€™m not some fat fucking peacock in a circus sideshow, begging for attention. Iâ€™m the Xtreme champion, I call the shots. And you, I thought, were going to be a legitimate challenger to my belt. Boy, was I wrong. Youâ€™re just another never-will-be puffing out his chest like heâ€™s something to fear, but in reality youâ€™re just a broken shell of a man, crying like a little bitch that his beloved mentor will no longer give him the time of day. I havenâ€™t been around that long so Iâ€™m not too sure what the Asylum is all about, but Iâ€™m going to go ahead and guess that you were kicked out for being a useless piece of shit that spent more time whining about losing than actually focusing on your own matches. Hereâ€™s a tip: Next time you want to be taken as a serious member of the XWF, spend more time in the gym and less time in the hair salon, you fucking sissy.â€

â€œâ€˜da fuck kinda name is Oswald anyway?â€

â€œAnd not to be outdone, Thunderdolt X decided to stop using his mouth to breathe and made a valiant attempt to use actual words. And bless his little heart, he really tried. â€˜Staisticalâ€™ isnâ€™t a word Iâ€™m aware of, but using context clues Iâ€™m going to assume that you were trying to put your mathematician's hat on and spit some statistical data at me, is that right? Critical thinking is kind of a big step for you, fella, you might want to spend a little more time on your calculations though. Telling me I have a 33.3% chance of winning, then telling Ghost Tank he has a better chance of winning? I hate to burst your bubble, but your own calculations just added up to you having the slimmest chance of winning the title. You really want my respect? Learn basic fucking fractions you halfwit.â€

â€œI think my loss column will stay very much uncrossed, thank you very much.â€

â€œAnd why the fuck do you talk like a slacker trying to meet the minimum word limit on an English paper? I bet if that whole promo was dictated itâ€™d have size 14 font and ungodly large margins. Iâ€™m sure enough ladies have told you this by now, but length ainâ€™t everything there, Bolty. Do you think droning on and on and on and on makes the people seated in their living rooms, rolling their eyes as you struggle to make sense, care any more about your match? You just talked some poor family of four to reach for the remote and turn on Keeping Up With the Kardashians or something because you are seriously worse to watch than a bunch of whiny, collagen injected fame whores eat salads or whatever the fuck they do on that show.â€

â€œYou know what the worst part about all this is? You assholes are making me look like an absolute fool. I actually thought that you two would come out all gung-ho to beat me, dropping promos right and left to show just how excited you were at the prospect of becoming Xtreme champion. Sure, neither of you have a win-loss record thatâ€™s anything to brag about, but I saw hunger in your eyes when I waved this match in front of your faces. I saw two men with something to prove to the world, who were going to stop at nothing to finally make names for themselves. And what do I get? A half assed effort from two perpetual losers who will never be anything more than that. I guess I shouldâ€™ve known better, but a part of me was just hoping that you two would give me the fight I wanted.â€

â€œThanks for nothing, assholes.â€

Bruce sits his bare ass into the sand and grabs his roasting stick from the fire. The marshmallow is black as night and crispier than Ghost Tankâ€™s manladyâ€™s lips. Bruce takes a big bite anyway because heâ€™s fucking savage like that. He stares into the camera, slowing chewing as he intensly stares down the lense. Bruce springs to his feet, still staring into the camera, as he takes a step backâ€¦

He springs forward and superkicks the camera!

Well, the tripod at least!

The camera comes loose, bounces off a tree and smacks Bruce right in the face!

The scene gets all hazy again and weâ€™re done here.

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