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Noah Jackson · (10-17-2019)

What The Fuck?

I stand at the counter of a Little Ceasers. The harsh fluorescent lights fill the place, adding to a migraine while the sickening white pierces the night outside. I lay an arm on the counter, my fingers mindlessly tapping as I await my food. My other hand clutching my phone as I stare down texts from my agent keeping me up to date on all the social media I'm missing out on. Fucking Twitter. Bunch of over-sensitive xenophobic cunts. And MySpace is wank, can't get my fix there. I need to tell my cunt agent to block Lacklan, constant stream of bullshit. I find myself going to the XWF website, looking over this weeks and past cards. My grip on the phone grows tighter as my frown turns into a sneer. I let out a low burp and the stench of yank beer flows from my gut. I sigh placing my phone back into my pocket and shaking my head to myself.

"What the fuck is the actual point anymore?"

"Why the fuck should I continue to be not only the sickest cunt to walk the earth but also be the hardest worker this company has ever seen when I just seem to be thrown into an endless cycle of monotonous bullshit?"

"I give Tony Santos the best match of his career, ending in a draw and get no rematch for the Hart."

"I was number one contender for the Anarchy title before I was forced out of the scene."

"Me and Fuzz had a real chance of winning the tag titles before shit cunts up top decided to fart out a fixed bracket. Shit, even Kenzi Grey said our match should have been the finals! But no, cunts get to breeze through that while me and Fuzz get 'taught a lesson' by dumb cunt brass."

"And for Lethal Lottery, I just so happen to get randomly chosen with a shit cunt who can't wrestle and who I've previously slapped the shit out of, apparently. What are the fucking odds on that one!?"

"OH! And the cunt I'm facing is Ruby! Fuck Gilmour, waste of time that small-dicked, cunt fearing, in the closet cuck. But our Rubes! The cunt who I was saying would be a worthy rematch just so happens to be my opponent when I've got a big ball and chain of disappointment wrapped around me ankle! FUCKING SHOCKER CUNTS!"

"Now I'm in a non-title match against the REAL Anarchy Champion... OR AM I!?"

"What the fuck is going on!?"

"Is this some kind of punishment for the actions me and V did at Bahama Baja Bash or whatever the fuck it was called? Or is this management being too fucking lazy to notice we actually had a ripper match not very long ago at all, cunts?"

"I did a Kamehameha, it was sick."

Another burp interrupts me. I manage to cover my mouth this time as I look to the staff making order after order. Poor minimum wage, no future having cunts. The boss looks like a right prick too.

"So... What should ol' Noah Jay do?"

"Keep flying through hoops hoping this will eventually lead to a treat at the end? Keep working hard and pushing yourself knowing one day it will all work out just dandy. Sure, cunt, you've been lied to, mislead and fucked over before but maybe with a bit of optimism, you'll finally get gold. And if that don't work out, buy yourself a title shot."

"Or should you say, fuck your hoops. I'm done with trying to achieve gold in Nazi Germany while fucking Hitler's slapping cunts on the arse for a job well done. In this business people get measured on how many titles they won. Oh cunt, I won this in my first month here! I was a three-time champion at the 2-week mark. I was adopted as the heir to the XWF the moment I walked through the door! The cunts don't realise that saying it was that easy proves how shit the talent was! Proves how little the titles meant! Fuck! Look at Gilmour! Look at the amount of gold that fat cunt has won and tell me those titles still mean something!"

"Barney Green was World Champion and that cunt has always been a joke."

"Scully was Universal Champion! And people struggle to remember him until the bitch pops back up again before crying like a baby after getting his tight little pussy smashed in."

"Robert Main is the second-longest reigning Uni champ and he was a fucking part-timer with zero passion for this place. Now where is he?"

"Gone without a word and soon to be forgotten."

"That's what titles do. They give you an ego you don't deserve and nothing else."

"Fuck titles."

"Fuck your hoops."

"Fuck this match."

"Vita, you're sick, cunt. I mean that."

"But this is how I'm being forced to play the game. I need to sit down and look directly at the screen and play the game with the rules that have been dictated. Fuck, there's a title being dangled in front of me too so that must mean I have to try even harder!"

"You VV, in the nicest way possible are-"

I'm interrupted by a pimple-faced cunt handing me over a box of pizza.

PIMPLE CUNT: "There you go, sir, enjoy!"

I shoot the cunt a look before tapping on the pizza box.

"You Vita are like this fucking pizza. This shit is called an Ultimate Supreme! It's a grandiose, over-exaggerated name on a regular pizza which is sold at every shop. It is forcing itself to be special, trying it's best to hide the same old bland bullshit. The only reason people pay attention to it is because it has some big gold sign pointing over it. But if some cunt removed the sign, it's just a miserable, greasy, artorey-clogging mess that no one could give two shits about."

"I love you, cunt, I really do. But you need to pull your fucking head out yer arse."

Dramatic pause as I leave the place. The cunt who served me watches me leave dumbfounded as I probably looked like I was shouting to myself for several minutes.

PIMPLE CUNT: "What the fuck?"

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