Post by Mr. Rottentreats on May 29, 2016 3:58:52 GMT
The static dissipates to the view of a pink polka dot droid mini case. The calloused finger tips of its owner lightly tap the hard plastic; a sleepy voice cuts in.
“According to this hastily typed text from the Chief Operating Officer of WARPED Wrestling, Patrick Kay. I, Mr. Rottentreats, newly crowned Triple Crown King of WARPED, have to fly all the way back to the states…”
Treats lowers the gaudy phone case; revealing his painted face. The usual white base, red around the lips & the tip of the nose, plus a black line underneath both eyes.
“…to wrestle an actual Japanese wrestler? So much for WARPED being in Japan for the reset!”
His wife groggily rolls over under the covers; laying her hand over the covers and her husband’s mid-section. Half-asleep, she puckers up for a kiss.
“My schedule is horrible for the environment.”
Treats jokingly grimaces, pinching his nose with his left hand and waving a supposed bad scent away with the other. The clown chuckles until his wife pops him in the abdomen. He continues through the brief moment of pain.
“I was talking about all of these flights, Mandy. Pollution and all.”
Mandy pulls the covers away from Treats; before disappearing in them.
Pfft..
The Harlequin of the Headlock sits up against the headboard of their California King-Size bed; chortling. His chortle morphs into a maniacal fit of laughter. As quick as the laughter began, it ends with a thousand yard stare. Suddenly the Wicked Clown of WARPED clears his throat; continuing with his best Perro Bermudez impersonation.
“Guerroros De Lucha! Capitulo Tres! Demasiados Gringos! Mayo vigésimo noveno! El laberinto de la luchaaaaa leebraaay! El payaso más valioso está viniendo a la ciudad! Y va a traer una audiencia de uno con él!”
The newly crowned World Heavyweight champion of WARPED smacks himself out of his Perro Bermudez state and continues.
“I finally get what those religious nuts mean by catching the spirit. Cause I just caught the spirit of LUUUUCHAAAAAA!!”
The lime mane of the longest reigning Evolution champion in WARPED history bounces about; as he chuckles heartily.
“Just playin’ I caught a case of that Google Translate!”
Treats points to his phone, positioning himself on the edge of his California king-size bed. Hastily stepping into the crumple of mustard yellow plaid at his bedside; he rambles on.
“Before I get too deep into my excitement, I would love to send a shout out to the Si-Oh-Oh, of WARPED, Patrick Kay. Thanks for the opportunity. I know you love watching me rassle, brizz. But, I don’t need a second. I’m pretty sure I proved that at One-Oh-One.”
Treats slips his right hand into a white glove, then forms a gun; miming the hammer with his thumb. Continuing; he does the same with his left hand.
“Just like I proved it back at The AbominationZ Presents, Sideshow Spectacle, back on July sixth of Two-Thousand Thirteen.”
A photo appears in the lower right hand corner of the screen; a WARPED Wrestling ring with AbominationZ scrawled on the ring skirt. Sitting in the center of the ring, just off to the left of Leon Stone is Mr. Rottentreats. The blood and paint smeared clown is clutching his newly one WARPED Evolution championship with his right arm and having his left raised in victory.
“And I sure as hell didn’t need a second when I survived that grueling game of Rochambeau on Christmas night of that very same year. Shout out to the other half of the Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, the Dirty Mac himself, Cameron MacNichol! Longest reigning WARPED Tag Team champs, y’all!!”
Treats swipes through his photos on his phone until he finds the one he’s looking for. The Whole F’N Sideshow holds up his phone, displaying a photo of him that was taken alongside a seemingly reluctant Cameron MacNichol.
“So, Patrick enjoy the best seat in the house! And while I’m at it, since I’m representing WARPED rasslin’ in the Super Falcone Cup. Shout out to the powers that be for honoring a fellow Dirty Rotten Scoundrel from the mean streets of Gotham City. It’s about time someone puts some respeck on Carmine Falcone ’s name.”
The clown grasps a pair of lime green suspenders in his white glove covered hands. Standing up; he quickly pulls the pile of plaid up by way of lime suspenders. Slipping the suspenders over his shoulders; he continues.
“You’re probably wondering. Why on earth a a genius like Patrick Kay would ask a clown like Mr. Rottentreats to represent WARPED in the Super Falcone Cup. Simple.”
The 2nd Triple Crown Champion of WARPED approaches a tall mirror; running his fingers over his slowly forming ab muscles. Looking into the mirror; he addresses the camera that can be seen.
“Many have walked that hallowed aisle of WARPED Rasslin’ claiming to be WARPED. Many have had those claims proven to be false. Me? No matter the obstacle that lies in my path. I prove time and again, that hashtag, I Am WARPED! A shoulder injury at the hands of Rough Ryder and SwitchBlade in the beginning couldn’t keep me down. Having my likeness stolen by my own uncles couldn’t keep me away. The multiple beatings I received at the hands of William Wallace didn’t strike too much fear into me. Hell, not even Matty Graves exacting revenge via turnbuckle to MY EYE!!”
The left white glove enters the frame; pointing out the eye patch over his left eye.
“…could’nt keep me down. Let’s not even mention the multiple hiatuses. In spite of it all, I came of the other side of those WARPED flames, smoldering as only someone as WARPED as Mr. Rottentreats could. I didn’t quit. I didn’t give up. Because unlike most, I want to help WARPED grow. Take away all the accolades, and I’ll still be the first one in the building and the last one to leave. I was there in the small venues. I was there when we rolled the dice and toured various sized venues of the Murder Mitten. I was the main event of most of ‘em, after all. I was there in the main event of the Toky…”
The first WARPED Employee Of The Month rolls his right eye.
“…I’m not even going to go there.”
The right cheek of the clown rises slightly; as he cracks a smirk.
“Where I will go is to the Labyrinth on the twenty-ninth to lock horns with Takashi Shinobu. New Japan Fighting Championship Original. A fourteen year, second generation veteran, six years my senior, ten inches shorter, and fifty five pounds lighter than yours truly. I guess you could say that those last two facts even it up a bit. You know what else evens us out? One more generation’s worth of knowledge! That’s right! My grandfather, my uncles, my father, and even my mother. They’re all world class professional rasslers in their own right. But, I’m not going to bore you with those details. This is about me and Takashi Shinobu.”
The WARPED Original begins wringing his gloved hands.
“This is about Rasslin’ versus whatever the hell the trend is in Japan right now. OH, right.. IT’S WARPED! So, essentially, this is me battling myself. This is me overcoming all of those hurdles I put in front of myself. Since I accepted the request of Patrick Kay, that hurdle is you Takashi! You’re one of many that stand in the way of me hoisting the Super Falcone Cup high into the air at the conclusion of this awesomely named tournament.”
Treats stands up and paces the room with his hands above his head; holding an imaginary tournament cup above his head.
“Don’t let the plethora of accomplishments in my home promotion fool ya. I’m just a guy doing what I’ve grown to love. And I slip on my clown shoes one at a time, just like the rest of you buffoons. The only difference is that I have style. And I’m about to bring this rotten style to Guerreros of Lucha for the Super Falcone Cup.”
A feminine laugh grabs Treats’ attention. Twisting around he faces his wife, who is now sitting at the foot of the bed; grinning.
“What’s so funny?”
The video cuts out the static abruptly. Mr. Rottentreats is now sitting at the foot of the bed with his left arm around his wife.
“Tell them what you told me.”
“It’s the Super Falcon Cup, no E. Like, Joey Matthew, no S.”
Treats plasters himself in the forehead with the palm of his right hand.
“MUTHAFACKO! Oh, well. Looks like Guerreros of Lucha just lost some cool points. I’ll have to give Pat a stern talking to. Better yet. I’ll text him.”
Treats struggles to scroll through his contacts because of his gloves. Growing frustrated; he yanks the right glove off. His mumbling while he texts cues screenshots of the texts to appear on the screen.
Thanks to you always being in a hurry, I just flubbed my whole video. It’s Falcon, no E. Not Falcone!
“P.S. Are you sure you didn’t mean to send this invite to Johnny Cakes? Those emojis are borderline pornographic, brizz.”
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