“What’s that?” Adam questioned Ace.
“That’s my RAPE kit. We got ropes, ball gags, whips, plugs. All the things I ever needed for a night with the misses when she was in the mood for rough,” Ace explained. He patted it on top. Adam didn’t think the man, who was still a pledge in his eyes, understood the solemn task at hand. This wasn’t a vacation. This wasn’t a trip to your local strip club to make it rain. No, this was retaliation. This was revenge. This was a case of putting a dog down.
“Hol’ up, your what?” Bison called out from the driver’s seat. “You’re that deaf to the issue that is rape culture.”
“Well, in my defense, that’s what Cass called it. I just followed suit.”
“Bison, please filter your radical left-wing bullshit. We’re in good company now. Let’s not ruin the mood,” Adam ordered Bison. Bison scoffed and struck out the middle finger towards his tag team partner. But he didn’t speak anymore on the topic. Adam understood though that it was a sensitive topic. It was a problem. One that Asher Hayes fostered on social media when he degraded Jordan Majors. It was a problem. But it wasn’t THE problem. He turned to Ace, “I don’t think we are needing it.”
“Oh, we will. That snitching bitch is gonna get what coming.”
“To each their own,” Adam excused Ace. They piled into the back of the black rental van. Adam had a flashback of years studying the magnus opus that was BangBus. This was almost like that. But instead of picking up some street walker, they were gonna go CIA/NSA on some corporate mole, trying to get the brightest two men remaining from Greaternity canceled.
“Who is that?” Ace questioned Adam.
“That’s the snitch. That’s public enemy numbero uno, senor Marshall,” Adam pointed out the front window towards a young, twenty something woman with red rimmed glasses and unicorn vomit hair color. Adam imagined that her carpet was also the color of the rainbow.
“That’s not Alex. Unless he got a sex change. If so, more power to him.”
“It’s not, but yeah, if Alex Jr. became a woman like Jenner, props to him. It’s really hard to admit to yourself, ‘hey, I feel like I’m a woman born in a man’s body’ and then go through the hardships to become a woman, so you can finally feel comfortable in your own skin despite society’s dismay towards your decision, a decision totally within your right,” Adam agreed. He admitted, he used to feel uncomfortable around transsexuals. He was afraid he’d referred to them with the wrong pronoun. Plus, there were a few times that he had fatally mistaken a boy for a woman when he was touring South East Asia. After all, Hangover Part 2 was loosely based on Adam’s misadventures in Thailand.
“I never pegged either one of your fools, woke,” Bison commented.
“What? No! We’re not woke!” Adam protested.
“Yeah. Don’t insult us like that,” Ace agreed. But he steered them back on track by repeating his original question. “Still, Adam, who is that?”
“I introduce you to the infamous intern behind the Supreme Championship Wrestling twitter account. Her name is Meg and she’s our traitor. The one that’s actively lobbying to get us canceled. Yeah, I couldn’t believe that some Millennial that can’t emotionally handle confront has the metaphorical balls to speak to Sasha to get us booted from the company. US, we basically made SCW,” Adam provided the revision. He glanced over at Ace. His colleague seemed distraught, holding on the handle to his RAPE kit. He seemed bothered.
“Who is that?” Ace uttered.
“I told you—”
“That’s not Alex Jr. I wouldn’t have packed this. I was so excited to— nevermind. Let’s go back. Drop me off at my hotel. I’m no longer interested,” Ace declared.
“— But she’s responsible for EVERYTHING!”
“No. Nope. Not interested. Who actually cares? Adam, I’m sure she’s not the only one trying get us shitcanned. I bet there are a lot of mothers out there that are afraid that not only you and me are trying to corrupt their precious shits but there’s probably a lot of Christians groups too. And hell, they’re probably trying to censor SCW as a whole,” Ace said.
“But if it was Alex Jr…. you’ll tie him up and—”
“And yes, violate him. That’s what I signed up for. Not abducting some stupid college chick who think she has a single original thought. I can’t. I can’t get it up. A part of me wish I could harass her, give her hell but that would just bring too much importance to her that she quite doesn’t deserve,” Ace explained. Adam glanced at the oblivious girl who was sitting at some park bench, enjoying her frappe from the Starbucks across the street with their ethically-sourced-overpriced drinks.
“But—”
“— Adam, you need to keep things in perspective.”
“Right.”
“Don’t lie to me. You don’t feel the same eagerness as you did when we thought it was Junior’s fault.”
“You’re right. It is different. I’ll stop lying to myself. Bison, good sir, let’s go home,” Adam looked over at the driver’s seat. Their large friend wasn’t present. In fact, during the course of their deep conversation, the man got up and left. When Adam leaned to peak out the tinted windows, he saw Bison sitting down next to the woman. He too had a Starbucks drink. Adam waited, patiently, for the Vegan Lesbian to reject Bison and his big patriarchal ass. But no, she laughed, even seemed to flirt with the man. Maybe she was just being polite, I mean Bison’s was intimidating if you didn’t know him.
And that was when the nice police offer tapped on the window. Adam and Ace looked at each other. There was some explaining to do.
Morning fog hovered in the field, like that nerdy kid that didn’t get the memo the party ended three hours ago and he wasn’t getting lucky. The film set, directed by none other than, Bison Jones? That’s right, Adam had indulged the man’s creative urges to prove to Bison that his job as the studio’s only director wasn’t easy as it sounded. Of course, Bison and his boyish discomfort of extramarital, gonzo, in your face, extreme pornography made it so Adam had him prove his worth by filming one of his promos. Something that had become a tiring effort by Adam, who hadn’t worked such an intensive schedule since he was banging Jordan Major’s and Jake Starr’s mom and hitting the independents as the King of HARDStyle. Enough about past conquests, future ones await. Adam pulled on his bright red tie, clashing against his navy blue suit. He looked like a used cars salesman, but that’s not a knock nowadays since one won the Presidency.
[REC]
“Scene: seven, eight or odd years ago, vintage SCW ring with the bright ropes and dark turnbuckles. Sorry for the vagueness, it was during a time that was admittedly a blur: sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll, had a burning deep down in my show. Fast cars. Hot broads. Ecstasy doesn’t compare to the highs we felt. Greaternity, my brain child, my grandest plan yet. Built around the stardom that was Shawn Winters himself, Hollywood Shawn, A-List Celebrity. Greatness personified. I was the genius behind the plan, the brains to the whole operation. Cement Shawn at the top, where he belonged, ride his coat ties to success and money. Rounded up a few bright, young lads to do some dirty work and some of the heavy lifting. We rode at the top. But there was one force, one entity, standing anti-thesis, bearing some unnoticed grit, but had all the execution. Dark Fantasy might had pitched the teens of pubescent boys all around the world with their sex appeal, in the ring. They dominated. They were the response to Greaternity. But fast forward, Ace Marshall’s more relevant than Shawn Winters today and this old, bald geezer has a trajectory right to the moon. The times have changed. The fuel that drove Syren and Ravyn to new, never before reached heights, have been exhausted. The tank’s empty.”
Adam paused, leaning in now towards the camera. His lips curled in a grin. He made one demand: “Now let me enlighten you, Ravyn.”
“They say that behind every great man, there’s a great woman. In Syren’s case, behind the great woman was a great woman, named Ravyn Taylor. My Ravyn Ravyoly. My snugglekins. My favorite wet dream. Not to typecast Syren in the stereotypical dumb blonde role, but you were the brains behind it all. You were me. You orchestrated the creation of the possibly best wrestler to ever graced the ring. You were the puppet master, pulling your strings so elegantly, I could have confused you for a violinist. I knew it was all you. And let’s not skimp out on the accolades you managed to horde underneath the radar. You won title after title. You broke records. You earned your place in the Hall of Fame all on your own. You joined your masterpiece creation. Dark Fantasy, my Afghanistan, my Vietnam, no matter how hard we fought, Shawn and I came second to you,” Adam confessed. He shook his head. His eyes weighed by sorrow. But then again, that grin crept up on his punchable fast. “But times have changed.”
“You’ve both been trapped in a tailspin, coming crashing down like the greats that preceded you. The times have passed you both on. Syren hasn’t come close to sniff a title shot, I mean of course other than the blind, idiotic charity in the form of Ace Marshall. I bet she’s been on suicide watch by SCW officials since Bree Lancaster has hogged that scene. And you, Ravyn, here you are, coming around my parts. I’ve carved myself a nice piece of SCW. My turf, like the younglings say in their hip hop and here you are on stepping on it. Yeah, you used to hold my Television championship, and you killed it as champ. You’re the longest champion, enduring an iron babe reign of 154 days, which is an eternity in this line of business. Another record for the books, inked by you. A real inspirational story, but you see, while you’re heading into the twilight of your career, this old man right here is undergoing a renaissance! And my goal this week is two prong: to right past wrongs and do better.”
“The past wrong? That’s losing to Dark Fantasy in the main event for Ride the Lightning 2012: Night Two. Titles galore is your Bond Girl’s name. And I thought that’s the night where everything comes together, the pinnacle of my creation realized but oh, oh, you two girls. Ow. You two play hard to get. You left us empty handed. That night, I knew Shawn was at the end of his days. I saw his disappointment. He thought he had Syren. He thought we had Dark Fantasy. But we didn’t. And months later, that cowboy hung up his saddle. He went out to pasture. And where did that leave me? In a tailspin, very much like I have described Dark Fantasy’s current state of despair. But I’m an ace pilot, top gun, and I meanuvered my tail out of the way of fate’s heatseekers. Now I’m ascending, accelerating, watch SCW’s Tom Cruise go! Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!”
Adam motioned towards the sparkling, almost blindingly, SCW Television championship strapped around his majestic waist. “And now, around my waist, is the most polished, the shiniest title in the wrestling world. How do I know it’s in hot demand? Here you are, the late, great Ravyn Taylor.”
“Now, I won’t pretend that I’ll understand where you are coming from. Mayne you’re sniffing around, treading over lost ground, trying to think of a way to reengage, to reignite that fire you’re sorely lacking! And you think, what a better mark than Adam Allocco, your old flame. You think back to that time, where Dark Fantasy beat Greaternity. But not this time, Ravy, not this time. You see, I’ve surpassed you. I might defy natural laws, by doing so, bringing reaching the peak of my career, mid-forties, thrice divorce, but I have and you can blame on my DNA, or the tiger blood, or simply good things that come to those that wait. But the time’s waiting, and right before me is an opportunity to cement myself as the greatest SCW Television Champion there ever was. And to prove that by sacrificing the Ravyn Taylor up onto the altar, dedicated to the wrestling gods above. Then I wake up, and I remember that I’m the God of Wrestling, and you, Ravyn, you’re still the sacrifice.”
“The past is the past. The future is now. That is more than a corny pay-per-view name conjured up by the syphilis-riddled mind of Mr. D; that’s saying that I’m here. Cancel culture can’t kill me. The years of drug abuse, alcohol abuse, whore mongering can’t slow me down. And you, Ravyn, you can’t stop me. Not not. Now when I’m in my stride, marching to the rhythm of my drum. And as far as I’m concerned, you’re some other man’s trophy wife I’m finally taking to bed. Might have taken seven years, but I’m not a quitter,” Adam winked. He clicked his tongue against his cheek. He posed for a moment, even dispensing with the finger guns.
[/REC]
“Why must you disrespect her so much?” Bison protested.
Adam flapped his fingers against his thumb. “Blah blah blah. I freakin’ penned a love story towards the woman.”
“You demeaned her. You wrote her off like she’s just a girl.”
“She’s just a girl. And I’m a man. No, I’m the man. I get to say what I want. Right now, I’m untouchable.” Adam dusted his hands off as he walked past Bison and his camera’s setup. It became more and more complex by the day, the man’s obsession to bring up the quality of the footage to that dizzying 60-frames fever dream that was Peter Jackson’s The Hobbit. That reminded him. He should steal Bison’s system to record some of future OnlyFans material, raise that subscription price a bit to match the increase in improvement. High definition, high contrast, artsy fucking porn like Natalya envisioned. Arthouse Adult Films. His studio is the Lions’ Gate of the adult film industry. Fuck Russian porno trophies, he’d win it at the AVNS, year in, year out, like the Tom Brady of pounding p—
King of HARDstyle 
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