Post by Nick Hunter on Dec 31, 2018 3:20:03 GMT
Y'all wanted this. Y'all gonna get it.
So, I'ma start by addressing the motherfuckers we were supposed to be dealing with last week. Banana fuckin' Sandwiches. Y'all boys so good at pissin' in people's Cheerios that we got the Age of Gods on our asses now? Thanks, assholes. Because what I needed was the goddamn "no fats, no femmes, no Asians" contingent rolling up and interrupting us beating you assholes stupider than you already are. Just what the doctor fuckin' ordered.
I see y'all had the good decency to avoid calling anyone Nazis over the last two weeks. Proud of y'all! Seriously, I am. It's good to know that Christmas miracles can still happen, even when you're dealing with a couple of morons that sold their souls to the white devil in order to get ahead. Or were you born with it, Warren? Was it Maybelline? I don't care what it was all too much, all I care about is that y'all seem to believe you got the right to do fucking nothing and then pretend y'all are the best tag team in the world. To quote my worldly and well-spoken partner, bitch.
Warren, you still wanna bring that good shit about how y'all the best? Or are you sufficiently pissed-off now that your leatherdaddy's back? Maybe you're going to take a fuckin' second and realize that instead of hanging around catering and watching ya boy Jayson commit culinary crimes against nature, you coulda been going and doing something about the fact that your boyfriend got fuckin' kidnapped. But nah, let's swing our dicks on Twitter instead. No wonder Dean let his ass get kidnapped. I bet you don't even cuddle afterwards, you selfish motherfucker.
You talked some fuckin' noise, and I'm happy to put my foot so far up your ass that you can floss with my fucking shoelaces, you pretentious prick. You wanna talk some mess, you wanna act like you bad? Fucking earn it. Make me fucking care about you more than your last name and the fact that you're the least interesting part of your sprawling-ass demon-wolf cult. How the hell do you make that happen? You're a second-generation wrestler, you're a former Joker in the Pack, and you still got nothing interesting to say or do! That is some achievements in uselessness, let me fuckin' tell you.
Speaking of achievements in things you don't wanna celebrate, Jayson goddamn Mathews! When your ass was born, the doctor turned to your mama and said "sorry", didn't they? Giving Detroit a bad name out there, and that's saying something on a roster that's included both your brother-in-law and Ryan goddamn Shane. Take that in for a second. I mean, I guess you knew you were a disappointment. After all, your ass couldn't even be the King of Detroit. How you gonna beat the Saints of Bourbon Street?
On the real, your ass came for my family in a real personal way. You pissed and moaned about how Cajun food's just too overseasoned? Nah, motherfucker. Cajun food is seasoned perfectly. It ain't my fault you can't handle a little real seasoning. Y'all conquer the fucking world for spices and then whine about how mayonnaise is too spicy. My family's been making their fucking living on food you think is too spicy for longer than your bitch-ass self has been shoveling donuts and pizza down your hole. This is my goddamn family legacy. Hunters been making food and commanding fuckin' bank for it for decades. Hell, Andrew Jacobsen himself proposed to his girl in our restaurant, so if his whitebread Minnesota hot dish-loving ass can handle it, why the fuck can't you?
Here's why: 'cause this ain't about food. This ain't about how much spice you can take. This is about two entitled wastes of space trying to step to the greatest tag team on the fuckin' planet and tell them they ain't good enough to hang with you. Bitches, you ain't good enough to hang with us. You ain't good enough to hang ties on a fucking rack. So sit down, be humble. And pay a-fucking-ttention. Maybe your asses might learn a thing or two about being a real fucking tag team.
Speaking of learning a thing or two, ladies and gentlemen, the Age of Gods is NOT over! Despite popular demand, we still got the goddamn Grindr Section out in full fucking force! You woulda thought your Yahweh-cosplaying boss gettin' put in the hospital might have slowed your roll, but you boys are soldiering on, bravely ignoring the wishes of literally everyone around you and continuing to put it to basic human decency on a weekly basis! Your mommas must be so proud of you, wherever the fuck they are.
Oracle, you're the OG dick-rider here. You were right on Angel's ass the moment he started this Age of Gods shit, right there talking about His will and His commandments and His wrath. Ain't you got hobbies, man? Ain't you got, like, a fantasy football team or some shit? No? You just got a ragged-ass copy of the Bible you been jackin' it to ever since you got bailed out of Heroin Heaven by your lord and savior? I spent enough time on the bad side of town, don't you try to lie to me about those fuckin' track marks, trick. So what you gonna do, motherfucker? What you fuckin' gonna do?
Nothing. You gonna throw yourself into shit that don't concern you, you gonna get your dick kicked off and in sideways, and you gonna regret your life choices. Maybe when this is all said and done, you can go do something more productive. Volunteer with a charity. Paint houses. Do fucking anything else besides carrying the banner of a punk-ass that got beat by an Irish teenager like this was some episode of Dragon Ball Z: Satan Edition. You ain't got no dick to ride anymore, man! Get off the fucking bus!
I suppose you got one to ride if you just look around, though. I mean, I bet Uriel'll lend you a cup of sugar. He IS your neighbor, right? Uriel, let me be straight with you. I know, first time someone's been straight with you in a while. Let me be straight: you a bitch. You got hustle, but at the end of the day, you a six-eight, leg-breaking bitch, just like your boy. I get you wanna throw Dean Harper over a couch and have your fucking way. Boy needs it, since Warren couldn't top a fucking cake, and he clearly wants it from you. But I have one question for you: if you so thirsty, have you considered the fine range of meat available here in the Imperial Wrestling Federation?
Take my boy Nate Harris. Look at that ass. No, no. Look at it. He worked HARD for that shit. That is a life's work, and it is a fucking MASTERPIECE! You think Terri Morasco gets the way she does for anyone else? Hell no! I don't understand why y'all getting hard for this boring-ass twink when we got a fine-ass variety pack going on here. You want that nice boy you could take home to your momma? Pax motherfucking Stormcrow, ladies and gentlemen.
Sorry, Pax. If you ain't gonna get your ass laid, someone gotta.
Point is, you sure as hell got a way of getting attention. Congratulations, motherfucker. You got some attention. Now, question is do you know how to handle it? I don't think so. We beat your bosses' asses on the biggest fucking stage in all of IWF. Now we're gonna make it a full set. Shit, I might have to go talk to Dawn Halliwell, see if we can find Freya Kane's ass so we can make it a full sweep of the Age of Gods. That can wait. Right now, we're gonna beat your asses like a couple of government fucking mules. Y'all wanna get in the mix? Y'all wanna piss people off? Best prepare to take that L, sons.
'bow on up, y'all. Let's go. And Happy New Year from ya boys at Team Diversity Hire. Now, I just got one more question.
Who dat?
Nick grins over at Nate from across the bar, raising his drink. "What did I fuckin' tell ya? Tokyo nightlife. Roppongi is the shit. That's what I heard from fuckin' everyone. And now, here we are. Bomb nightclub, good drinks..." Nick turns, watching a woman walk by with a huge grin on his face. "And the finery out here is undeniable. You having a good time?"
"Shit, I guess." Nate shrugs. "Like...we got the Age of Gods up our asses. This really the time to be getting turned up? I thought you were worried about leaving Zoe and Justine alone at the hotel."
"Nah. Justine's got a mainline of Sailor Moon and Zoe's passed the fuck out after Tokyo Disneyland." Nick shakes his head. "I just...shit, I just wanted to make sure our asses could get a night to relax. You and me. We ain't had that in a fuckin' minute, have we?"
Nate pauses, shrugging. "Nah. We haven't. So thanks." He raises his glass, nodding, and they toast before taking a drink. Nate shakes his head, lowering his glass again. "So you paying, right?"
"You damn right I am. Merry Christmas, hooker." Nick laughs, sighing and shaking his head. "What a year. What a goddamn year. I told you this was gonna work."
"Yeah, yeah." Nate rolls his eyes. "I don't know if we can call it exactly working, but at least it's something."
"You rather be back on the pole?" Nick asks pointedly, cocking an eyebrow. "Nah? That's what I thought."
"Nah." Nate sighs. "Just...part of me kind of misses home sometimes."
"Yeah, I feel that." Nick reaches over, patting his friend's back. "I miss it too. But hey." Nick grins. "We put these motherfuckers behind us, we get off this international tour in a couple months. Besides, we get to see the girls, and did you really want to deal with my family this time of year?"
"No." Nate admits, drumming his fingers on the counter. "And something tells me neither did you."
"Ain't nobody I'd rather be spending my holidays with than you." Nick smiles at Nate again, putting his arm around Nate's shoulders. "Promise."
The two men lock eyes for a moment, and after a silent moment, only soundtracked by the music playing in the club, Nick coughs to break the silence. The two look away from each other, mumbling awkwardly, and Nick coughs again, shaking his head. "So, uh...Osaka tomorrow. You ready?"
"For those hookers? I've been preparing ever since they thought they could get their asses in our business and just walk away." Nate reaches out, offering a fistbump. Nick returns it, grinning. "Now, you gonna keep nursing that drink like my grandma or you gonna actually get to drinking tonight?"
"Oh, bitch." Nick grins again. "It is ON!" With that, he quickly throws back his drink with a smile. Nate takes a swig from his own drink, and we fade out on the Bourbon Street Saints living up to their name.