Post by Mike Machado on Jun 13, 2013 19:55:38 GMT
“Honcho, it was a pleasure.”
“Any time, broham; I know that you’d do the same for me.”
Honcho slides his huge aviator sunglasses down off the top of his head and over his eyes.
“I’m not sure I could pull off the attorney gig, Honch… but if you ever need anything, you know where I am.”
Machado leans up against the quarter panel of the freshly waxed “Mustache Machine”. Honcho nods his head, acknowledging Machado. Machado continues:
“Just shine the mustache symbol up into the night sky, and I’ll see it.”
“You’re the hero the IWF deserves, Machado. Kick some ass this weekend. Oh, and say Hi to Gib for me, will ya?”
Honcho opens the door to the mustache machine and hops in. He shuts the door and as the engine turns over his eyes meet Machado’s for one last goodbye.
“DEUCES, CHADO!”
The mustache machine pulls out of the driveway, kicking up rocks and gravel as Honcho makes his final exit.
“Later, Honch.”
You know what they say. One door closes, and another one opens.
The trial is over, and I’m a free man – but I can’t find time to feel happy. I’ve had to ice my testicles after the doctor told me that I ‘m now only seventy-five percent more fertile than the average man. I won the match, but I lost some sperm count.
On the way out of the hospital, I learn that I’m to be involved in the cruiserweight title match. Me, Freakke, Caleb Lockwood, and Jake Keeton.
My stock must be on the rise, because I got a notice for a mandatory appearance at the IWF wrestling school. I guess I’m supposed to show up and teach those kids how to wrestle. I’ll tell you one thing for certain, I’m not giving them the secret to the might of mediocrity… not giving them the arm-dragon either. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the course of the three weeks that I’ve been working here, it’s that sometimes you have to watch out for number one.
A four-way title match is absolutely one of those times.
Let’s see… four-way match, Jake Keeton… why does this sound familiar to me?
The last time you squeaked out a victory over me, Mr. Keeton. Almost only counts in orgasms and origami, but it was close enough for me to ‘earn respect’ around here. Guess what Jake? I don’t want respect. Not yours, and not the rest of the guys in the back who are on their knees for you. I want to beat you. I want revenge… I want that cruiserweight championship around my waist. I want what you have. You’re the favorite going into this, right? I mean, you’re undefeated in this company. You’re seemingly unstoppable!
I will stop you, Jake Keeton. I will walk into that ring, at Bloody Assizes, and I will put an end to this streak that you’ve managed to put together. I will walk out of that ring with a championship belt, and then we will be even.
Last time we met, you spent a hell of a lot of time talking about how you’re the better competitor. This time you know that isn’t true. You know that I’m going to come out to that ring and make you work, that I’m going to show up and put it all on the line. You’ve seen me get up when you thought I would stay down, and you know as well as I know that there is not a thing on this earth that will keep me on my back for a three-count at Bloody Assizes.
It’s over for you. Your streak, and your chance at this title are over. You know it and I know it. You had your time at the top, and now that time is done. I knocked you down a peg last time you saw me – I made you acknowledge my resolve, and now I’m going to knock you down another one. This Sunday you will be exposed – you will be made mortal;
And I will be immortalized as the first every cruiserweight champion of the IWF.
“Listen, sperm stains. I know that you all have the attention span of a fruit-fly, but today we have a special guest here with us. Maybe you can finally learn something from him, since you’ve obviously refused to listen to anything that I’ve said.”
Gib stands, arms resting around the ring ropes. The students of the IWF wrestling school are clustered inside the ring in front of him. The students range from seven foot monsters to five foot diamond wanna-bes.
“What’d you bring Jake Keeton in here to teach us a lesson, Gib?”
Gib eyes the student for speaking out of turn. In the end he lets it slide, and answers him anyway.
“No, Marty; it’s not Keeton… But it is a current IWF superstar, and he will be participating in the cruiserweight title match this weekend. You will show him the respect that he deserves, because make no mistake about it, he is your superior in every way that you could imagine.”
Marty shifts his weight back and forth between his feet. Something of a sneer on his face, and just a twitch of resentment shows in his body language and his awaits the ‘special guest’.
“C’mon out, Mike.”
Mike Machado shuffles into the ring area and slides into the ring, taking his place opposite the students and right next to Gib. He glances up to speak to Gib, but carefully avoids direct eye contact.
“Thanks for inviting me, Mr. Gib.”
“Mr. Gib. HA! That’s a good one Machado.”
Gib smacks Machado on the back playfully, causing Machado to lurch forward. He manages to stay on his feet, and tries to laugh it off. Marty is not amused.
“C’mon Gib… Machado? Everyone knows this guy is nothing but a joke. He got a fluke victory against Ryan Shane, and Deathtrain had the guy beat before he lost his cool and kicked him in the balls.”
The remnants of Gib’s smile disappears. He slowly makes his way up to the student until he is inches from his face.
“Mike Machado is an IWF superstar. You might be bigger and stronger than him, but he has something that you don’t – or he wouldn’t be where he is. Do you understand that?”
Marty chuckles to himself, but takes a step back from Gib before replying.
“Well, whatever that is old man, it’s not wrestling ability.”
Gib takes a few steps back, eyeing Marty the entire time. He re-takes his place next to Machado and puts his arm around him.
“You think you can beat Machado, Marty?”
“You’re damn right I do. I think Sheryl can beat Machado.”
“Let’s see it.”
Gib hops out of the ring and waves his hand for the rest of his students to join him on the outside. Machado bites his lip nervously.”
“Er.. I wasn’t expecting to wrestle today Mr. Gib, I left my singlet at home…”
“SINGLET! HA! Another good one, Mike! Go easy on him, I need something to show Simon when he asks for a status report.”
Machado turns nervously to face his opponent. Marty adjusts his shorts slightly and leans on the turnbuckle casually, waiting for Machado to approach. Machado begins doing cherry-picker stretches.
“HA! Stretching! Like you’ll need it for this match! GOOD ONE, MIKE!”
Marty grows impatient and walks to the center of the ring. Machado, realizing that he’s not going to be able to procrastinate any further walks up to meet him, sticking his hand out in a sign of respect.
“Good-luck!”
Marty slaps Machado’s hand away and shoves him roughly. Machado trips over his own feet and falls onto his butt before scrambling back up to his feet.
“Cheap shot! Cowards move!”
Gib shouts his disapproval from the outside. Machado shoots a distracted glance toward him, giving Marty another opening. Marty clobbers Machado with a clothesline, sending him back down to the mat. The time Marty doesn’t give him a chance to climb back to his feet, he’s on top of Machado in a fraction of a second and delivers a few stomps to the head before peeling him off the mat. Marty hooks Machado, lifts him up into the air, and drops him directly on his head with an almost too-brutal brainbuster.
“DAMMIT!”
Gib leaps to action, slides into the ring and tosses Marty aside. Machado lays on his back, completely unconscious.
It’s not just me and Keeton, of course. I know that. It’s the top 4 cruiserweights in this company. Freakke and Caleb are certainly nothing to be taken lightly. It’s certainly not that I’m looking past either of you.
I’ve seen Freakke once already, but we all know he wasn’t on his game. He’s come around the last two weeks, and I know as well as anyone else that when he gets rolling there aren’t many around that are better. I’ve said before that one on one I don’t want any part of the clown. That’s still true, to be honest. I’m glad there will be others in the ring. I don’t want to go head-to-head with Freakke because I can’t see how that match ends.
I’m picturing something like a top-rope Smiledriver gone wrong where someone suffers a career ending injury… and I don’t want that. I want you to stick around – I honestly enjoy your company!
But I’ve got to be honest, Freakke. I’m kind of on a mission right now. If you get in the way, I will kick you in the shin. I need this cruiserweight title. I need this match.
“Wake up!”
Gib smacks Machado gently on the top of the head. Machado awakes suddenly, taking a look around to get an idea of his surroundings.
“Did I win the cruiserweight title!?”
“What? That’s not until this weekend, Machado. You’re still at the wrestling school with me.”
“You’re….”
“I’m… “
“Gib?”
Gib brings his palm to his face, breathes in and then out.
“Yes, I am Gib. You are Mike Machado, good… now that we have introductions out of the way…”
Machado looks around again – taking in the tiny locker room he and Gib are in. There’s not a lot of room to move around. Machado is on a cheap steel chair, as is Gib, directly across from him.
“Oh, damn. Did Marty knock me out?”
“Yeah, he did.”
“Well, that happens.”
“What?”
“I mean, most wrestlers lose consciousness in 30% of their matches, 100% of the time.”
“What? Where did you get those numbers?”
“Honcho.”
Gib tilts Machado’s head back and shines a small flashlight into his eyes.
“Are you a doctor, Gib?”
“Hell no. I’m just making sure neither one of your eyeballs fell out. You were a damn mess in that ring, Machado. How the hell are you a professional wrestler?”
“Ya win some, ya lose some… but you always lose consciousness. That’s my motto.”
Gib stops shining the flashlight at Machado. He paces around his chair for a few seconds before sitting down directly across from Machado once again.
“I can’t let you get into the ring with Keeton, Freakke, and Lockwood like this. They’ll tear you limb from limb and use yours arms as sex toys.”
“Gib, I have to compete. It’s a shot at the cruiserweight title… it’s a once in a lifetime thing for me…”
Gib wipes his own face from top to bottom, breathing deeply.
“You’ll compete, Machado… but if I have anything to say about it – you are going into that match with at least a cursory knowledge of wrestling. You should have been in this school way before you made it out into that ring.”
“I know I’m not the best…”
“No, you’re so bad that it’s amazing you have not died.”
“Is it that bad?”
“I’m not exaggerating. If we ever stepped in the ring together I would literally kill you. We’re talking: “call an ambulance I guess… but we know he’s not coming back”, “IWF presents Monday Night Sacrifice in memoriam of Machado”... we’re talking death.
“I don’t think..”
“I mean to say that I would have to send flowers to your family, and feel bad for having sex with your sister after your funeral.”
“I don’t have a sist-“
“Here lies Mike Machado, the worst professional wrestler in the history of the world… we’re talking that bad.”
“Oh…”
Gib gets up again and starts toward the door.
“Take the rest of the day off, Machado. Consider seeing a neurologist or something. I’m going to go beat the shit out of Marty. Tomorrow, we’re turning your into a pro-wrestler.”
“Any time, broham; I know that you’d do the same for me.”
Honcho slides his huge aviator sunglasses down off the top of his head and over his eyes.
“I’m not sure I could pull off the attorney gig, Honch… but if you ever need anything, you know where I am.”
Machado leans up against the quarter panel of the freshly waxed “Mustache Machine”. Honcho nods his head, acknowledging Machado. Machado continues:
“Just shine the mustache symbol up into the night sky, and I’ll see it.”
“You’re the hero the IWF deserves, Machado. Kick some ass this weekend. Oh, and say Hi to Gib for me, will ya?”
Honcho opens the door to the mustache machine and hops in. He shuts the door and as the engine turns over his eyes meet Machado’s for one last goodbye.
“DEUCES, CHADO!”
The mustache machine pulls out of the driveway, kicking up rocks and gravel as Honcho makes his final exit.
“Later, Honch.”
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
You know what they say. One door closes, and another one opens.
The trial is over, and I’m a free man – but I can’t find time to feel happy. I’ve had to ice my testicles after the doctor told me that I ‘m now only seventy-five percent more fertile than the average man. I won the match, but I lost some sperm count.
On the way out of the hospital, I learn that I’m to be involved in the cruiserweight title match. Me, Freakke, Caleb Lockwood, and Jake Keeton.
My stock must be on the rise, because I got a notice for a mandatory appearance at the IWF wrestling school. I guess I’m supposed to show up and teach those kids how to wrestle. I’ll tell you one thing for certain, I’m not giving them the secret to the might of mediocrity… not giving them the arm-dragon either. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the course of the three weeks that I’ve been working here, it’s that sometimes you have to watch out for number one.
A four-way title match is absolutely one of those times.
Let’s see… four-way match, Jake Keeton… why does this sound familiar to me?
The last time you squeaked out a victory over me, Mr. Keeton. Almost only counts in orgasms and origami, but it was close enough for me to ‘earn respect’ around here. Guess what Jake? I don’t want respect. Not yours, and not the rest of the guys in the back who are on their knees for you. I want to beat you. I want revenge… I want that cruiserweight championship around my waist. I want what you have. You’re the favorite going into this, right? I mean, you’re undefeated in this company. You’re seemingly unstoppable!
I will stop you, Jake Keeton. I will walk into that ring, at Bloody Assizes, and I will put an end to this streak that you’ve managed to put together. I will walk out of that ring with a championship belt, and then we will be even.
Last time we met, you spent a hell of a lot of time talking about how you’re the better competitor. This time you know that isn’t true. You know that I’m going to come out to that ring and make you work, that I’m going to show up and put it all on the line. You’ve seen me get up when you thought I would stay down, and you know as well as I know that there is not a thing on this earth that will keep me on my back for a three-count at Bloody Assizes.
It’s over for you. Your streak, and your chance at this title are over. You know it and I know it. You had your time at the top, and now that time is done. I knocked you down a peg last time you saw me – I made you acknowledge my resolve, and now I’m going to knock you down another one. This Sunday you will be exposed – you will be made mortal;
And I will be immortalized as the first every cruiserweight champion of the IWF.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Listen, sperm stains. I know that you all have the attention span of a fruit-fly, but today we have a special guest here with us. Maybe you can finally learn something from him, since you’ve obviously refused to listen to anything that I’ve said.”
Gib stands, arms resting around the ring ropes. The students of the IWF wrestling school are clustered inside the ring in front of him. The students range from seven foot monsters to five foot diamond wanna-bes.
“What’d you bring Jake Keeton in here to teach us a lesson, Gib?”
Gib eyes the student for speaking out of turn. In the end he lets it slide, and answers him anyway.
“No, Marty; it’s not Keeton… But it is a current IWF superstar, and he will be participating in the cruiserweight title match this weekend. You will show him the respect that he deserves, because make no mistake about it, he is your superior in every way that you could imagine.”
Marty shifts his weight back and forth between his feet. Something of a sneer on his face, and just a twitch of resentment shows in his body language and his awaits the ‘special guest’.
“C’mon out, Mike.”
Mike Machado shuffles into the ring area and slides into the ring, taking his place opposite the students and right next to Gib. He glances up to speak to Gib, but carefully avoids direct eye contact.
“Thanks for inviting me, Mr. Gib.”
“Mr. Gib. HA! That’s a good one Machado.”
Gib smacks Machado on the back playfully, causing Machado to lurch forward. He manages to stay on his feet, and tries to laugh it off. Marty is not amused.
“C’mon Gib… Machado? Everyone knows this guy is nothing but a joke. He got a fluke victory against Ryan Shane, and Deathtrain had the guy beat before he lost his cool and kicked him in the balls.”
The remnants of Gib’s smile disappears. He slowly makes his way up to the student until he is inches from his face.
“Mike Machado is an IWF superstar. You might be bigger and stronger than him, but he has something that you don’t – or he wouldn’t be where he is. Do you understand that?”
Marty chuckles to himself, but takes a step back from Gib before replying.
“Well, whatever that is old man, it’s not wrestling ability.”
Gib takes a few steps back, eyeing Marty the entire time. He re-takes his place next to Machado and puts his arm around him.
“You think you can beat Machado, Marty?”
“You’re damn right I do. I think Sheryl can beat Machado.”
“Let’s see it.”
Gib hops out of the ring and waves his hand for the rest of his students to join him on the outside. Machado bites his lip nervously.”
“Er.. I wasn’t expecting to wrestle today Mr. Gib, I left my singlet at home…”
“SINGLET! HA! Another good one, Mike! Go easy on him, I need something to show Simon when he asks for a status report.”
Machado turns nervously to face his opponent. Marty adjusts his shorts slightly and leans on the turnbuckle casually, waiting for Machado to approach. Machado begins doing cherry-picker stretches.
“HA! Stretching! Like you’ll need it for this match! GOOD ONE, MIKE!”
Marty grows impatient and walks to the center of the ring. Machado, realizing that he’s not going to be able to procrastinate any further walks up to meet him, sticking his hand out in a sign of respect.
“Good-luck!”
Marty slaps Machado’s hand away and shoves him roughly. Machado trips over his own feet and falls onto his butt before scrambling back up to his feet.
“Cheap shot! Cowards move!”
Gib shouts his disapproval from the outside. Machado shoots a distracted glance toward him, giving Marty another opening. Marty clobbers Machado with a clothesline, sending him back down to the mat. The time Marty doesn’t give him a chance to climb back to his feet, he’s on top of Machado in a fraction of a second and delivers a few stomps to the head before peeling him off the mat. Marty hooks Machado, lifts him up into the air, and drops him directly on his head with an almost too-brutal brainbuster.
“DAMMIT!”
Gib leaps to action, slides into the ring and tosses Marty aside. Machado lays on his back, completely unconscious.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
It’s not just me and Keeton, of course. I know that. It’s the top 4 cruiserweights in this company. Freakke and Caleb are certainly nothing to be taken lightly. It’s certainly not that I’m looking past either of you.
I’ve seen Freakke once already, but we all know he wasn’t on his game. He’s come around the last two weeks, and I know as well as anyone else that when he gets rolling there aren’t many around that are better. I’ve said before that one on one I don’t want any part of the clown. That’s still true, to be honest. I’m glad there will be others in the ring. I don’t want to go head-to-head with Freakke because I can’t see how that match ends.
I’m picturing something like a top-rope Smiledriver gone wrong where someone suffers a career ending injury… and I don’t want that. I want you to stick around – I honestly enjoy your company!
But I’ve got to be honest, Freakke. I’m kind of on a mission right now. If you get in the way, I will kick you in the shin. I need this cruiserweight title. I need this match.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Wake up!”
Gib smacks Machado gently on the top of the head. Machado awakes suddenly, taking a look around to get an idea of his surroundings.
“Did I win the cruiserweight title!?”
“What? That’s not until this weekend, Machado. You’re still at the wrestling school with me.”
“You’re….”
“I’m… “
“Gib?”
Gib brings his palm to his face, breathes in and then out.
“Yes, I am Gib. You are Mike Machado, good… now that we have introductions out of the way…”
Machado looks around again – taking in the tiny locker room he and Gib are in. There’s not a lot of room to move around. Machado is on a cheap steel chair, as is Gib, directly across from him.
“Oh, damn. Did Marty knock me out?”
“Yeah, he did.”
“Well, that happens.”
“What?”
“I mean, most wrestlers lose consciousness in 30% of their matches, 100% of the time.”
“What? Where did you get those numbers?”
“Honcho.”
Gib tilts Machado’s head back and shines a small flashlight into his eyes.
“Are you a doctor, Gib?”
“Hell no. I’m just making sure neither one of your eyeballs fell out. You were a damn mess in that ring, Machado. How the hell are you a professional wrestler?”
“Ya win some, ya lose some… but you always lose consciousness. That’s my motto.”
Gib stops shining the flashlight at Machado. He paces around his chair for a few seconds before sitting down directly across from Machado once again.
“I can’t let you get into the ring with Keeton, Freakke, and Lockwood like this. They’ll tear you limb from limb and use yours arms as sex toys.”
“Gib, I have to compete. It’s a shot at the cruiserweight title… it’s a once in a lifetime thing for me…”
Gib wipes his own face from top to bottom, breathing deeply.
“You’ll compete, Machado… but if I have anything to say about it – you are going into that match with at least a cursory knowledge of wrestling. You should have been in this school way before you made it out into that ring.”
“I know I’m not the best…”
“No, you’re so bad that it’s amazing you have not died.”
“Is it that bad?”
“I’m not exaggerating. If we ever stepped in the ring together I would literally kill you. We’re talking: “call an ambulance I guess… but we know he’s not coming back”, “IWF presents Monday Night Sacrifice in memoriam of Machado”... we’re talking death.
“I don’t think..”
“I mean to say that I would have to send flowers to your family, and feel bad for having sex with your sister after your funeral.”
“I don’t have a sist-“
“Here lies Mike Machado, the worst professional wrestler in the history of the world… we’re talking that bad.”
“Oh…”
Gib gets up again and starts toward the door.
“Take the rest of the day off, Machado. Consider seeing a neurologist or something. I’m going to go beat the shit out of Marty. Tomorrow, we’re turning your into a pro-wrestler.”
Well howdy there pardner.