Lissie Hope's breath stinks.
Dec 17, 2020 23:24:31 GMT -6
Deana Barrows, Dylan Thomas, and 1 more like this
Post by Vargas on Dec 17, 2020 23:24:31 GMT -6
Whats the point?
He could be enjoying retirement, kicked back, sitting on his ass cuffing beers, watching Blue Bloods on demand and livin’ the good life. Owning liberal snowflakes left and right. Crushing feelings left and fuckin’ right. Why come back? Why come back to GCWA for potentially one night only?
Duh!
The thrill of victory! The love of the sport! Yeah that’s all fine and dandy, but the truth is, retirement is fuckin’ boring. Breaking someone’s spirit along with their bones is the quite opposite. It ain’t about the money. Chad Vargas will cram a nose down a throat for free.
Even when Vargas is a ‘regular’ on the roster, he’s still not around. He’s there physically, but mentally, he’s long gone. He’s never 100% invested like the rest of the dweebs occupying roster space. Because, quite frankly, he simply doesn’t give a FUCK. That’s why he’s not liked by the brass. Chad Vargas comes in, does the job, and hits the gate. Not here to hang out and make friends or suck the office’s cock. And that’s why he will always be subjected to WEAK ASS BOOKING.
But, The Southern Gentleman is like Tyson. A fine wine if you will, that gets better and better with age. Approaching mid 40’s and he’s still one of the biggest draws GCWA can land on any given Pay-Per-View. On paper, none of the faggots signed to the Righteous Rumble could possibly compare to the absolute fucking killer crocodile that yours truly is. If GCWA held a no holds bar contest, it would be Chad Vargas standing in the middle of the ring and haymakerin’ motherfuckers clean over the top rope as soon as they entered. But of course, we gotta have some choreography.
There is absolutely no fuckin’ vaccine for this CV-19. Unlike COVID-19, CV-19 is very real. Step to the fuckin’ plate and get your head cleaned off and you’ll see firsthand. If you wanna argue, and you come to the argument wearing a ‘face covering’, bitch, you’ve already lost the argument.
Snow is falling in Tennessee. The know it all weatherman said it would be merely a “dusting” but after 15 inches, it hasn’t slowed any. We get a good look of the exterior of VARGASLAND. The 25 acre spread of pure tranquility. The powered snow looks so beautiful as the large snowflakes continue to fall. As we wrap around the house itself, a one-time slave home before being remodeled and remastered. Vargas has gone ALL out this year, the outer portion of the house looks like a scene from the Griswald’s. We finally get a look inside as we pan each room. The dazzling Christmas tree stands tall proudly in the living room, fully dressed, and glowing with bright dark orange, blue, and white Christmas lights. As the cameras follow through the house, we find ourselves in Vargas’ den. The mancave if you will. Championships and photographs litter the walls of the glory days of his career. THE CONFEDERATE ICON sits behind a desk going over paperwork. He’s dressed like a Don. A festive one at that. He’s rocking a red and white Santa Claus suit, hat and all. A pair of ember tinted Oakley sunglasses cover his eyes. Because, het’s face it, a real bad ass wears sunglasses EVERYWHERE. He’s thumbing through a stack of paperwork. He’s jarred out of his thought process as his office door opens. Vargas sighs deeply as he looks up from the documents.
A black man-servant enters the room with a case of Budweiser. He sets the case on the desk before Vargas’. Vargas nods in appreciation. We get a closer look at the butler, who is dressed in Santa’s elf garb.
What the fuck? Is this guy serious?
Servant: There you are, massa. Is there anything else I can do for you?
Vargas looks up at him seemingly deep in thought.
Vargas: I think that’ll be all Levi. Thanks hoss. I’ve got a busy night ahead. Why don’t you take the rest of the night off? Have a glass of egg-nog and relax. We’ve got an early day tomorrow.
Vargas slaps his hand in the air as if to shoe him off. Levi mutters some shit under his breath, as he fakes a smile and leaves Vargas to it. Without taking his eyes off the papers before him, he stuffs his hand into the case of Budweiser and retrieves a beer. He cracks it and takes a long haul. He takes a deep breath as he places the beer on his desk, back to studying the records. He picks up a pencil and begins writing. Before he gets too far, the door flies open again.
Vargas: God damnt! Can a guy get some peace and quiet around here!?
As Vargas looks up at the doorway, a room full of laughter is piped in as if something from a 90’s sitcom. Treat Cassidy stands in the doorway. He too is dressed up like an elf, tights and all. But unlike Levi, he looks like an absolute taint. Vargas stares up at him blankly.
Vargas: What the fuck is that?
Cassidy sighs, unsure of what to say. The guy is a fruit to begin with, but this getup crosses so many lines it’s not even funny.
Cassidy: What do you mean? You’re wearing a freakin’ Santa costume!
Vargas: You are wearing fuckin’ leggings dude! You are wearing LEGGINGS!!!
Vargas can’t get anything out except laughter. Cassidy shrugs as he takes a seat at the chair at the other end of the desk. He crosses his legs like a woman, showing off his chicken legs covered in bright green… tights… erm… leggings.
Vargas: Holy fuck. I can’t even look at you.
Cassidy: Do you want my help or not? You told me to dress festive and joyful.
Vargas rolls his eyes. He still can’t believe it. He shakes his head in despair as he shuffles all the papers in one pile and passes it over the desk to Cassidy. Cassidy takes a few moments to examine them.
Vargas: I don’t have a clue who any of these queers are.
Cassidy reaches into his… crotch and pulls his reading glasses out and puts them on. Vargas’ nearly jumps from his seat in horror. The look on his face is pure agony. But, he leaves it alone. Cassidy looks up from the documents.
Cassidy: I gotta be honest, I don’t either. Take it from the top shall we? For such a lunatic such as yourself, you really getting into the Christmas spirit.
Vargas: Even true rebels can like Christmas, dingleberry.
Cassidy: Anyway.
Cassidy reads off the papers.
Cassidy: Amelia Abernathy.
Vargas: Who?
Cassidy: I told you!
Vargas: She sounds like my 70 year old, 8th grade environmental science teacher with the mustache that always smelt as though she had a load of shit in the seat of her pants.
Cassidy chuckles.
Cassidy: I have no freaking idea, Chad. Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe ole Mrs. Abernathy is reincarnated to be your ghost of Christmas past perhaps to take your soul Sunday night…
Vargas: Fuck, I hope not. Missouri better not be my last stop! Could you imagine?
Cassidy laughs in agreement.
Vargas: Fuck it. That bitch gets absolutely nothing. Coal would be too good. Nothing at all, because she is, absolutely nothing. Next.
Cassidy jots down what Vargas advised. Chad Claus has an awful lot of work to do! The night before the night before the NIGHT before the Righteous Rumble!
Cassidy: Bifford.
Vargas: Thank fuck, someone I actually have heard of. Some semblance of relevance. Outside a swift kick in the nutsack, let’s set him up with two $100 gift cards. Hardees and hmm… let’s say, Wendy’s.
Cassidy nods.
Cassidy: Nothing healthier? Panera?
Vargas: Healthier?! Dude is like 900 pounds. The damage is already done. He probably hasn’t seen his crinkled cock in decades. Fast food it is. I can’t seem to beat the fuckin’ guy so, I’ll beat him with cholesterol.
Cassidy smiles as he marks up the paperwork.
Cassidy: Noted. Hmmm. Betsy Granger.
Vargas: Seriously?
Cassidy looks closer.
Cassidy: Yup.
Vargas: What the fuck is the deal with these old lady names? What’s next? Ethel Shoemaker?!
Cassidy scans the list and shakes his head.
Vargas: Is this the GCWA or Gone with the Wind?! Bitch gets a toaster. A cheap one. Women should be able to cook, but something tells me this broad is useless in the kitchen. Be hard to fuck up toast!
Cassidy gives him a thumbs up.
Cassidy: Dave Branson
Vargas: Jesus! You have got to be kidding me! Are these professional wrestlers or fuckin’ supermarket employees?! Dave Branson sounds like the assistant to the assistant manager at the fuckin’ SafeWay.
Cassidy chuckles.
Vargas: Get him a penis pump. Maybe he will actually feel the inside of a women if he adds a couple inches.
Cassidy: Got it.
Vargas leans back in his chair, reaching for his beer he takes another hearty pull off it.
Cassidy: Valis Deathbringer.
Vargas: Seriously?
Cassidy: Mmhm.
Vargas: Oh we got a real tough guy here, ahh? Deathbringer? Oowww oh so spooky. What in the 10-year old emo kid shit is this? What is this? Dungeons & Dragons or some gay shit? Who the fuck is this clown supposed to be!? Set him up with a job at Dominos slinging pizzas because professional wrestling ain’t his thing. I am utterly embarrassed for this kid!
Cassidy: Job at Dominos. You got it.
Cassidy scribbles the words on the paper as he scans the list.
Cassidy: Mike Graves.
Vargas: Who?
Vargas can’t be bothered by this low end name. He motions his hand as if to say keep going. Cassidy obliges.
Cassidy: Robert Main.
Vargas: Who?!
He makes the same gesture, getting somewhat annoyed. Cassidy nods as he quickly scans the list for another name.
Cassidy: Thunder Knuckles.
Vargas: WHO?!?! What the fuck is going on here?! Stop! Just fucking STOP!!! This is unbearable!!! Are we participating in a professional wrestling match or a 6th grade spelling bee? UNREAL!!! I am starting to feel humiliated to even be a part of this fucking train wreck. Nothing. None of those motherfuckers get anything. Give me some names that I actually may know?!
Cassidy: Kylie Moore.
Vargas is about to snap. Literally about to murder someone.
Vargas: Another big bad bitch who thinks she’s some kind of fighter, I assume? She should be laying on her back or sucking a cock NOT in my ring. When are these dumb cunts gonna understand? Women do not belong in sports. They are beneath us. We are bigger, stronger, and smarter. There is no place in this industry for broads. Just ask that bag of smashed assholes, Lissie Hope. Hopefully she’s put a bullet in her head by now and isn’t the big surprise!
Cassidy sits there stone faced. As left leaning as he is, he’s somewhat offended, but he knows Vargas by now and knows better to interject.
Vargas: I don’t want to do this anymore. This is going to be the worse fuckin’ match I’ve ever been a part of. Where does Barrows get these idiots from, anyway? Craigslist? Besides Bifford, is there anyone worth a fuck in this match or what?
Cassidy squints as he looks closer at the list.
Cassidy: Alice Knight
Vargas: Wow. A female that I actually partially respect. I actually like Alice. We’ll get her $1,000 cash. If I remember correctly, money is usually tight with her. Who else?
Cassidy: PerZag, Ed Houston, Mike Zybala, Jack Puffer, Dylan Thomas.
Vargas laughs.
Vargas: Yawn. The robotic PerZag, The monotonous repetitive Ed Houston. The liberal Mike Zybala, The good bumbling imbecile detective Puffer, and the no talent hack Dylan Thomas. Are you serious? Set them all up with 14 inch black dildos. They can all ride them while they attend their next circle jerk. Fuck this. I’m over it.
Vargas slashes his hand across his throat, completely over this entire ordeal. He removes his Santa hat as he reaches for another brewski. Cassidy nods as he stacks the paperwork up real nice and grabs his briefcase. Vargas has hardly looked at him the entire time, unable to see his esteemed agent wearing fucking neon green leggings. Cassidy stands, about to bid his client goodnight.
Vargas: Well there you have it. Good ole Chad Cringle checked his list, and checked it twice. No bad little boys or girls this year. Just absolutely fuckin’ worthless ones. How 90% of these morons made the cut for this match on such a huge pay-per-view match such as the Righteous Rumble is beyond compression. GCWA seems to be close to jumping the shark with the lack of talent. But, like most Biden supporters, everyone gets a chance right? I wonder if Deanna Barrows will hand out participation trophies to the 29 shit-peels that go over the top rope. Wouldn’t surprise me any. I may be a lot of things, but I believe in the warmth of Christmas. I’m all about giving, and I’m fixing to hand out heaping helpings off downhome country fried ASS WHIPPINGS come Sunday evening. I can’t wait to knock off some of this rust off the dome piece of some shit bag like Sara Cross or whoever the fuck. You can count on the seasons beatings being delivered on time, by yours truly! Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good drunk!
