Post by Vargas on Jan 20, 2021 23:32:14 GMT -6
Same old song and dance with GCWA. More and more WEAK ASS BOOKING. What the fuck is wrong with these people? Booking women to win? I’ve said it once, I’ll say it a million more times, WOMEN do NOT belong in my sport. Besty Granger? Are you fuckin’ kidding me? How is that even possible? I’ve seen piles of dog excrement that were more intimidating than Betsy fucking Granger. If that dumb cunt was standing before me right now, I’d head butt her snaggleteeth down her throat and stand over her laughing. Same with Chelsea Hernandez, Andrea LeClair, and Lissie Hope!
Wait.
Might’ve botched that one. Who fucking cares. Put the belt on Aaron Warthog and be done with it. Speaking of broads, how in the ever loving fuck did that no-talent robot PerZag outlast me in the Righteous Rumble anyway!? I simply don’t get it. Atleast Mack O’Connor is back in the driver’s seat. That faggot James Raven isn’t championship material. But what can be said? I can’t seem to win a fucking match in this place. But that brings it back full circle… to… WEAK ASS BOOKING! Mack O’Connor and I don’t see things the same way in the way of the world, but our wrestling political game is usually on point. It amazes me to this day that I was able to defeat him so many times in other promotions, but lately I can’t seem to rig myself a win around here. But… it ties back into WEAK A… well, y’all get it.
Like 75 million American citizens, I seem to be fighting a losing battle. But the love of the sport and the hunger for the action keeps bringing me back. What can I say? Retirement is for pussies.
Cameras pan in on Vargasland, the ex-slave plantation home standing tall in rural Tennessee. Where men are still men, and Dangerous Dan is still a fairy. The stars and bars are waving proudly on the left side of the cobblestone entry. On the right side, the Gadsden flag waves just as proudly. Off yellow with a rattlesnake and a simple statement made: “Don’t Tread On Me”. Perhaps the proudest flag flying, the red, the white, and blue – Old Glory.
May 9th, 1865 – 155 years ago, The Confederates surrendered and the South lost a war they could and should have won. President Jefferson Davis was captured the next day. Between 620,000 and 750,000 brave young men were lost. April 15th, 1912 – 108 years ago, the mighty Titanic sank off the coast of Newfoundland, approximately 1,500 dead. May 6th, 1937 – 83 years ago, the Hindenburg airship caught fire and exploded in New Jersey, 35 fatalities. September 11th, 2001 – 19 years ago, a group of towel heads hijacked four separate airplanes and flew them into the World Trade Center buildings and the Pentagon. A handful of patriots thwarted the fourth plane from reaching its destination and crash landed in a field in Pennsylvania. The death toll staggering. Nearly 3,000 with 25,000 injuries. All immense tragedies that go down in the history books. The history books you liberal pussies want to wipe clean.
On the eve of perhaps the BIGGEST American tragedy, the inauguration of a false president, what could the Jesus Christ of Professional Wrestling possibly be up to?
We see the man, the myth, the legend, Chad Vargas sitting at his kitchen table. His shirt is off, his muscles gleaming off the lights in his brightly lit kitchen. His blonde hair is messy. His signature Oakley shades sit atop his head, just above his eyes. He’s deep in concentration, maybe the world’s biggest dip in his bottom lip. Firearms scattered across his kitchen table. Rifles, pistols, you name it, it’s there. He’s got his Glock 19 in pieces as he meticulously cleans every part. The Cranberrie’s “Linger” is cranking. Vargas suddenly notices cameras are rolling. He gently sets the Glock down.
Vargas: CLARENCE!
A black servant comes quickly, to see what the matter is.
Clarence: Yes, massa?
Vargas: Turn that god damn shit off!
Clarence nods and turns to shut down the stereo. He rolls his eyes as he turns his back to Vargas. Vargas turns to look at the cameraman and removes his sunglasses from his head and runs his hand through his hair, embarrassed.
Vargas: What? Dolores was a dime. Rest easy, sweet angel.
Just as we see a softer side to the Southern Sawhorse, he spits a nasty and equally juicy tobacco quid in a nearby Styrofoam cup and gets back to work cleaning his guns.
Vargas: C’mon! Come get my guns motherfuckers!
Vargas smirks arrogantly as he works his Glock back together. His phone chimes. He sighs as he reaches over and snatches up his iPhone off the table nearby.
Incoming text message from: ANNIE ALVAREZ
Vargas takes a deep breath, slightly annoyed at the name he sees on his phone. He swipes to open the message. It’s of course, your typical, stupid, moronic, classless, socialist sympathizer dumb ass meme. So funny to make a joke of FREEDOM and LIBERTY these days. Vargas’ quickly swipes away the stupid ass meme.
Annie Alvarez: They aren’t taking your guns, snowflake! 
Vargas’ rolls his eyes as he shakes his head mumbling obscenities regarding his old pal Annie. Something along the lines of dumb and bitch. Not sure how they went together, but something of that nature.
Vargas: The irony is always so uncanny. You’ve got snowflakes calling people snowflakes. You’ve got people preaching equality and democracy and yet we are heading into a dictatorship. Do these dumb motherfuckers even have a clue?
Vargas’ sighs, in utter disbelief as he throws his Glock, as the scene fades to a Marlboro cigarette commercial…
Who the fuck is Shawn Warstein? I’m guessing he’s a big deal in his own mind. Anyone who brags about sexual intercourse with a gutter slut like Alice Knight obviously has serious mental issues. But, who is he really? The reigning North American champion, I suppose that means he’s somewhat decent. But he acts as if he’s some Chicago badboy, but I’m willing to bet he can’t even change his own oil in his beat up Chevy Caprice. That always cracks me up. Act like a tough guy, but can’t do any real man shit. So you think you’re something special, but the reality is, you ain’t shit to me OR anyone else. You’re some dude who wrestles in the same company as me, and you’ve got a bunch of lackeys that you hang with. A bunch of dorks, really. Mama’s boy pussies who try to act hard but look equally pathetic doing it. Sure, he seems to be an OK fighter, but is he really? Or does he just have good dick sucking lips that the office really likes? See, it’s evident that I’m not very well liked around here, so that usually goes against me, being that I’ve gone against the grain my entire career. I’ve climbed the mountain in every company I’ve been booked in. I’ve got nothing left to prove. I don’t even know why the fuck I’m here really. Love of the battle, I guess. I haven’t been full time anywhere since 2017. The main reason, is I can come here and punk out a few bitches and release the anger that I possess instead of winding up in country jail every other night. You ever have your nose broke, Warstein? Keep talking shit trying to act hard and I’ll make sure you’re able to say that you have. The haymaker from Hell is comin’ for ya, fuckboy!
Chad Vargas, the SNOWFLAKE PLOW sits in the back of an Escalade. Looking much different than we last saw him. He’s dressed to the nines. Rocking a light blue three piece shark skin suit. His jacket is unbuttoned as he sits in the backseat. You can see the butts of two gold plated Colt 1911 pistols resting in a double shoulder holster. A regular fuckin’ Dillinger. The TRUE Great American Badass. Topped off with his mirrored Oakley’s covering his eyes. We catch a glimpse outside the vehicle to see that it’s evening. It’s… Well, it’s dark.
You know what they say about the sun never setting on a bad ass…
Clarence: We’re here, massa.
Vargas clears his throat as he peers out the window. He adjusts his tie as he nods to his sla… his driver. Clarence jumps out of the driver’s seat and walks around the back to open the door for Vargas. He nods in appreciation as he steps out and buttons his suit jacket.
Vargas: Take it around back. Get yourself something to eat. I’ll meet you back here in two hours.
Vargas pulls a couple crisp Benjamin’s out of his pants pocket and hands them off to Clarence.
Clarence: Yessir boss.
That’s right. Chad Vargas. The Overseer of LIFE.
Vargas walks toward the establishment. As we pan out, we see that it’s MIKEY’S STEAKHOUSE, a 5-star joint in Nashville. Vargas walks toward the front doors like he owns the motherfucker. The host quickly walks toward him.
Host: Sir… you need a mask…
Vargas: Fuck you.
Vargas shoves the host as he gets closer. The shove has such force that it blows the poor bastard literally out of his shoes as he falls to his ass with a loud thud. Vargas can’t help but to chuckle as he walks into the restaurant. He scans the dining area. He smirks as he quickly sees who he’s looking for. He walks through the aisle way to the table. We see TREAT CASSIDY sitting alone at the table. A fruity umbrella drink in front of him. A Miami Hurricanes cloth face covering over his face. Vargas takes a seat across the table.
Vargas: Take that fucking thing off your face.
Vargas’ long time agent and confidant’s eyes widen in defeat as he reluctantly removes his mind control device from his face.
Vargas: I can’t believe you sometimes.
Cassidy: Me? I can say the same for you. Going rogue and sniffing out Barrows. Isn’t that my job? You get a hair across your hind end and decide you wanted a match, or what?
Vargas: Something like that, yeah. You never told me Ace was back around either.
Cassidy: WHAT! It’s not my fault you don’t pay attention to your surroundings. I’ve told you since the beginning, you need to jump in head first and get to know your colleagues. Make friends. Mingle.
Vargas laughs, he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
Vargas: ME? Since when have I ever done that? I come in, do my job and go home. I wouldn’t be caught dead in public with ¾ of the roster. I don’t care about anything but my own match. I don’t stick around and watch the other guys embarrass themselves in my ring and act like a bunch of queers on social media afterwards.
Cassidy shakes his head as he takes a sip from his gay drink. The waiter approaches the two men.
Waiter: Good evening gentlemen, welcome to Mikey’s. Care to start with an appetizer?
Vargas: Bring a bottle of Jack Daniels, please.
The waiter’s eyes get big as he’s never heard such a request before. He smiles as he scribbles it down on his pad. He turns his attention to Cassidy.
Waiter: You, sir?
Cassidy: I’d absolutely adore some Roquefort crème bites please with a side of rainbow dip.
The look on Vargas’ face as Cassidy delivers his order is priceless.
Vargas: What the fuck? You’ve gotta be the biggest closeted homosexual alive.
Cassidy flashes a toothy smile at the waiter, who like every pussy in today’s society, gets offended by words, because he is in fact a queen. He shoots Vargas a dirty look, but smiles at Cassidy.
Waiter: I’ll get it ready.
Vargas: Don’t forget my whiskey.
The waiter ignores Vargas as he walks off to fetch the shit he’s paid to do.
Vargas: Imagine how hurt he’d be if he knew you wasn’t really gay?
Cassidy: As I said, Chad, you’ve gotta mingle with people.
Vargas: So what should I know about this guy Warstein?
Cassidy: Now you want my help?
Cassidy leans in and takes another sip from his straw.
Vargas: God damn you look so gay right now… No, I don’t want any help, I just want to know if I’ve overlooked anything about this kid. Outside of the fact that he looks like he fell out of a 90’s boy band tour bus, and he has a couple of loyal lady boys following him around everywhere, I know nothing about the fucking guy…
Cassidy: He’s been around awhile, I guess. I don’t know much about him either.
Vargas: He sounds like a total fuckboy, to be honest.
Cassidy: I hate to say it, but I tend to agree with you.
Vargas looks around for the waiter, growing impatient waiting on that handle of Jack. A middle aged woman eating dinner with her pussy whipped husband continues to look over at Vargas, somewhat staring. It seems she may have noticed that Vargas’ is packing more heat than just the 11 inches in his pants… This night could surely turn into a clusterfuck…
The scene slowly fades out… It ends with a clip from OCW Survivor, where Vargas and Annie Alvarez are seen laughing and talking strategy in the ocean in the hours leading up to the first tribal council that ultimately led to PerZag being voted out.
