Pete Whealdon isn’t reclining in Hollywood, the strength of that alone should show the gravity of the situation, instead he is at a gas station, staring at a map. Damien DeSett was next to him, drinking from a camelback.
Kevin “Satan(Now with more EVIL!)” Alloy normally trusted with all video functionality for Fu
ck/b/olt International, has turned this duty over to a very trusted intern. He is trusted solely because he has been duct taped to an office chair for a great deal of time. A long time ago he developed Stockholm Syndrome, and dutifully tapes himself to the chair after taking care of the various human functions one can not simply perform while taped to an object.
“Satan believes we should have commandeered a hot air balloon.”
Whealdon spread the map on hood of the official ford econoline panel van of fu
ck/b/olts international. It’s a majestic beast with an airbrushed scene of a pleasant meadow, featuring a very familiar looking fellow in lederhosen(See Letters to a Young Wrestler, or Adventures in the typewritten word.), as well as a Dolphin seemingly with a unicorn horn jumping out of the meadow as though it were the sea.
It also has wings.
Whealdon annoyed pulled a cigarette from the chest pocket of his mesh hoodie. patting his jeans for a lighter, he has quickly come to realize that wearing shredded jean shorts, though revealing, may not be the best for maintaining any type of material. His hand shoves picklishly through the hole in the bottom of his pocket.
He chose this moment to frown deeply, cleaning his mustache in annoyance.
“This isn’t the right map.”
“Satan was certain we were going to Sinaloa Mexico.”
“Damien, Dudebro. Can you get me a light?”
Damien FLEXS~! and kool-aids the entry door to the service station, he quickly emerges through the rubble holding an entire stand of lighters, as well as twinkies, and ding-dongs. Whealdon pulls a light and a twinkie off, shoving the twinkie in his pocket, it falls harmlessly on the concrete.
The gas station attendant had followed Damien out of the door, shouting and waving a broom about money and damages.
“This scene sucks, lets beat it.”
All three men piled into the van, leaving a cloud of burning oil exhaust as they rocketed out of the lot at a scorching twenty-five miles per hour. Whealdon was an expert behind the wheel of this particular model of van, and judging by the beads, bed, and interior shag carpeting, these boys were traveling in style.
Satan sat in the passenger seat, poking at his non-functioning bluetooth, and Damien DeSett had chosen the bed as his point of lounging, though he looked mildly out of place in his workout duds. Though his muscle definition was certainly striking, his wooden movements did not bely a certain lack of grace.
The intern, though still in a chair, had been locked down with seatbelts handicapped style. Whealdon got the idea watching gideon lope about the ring one night.
Smoke rose in a lazy haze about Whealdon, as he ashed his cigarette out the window of the moving van authoritatively, occasionally cleaning his mustache in disagreement as his eyes scanned the horizon.
“Daddy, I just need to know where it is.”
“Satan believes he should know the location.”
Whealdon pulls the van over on the side of the road. Stroking his mustache patiently.
“Satan is trying to use the powers of darkness to find the location!”
By powers of darkness, Satan is attempting to deduce how to use his iphone. As time passes slowly, with the reducing length of Whealdon’s cigarette. Damien FLEXS~! to pass the time. Whealdon lights another cigarette.
As Whealdon dozed with a lit cigarette hanging from his snoring mouth, Satan finally had devised how to turn on his iphone.
“Satan thought he was Steve Jobs.”
cking Badgers... wait. what?”
Whealdon snaps back to life shaking his head, and tossing his cigarette onto the side of the ring.
“Satan has found what you were looking for.”
The sun shone brightly. Whealdon took his sunglasses off and rubbed his eyes.
“Daddy, just tell me where we’re going.”
“Satan believes that we are two hundred yards away. Satan also feels compelled to shave his beard.”
Satan does not have a beard.
Whealdon restarted the van, petting the leopard print fur dash board as it roared back to life, and ripped off of the side of the road like a turtle taking off attached to a rocket powered by molasses. Satan raised his fist to the sky as he chortled.
“The Hunt for the Ultratitle is on!”
Whealdon seemingly intent on driving.
“Mmmmmhehehhahahahahahaha... When Satan devised this scheme to hunt for the Ultratitle, he wasn’t certain that it would lead us to it quite so quickly. Satan believed it would require more searching. Satan thought the Suite One would have to do something felonious!
Breaking and entering!
And now Satan has a lighter in his hand.
For those not in the know. When Kevin “Satan(Now with more EVIL!)” has a lighter in his hand, it functions as foreshadowing. A lot of burned ficus trees have been the result of a lighter in his hand, as well as several desks, and a Barbeque.. Yes. He burnt a Barbeque down. Coleman was sent the footage, to which they responded with “This is not possible in the realm of physics.”
Satan was pleased.
“Mmmmmhehehahahahaha. Satan knew it was here.”
Driving slowly, looking seemingly for something very specific, Whealdon continues to eye the horizon ahead of him. Trees of various non-descript varieties are ahead of him, and small low grey markers are everywhere.
Slowing further. Whealdon turns off of the road onto the verdant turf itself. Driving Slowly. He stops, the van rocks a moment on the grass as it stops. Everyone in the van looks at Whealdon, who drops his sunglasses a bit and looks. Grabbing Satan’s iphone, Whealdon quickly brings up a video of Chris Hopper at his grandfather's grave site. Whealdon smirks and nods, tossing it back to Satan, everyone piles out of the van, and make their collective way to a medium sized marker.
Whealdon takes this opportunity to pull a fresh cigarette from the inside pocket of his pink mesh hoodie, yellow LED dolphin flashing on the hood as he pulls it up.
“Looks like I’m early to the party.”
Whealdon smiles revealing a grill. Just when you thought this couldn’t get any sleazier, Whealdon went all trap on everything, gold teeth with pink dolphins. Whealdon strokes his mustache as a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle is produced and handed to Whealdon. Whealdon pulls the cap off and takes a slug, handing it to DeSett who doesn’t partake, passes it to Satan, who sniffs the finest straight rye whiskey. Satan furrows his brow, and passes it to the intern. Right as the intern is about to one hand filming and drinking. Whealdon snaps it out of his hand.
Satan laughs malevolently as Whealdon takes another slug and places it on top of the marker.
“Now, a lot of guys Hopper, would’ve found some caffeine and tried to figure out what you’re on.”
A big drag. Sun is shining bright.
“Me, I just grabbed the bottle of Van Winkle. And I thought. It must be because he’s taken one to many shots to the old brain pan.”
Whealdon makes a fist and a face as he mocks hitting his head a few times.
“But Bonk Bonk dumbass.”
An accusing finger points directly at the camera.
A thumb at the chest.
Another thumb at the chest.
“Is the shi
Whealdon with both thumbs at his chest.
"Just because I didn’t come out screaming retard strong frenzy don’t mean I don’t give a fu
Whealdon shakes and cleans his mustache in disgust.
"See here is the issue, last round Jason Murray’s slit was putting words in my mouth, and while I ain’t gonna be putting the staff to the queen of the trailer park, she sure wanted it.
Now I got Chris “Too Stoic” Hopper coming out to his grandfather’s grave to lay down wisdom, rolling in like Plato and Socrates.
Here’s some wisdom I heard from an old man on the way to the airport. I think he said something about Change. and you know what, when I look at that beard merging into his dreadlocks, I saw exactly where you’re coming from.
You haven’t the slightest clue, whatsoever, about anything. Here’s another gem for you, maybe you can write it down in your journal, so the next time you come out and think about running your mouth about the King of Sleaze you can get it right.
Chris Hopper is a third generation failure.
No one gives a shi
t about your grandfather or the fact he enjoyed the drink. Welcome to relevance zero. Oh wait. Ring Warrior. Gotcha. Check. Serious Business and the like. Memorial Day.
See the issue with all of this.”
Whealdon turns away looking over his shoulder.
“Is you’re talking about challenges, and you’re talking about how The Suite one isn’t into this anymore, and Daddy, I don’t know where you got it from. Maybe you and Bronte been working together huffing bath salts and trying to sort out the Ultratitle.
While I appreciate just a little bit that whole deal about travel, and all of that. The rugged challenges of the everyman wrestler, and Daddy, it was gripping and compelling to see you spell it out so flaccidly.
You see, When Chris Hopper is struggling to make the next alarm and hop on the next economy jet to Shi
The Suite One is burning down Van Winkle by the cases. He’s rocking a hot tub with women in their late teens.
Because I’m everything you wish you could be, sporting that “Too cool
” moniker. Daddy, I’m the last cool
thing left in this tournament, and I’m rocking it like Miles Davis, and you’re coming out flat like Kenny G. Big differences Daddy. You’ve been meh forever and a day and Daddy, I’m the Bi
tches Brew. “
Whealdon winks over his shoulder.
“So What I’m going to do here, is kind of send a message, that while I thought I was spelling out pretty explicitly saying I’m here to rape this tournament of whatever glory I can roofie up.
Now slow clap, I’m glad you figured out my nickname is a play on words, because you know, you graduated High School, and proved that you’re able to connect more than two consecutive thoughts Daddy. The kicker is, when you’re saying I’m not excited that I beat Jason Murray, Daddy, it’s because it was another day at the office for the Suite One, I know that beating small town mayors and television champions were just gonna be the first step for you to get that big break out match against Sean Stevens.”
Whealdon unzips his shorts. A big grin spreads across his face, all gold and pink dolphins.
“Daddy, I know you wanted Sean Stevens, and that you’re whole “you’re not excited” shtick is really because instead of getting to face a past his prime legend, rocking Mr. Mom tights, you’re getting the greatest wrestler who’s ever lived. The Man with the finest mustache in the world. The King of Sleaze. The Man with the best shades in the business.
So when you’re daydreaming in this field again picking petals from dandelions hoping Sean Stevens doesn’t choke in the first round, and what it’s gonna sound like to hear Sean Stevens name called when you’re creaming your wrestling tights. You’re gonna wanna remember this particular moment in time.”
Whealdon points at the ground. Stepping away, we catch a good view of what he’s been looking at.
WORLD WAR II
Whealdon drops his sunglasses and winks. Whealdon pulls the bottle up off of the marker as the sound of liquid hitting stone and grass takes over as a cool breeze, the sound continues as Whealdon takes a long plug on the bottle.
Finishing up, Whealdon replaces the bottle on top, and zipping his shorts up, he turns back around. He pulls the shades back up. He flashes the grill-grin again.
Satan is attempting to burn down the grave marker unsuccessfully with a lighter, chortling.
No wait. Hold up. Whealdon waves off the intern. Whealdon runs his hand through his hair, and cleans his mustache. He takes a stance shoulder width apart. Index finger to the inside of the sunglasses drops them down the bridge of his nose. He wags a finger back and forth. Tossing some change on the grave. He walks away.