Get That Ass Laid Out

"Girls, Girls, Girls"

Everybody nowadays wants a piece of the King. Fucking newbies like Seth Bombay want to face the champ?...And tell their friends they stepped in the ring with royalty, only to get that ass laid out like the peasant you are. I don't know what the fuck you did to even get a shot at me, but you'll soon discover it was a waste of your time. And there's not a damn thing you can do about it, because those are the King's Orders. Now, deal with it.

And it all started with a whisper, “Why the fuck did you bring me here?” Trent’s words, even in such a low volume, are harsh to Amy’s ear. Even under the supercharged, super-sexed up music playing through the speakers scattered across the floor.

Eyes not breaking away, she makes a motion for Trent to be quiet. And enjoy the show.

The lights dim up, as the particular girl on stage wraps up her performance. A voice that never has a face-to-match, comes over the P.A. system, much too excited, “Ohh, that was Chocolate Champagne, you all. But, in just a moment, I’d like to introduce a new girl we have. I have a feeling you’re going to enjoy Candi...”

He didn’t stop talking, but Trent’s mind was elsewhere.

The Dollhouse. Classy, depending how trashy you are, and vice versa. It’s no run-of-the-mill strip club, but its no academy either. They have a steady stream of customers, often they’re packed, but tonight the crowd is light and the mood is rather low.

Trent is ecstatic about winning the Malice Championship, but he’s unable to celebrate much. With alcohol and sex off the table for a month, he hoped he could rejoice with friends. With those expectations in mind, he sought after a few friends, but most of them were much too busy, or didn’t wanna go out if they weren’t going to a bar. His career has limited the realm in which he’s social, thus he’s left with that group one calls “close friends.” And seeing as Spencer was etched off that list months ago, he’s stuck with her: Amy. The girl who seems to worship the fucking ground he walks on, the girl who give her soul to have him have her.

Usually, he’d be all over a girl like that. Hit it, hit a few more times, then quit it. But, not Amy. They’re relationship is too complicated and he really doesn’t want to screw one of the last good friends he has.

“Again, why are we here?” Trent asks.
“It’s a strip club, I thought you’d enjoy yourself here.” Amy replies, more serious than joking.
“But, you know I have that thing this month.” He says, almost whispering.
“What?”
“That thing...”
“A STD?”
“No! I have to abstain from sex and liquor for a whole month. Some bullshit that my therapist told me to do.”
“Oh, yeah, well who said you were going to sleep with any of these girls...” And she thought about it... “Yeah, well, whatever. You won that belt and it seemed like a big deal, so the least I can do is buy you a lap dance.”

After a little persuasion and just a tad bit of force, Trent finds himself in a designated area of the Dollhouse. A girl approaches him. Clothes sparse, make-up thick, mind heavy with the thought of money.

“Hi, there. I think I know you.” She says, beginning to dance.
“Oh, yeah? I’ve never been in here.”
“No, from T.V. What’s your name?”
“Trent...” His eyes wandered.
“Oh, I know you.”

The girl continued to dance, seeming to try harder and harder to please Trent’s appetite. After a while, she realizes it’s nonexistent, stopping and waiting for him to stuff a bill in her g-string.

He does so, only to appease her, not because she did fifty dollars worth of work. But, it was the first thing he pulled from his pocket, and he’ll be expecting Amy to pay him back anyway...

His eyes have been entranced with the visage of a brunette seated across the club, at the bar. She stands out only because she has a notepad, and she seems to have had her eyes glued to Trent all night. While he inspects her, she keeps her head down, scribbling something and sipping on her five-dollar cranberry juice.

Perfect fucking time for everyone to be all over me. Other raging sarcastic rants scream inside his head as he stands to go search for Amy.

Once he finds her, sitting at the stage, enjoying what Porsche has to offer, he takes her by the hand, almost dragging her up from her chair. He begins walking towards the exit.

“I’m getting the fuck out of here now. It’s bitches stalking me and shit. Come on or you’re getting left.” He says, hoping she’s still walking behind him.

Turning around, he finds her at the bar, leaning over it, talking to the bartender. Before he has the chance to get angry, he notices the girl who’d been watching him earlier is gone. She’d just been there moments ago and her chair now sat empty.

He sighs, frustrated and confused.

Fuck this.

Turning on his heel, he quickly exits, reaching into his pocket for his keys. Finding them, he steps up to his car, to see her again.

Surprised, he attacks her verbally, “Hey, why the fuck are you following me? I don’t want to fuck you, okay? Get the hell away from my car...”

She stands there. He stands there. He stares deep into her watery, bluish-gray eyes, behind her dark frames, awaiting a reply, an action.

She’s quite a sight. She’s older than him, but she has smooth, milky skin. Her eyes and lips scream model, but her attire yells businesswoman, in addition to the notepad.

Her mouth finally moves, and out spills an introduction, “Hello, Mr. King. I’m Natasha Rivers, your new manager.” Her hand offers a business card.

Trent takes the card, his eyes study it while his mind ponders how he could have a manager. Looking up, he proclaims, “But, I don’t have a manager.”
The click, click, click, of her heels, as she walks away. “You do now.”

And it all ends with a whisper, “What the fuck?”


	"Girls, Girls, Girls" Everybody nowadays wants a piece of the King. Fucking newbies like Seth Bombay want to face the champ?...And tell their friends they stepped in the ring with royalty, only to get that ass laid out like the peasant you are. I don't know what the fuck you did to even get a shot at me, but you'll soon discover it was a waste of your time. And there's not a damn thing you can do about it, because those are the King's Orders. Now, deal with it. And it all started with a whisper, “Why the fuck did you bring me here?” Trent’s words, even in such a low volume, are harsh to Amy’s ear. Even under the supercharged, super-sexed up music playing through the speakers scattered across the floor. Eyes not breaking away, she makes a motion for Trent to be quiet. And enjoy the show. The lights dim up, as the particular girl on stage wraps up her performance. A voice that never has a face-to-match, comes over the P.A. system, much too excited, “Ohh, that was Chocolate Champagne, you all. But, in just a moment, I’d like to introduce a new girl we have. I have a feeling you’re going to enjoy Candi...” He didn’t stop talking, but Trent’s mind was elsewhere. The Dollhouse. Classy, depending how trashy you are, and vice versa. It’s no run-of-the-mill strip club, but its no academy either. They have a steady stream of customers, often they’re packed, but tonight the crowd is light and the mood is rather low. Trent is ecstatic about winning the Malice Championship, but he’s unable to celebrate much. With alcohol and sex off the table for a month, he hoped he could rejoice with friends. With those expectations in mind, he sought after a few friends, but most of them were much too busy, or didn’t wanna go out if they weren’t going to a bar. His career has limited the realm in which he’s social, thus he’s left with that group one calls “close friends.” And seeing as Spencer was etched off that list months ago, he’s stuck with her: Amy. The girl who seems to worship the fucking ground he walks on, the girl who give her soul to have him have her. Usually, he’d be all over a girl like that. Hit it, hit a few more times, then quit it. But, not Amy. They’re relationship is too complicated and he really doesn’t want to screw one of the last good friends he has. “Again, why are we here?” Trent asks. “It’s a strip club, I thought you’d enjoy yourself here.” Amy replies, more serious than joking. “But, you know I have that thing this month.” He says, almost whispering. “What?” “That thing...” “A STD?” “No! I have to abstain from sex and liquor for a whole month. Some bullshit that my therapist told me to do.” “Oh, yeah, well who said you were going to sleep with any of these girls...” And she thought about it... “Yeah, well, whatever. You won that belt and it seemed like a big deal, so the least I can do is buy you a lap dance.” After a little persuasion and just a tad bit of force, Trent finds himself in a designated area of the Dollhouse. A girl approaches him. Clothes sparse, make-up thick, mind heavy with the thought of money. “Hi, there. I think I know you.” She says, beginning to dance. “Oh, yeah? I’ve never been in here.” “No, from T.V. What’s your name?” “Trent...” His eyes wandered. “Oh, I know you.” The girl continued to dance, seeming to try harder and harder to please Trent’s appetite. After a while, she realizes it’s nonexistent, stopping and waiting for him to stuff a bill in her g-string. He does so, only to appease her, not because she did fifty dollars worth of work. But, it was the first thing he pulled from his pocket, and he’ll be expecting Amy to pay him back anyway... His eyes have been entranced with the visage of a brunette seated across the club, at the bar. She stands out only because she has a notepad, and she seems to have had her eyes glued to Trent all night. While he inspects her, she keeps her head down, scribbling something and sipping on her five-dollar cranberry juice. Perfect fucking time for everyone to be all over me. Other raging sarcastic rants scream inside his head as he stands to go search for Amy. Once he finds her, sitting at the stage, enjoying what Porsche has to offer, he takes her by the hand, almost dragging her up from her chair. He begins walking towards the exit. “I’m getting the fuck out of here now. It’s bitches stalking me and shit. Come on or you’re getting left.” He says, hoping she’s still walking behind him. Turning around, he finds her at the bar, leaning over it, talking to the bartender. Before he has the chance to get angry, he notices the girl who’d been watching him earlier is gone. She’d just been there moments ago and her chair now sat empty. He sighs, frustrated and confused. Fuck this. Turning on his heel, he quickly exits, reaching into his pocket for his keys. Finding them, he steps up to his car, to see her again. Surprised, he attacks her verbally, “Hey, why the fuck are you following me? I don’t want to fuck you, okay? Get the hell away from my car...” She stands there. He stands there. He stares deep into her watery, bluish-gray eyes, behind her dark frames, awaiting a reply, an action. She’s quite a sight. She’s older than him, but she has smooth, milky skin. Her eyes and lips scream model, but her attire yells businesswoman, in addition to the notepad. Her mouth finally moves, and out spills an introduction, “Hello, Mr. King. I’m Natasha Rivers, your new manager.” Her hand offers a business card. Trent takes the card, his eyes study it while his mind ponders how he could have a manager. Looking up, he proclaims, “But, I don’t have a manager.” The click, click, click, of her heels, as she walks away. “You do now.” And it all ends with a whisper, “What the fuck?”