Ryan Omega
League Member
“Dammit. Get your stubb out of me.” The curly headed little woman (I reckon it’s not politically correct to say midget) “Yer supposed to be fuckin’ me. But you’re watching a YouTube video of some rassler man rambling on.”
“Yer a prostitute!” The loud roar escapes me.
Blue Suede Bruce doesn’t give a good goddamn if this literal shorty isn’t appreciating Lil’ Blue. What Blue Suede Bruce thought interesting was a man like Michael Lee Best cutting a clusterfuck of a promo on people he claimed were below him. Too much effort for what he claimed wasn't worth his effort maybe I'll leave a comment about fucking two bitches during his ramble. That would show him.
“What is it the youngin’s of the internet age are sayin??? Mike Best... Psshhh #uberlogicfail!”
As I start pulling out from between her thighs her eyebrows furrow and her glare burns right through me.
“Who the fuck is Mike Best, ya crazy bastard. I’m off the clock, I was doin’ this for free.”
“You want your five dollar flat rate fee? Blue Suede Bruce could pay that over 2,000 times over. This is Vegas, baby.”
“My flat rate was $30, asshole” She says as she shoves me off the mattress. She readjusts her panties, and I pull up my drawers.
“You really are a cheap hooker, aren’t ya?” Grinning, making sure to rub salt in the wound. If she wasn’t gonna be in awe of Our Boy Blue. I’d reckon, I’d put her in her place...
Before I had a chance to grab my clothes, the woman springs of the mattress like one of them Mexican luchadors and headbutts me right in the family jewels. I lost my balance stumbling back and fall out of the door back into the main lounge... A couple hundred party goers and Blue Suede Bruce in a big ol’ pair of tighty whities. People should be paying money to see this. I mean it was almost thought that my idol, Elvis Aaron Presley had a pair of soiled underpants that would have fetched up to $35,000 in auction. But nobody had the balls to make a bid.
“And stay the fuck out!”
The damn midget bitch then tosses my clothes at me.
“This is a music lounge, ya idiot!!! You’re in the owner’s bedroom...”
Jesus Christ, the owner can’t even get his own seperate place to live. I stumble and fumble back into my tight blue jeans and tight polo shirt and look around at the chaos that looked like a pajama party at Mark Kingston’s Virginia ass trailer. Lights were flashing colors like deep blues which spoke to me or angry reds. Then that skinny, sorry excuse for a rocker, Marilyn Manson was bending over some party goers with a perverted version of MY pelvic thrust. Elvis should come back from the grave and slap the piss out of this nancy boy. Screeching like a pig in unintelligible gargles. Ugh my head is pounding. I only came to meet up with an old friend and feel good before the BATTLEMANIA battle royal event. But damn is this night turning out shit.
“Brucie!!!” I heard his voice call out from some booths in the corner of the dimly lit dwelling.
There he was. Wayne fucking Newton. A legend in the Las Vegas entertainment business... My pace hastens as I scoot on into the both and I’m eye to eye with a man I once shared the stage with.
“Girls, this is Brucie!” He starts to lower his voice. “Watch yourselves, he’s quite the character...” I couldn’t hear him over that garbage playing around the club.
How did I make it here from a little boy in Memphis to impersonating Elvis, to climbin’ in a rasslin’ ring to sitting at a booth with Wayne Newton? I contemplate it for a moment before some big breasted mama with a tray of shots comes up.
“Cumshot or a Blue Motherfucker?”
“Cumshot for a blue motherfucker? Blue Suede Bruce doesn’t know what you take him for little lady, but Blue Suede Bruce doesn’t take blown loads to the face.”
The girls on Wayne’s arms start giggling as he holds his hand to his face.
“No, Brucie. She’s offering you a shot.”
“Blue Suede Bruce heard. Blue Suede Bruce is offended.”
The girl holding the tray then motions with her head down to the tall, skinny glasses.
“Blue Suede Bruce is damn thirsty. He shall take this drink as a piece offering.”
Wayne is holding his head in shame muttering, “Oh brother...”
“Oh Brother, indeed. She might be new here, but that’s no way to treat a star.”
Wayne looks at his ladies and winces attempting to change the subject.
“So Battlemania, Brucie. How does it feel to be going from a kid impersonating Elvis on street corners to taking part in such a momentous match?”
The fact that many grapplers and brawlers didn’t phase me. But Blue Suede Bruce did realize the spotlight was on him with other promotions being represented... Hard Knox Wrestling, High Octane, the big breasted bitches from GPW, VoW, and even New Edge Wrestling. Plus a few others to boot.
“Well, it’s like this Wayne. Blue Suede Bruce was a thirsty kid looking for a garden hose... Life led me to lemons and sugar... But still no water. Blue Suede Bruce and to climb, scratch, crawl, kick, and suplex his way to the top of the mountain. And nobody’s gonna knock Our Boy Blue down a peg.”
“Well I’ve heard of some of the competition. Mike Best, Ian Bishop, Al Envy.”
“Al Envy? Now that’s a name Blue Suede Bruce recalls. A bonified, certified, World Heavyweight Champeen. When Blue Suede Bruce throws his one-eyed ass over the top rope. The Show Stealer will be begging to be Blue Suede Bruce’s opening act. Because let’s face it. Al Envy is the past. Blue Suede Bruce is the FUTURE of professional wrestling!”
Even in a seated position, I start to gyrate my pelvis... Oozing the confidence of 1,000 Priscillas at a botox appointment.
“I caught your fight at Double Jeopardy what happened with your partner? You two had the belts in your grasp and he dove off the ladder? I thought the point was to grab the titles.”
The reminder of that fateful night made me clench my fists as I balled tight.
“That dumb sumbitch. All he had to do was join Blue Suede Bruce in reaching up and grabbing the Twin City Championships. We would be titleholders right now. But he jumped off the ladder like a fool. Blue Suede Bruce could have probably had a smarter partner like Stacy Jones. Something about her strikes me off. But she is a proven commodity. Hell when Our Boy Blue throws her over the top rope like the pasty little tart she is, maybe VoW will claim me the rightful Xcel Champion!”
Upon my exclamation, the music stopped and Marilyn Manson, Antichrist Superstar himself started pointing the mic stand in my direction.
“Looooook, motherfucker. If you don’t wanna listen that’s cool. But you’re shouting over my set.”
“Shut up, Brian!” snapping back with his birth name.
Manson then jumps off the stage. He comes face to face with me. Who knew this lanky piece of shit was a tall dookie?
“Listen here. You don’t know me. Don’t judge me. I would never judge you, asshole.”
“That’s cute you’re reminding Blue Suede Bruce of Mark Kingston. He was really shedding a tear because Our Boy Blue ‘turned on a tag team partner. It’s a business decision. Like how you became this edgy transvestite looking motherfucker to score a quick buck.”
“Are you serious? What’s even going on here? Wrestling isn’t even a real sport. You’re not an athlete.”
Blue Suede Bruce hated this ever since one company in the early nineties lied about the legitimacy of our sport, claiming there was none... It’s been an uphill battle to prove it’s reality.
“One promoter lies and says it’s a performance art to get out of being regulated and taxed by sporting and gambling commissions, and those who don’t watch believes it’s fake.”
“Riiiiiiighhhhht....”
The rage consumed me and Blue Suede Bruce pulled Manson’s head between this thighs and lifted him up.
“Nooo... Brucie!!!” Wayne shouted.
It was too late...
Piledriver.... He laid there motionless in the fetal position holding his neck.
“Fuck you, Manson.”
I couldn’t help but feel a sticky yet wet sensation at the seat of my pants and I look to where a naked Ron Jeremy was holding his junk.
“Gross, brother... Blue Suede Bruce just bought these jeans.”
“My bad, man. But I have the faith. You’ll win Battlemania and buy a $150 pair of jeans. But to avoid us calling the cops for aggravated assault. You must eliminate 29 C and D list celebrities!”
“Wait what? Blue Suede Bruce does not agree.”
It was at this moment Our Boy Blue knew the game was on... And BSB was on the way to becoming the winner of BATTLEMANIA... Even if he had to start by going through Dustin Diamond wearing a leopard print thong....
“There’s no point wasting Blue Suede Bruce's time researching every opponent!!! Bring it, Screech!!!”
“Yer a prostitute!” The loud roar escapes me.
Blue Suede Bruce doesn’t give a good goddamn if this literal shorty isn’t appreciating Lil’ Blue. What Blue Suede Bruce thought interesting was a man like Michael Lee Best cutting a clusterfuck of a promo on people he claimed were below him. Too much effort for what he claimed wasn't worth his effort maybe I'll leave a comment about fucking two bitches during his ramble. That would show him.
“What is it the youngin’s of the internet age are sayin??? Mike Best... Psshhh #uberlogicfail!”
As I start pulling out from between her thighs her eyebrows furrow and her glare burns right through me.
“Who the fuck is Mike Best, ya crazy bastard. I’m off the clock, I was doin’ this for free.”
“You want your five dollar flat rate fee? Blue Suede Bruce could pay that over 2,000 times over. This is Vegas, baby.”
“My flat rate was $30, asshole” She says as she shoves me off the mattress. She readjusts her panties, and I pull up my drawers.
“You really are a cheap hooker, aren’t ya?” Grinning, making sure to rub salt in the wound. If she wasn’t gonna be in awe of Our Boy Blue. I’d reckon, I’d put her in her place...
Before I had a chance to grab my clothes, the woman springs of the mattress like one of them Mexican luchadors and headbutts me right in the family jewels. I lost my balance stumbling back and fall out of the door back into the main lounge... A couple hundred party goers and Blue Suede Bruce in a big ol’ pair of tighty whities. People should be paying money to see this. I mean it was almost thought that my idol, Elvis Aaron Presley had a pair of soiled underpants that would have fetched up to $35,000 in auction. But nobody had the balls to make a bid.
“And stay the fuck out!”
The damn midget bitch then tosses my clothes at me.
“This is a music lounge, ya idiot!!! You’re in the owner’s bedroom...”
Jesus Christ, the owner can’t even get his own seperate place to live. I stumble and fumble back into my tight blue jeans and tight polo shirt and look around at the chaos that looked like a pajama party at Mark Kingston’s Virginia ass trailer. Lights were flashing colors like deep blues which spoke to me or angry reds. Then that skinny, sorry excuse for a rocker, Marilyn Manson was bending over some party goers with a perverted version of MY pelvic thrust. Elvis should come back from the grave and slap the piss out of this nancy boy. Screeching like a pig in unintelligible gargles. Ugh my head is pounding. I only came to meet up with an old friend and feel good before the BATTLEMANIA battle royal event. But damn is this night turning out shit.
“Brucie!!!” I heard his voice call out from some booths in the corner of the dimly lit dwelling.
There he was. Wayne fucking Newton. A legend in the Las Vegas entertainment business... My pace hastens as I scoot on into the both and I’m eye to eye with a man I once shared the stage with.
“Girls, this is Brucie!” He starts to lower his voice. “Watch yourselves, he’s quite the character...” I couldn’t hear him over that garbage playing around the club.
How did I make it here from a little boy in Memphis to impersonating Elvis, to climbin’ in a rasslin’ ring to sitting at a booth with Wayne Newton? I contemplate it for a moment before some big breasted mama with a tray of shots comes up.
“Cumshot or a Blue Motherfucker?”
“Cumshot for a blue motherfucker? Blue Suede Bruce doesn’t know what you take him for little lady, but Blue Suede Bruce doesn’t take blown loads to the face.”
The girls on Wayne’s arms start giggling as he holds his hand to his face.
“No, Brucie. She’s offering you a shot.”
“Blue Suede Bruce heard. Blue Suede Bruce is offended.”
The girl holding the tray then motions with her head down to the tall, skinny glasses.
“Blue Suede Bruce is damn thirsty. He shall take this drink as a piece offering.”
Wayne is holding his head in shame muttering, “Oh brother...”
“Oh Brother, indeed. She might be new here, but that’s no way to treat a star.”
Wayne looks at his ladies and winces attempting to change the subject.
“So Battlemania, Brucie. How does it feel to be going from a kid impersonating Elvis on street corners to taking part in such a momentous match?”
The fact that many grapplers and brawlers didn’t phase me. But Blue Suede Bruce did realize the spotlight was on him with other promotions being represented... Hard Knox Wrestling, High Octane, the big breasted bitches from GPW, VoW, and even New Edge Wrestling. Plus a few others to boot.
“Well, it’s like this Wayne. Blue Suede Bruce was a thirsty kid looking for a garden hose... Life led me to lemons and sugar... But still no water. Blue Suede Bruce and to climb, scratch, crawl, kick, and suplex his way to the top of the mountain. And nobody’s gonna knock Our Boy Blue down a peg.”
“Well I’ve heard of some of the competition. Mike Best, Ian Bishop, Al Envy.”
“Al Envy? Now that’s a name Blue Suede Bruce recalls. A bonified, certified, World Heavyweight Champeen. When Blue Suede Bruce throws his one-eyed ass over the top rope. The Show Stealer will be begging to be Blue Suede Bruce’s opening act. Because let’s face it. Al Envy is the past. Blue Suede Bruce is the FUTURE of professional wrestling!”
Even in a seated position, I start to gyrate my pelvis... Oozing the confidence of 1,000 Priscillas at a botox appointment.
“I caught your fight at Double Jeopardy what happened with your partner? You two had the belts in your grasp and he dove off the ladder? I thought the point was to grab the titles.”
The reminder of that fateful night made me clench my fists as I balled tight.
“That dumb sumbitch. All he had to do was join Blue Suede Bruce in reaching up and grabbing the Twin City Championships. We would be titleholders right now. But he jumped off the ladder like a fool. Blue Suede Bruce could have probably had a smarter partner like Stacy Jones. Something about her strikes me off. But she is a proven commodity. Hell when Our Boy Blue throws her over the top rope like the pasty little tart she is, maybe VoW will claim me the rightful Xcel Champion!”
Upon my exclamation, the music stopped and Marilyn Manson, Antichrist Superstar himself started pointing the mic stand in my direction.
“Looooook, motherfucker. If you don’t wanna listen that’s cool. But you’re shouting over my set.”
“Shut up, Brian!” snapping back with his birth name.
Manson then jumps off the stage. He comes face to face with me. Who knew this lanky piece of shit was a tall dookie?
“Listen here. You don’t know me. Don’t judge me. I would never judge you, asshole.”
“That’s cute you’re reminding Blue Suede Bruce of Mark Kingston. He was really shedding a tear because Our Boy Blue ‘turned on a tag team partner. It’s a business decision. Like how you became this edgy transvestite looking motherfucker to score a quick buck.”
“Are you serious? What’s even going on here? Wrestling isn’t even a real sport. You’re not an athlete.”
Blue Suede Bruce hated this ever since one company in the early nineties lied about the legitimacy of our sport, claiming there was none... It’s been an uphill battle to prove it’s reality.
“One promoter lies and says it’s a performance art to get out of being regulated and taxed by sporting and gambling commissions, and those who don’t watch believes it’s fake.”
“Riiiiiiighhhhht....”
The rage consumed me and Blue Suede Bruce pulled Manson’s head between this thighs and lifted him up.
“Nooo... Brucie!!!” Wayne shouted.
It was too late...
Piledriver.... He laid there motionless in the fetal position holding his neck.
“Fuck you, Manson.”
I couldn’t help but feel a sticky yet wet sensation at the seat of my pants and I look to where a naked Ron Jeremy was holding his junk.
“Gross, brother... Blue Suede Bruce just bought these jeans.”
“My bad, man. But I have the faith. You’ll win Battlemania and buy a $150 pair of jeans. But to avoid us calling the cops for aggravated assault. You must eliminate 29 C and D list celebrities!”
“Wait what? Blue Suede Bruce does not agree.”
It was at this moment Our Boy Blue knew the game was on... And BSB was on the way to becoming the winner of BATTLEMANIA... Even if he had to start by going through Dustin Diamond wearing a leopard print thong....
“There’s no point wasting Blue Suede Bruce's time researching every opponent!!! Bring it, Screech!!!”
