#also morals aside it was also just a shit ceremony like all the awkward pauses n ppl who don't quite know when to stand up n the fact

[junk-culture]

dearly beloved we are gathered here in the sight of god to anoint charles our parasite in chief with his most idiot hat.

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

NSFW #09: Showcase

Big Mike’s was closing up for the night. Cheerfully, Kerrigan McGuire gave a wave to the last straggling customer who shuffled out the door with his gym bag, turned the lock, and went about cleaning up- sweeping, wiping things down, tossing a couple bins’ worth of towels into bags to take home and wash. One would think he’d hire someone to do this for him, but Kerry liked being a minimalist operation. Finally, after a good amount of cleaning, he was about to go home to his wife, but he paused, and then laughed a hearty chuckle, shaking his head. He’d almost forgotten to do something very important. Striding over to the photograph wall, he smiles at a certain frame that’d been empty for ages. Producing a large manila envelope, he slides a glossy photo from it and into the frame. His daughter and her partner, one arm around each other and the other each holding up a title belt. Bloody, bruised, sweaty… and victorious. Kerry took a few moments to admire the photo, beaming with pride, before shutting off the last few lights and slipping out, locking the door behind him. The camera feed opened up with a close up on one half of the EWC tag-team champions. Mike McGuire looked rather happy- not surprising, considering they’d spent a week in her hometown already with the added bonus on being the newly crowned champions. She had her belt over one shoulder- she’d made a habit of carrying it with her practically everywhere. “Say hey, EWC faithful! It’s ya boys- and ya NEWWWWWWW EWC Tag Team Champions- NSFW! Holy shit. Did you all see Rumble in the Bronx? Did ya? Do it if you haven’t. Watch it on EWC TV. Or YouTube that shit if you’re cheap. It was fuckin’ A from start to finish. Mucho Grande beat the fucking shit out of us, but hey. We made a promise. We’ve said from day one that we were gonna be champions, and here we are.” She patted the belt, a calloused up hand slapping against the central golden plate. “Now, just so you know, we plan on being fighting champs. We got our eyes on the repositioning of the division, seeing who’s gonna rise up and try to take these from us. But in the meantime? We’re gonna keep fucking pounding. We ain’t just gonna sit on our laurels stuffing our faces or something.” Camera panned to the left. Bishop Church was in the middle of popping a neatly cut forkful of pizza into his mouth. The shot sat on him for a few awkward moments as he refused to talk with his mouth full. He finished the bite, and then took a sip from a glass of ice water. “Uh, that’s right.” The shot pulled out a bit to reveal NSFW was actually sitting at a table in front of Juliana’s, one of the best pizza joints in Brooklyn. Two pies sit in front of them- one pepperoni, the other a peculiar affair festooned with garlic, sausage, and broccoli. The place was fairly busy, considering the locals and tourists were taking advantage of the last stretch of summer-ish weather before it started cooling off. Some pedestrians passing by noticed the champs sitting on the porch and gave a cheerful holler, to which Mike would holler back. Bishop forgoed the hollering but did wave in return politely. For his part, Bishop looked the most obviously like he’d been in a major fight- dark bruises ringed under his eyes, and the bridge of his nose was still black and blue. This didn’t seem to put much of a damper on his mood, though. He seemed quite content with his dinner, cutting each oversized slice into small pieces, removing the sausage, and eating it nibble by nibble, much to the consternation of his partner, who in a more traditional manner was folding her slices in half before scarfing them down. “You’re supposed to fold it, y’know. That’s how you do it here. The slices are big so you can fold ‘em, it holds the toppings in all nice, and you can eat ‘em with one hand.” “I don’t like directly touching my food if I can help it.” “Okay, fair enough. Hey, where’s your belt, though? I mean, looks kinda weird for me to be carrying mine around without yours to match it and stuff.” John dabbed a cloth napkin at the corner of his mouth and shook his head. “Didn’t want to get grease all over the leather.” “...you are the most logical fuckin’ person in the whole world, y’know that? But I like that. Makes up for me never thinking anything through.” Mike laughed, and regarded the camera again. “See folks, said it before, said it again. This is why we’re an awesome fucking team, and this is why we’re champions. Our positives make up for each other’s negatives and together, we’re un-fuckin-stoppable. But that don’t mean we ain’t gonna welcome people trying. That’s why we didn’t wanna take a week off for some goofy coronation ceremony or whatever. Those things are corny and stupid as shit.” “Imagine the pomp and circumstance.” John paused, and as much as default expression would allow, some wonder creeped into his tone. “There could be dancing.” “Usually ain’t. I mean, if we WERE doing one there could be I guess. But I dunno about you, but I’d rather have a match. We’re fighters. Not lovers, like our opponents this week.” John’s fork clattered against his plate. “Los Amantes.” “That’s ‘The Lovers’ en espanol, compadre.” “Yes. Modern day Lotharios.” “I got it! I got that fuckin’ reference! Can’t fuckin’ stand guys like that though. They’re usually the type to see women as fuckin’ trophies and not, y’know. People and shit.” “Character flaws aside, what’s there to know? New team. Old friends. Mike, you know what that means?” “I absolutely do.” “Not to be taken lightly.” “Yep. Cuz even if they’re new here, they probably know each other really damn well. Which as we can tell you? Makes for a pretty fuckin’ awesome team.” Mike paused, polishing off her slice before picking up and folding another. John, used to the voracity of her appetite, watched nonplussed and then picked up the thread. “And so we aren’t going to take into account a number of things here. You haven’t teamed before? We all start somewhere. Liam Mason not being able to get any momentum going? Maybe Romeo joining him stateside is just the shot in the arm he needs. You’ve got our undivided attention. Our first appearance as this division’s champions will be a showcase event. A statement to any potential challengers.” “We may be the good guys, but we sure’s fuck ain’t softies. Actually… let me speak on that for a sec. See, we’ve come to the realization that some people around here think ‘good guy’ means you’re soft, fluffy, squishable, and roll over when somebody pokes you. Somewhere along the line, moral quality got equated to being a fuckin’ pushover.” John had finished his meal. As Mike spoke, he set the plate aside and watched her speak intently. He waited until she almost instinctively threw over to him. “That narrative is controlled by those in power. And this company is a microcosm of the world and all that it contains. Including that eternal struggle. History has repeatedly shown that those that crush people underfoot are also the ones who call for civility when their tyranny is resisted. I’ve seen it here. And NSFW will stamp it out. With extreme prejudice.” “See if there’s one thing we both can’t stand? It’s an unfair fuckin’ power balance. We don’t play that shit. We don’t fit in boxes, we tear boxes up. We don’t stand by while other people do or say horrible crap, we shut that shit down. That’s the sort of fuckin’ intensity we bring every time we step in the ring. Now, Los Amantes, you’ve been through thick and thin, but can you step up to that?” The penultimate slice of pepperoni was bitten into like aggressive punctuation. “This ain’t no battle royale, there ain’t no Muppets to goof around with, and this ain’t the bush leagues, kiddos. You are stepping in the ring on EWC’s flagship show with NSFW, the goddamn kings of this fucking division.” “We did what we said we would do and that was take what was ours. But we aren’t like Rob Garcia. We aren't going to hide in the bank while things sort themselves out. You two will put a good fight. We expect no less. But Los Amantes will not make their name off of our backs.” “Nobody will. Least of all you. We worked too damn hard and fought too damn long and payed too damn much in blood for anybody to bring us down, much less this fucking soon. Our match against Mucho Grande was close, but I won’t have nobody saying it was a goddamn fluke. We fought a long road of teams to get to this point- we’ll fight a longer road to show just how much we fuckin’ deserved it. You two just happen to be the first mile marker.” Mike finished off the entire pepperoni pie, and flagged down a passing waiter, ordering a dessert to split before turning her full attention back to her partner. “Don’t take that as a dismissal. As I said, Los Amantes has our full attention. Our critics say that we go out of our way to disparage the others in the division. No, we would never do that. We do however hold you to higher expectations. The days of being a tag team as something to fall back on when there just isn’t anything else going on - are over.” “Tag teaming is a fucking art form. Anybody joining the division hoping to coast by is gonna hit a brick wall really fucking fast, because we won’t allow it.” “And don’t think any of the others will either. The Limit? Vile. But a force of destruction.” “Freaks and Geeks Presents: The Foxy Ladies of Dream Sound Revolution, Live From Mr. Biggs’ Limo? A fuckin’ mouthful and a half to say, but a fuckin’ awesome pairing that just might wind up taking these belts from us one day.” “Mucho Grande! After last Monday, we know for a fact that they are the team they say they are. So Los Amantes? Will you join our esteemed ranks? Or will you be another Bulletproof?” The question was emphatically deadpan which was stretching pretty far for John’s range. Something about them, something he knew, irked his partner and so that dislike was shared in kind. “Oh fucking God, I don’t think anybody here is another goddamn Bulletproof. Are you? I sure’s fuck think better of you than that.” The waiter dropped briefly by the table, bringing the bill, a take-home box for Bishop’s uneaten pizza, and a slice of New York cheesecake with two clean forks. Mike handed one fork to Bishop and her card over to the waiter along with the bill, and the two oblige him a quick selfie before he heads off. “Los Amantes, we want you to step the fuck up. Give us a Nice Sweet Fucking Workout. Don’t disappoint us.”