#and the juicy sting of not-quite-ready tomatoes

[halfdeadwallfly]

yes but really there is nothing better than just-picked tomatoes, fresh and still warm from the sun

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

Game #7: I’m Bad

The ring gave a noise somewhere between a clatter and a creak as Mike McGuire flopped to the canvas, panting. They had been doing solo workouts for the past hour and their black and green ringwear was quite damp- half from sweat and half from the bottle of water or two they’d drenched themselves with to cool down. Propping their chin in one hand, they looked across the yard toward the garden. A small plot of assorted flowers centralized around an orange Voodoo rosebush at the beginning of the summer, the garden had grown substantially since to include not only more flowers, but fruits and vegetables as well. A small patch of strawberries yielded a steady output of plump red berries, a few heads of leafy green cabbage were coming along nicely as were green beans, snap peas, and, Mike assumed, a row of carrots. Right now, the garden’s tender was seeing to several stakes of tomatoes, the bountiful crop a deep ruddy orange in the early summer sunlight. “Hey. Church. Gimme one of those, wouldya please?” He paused in his inspection of the leaves for any signs of beetles, turned to his partner slightly, and shook his head with a small smile. “They’re not ripe.” “C’mon, I don’t care, they look juicy as shit and I’m thirsty.” They pouted, but John was unmoved. “You’ll get sick. They’ll be ready in a few days.” He turned back to his work, putting a wordless finality on the subject. Mike groaned a bit and rolled to the side, snatching a half full bottle of Gatorade off the ring steps as well as their GoPro. There was a third object stowed to the side as well- a classic black and white mottled composition notebook neatly labeled ‘DAKOTA JENNINGS’. As with every other opponent they’ve ever had, John had used his keen observational skills and insight to keep a well documented record of the Firecracker, and had even made a few updates as pertaining to the match they’d had with her and her partner at Rite of Kings. Mike frowned sourly as they thought of it, rubbing the back of their head. They’d been lucky not to need stitches or come away with a concussion, but the spot where the chair had made contact was still sore even days after the fact. They’d had it. The Chimera Tag Team Championships were in their grasp, and ReKota had known it too. So out came the filthy tactics and steel chairs and at the end of it all, before Bishop Church could even see what was going on, Mike McGuire had hit the canvas and been rolled up for three. The ovation from the crowd, while appreciated, didn’t take away the sting as much as they would have liked. That had been that. And Mike was still angry at themself for it. Angry, and raw, and not just because of the screwy loss- because of what had played out on Twitter afterward. A typical snarky back and forth banter had ended ugly, and Mike wasn’t even sure that Cross or Dakota were aware of just how cruel what they’d said was. How could they? It’s not like Mike advertised the ugliest parts of their past. Huffing out a breath through their nose, Mike took a deep glug of the Gatorade- not, they sulkily thought, a juicy garden-fresh tomato- and wiped their mouth on the back of their hand, setting the GoPro across from them and clicking the record button on. You know, people say stupid stuff on Twitter all the time. The whole platform is made of people’s stupid comments, after all. I’m hardly immune either. Which is why 90 percent of what you jokers say on that thing doesn’t bother me. Hell, bantering back and forth with you and your… boyfriend? Fiance? Eh, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, it’s actually kinda fun. And then you went and ruined that. Let me let you in on something. You’re not the first people to tell me I have a hittable face. You’re not the first to tell me I’m about to get my face caved in. Let me tell you, Jennings, you and Reboca don’t want to be in the same league as that person. I doubt even you are that low. “Fuck.” Mike had clicked the GoPro off and was staring at it. That was stupid. The specter of Steve Archer hadn’t been exorcised half as much as Mike would have liked. A couple of sleepless nights prior had made that perfectly clear. Just thinking about it made Mike almost want to call out across the yard and have John join them for a little bit, hold onto him until they felt safe. But they were stronger than that, right? Besides, they had that… that one thing they couldn’t keep putting off. John was going to need them for support, not the other way around. Mike would be fine. They always were in the end. Reaching forward, they picked up the GoPro and erased what they just recorded, as if those words had never existed. Goodbye. They closed their eyes and took a few deep breaths. Felt their old reliable steel slide into place. No, there was no sense showing vulnerability where it wasn’t necessary. Dakota, whether on Cross’ direction or her own volition, would eat that shit alive. It’d be like a drop of blood in a tank full of starved great whites. They turned the camera back on and set it across from the ring, starting again in earnest with  that big sharkish smile. “So. How about Rite of Kings, Valor Pro faithful? Crazy as fuck, wasn’t it? I mean, Jesus Fuck, did Spiral vs. Aoki nearly make you hurl, too? Shit was fucking insane. Sure hope they catch that pale stickyfingered fucker- after all that, Aoki deserves that strap. I mean, I like the Zombies. They’re weird, but they’re my kind of weird. Cosmo Cooper… STILL has that Apex Championship, which I’m sure has Cross Reboca’s underwear in all kinds’a fuckin’ knots. Oh. And speaking of…” Mike’s face went utterly sour then, one hand combing sweat-damp hair out of their eyes. “Ya boys got beat. But it weren’t for lack of trying, Faithful, and it weren’t for lack of cheating on ReKota’s part. I mean, you all saw it, yeah? And if you didn’t, feel free to check out a summary on YouTube. I’ll wait.” The Bronx Brawler paused a moment, twisting their wrist as if looking at a watch. “Yeah, there, you see what I’m talkin’ about? This close. Just a fuckin’ hair, and all of the sudden Jennings and Reboca devolve into their cheap fuckin’ ways because at the end of the day? They know they can’t win fair against a team like me and Church. And it was a damn shame because we were actually having a good time. But, one thing led to another. Broken up pin, then a wallop to the back of my head, and good ol’ N-S-F-Dubs come out of our first Valor Pro Wrestling pay-per-view empty handed.” Tisking and shaking their head, Mike gave a sigh. “Which leads us to here. I’m going solo this week. Me vs. Dakota. And I got all this shit running through my head like a fuckin’ freight train about it. Lots to unpack, so let’s start with bitches talkin’ shit, shall we? Any idiot can talk shit these days. You just get yourself a Twitter account and start running your fool mouth, regardless of whether you got anything fucking relevant to say or even if you know what the blue hell you’re talking about. My opponent this week is no fucking exception. If she knew what the hell she was talking about, she’d know that the last thing my partner is is a ‘meathead’. But I digress.” They snorted, and in spite of themselves cast a look off camera that caused their expression to soften slightly. It’d be missed if you happened to blink, though, because a split second later had Mike facing forward once again, a cool smirk on their face. “Between calling herself our ‘daddy’ and calling me a fucking drunk, Dakota Jennings is proving herself to be just another internet tough guy who thinks they’re ten feet tall with their dick hanging in the dirt. Least, they were until Church said something in particular that seemed to sting a little. My partner, in his infinite wisdom, pointed out that your tendency to go all El Fucking Kabong on people when the chips are down was compensating for a lack of, y’know, any real fucking talent. And at that point, Jennings had a major case of e-cock shrinkage and started whining that such an accusation was ‘hurtful and untrue’.” That smirk began to grow into something distinctly more vicious. “Methinks the lady doth protest too fucking much. Now, I’ve done my homework. I know all about you. And I could sympathize. It fucking sucks to bust your ass and not have anybody take notice. There’s a few ways to tackle that problem constructively, none- I’ll repeat to get it through your skull, NONE- of them involve cracking skulls with wild abandon. But that’s what you did. That’s what you keep doing. And now? I think you’ve been relying so much on the chairs that you don’t know how to get by without them. Now, I challenged you to leave your folding steel special at home. And you said you would. But I don’t fucking believe you, Jennings. Why should I? Why would our little date in Peru be any different than the past few weeks?” Mike rolled their shoulders and tipped their head to the side twice, cracking their neck. “On the other hand, maybe this wouldn’t be the match you’d want to fucking ditch your only real advantage in. Do you know who I am? Have you done your homework like I have? In case you haven’t got yourself out from under Cross’ dick for the last few days, let me educate you. My name is Mike McGuire. I’ve trained at the feet of King Race himself. I’ve gone at people wrapped in barbed wire. I’ve dropped big hairy bitches fuckin’ thrice my size with a single punch. I am one half of the greatest pure tag team of this generation, and if I’m bragging about all this? I’m still being fucking sincere.” Suddenly, Mike’s expression darkened. They leaned forward, their tone gaining something borderline ominous. “I can play fucking dirty if I have to, Jennings. I relish that shit. You’ve been in that ring with me, you know what I can do with backup. You won’t be able to tag out this time, though. You won’t have anywhere to run. But I double dare you. Break your word and go for that fucking chair. Do that, Jennings, and you will be one fucking sorry bitch, because I ain’t gonna play that shit twice. You slither one more cheap victory against me out of your ass and your rich little boytoy is gonna be pushing you to the next show in a fucking wheelchair. See you in South America, Firecrotch.” Their harsh expression remained on their face, even as they reached forward to click off the camera. Mike leaned back against the ropes, letting out a long exhale. Perhaps, they thought, they shouldn’t show John that one. They were pretty sure he wouldn’t approve of the violent threats that they’d dropped. But the thing was? Mike meant every last word. They were as sick of Dakota’s shit as they imagined Ms. Byrne was, but Mike didn’t have the power to fire anyone. They did, however, have the power to do horrible things to people. Things they hoped it wouldn’t come to, but couldn’t make promises it wouldn’t. Sighing, they rolled over, laid on their stomach in the shade of the spreading maple, and watched John tend his garden with a tender affection they almost envied.