#anyway the framing the fuckin shapes the fighters are making

[crouteann]

not to be annoying but i cannot accurately portray how fucking stoked i was to see this in the 1900s room (??) at the cmoa. id never seen george bellows work before!!! it was one of my favorite things i saw there and i was gushing to davey about it for like 5 minutes making him look at it with me and then they had MAGNETSSSSSS

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

NSFW #19: The Collected

The room was very dark and unfamiliar, windowless. A single light, harsh in contrast, was illuminating the disturbing sight of NSFW, unconscious and tied up back to back while seated on a pair of rather uncomfortable looking wooden chairs. The scene was quiet, the only sound the occasional drip of water, or perhaps the squeak of a scurrying rat. A moment passed, and our heroes began to come around, looking a rather concerned at their predicament. Mike spoke first, her cap slouched at an angle- it appeared that whoever kidnapped the two of them had the decency to put it back on her head. “Nnnngh… Church? You okay, bud?” John opened up his eyes slightly. His mind felt like mush. He mumbled his response. “Not really.” “Don’t worry. I’m right here, we’ll find a way out of this.” She was taking a brave stance, it seemed, for the sake of her partner if nothing else, but her own expression was a bit wide-eyed and nervous looking. She glanced around, trying to glean anything about their location from what little she could see. There were vague shapes in the dark, but nothing beyond the boundaries of the single light was anything that Mike could make out for certain. Suddenly, a door opened and slammed shut, a cascade of footfalls echoing down an unseen stairway, a long shadow falling over the captive Tag Team Champions. “Michelle McGuire. John Bishop Church. I see you’re awake. Good. I only slipped the two of you a mild sedative. I wouldn’t want any harm to come to my newest acquisitions… yet.” The voice was a rich, warm baritone, the sort that sounded as if it belonged to a well known gay rights activist. Or perhaps a legendary sci-fi actor. Or perhaps both assumptions were only coincidental. “But I am being rude. Allow me to introduce myself. I… am The Collector.” The pair stared at him blankly. Then back at each other best they could manage. Back to their captor again. “...I’m sorry, who?” “The Collector! The greatest mastermind that professional wrestling has ever seen!” Mike looked thoughtful, lips pursed into a ‘hmmm’ of concentration. Then she shook her head. “No, seriously, who are you? I’ve never fuckin’ heard of you.” The shadow threw its arms up in frustration, the voice taking on a distinct edge of indignation. “You mock the Collector? The most feared manager in the world? I have traveled this entire sorry planet, assimilating the best fighters into my personal collection. From the arid deserts of Mexico, to the flowering cherry orchards of Japan, to the frozen tundras of Canada. I have taken the best from them all, and now I have come for America. All of the best Earth warriors will belong to me!” He cackled richly. John, for whatever reason, was nodding along. “He seems nice.” “Church. He wants to keep us as pets, or fuckin’ eat us, shit, maybe he wants to make us part of some weird concubine, I don’t know.” “Oh.” With their kidnapper’s clear lack of niceness clarified, Mike turned her attention back to the sinister man casting his shadow over them. Her brows knit, and suddenly a look of recognition dawned over her. “Wait a fuckin’ sec, I know who this guy is! … Dude, didn’t your team just lose? To a team containing Emma Louise? I mean, granted, she’s on a real fuckin’ hot streak lately. Maybe that’s what happens when one of your clients is a misogynist dickhole and the other won’t shut up about food porn.” “Oh, these guys.” Mike’s face paled a bit. “Church, shit, it’s even worse than I thought. We ain’t just been kidnapped… we’ve been kidnapped by losers!” There was a deafening thwack on a wooden surface in front of them. The veiled man trembled with anger. “Silence, fools! I didn’t forcefully invite you to my palatial estate in Boca Raton to discuss the past. We are here to discuss the future. Your futures, particularly.” “Shit! We’re still in Florida? We gotta be in North Carolina by Monday, dude!” “If we don’t show up we’re gonna be in big trouble.” A thoughtful pause. The bigger man raised his eyebrows in mild concern. “Look what happened to the Volsung Death Squad.” “Enough! You no longer need to worry about any of the Carolinas. You see, The Criterion has done exactly what we’ve been asked to do and that is eliminate our opponents.” Mike smirked a bit. “Hang on a sec. You’re the Collector, yeah? And your little group, you call ‘em Criterion. … Does that make them the fuckin’ Criterion Collection?” “Oh, that reminds me. You know that movie we watched the other night?” “...the weird arthaus-y thing?” There is a glimmer of appreciation in John’s eyes and he began to speak in a tone that lended to fond memories. “Did you know that the inspiration for Cries and Whispers was Ingmar Bergman’s very own mother? Anyway, that family. They went through so much. They could have learned a lot from Agnes and maybe they did after the fact.” “Wait, wait, this was the one with the three sisters, and the dying one was cuddling the maid’s boobs, and one of them cut the shit out of her own hoo-ha to turn off her husband?” Another thwack! “Shut up! So, you enjoyed watching a little sisterly bonding, eh? Then perhaps you’ll enjoy…this!” The lights to the left of the room suddenly clicked on, revealing two large glass tubes, the frozen, terrified forms of Aimee and Ruby Clifton within them. The glass was just frosted enough to obscure the details of their features but easily revealing their palms against the glass, their wide eyes, their parted, screaming lips. Mike herself didn’t scream, but she did gasp, her expression both horrified and slightly nauseated. The Collector’s maniacal laugh filled up the dank basement like black balloons. “You crazy fucker, you killed them! What the fu--- oh my fucking God!” John’s eyes were wide and full of a bleak terror. Mike voiced that abject reaction for the both of them until he could only mutter in a breathless voice. “Oh my.” “Indeed! The Clifton Sisters stand before you as monument as to why I, The Collector, am not to be trifled with! And soon enough, when the time of the Criterion’s victory is nigh, you will join them!” Mike stared at the encased bodies of the two women, speechless for a time before, very unlike her, bursting into wild sobbing. “Son of a bitch! You fuckin’ monster! They had their whole careers ahead of them! They never even got to win a match!” John was in so much shock that he didn’t really react. “And what about the rest of them? Lynx Boyd. She’s a Clifton, too. Except she’s not. I think?” “And what about Paul? Their big brother is going to be so fuckin’ sad!” “And their parents in Ohio. I mean, they’re already in Ohio, and this happens?” “And their other siblings! Joanie, and Chachi, and Melvin, and Gunter, and Lucy, and Ricky, and Richie, and Potsie, and Donder, and Blitzen, and Gilligan, and the rest…” “Melvin Clifton already passed away so he’s been spared of this horrible news.” “They’re never going to be Tag Team Champions now!” John’s shoulders shrugged, the ropes loosening just a little as his frame went inwards. “They were never going to be Tag Team Champions anyway.” “Oh, I agree, John Bishop Church. That is why they had to go. But you heard my Yeshwa. Just like Curtis Mars and Emma Louise, The Clifton Sisters were mere stepping stones to our greatest achievement. Becoming Tag Team Champions.” “But you lost.” “So this plan’s kind of already been whizzed down your leg. I mean it’s kind of refreshing to see some real ambition, but ambition only takes you so far if you don’t produce. Ambition without production just makes your boys a pack of arrogant dicks. And you. You’re just as fucking bad. I’ve seen dozens and dozens like you. You’re probably some has been or never was, looking to soak up glory from young guns more talented than you ever were, like some overgrown sponge. What are you going to do when the guys you’re living vicariously through don’t go fucking anywhere? Get new guys? Or perish like a fucking dog?” The Collector’s voice became hysteric with umbrage at Mike’s newfound hostility. “You are in no position to speak to me as you are right now, you pathetic wretch! You think one loss derails our master plan?” “No, of course not. If it did, we wouldn’t be where we are now.” John looked around. “Figuratively. Anyway, Yeshwa made all of these promises that he failed to keep. He couldn’t hold up his end of the bargain. You threw two guys together who had probably just met each other and expected positive results? The big guy? He seemed like he didn’t even know what type of match he was in.” “No matter! My collection is vast and Yeshwa will be paired with a more suitable partner this time. A man who captured a glorious first victory. NSFW, you will suffer greatly when my samoan destroyer tears you limb from limb.” “Your tall, handsome drink of water, huh? I’ve seen better. But I’ll give you that he’s got more on the ball than your other big guy, that’s for sure. Least, that’s what I thought till I heard him run his yap about Joe Doe. I mean, shit. What kind of chump dumps on a guy who puts in the work week after week, and every week gets just a little bit better?” Mike’s eyes flashed as if finding this oversight insulting. John interjected his feelings into the matter. “Antoni won. But Joe will be back. That’s the kind of young man he is. Now Antoni has to come to a realization. He teams with a man who couldn’t pull it together after all of those grandiose statements about destruction and remembrance. And he faces a team that since they have debuted have only been pinned but one time. That has ran through every challenger and would-be challenger to those so desired tag team championships through hard work and sheer determination.” “He’s got that on his own. I see that in him under the thick level of jerkassitude. But the thing is, he’s one guy. And Yeshwa, he may have lost, but maybe he’s got some spark in there we haven’t seen yet. But the truth still stands. These are two guys. Two guys who just got smacked together by you, Mister Collector. What prayer can they possibly stand against us? Two people who’ve spent almost a year now backing each other up and learning everything about each other? Your boys can’t say that. But you know who can? The team you’ve already written off.” John bucked slightly against the ropes, feeling the desired result come through. “We faced The Clifton Sisters and in their eyes we saw a hunger to become the best. Mike and I weren’t just going to give way to them. And unfortunately for them, they fell short. But they only had one thing to say afterwards.” “Ruby goes and says, ‘You haven’t seen the last of us. I promise you that.’ without skippin’ a fuckin’ beat.” “And considering our present company, we could blow that off as the cartoony words of a villain that is always meant to lose. But I believe them.” “I wasn’t blowing smoke up their asses when I told them they were welcome to try again anytime, and here they are, answering it like true fucking challengers. Are they gonna beat us? Not if we can help it, but they can sure’s fuck try, as many times as they want. And long’s they do? We’ll respect them for it.” Suddenly, John stood up. The ropes fell to his feet nonchalantly. “To be honest, not sure we should afford your team the same respect. I’m sure they’re capable enough. But collectively, their views on this business are toxic.” Giving a twist of her wrists, Mike knocked her own ropes away and followed suit. “And the absolute last thing this industry of ours needs is more goddamn toxicity.” “What? How did you two escape? My knots are impeccable! You two were to be the pinnacle of my glorious collection! Eliminated by my greatest warriors!” Mike scoffed. “Between us? We got those things undone like five minutes ago. Your traps suck and so do you. Now where’s your bathroom? I gotta piss like a racehorse.” The Collector faded back into the darkness, resigned in his humiliation. “Up the stairs and to the left.” “Good. Thanks. Now get outta my way!” The Bronx brawler charged up the stairs, her partner following, footsteps heavier and more deliberate. The Collector was left alone with his sad collection of papier mache trophies, and the yelling from upstairs. “Fuck, man, this place is nice! Can see the beach and everything! You gotta finish that basement, it’s gotta be bringing down your property values. … Church, you need to check out this crapper, it’s got a fucking bidet!” “No thanks. This place smells like menthol candies.” The sound of a flushing toilet echoed through the basement plumbing as the picture faded to black.