#seeing the *fuse* logo in the corner has me feeling Some Kinda Way about remembering being a teen when this was on TV lol

[mmmthornton]

In any universe where Stan writes a song about his feelings for Tolkien, it'd be something like this lol. I don't make the rules, its just true.

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

NSFW #2.1 It All Begins Again

OOC: title is intentional :P

A few months ago, the two of them watched from their knees as their world was ripped away from them. After that, John felt it was necessary to reevaluate his worldview. A source of their misery had confided to them that now they finally understood the lesson he was trying to impart. To be like him. Those ideals would soil their legacy as champion just as John believed they defined this person that while he begrudgingly respected, cared very little for. And so he wanted to go home. His request was obliged by his partner, a person who, deep down, couldn’t deny him anything. If John Bishop Church asked for the moon, Mike McGuire would find some way to pull it from the sky for him, catastrophic tidal activity be damned. Yet, even though they granted him what he asked for- the immediate cessation of their current occupation- it didn’t sit well with them. Far from it. The abrupt loss of something they’d loved so much for so long, for the second time in their life no less, filled Mike with a heaving sea of bitterness. One night’s full expulsion in the form a destructive eruption of white-hot temper should have quelled it, at least they’d hoped. They didn’t want to direct their anger at John, as he’d had enough denied him in his life. And after a long discussion, Mike resolved to let it go, to get over their bad feelings over leaving what was, in truth, a toxic environment and start over. No more complaints were made on Mike’s part, no sulking or wanton destruction. There was, however, a slightly distressing amount of Labatt Blue. John noticed. Usually sat in his recliner and read as Mike imbibed. Whatever was on the television became the subject of their anger. The Mets losing. The Bruins winning. The worst though is when Mike flipped to their previous employer. The anger was laser focused. Two weeks prior to their sudden reemergence, it had been a night just like that. “Motherfucker.” Green eyes, slightly hazed over, glared at the handsome Texan brandishing the ornate gold belt, their lips curling into something between a sneer and a snarl. The ugliness being directed at the screen seemed out of place in the cozy, if not mismatched, living room. Their hands balled up into taut fists- well, one did, and the other gripped the amber glass bottle so tightly that it seemed that it might shatter. “Look at that fuckin’ pukestain. Sittin’ pretty at the top of the goddamn heap. Somebody shoulda knocked him into the fuckin’ pits by now. And a’course the tag division’s going down the diarrhea dumps. All that fuckin’ work for shit. Good job, guys, fuckin’ A.” There was a mild slur to their words, though it was hard to tell as they spoke through gritted teeth. The bottle was raised to their lips, sucked dry of its last dregs, and dropped to the side of the couch, clinking against two of its previously drained fellows. John looked up from Sue Monk Kidd’s The Invention of Wings. He adjusted his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose. “You could always change the channel.” Mike blinked as if they seriously had not considered this as a possibility, eyes flicking to the remote on the end table, staring at it bemusedly before picking it up and starting to idly run through the channels, little split-second mismatched bits of programming fusing themselves into an incomprehensible chain with every flick of their finger, before finally sighing hotly and clicking the TV off altogether. “Or turn it off,” he turned the page. “...don’t it piss you off at all, though? We busted our fucking nuts to make something outta nothing, and the moment we leave it’s just as big a pile of shit as before. It ain’t just pointless, it’s fuckin’ disrespect.” “Yes. We said as much,” John didn’t look up. He agreed to the joint statement but he also thought it gave people false hope as if the two were coming back to right a wrong. But that is where the business decision came in. He had concluded that they would never be featured and that tag team wrestling would never be taken seriously. It would always be considered an afterthought or a contingency plan. Jealousy was an ugly emotion to confront but it felt justified here. So he let go. Something tugged at the corner of his mind and it was an obvious declaration at this point, “Why not go somewhere else?” If they’d still been holding their beer bottle they would have dropped it, and legit surprise seeped its way into their somewhat drunken expression.“Are you serious? I mean… I mean I thought you were done, outside the one-offs here an’ there. All that stuff you said about not knowing how much you had left in the tank an’ not wanting to push it.” He remembered as such. Part of him enjoyed playing local celebrity. There wasn’t a day out there when someone didn’t ask about about NSFW. About reclaiming what was theirs. They shared his partner’s drunken sentiments. John marked his place and set the book aside, “You’re right. I don’t know what I have left. But I believe that leaving this unsettled could cause issues.” As if in a moment of sudden clarity, Mike glanced briefly down at the trio of empty bottles, and thought about the few others dropped into the recycle bin at various points in the day. Giving a soft sigh, they looked down at their hands, teeth nipping at their lower lip, “If it’s just because of me I don’t wanna do it. Look, I’m sorry. I’ve really been trying and maybe I ain’t being altogether fair. But I said I’d deal and I’ve been doing my best. It’ll come in time, I just don’t...” They swallowed, sighed. Looked up almost sorrowfully. “...don’t want you to do something you really don’t want to just cuz I’m being an ass who can’t cope like a normal person.” John leaned back in the recliner, “No, that’s not it. I wouldn’t still be training. But beating on kids fresh out of Race’s school at the fairgrounds is starting to lose its appeal. One of them asked for your autograph right before you broke his nose.” “His nose oughtn’a been in the way of my fist. Learn to dodge, kid, fuck,” Mike laughed, the peal fading off into a sigh, albeit a lighter one than before. “Alright. So if this is something you really want- and you know I’m on board- then where do we go? I mean we’ve been getting offers from everywhere from Atlanta to fuckin’ Zanesville, and I… heh. I may have been holding onto ‘em in case you changed your mind.” “I’ve seen those,” John didn’t mean to be dismissive of Mike’s excitement but he had seen those offers. Middling gigs that were of little substance. Although, a few weeks ago, they’d been walking out of the aforementioned fairgrounds. Someone, he couldn’t remember their face, handed him a flyer. The slip of paper had a curious logo on it. An inverted triangle made up of three letters. For some reason, John kept it. He retrieved it from his wallet and handed it to Mike, “But what about something more international?” They took the piece of paper, gave it a once over, and smiled broadly, “Valor Pro, huh? Shit, some of the best times we’ve had’ve been travelling the world. Let’s do it.” With business conducted, the newly minted Valor Pro Wrestling tag team looked ahead to a major challenge. Church and McGuire had talked a big game and their new employer clearly took notice. These sort of sessions between the two were usually private. But something about this place compelled them to be more intimate with their discourse. And so propped up on a kickstand, Mike’s phone filmed their discussion. Start of next month, NSFW would make their official debut in the capital city of Morocco. There was a palpable excitement between the two as they wouldn’t be hand held through a corporate approved set of appearances. Their promotion would be their own. That rush dissipated as the pair sat at the dining room table with an open manilla folder between them. Bio sheets of their opponents, scribbled with John’s notes and Mike’s doodles. Berlin’s mustache suddenly had roguish curls while Brenna had devil horns and a forked tongue. Mike gestured to the former. “If you want me to be honest, an’ I know you do? I got no clue what to make of this guy. I mean, Brenna we know, kinda. She’s dangerous as shit and just as unpredictable. This Berlin dude, though… damn. Might’s well be an alien landscape.” Mike looked up to their partner- he’d always had an uncanny gift of insight that would definitely serve them well here. “What do you think?” “It’s what we wanted.” “I know that. New places, new people. I’m excited. But what I mean is, I can’t get a bead on Berlin and you’re really fuckin’ good at reading people. You see something I’m missing?” “He seems nice.” Mike sighed, shaking their head with a mild chuckle. That, it seemed, was that. “Yep. He sure does. So… how do we approach this, you think?” John looked at the still photos of Brenna and Berlin. Notably, the warm expression lent towards Berlin after coming up short just moments prior. His fingers touched them briefly, ���That’s new. Well, not new,” he shrugged and closed the folder. For a brief moment, John’s eyes steeled, “We aren’t here to make friends. These two are in our way.” “Good eye. But I’m wondering if the same kinda tactics people tend t’ try and use on us- the separate and destroy shit- would be an advantage or an invitation to get ourselves killed. Unless…” Mike’s eyes found their partner’s, a devious grin flicking over their lips. “...the one on the ‘destroy’ end is the one most likely to get all murderous-like.” “It’s a matter of not hesitating,” John answered, “because she won’t. Our association with her has always been at arm’s length and her career aspirations have always been unclear. And while these two have a history, she’s shown that walking out on her partner isn’t out of the realm of possibility.” “Yeah, just because she’s flirty as shit with me doesn’t mean she won’t beat me up. Nothing personal, but it is what it is,” Mike shrugged, “For that point, Berlin doesn’t seem like the type who likes being tied down to anything either. Talks a lot about nomadic wandering and shit.” “And so why is he here?” John’s question was rhetorical. Mike picked up on the flicker of sarcasm but not many others would, “This is our chance to reestablish just who we are. The premier tag team in this sport. And what I’ve seen out of Berlin thus far is a kind of lip service towards this business. Coasting on an undeniable level of ability. Thus far, I get the inclination that he thought he had it easy coming up on his last time. And for the first time, he faced some real adversity and the result was…” He tapped his fingers on the table three times in an all too familiar cadence. “And Mike, believe me, we’re a brick wall.” Mike nodded, beaming, “They’re good, but they’re still two guys. We’re a team. We’ll show ‘em what the difference is. This ain’t a hot date, this is a Number One Contendership shot for those gorgeous-ass Chimera Tag Team belts. They belong to a team who eats, sleeps, and breathes tagging, not just another combo of two people tagging cuz it’s convenient. I mean, fuck. It’s not like being a couple alone makes for a good t--” They stopped themselves. “And that, I think…” They looked to the camera, their palm hitting the lens in an abrupt cut to black.