"MATT SHANAHAN. You INSUFFERABLE CHILD I guess you think you're REAL SLICK huh? A real HUSTLER huh? You think that you can just FAKE YOUR OWN FIRING!-"
Freakshow, standing in the middle of the BBW ring, a vast echo chamber of negative synergy centered around one bleached blonde nightclub owner with a metaphorical sixteen inch pole shoved a mile deep into his sphincter. Crammed real good in there baby. Oh yeah you like that don't you. You're a dirty girl. A dirty, dirty girl. A dirty girl who needs to be punished just like that slut The God of Punks. Yeah why don't you bend over for daddy real good so he can LARIAT YOU.
"That's right! I said it. You, Matt Shanahan, FAKED it. Just like you FAKED everything in your ENTIRE career. All of your wins FAKE, all of your bitches, FAKE, all of your fans, FAKE. You FAKED it to get away from ME because you know that my c**k is bigger than your c**k. That's right, I said it. This isn't about wins and loses, this is about whose the BIGGER MAN. But more than that... More than that.. This is about ME taking YOUR FFA U.S title. Something that I had every intention of doing until you're BLACK a** bailed out." Freakshow puts his hand on his hip all sassy like. "Oh yeah, don't think that little SONG AND DANCE with the house fulled me you massive queer. You took a few licks, uhuh. But that's nothing compared to what I was fixin' to do to you. Oh yeah, oh yeah. Belieeeeeve me-!"
Freakshow keels over and dry heaves. The man was caked with sweat. He looked like a ******** amphibian, not in the sense that he was green or had good hops, but in the sense that he was literally ******** drenched with his own sweat. It bled through his suit there was so much of it. Sweet mother of christ. He straightens back up and stares dead into the camera lens his eyes were watery red and his sinuses were dripping into the back of his throat. It was as if he had been dragged out of Columbia by his ankles and plopped dead in the ring during the commercial break, only to be resuscitated by a jug of whiskey from his bar, 50% water. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a large brown envelope.
"This. Will. Not. STAND! I will be buried up to my neck in RAW s**t before I let that WORM have his grubby little hands on my BABY. That U.S title BELONGS TO ME. And I will get it. Oh yessir. Yes I will get it BAY-BAY, by HOOK or by CROOK-"
Freakshow reaches into the envelope and pulls out a big fat stack of hundreds. He drops it on the ground. Thud. Then another. Thud. Then another. Thud. "If anyone." Thud. "Can get me." Thud. "That title." Thud. "I will make you.. A very... Very... RICH... MAN!"
The blonde looks down at the money blankly. It didn't mean a ******** thing to him without that U.S title. Ok, maybe that's an overstatement. If it didn't mean anything to him he wouldn't have so darn much of it. He raises the microphone to his mouth. He flashes his yellow chompers menacingly a little trail of spittle inching down out the corner of his mouth as he inhales deeply through his nose. There was a little bit of ketchup on the collar of his gucci shirt. At least that's what it looked like, ketchup. Tucked into his shirt pocket is a polka dotted white and red handkerchief. He reaches for it and brings it to his nose, blowing a few thousand dollars worth of liquid snot into the silk satin fabric. He fans it out before tossing it over his shoulder.
"That's right. I am offering a $500,000 DOLLAR BOUNTY to the man that can bring me MY FFA U.S TITLE. I don't care WHAT you have to do to get it. If you have to MURDER the p***k then I'll be the ******** JEW that stands on your trial. If you have to hire the ARMY to track him down then I'll be NAPOLEON leading the CHARGE. Give me title! SOMEONE. GIVE ME. MY TITLE. NOW-!"
The words stop coming out of Freaks mouth. He looks down at the money on the ground again. He looks around at the rights blaring into his vision. The blond blinks a few times. Quietly he asks himself
"...Where am I?"
