Meet My Monster: Dick Trickle Addresses Two Losers

[colossus]

The casino was lively. Machines buzzing and ringing all over, lights flashing, dealers smiling as they slide the chips holding people’s life savings from them, dealing them their next deathknell. In the back of the casino was the cafeteria area, with catered food made by some of the best chefs in the south. You name it, they served it. Western classics such as  Green chili stew, Colorado bison burger, Pueblo chiles, Rocky Mountain trout, Colorado lamb, Palisade peaches, Rocky Mountain oysters, Colorado craft beer, Olathe sweet corn, Rocky Ford cantaloupe, the list goes on. Some of the finest deserts, too. Dishes like old fashioned banana pudding, peach cobbler, pecan pie. Buffet stations with massive portions, each of them just screaming to be listed as COD on the corners report.

In the corner, with the longest line of all, was a Chick-fil-a. They were in corporate America, after all. 

"MORE!” there was a thunderous bang, as the man known as Colossus pounded on the table. “MORE!” Dick Trickle, his manager and handler, was talking to the concessions manager. Apparently, the big man had cleared out their buffet and put them behind schedule for the mid-week rush.

“What do you mean there is nothing left?!” He could be heard shouting. “CUT OFF?! You are going to cut HIM off, don’t you know who that is?!” His voice was getting louder with each sentence. “He will turn this place upside down and you with it if you don–”

“MORE!” another bang rang out as if sent from the heavens above.

“What do you mean you’re calling the police?! Listen here you podunk cousin fucker, there is nothing–and I mean NOTHING–illegal about eating copious amounts of food. You want to call the police go right the fuck ahead but I swear to god–”

“MORE!”

BOOM!

Dick decided it wasn’t worth it. He walked over, whispered something in the big man's ear, and he got up from the table. With a massive roar he flipped it, sending plates and silverware tumbling.

”Come on, big man, let's go somewhere where we are appreciated. I think the Waffle House may still be open in this hicktown.”

They walked out of the cafeteria and into the casino proper. In front of them there was an ad showing on the fluorescent light board. “EPW DANGER: FROM DENVER”. Damage and Brooke's faces were one of the promotional ads. Colossus's wasn't. Another roar, and his fist went THROUGH the screen, shattering it. Some people gasped, others screamed, but all looked at the big man with the now bleeding fist. Men in suits came running in, along with casino security.

“Sorry, sorry.” Dick said, whipping out his wallet. “He just……he had a bad meal. Here……put it on the AMEX.”

He handed the card to a suit man and the two walked by, Dick’s voice trailing off “.......jesus jumpin’ fucking Christ I can’t take you anywhere. You owe me for that sign.........”

LATER THAT DAY: 


Golden Corral:

"MORE!" Colossus pounds the table, demanding another six plates.

"Sir, it is a buffet, you can just go get more if you want....."

The big man stared at the employee, who was there solely to clean off his other 20 plates of filth.

"That's how Golden Corrall works."

Dick Trickle stands up, and grabs the man by the shirt.

"Listen you sack of useless shit, this man said he wants more. Don't you know who this is?"

The nervous man shakes his head, trying to wiggle out of the louder man's grip.

"This man is the monster of EPW, the corn-fed crusher from Van Meter, Iowa. He is the biggest man to ever step inside a wrestling ring. He threw Cage Eames around like he was a featherweight, and that man is as wide as your table. It took five people--can you count that high?--five people to eliminate him in the Revival title match. This man is the biggest, meanest, hungriest sumbitch walking the dirtrock and for you to show him such disrespect is a platitude I simply cannot accept."

He lets go of the man, who looks visibly shaken.

He nods, and runs to the back, to get food if he knew what was good for his health.

Dick sits down, laughing as he pats his monster on the shoulder.

"That's boys legs were wobblier than a dog shitting peach seeds," he said, "and when you look into the eyes of these two nobodies tomorrow night I bet those chickenshits will be the same. Whatta say, big man?"

Colossus pounds the table again.

"HUNGRY".

"I bet you are."

"Every time I think this place can't sink lower, it digs another level of the sewar. Every time I think that this two dollar bimbo with bad hair dye can't make another stupid decision, she pairs my world-class monster up with a 7 foot mullet and a barbie doll that doesn't know when to quit. He was the RISE World Champion for god sakes, and now he is in a triple threat match against an "Untamed Demon" and a "Daymare." I feel like we are at a Dungeons and Dragons convention not a wrestling company, and its fucking pitiful.

What exactly is an 'Untamed Demon' anyway? Since when can a demon be tamed? This 'Untamed Demon' is nothing but a feral ghost--just look at his track record. Company after company are enthralled by his size. He comes in, says all the right things--in the two sentences he is able to coherently put together--and book him according to his talent. Then, once he steps his goofy ass in the ring every prick in the company wearing a suit has a collective coronary about the money they wasted on this big goof, and his booking goes down substantially. Two matches here already, and there has been nothing even remotely impressive. With his size, he should be dominating everyone but instead he got taken to the woodshed by a man the size of one of his thighs at the Pay Per View and lets be real if my monster didn't soften the bimbo up on the Battleground before he would have lost that match, too. Hey, big man, nobody is impressed with a draw or beating someone the size of your afternoon meal. You have to step up to the plate and do what you have been paid to do or get the hell out and let the real monster work. Osama Bin Freeloadin over here needs to lose the sunglasses and start hitting the speedbag. How does it feel to be a walking failure? And old, to boot. Turning 43 this year. Yeah. 43 in rental car years. If a full litter box had a face it would be Catshit Stevens over here. They finally caught one of the Wet Bandits. Prison appears to have been unkind. Hey if this wrestling thing doesn't work out, which its clearly not, you could probably win an Oscar for your starring role in Home Alone: Lost in New Jersey.

You look like wolverine on a meth bender, and trust me, that's a compliment for you. I bet high school was the best 9 years of your life, and believe you me as long as Colossus is on this roster your time in EPW will be your worst. This 7 foot Greg Allman is size alone, a bag of flesh with a shitty wig, but the thing he lacks the most: heart. It's his selling and utter conviction in what he says that just cracks me up. Real knee slapper.

Let me tell you this and listen up you mongoloid, because I am going to say this ONCE. We are taking Brooke Hernandez out of wrestling, and we aren't going to stop until her rotting carcass in a straw wig is out of the business, by injury or otherwise. If you try to get in the way we have no problem putting your bigfoot ass on the shelf with her. So fuck around, and best believe you will find out.

And don't let Brooky Brooke fool you into thinking she's little miss innocent. If she had as many pricks sticking out of her as she’s had stuck in her, she’d look like a cactus. Do you really think anyone takes you seriously? You look liked some undercooked pasta in a blonde lace front, and you wonder why Synn left you for dead. The bitch masquerades around here in face paint like she works year round at Spirit Halloween, and even she couldn't take you seriously. Every single one of your airy, upward inflection sounding, valley girl words is as empty as the head that they came out of. I bet people tell you that you have a "great personality". Those people are also most likely categorized as being "special needs". False advertising is your only strong point , and you still fail at that 99.99 percent of the time.

I have to ask....I wasn't going to, but I have to ask....So exactly how much cum dies it take to make your hair look like plastic?

Listen toots. We already damn near ended your career once. We had you wheeled out of the arena on a stretcher more than once, and you keep coming back for more like some sort of bad Oliver Twist body double. You want some more, and we would love to provide. You can visit all the voodoo hacks that you want, and you can soak up their scams and pay them with your company issued credit card all you want, but you will never be anything to anybody. You just don't have it, kid. You never have. Ask any fed head out there, and not a single one will give you any praise. The only reason Britlyn defends your mediocrity is because she needs someone to fill the opening matches on her cards and you don't know how to say no. You would have been popular in college!

And if you are going to go to one of those voodoo broads, have her teach you something other than self-reflection. Hell, Synn tried to do that and you shoved it off like you should have your stepfather.

Next time you go to one of them, have them teach you some useful skills. Last time we were in Louisiana, I went to one. The best bj I ever got AND the only time I ever put a condom on for it. It was from a toothless hack that didn’t have any money besides what I gave her, and it wasn't even American currency. Straight up took her dentures out and went to work. She could’ve sucked a medicine ball through a metal straw. Maybe if you find HER, you'll actually be useful.

Please, we're giving you a reason not to end your career in the Danger Zone. Heed our advice.

If you were a library, people would have stolen all your books and left their garbage there instead. Next time someone says "It's not you, it's me", they're trying to avoid you making a scene in public. It's you.

It's always been you.

And that's always been your problem."