Rob Williams and Anna Daniels Should Die of Gonnorhea and Rot in Hell! Cookie?

“Something’s wrong…”

Kerry Kuroyama was already internally steeling himself, expecting the worst.

Restlessly, he paced in a circle within the waiting room of the exotic animal hospital, several hundred miles deep into the Outback. Every few seconds, he looked to the set of double doors leading into the back, expecting the vet to step through them at any moment.

Bringing with him news would either be good… or bad.

The anticipation was torture. The knot of tension deep in his gut pulled even tighter with every passing minute.

“It shouldn’t have taken this long…” he said.

Really, it had only been a whopping fifteen minutes since they arrived at the clinic. But as anyone with experience knows, time has a funny way of moving in periods of intense stress. Hence, the minutes felt like hours.

“Don’t sweat, Ker-Bear!”

Scott Hunter spoke to him in his uncompromisingly upbeat tone of voice from his place on the near bench, flashing his compatriot a reassuring grin and thumbs up.

“Yeah, too late…” said Kerry, punctuating the remark by ironically wiping a layer of perspiration from his forehead.

The building was woefully not equipped with an air conditioner, and with the temperature pushing close to a hundred down in central Australia, the pervasive heat only added to his growing anxiety.

“Really, dude, remain kalm!” kontinued Scott. “This is the best koala khlamydia klinik the kountry has to offer. So I’m kertain they’ll make sure our kompanion is kompletely klean! I know this, because he grew up in a very kultured koala kommunity in Kanberra!”

Kuroyama shot his partner a borderline irritated look. “Why are you starting every other word with the letter ‘Kay’?”

“I don’t know,” replied Hunter with a shrug. “I’m just speaking words, not writing them down, so I guess it is some kind of pair-a-docks.”

The force of the self-inflicted facepalm was almost enough to put Kerry on his back. But before that could happen, the doors finally swung open, and he gasped at the sight of the crimson-splattered figure that emerged from the back.

“Great googly gansobomb!”

The veterinarian appeared unusually calm, despite having the entire front portion of his scrubs soaked with blood. Casually, he looked up from the medical charts in his hands and blinked at the Pacific Blitzkrieg.

“Your the blokes who brought in the koala, yeh?”

Kerry and Scott nodded.

“Sorry about the delay, mate,” he said apologetically while removing his latex gloves. “Routine emergency removal came up. ‘Nother bub caught himself up in a freshie.”

Kuroyama blinked in confusion, having no way of understanding the animal doctor’s strange medical lingo. Then a moment later, a nurse stepped out after him. In her arms was a small three-year-old Australian boy.

He was covered in blood, and lost in a catatonic state.

“‘Ere he is!” she said cheerfully, approaching a middle-aged and very rural-looking Australian couple seated in the bench opposite of Scott.

The boy’s presumed parents nonchalantly set aside the magazines they had been reading and rose to their feet, eyeing their partially digested and traumatized progeny with a general sense of lackadaisical indifference.

“No more muckin’ about in the billabongs with this one, yeh?” said the nurse, handing the child over to his parents.

The father rolled his eyes. The mother slammed a Foster’s and crushed the empty can against her forehead with a hearty belch. The family exited the clinic through the sliding glass door entrance, with the boy haphazardly dangling at his father’s side by the ankle. Just another day for a typical Australian family living in the Outback.

The vet looked down. “And as for YOU, eh?”

Kerry followed his gaze to the floor next to him, and flinched at the lowly sight of five feet of leather and teeth waddling past him.

“Stay outta trouble, you!” chided the animal doctor. “Tha’s the third time this week now, ya damned larrikin!”

The croc hissed in response and slowly crawled its way out the clinic through the same sliding door, careful to keep its tender and freshly stitched underside off the ground.

When the nurse returned from the back once more, a rotund ball of gray fur was comfortably nestled in his arms.

“Kerry Koalayama!” exclaimed Scott. “You’re safe!”

“Yeh, but yer boi here is a bit of a dim one, I’m afraid,” said the vet, glancing at his notes. “Response time is delayed and cognitive functions… well, they ain’t there, mate. Eucalyptol levels are really off the charts here. Koalas ain’t all that bright to begin with, but this one here’s a right drongo!”

Uninterested in any of this, Kuroyama continued to nod insistently.

“Okay, so he’s stupid,” he said bluntly. “I deal with that on the reg. Now, what about the results of that other test…?”

“Hm? Aw, naw, yeh, no wukkas on that.”

“...what?”

“Means she’ll be apples.”

Kerry grabbed the exotic animal doctor by his blood-soaked scrubs and gave him a shakedown.

“Damnit, Doc, I’m a wrestler, not a blooming onion!” he said sternly. “Just give it to me straight, and in English! Will I get chlamydia by hanging out with this koala bear, or not?”

The vet blinked back at him in utter confusion.

“...naw, mate,” he said. “Besides him bein’ clean, humans can’t contract STDs from koala bears, so… no chance of that happenin’.”

Kuroyama punched the air in triumph and crowed a HOO-HAH that would make Pacino proud. With the speed and precision of an eagle-eyed bushranger, he whipped out his phone, smashed a saved number in his contacts, and brought it to his ear in the blink of an eye.

“Ami, sup?” he spoke into the phone while turning for the exit. “What’s going down tonight…?”

As he walked out, Scott turned back to the vet and his nurse, reaching out his hands and pulling Kerry Koalayama into a warm embrace.

“I knew you were one of the good ones,” he said proudly.

Aloof as ever, Kerry Koalayama yawned and scratched at his hind quarters.

Scott turned for the door, following his partner out with their small eucalyptic ally in tow.

“Pffftt… khlamydia…” Scott muttered to himself. “Krazy…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ LATER THAT DAY… ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That is called a pun in case you did not know. These are the kinds of jokes I am also famous for, so please write down on a post-it how famous I am for jokes in case it comes up later. Use a pen so it does not get Smudge’d.

The first thing that I want to do is talk to my very good close friend RIA. That is in all capital letters if you did not know because she is a proper noun and not one of these flimsy common nouns you see running around on the streets these days.

Because you have glorious hair and glowing skin that sparkles in the sun like the morning dew on a honeysuckle, I am willing to look past the fact that you are close friends with one of our opponents this week. After all, Anna Daniels is a Time Lord, and I would never look down on someone because of their religion. How can you resist the Lord?? It’s not like she is the Time Bishop or the Time Youth Pastor. She is the time LORD!

THE LORD!! 

And she makes waves! They use wavemakers to make waves at waterparks all over the world, but she is an actual person that makes waves! The merchandising rights alone must be through the roof!! It does not look like she knows how to wipe a mess off of her chin, but she’s the LORD and she MAKES WAVES!!!

Anyway, what I am saying is, I understand.

Understanding is important because when you have resentment in your heart it can eat away at you and keep you from being your best self. Do not worry. Anna Daniels will understand understanding because she is the LORD. Understand?

As for you Anna Daniels, you may be the LORD, and you may be mad at us because we will never be royals, but that does not mean that we are not destined to kick you right between two of your nostrils. I don’t know why you have so many nostrils, but we are going to kick you right in between two of them. Go ahead and call your nearest ear, nose and throat specialist because that is who I am told you should see when someone has broken the fleshy spot between your nostrils after it has been kicked. The year just started, so your deductible has started over and you will have to pay the full cost, but that is the price you pay for your January insolence. Next time, try December insolence, so you only have to make your co-pay. 

The other problem I have with you is that you are a big, stupid, dirty, rotten LIAR!! That is a word that has the exact same number of letters as LORD, which is a coincidence I mean to investigate to the fullest extent of the law. Where I come from, people who are big, stupid, dirty, rotten liars are banished to the Everglades to become airboat operators for no less than ten degrading years and give tours to smelly tourists and businessmen. It sounds like a glamorous job, but I assure you, it is terrible! So maybe don’t be a liar next time. But you can’t help it, because a liar is what you are and what you always will be!! It is a bit of a ketchup-22.

You may be thinking, why is he calling me a liar? I have not lied once! Well that’s exactly what a liar would say. It also is another lie, so you are really making this worse for yourself every time you open your mouth.

I have also been told by my good friend Kerry that I must rob Williams. I do not know why I must rob Williams, but I am guessing it is because he has some money that does not belong to him. Well I will tell you this right now, Williams, I am not the type to rob someone, but I do not mind kicking you quite hard in one or more of your patellas (which sounds like nutella, but is less delicious) and then taking back the hard earned money that clearly does not belong to you. It would be best for your future if you gave up your life of crime and turned over a new leaf, or an old leaf, or really any leaf of your choosing. The point is that it needs to be turned over, probably because it will burn on one side if you don’t turn it. Leaves sound a lot like tortillas. TURN IT OVER!

I also have recently been told that the name of your tag team is called Fudge Your Tag Team. I am not at liberty to say the actual f-word used in your name, but suffice it to say the two of you are dirty mouthed heathens, and on top of Anna needing to wipe the grape jelly from her chin, you should both wash your mouths out with soap like the little kid who wears glasses in A Christmas Story. I believe his name was Simon. 

Anyway, your potty mouth will not be tolerated!! Just so you know, my figure four leglock was developed for just such an occasion, and is guaranteed to make you change your ways. Once I have applied it properly to one or both of your knees, you will gladly begin calling yourselves Fudge Your Tag Team like I do, which is a better use of non-filthy language.

I have to go now because Kerry Koalayama is trying to chew on one of my shoes, but you have both been four-warned, even though we are only fighting two of you for now, and you will both learn this week what happens to people who lie and rob and have jelly on their chins. It will not be a pretty sight!! And by that I mean you will hurt real bad, and by that I mean maybe die!! No one knows for sure.

NOW BEAT IT!

KERRY, STOP EATING MY SHOES!!!!!

Sorry, that last part was not for you.

Please go to hell.

Bye.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ LATER THAT WEEK… ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finally out of the wild, unforgiving bush, and back into the warm, comforting embrace of coastal civilization.

For the event, Vae Victis set themselves up in the luxury suites at Crown Towers. Over the course of the week, the Wingmen spent much of the time at the luxury resort’s private pool area.

Kuroyama was reclined on a sunchair in a shaded poolside cabana, sipping off an alcohol-free Freddie Bartholomew. The summer heat no longer bothered him. The sky was clear, and the view of the skyline was nothing short of inspiring. The shoulder had been healing nicely, and he counted the days to their showdown with Better Man and April Dudgate with eager anticipation.

Life was good. Stress free, for the time being. Kerry couldn’t remember the last time he felt so relaxed.

And yet…

“...something’s wrong.”

As he said the words aloud, Kerry Koalayama, sitting in the cabana’s other sunchair, lazily looked up from his bowl of eucalyptus leaves.

“I don’t know,” said Kuroyama. “Maybe I’m just not used to being so idle. Maybe sitting around, waiting for the storm, my mind just goes to different places. But I feel it, you know? Something… is wrong.”

Stoned and biologically incapable of understanding the human, the Eucalyptic Apex continued to stare back at his owner in utter stupidity. Despite this, Kuroyama nodded to him, as though hearing in his own mind what he believes the marsupial would say to him.

“You might be right,” Kerry responded, continuing to engage in a one-sided conversation. “And yes, I agree… we should do something about it.”

Kerry the wrestler sat up in his seat and swiped his phone off the near table and began punching up a number for a video call

“Let’s not waste any more time then…”

Ever indifferent to these ambitions, Kerry the koala broke wind and went back to his meal.

After a few seconds of ringing, a familiar face appeared on his screen, and upon seeing her caller, the Rainbow Riot immediately grunted and rolled her eyes.

“Kerry, I swear, I’m not in the mood,” grumbled RIA. “If you can’t seal the deal with Ami at this point…”

Kuroyama uncomfortably cleared his throat, resisting the urge to wince at the sight of the bandages lining the corners of the Vae Victis initiate’s face.

“I mean, uhh… I think I’m close on that end, but, uhh…” he stammered awkwardly. “Anyway, no, that’s not why I’m calling. Something’s been on my mind lately, and, well… I think I owe you an apology.”

The Psychoberry pensively stared back at him. “For?”

“For not being there last week,” he said flatly. “For not putting a stop to… what they did.”

RIA’s gaze drifted away. He could see she was feeling more rainclouds than rainbows in her present state.

“It should have never happened,” he continued. “And I promise, it won’t happen again. Because Scott and I are ready to go to war with these filthy punk-asses.”

RIA’s eyes found the screen once more. Now he had her attention.

“I’ve seen what happens when inmates take over asylums,” he went on. “I’ve seen companies go from white hot to room temperature in the matter of months, all because of crazy bastards that were left to their own weird and fucked-up devices for too long. And unless we get ourselves together and wipe these crusty nosepicks off of PRIME’s upper lip, then it’s only a matter of time before we get Daytona Diamonds building an underground lab to cook up ‘fear meth’ and an unbeatable, braindead Crimson Dick emerging from a tube of red goo.”

RIA’s face scrunched in confusion. “Dude, I have no idea what the fuck you're babblin' about, but I'll trust you got a reason for doin' so.”

Kerry nodded. “What I’m saying is, if we don’t do something about these clowns now, then it won’t be long before they drag all of PRIME down into the gutter.”

He shook his head.

“I’m not about to let that happen… and I’m willing to bet you feel the same. So, what do you say? You want to bring the wrath of divine judgement down on these creeps, or what?”

A twinkle seemed to emanate from RIA's eyes as a mischievous grin crept across her lips.

“Oh I have a surprise for those fucks, don't you worry,” she purred. “I think it'll be a home run.”

Kerry smiled back. “Then let's make it a grand slam.”

Suddenly, Scott was there beside him. One hand gripped the handle of a metal detector while the other was held out with a shiny dime-sized object in his palm.

“Kerry, look! A metal hot dog!” he said in triumph.

Kerry frowned as he looked down at a small metal pin in the shape of a dong commemorating Nicole Kidman's turn in Eyes Wide Shut.

“That’s great, Scott,” he said with a complete lack of enthusiasm, and looked back to RIA on his phone. “Anyway, RIA, I'm sending up a bottle of raspberry vodka to your room.”

“And a CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE!” proclaimed Scott. “Because it is the most apologetic of cookies…”

“Vodka and a cookie, then,” said Kerry with a nod of agreement. “Our treat… and we'll talk shop later.”

RIA nodded, winked, and ended the call.

With a belaboured sigh, Kerry rose up from the chair. Hunter could immediately see that something was on his friend’s mind.

“What’s up, Ker-Bear?”

For a long moment, the Emerald Apex stared out over the skyline of Perth. Miles into the blue Indian Ocean beyond it.

Something was wrong.

But it wouldn’t be much longer.

“Break is over, Scott,” he answered. “Our esteemed opponents, Mork and Manky, royally tried to fuck with Vae Victis last week. And you know what that means…?”

Scott attached the metal Eyes Wide Shut dong pin to Kerry Koalayama’s green kerchief. The koala looked at it briefly, snorted in mild surprise, and went right back to eating.

“I know what it means,” said the Maven of Miami. “It means it’s time to get serious!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ LATER, HATER… ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Whorespeople?

Come to think of it, I don’t really care…

They call themselves as outsiders. Agents of chaos. Rebels, fighting an indistinct authoritarian norm that oppresses their ilk.

Really, they’re just trolls. 

The wrestling equivalent of trashy kids spitting over the rail of an overpass. Can’t afford the gas to drive themselves, so they amuse themselves by tarnishing the view of those who are actually going places. 

Nothing worth being too stressed about. Nothing I can't get over with a quick roll of the eyes, a flip of the wiper, and a quiet grumbling of “damn kids”...

But problems arise the moment one of these little shits chooses to pick up a brick. 

When that happens, it becomes necessary to hit the brakes, pull over, march on up to that overpass and SLAP somebody.

Because if humanity is defined by its failures as well as their successes, as Dostoevsky's Underground Timelord put it last week, then I figure subhumanity deserves to be held close to an equal standard.

And as far as failures go, the Whoresmen monumentally fucked up last week. 

Anna Daniels, PRIME’s favorite wannabe Wednesday, sat back and played her Gameboy while her so-called friend walked straight into their trap.

Rob Williams, with the mentality of a CGI ape that can dance and sing, has apparently discovered, and become obsessed with, the miracle of fire.

The two of them are wormshit, as far as I’m concerned.

Actual cowards.

The kind who live to tear down the work of successful people from the safety of Jabber. Focusing all of their efforts toward winning pointless pissing contests, chasing after that fleeting and masturbatory sense of satisfaction that comes with the classic “I told you so” moment.

“i WaS rIgHt AlL aLoNg, wE’rE sPrEaDiNg ChAoS!!!”

Get serious, dipshits. 

The only real satisfaction in this world is the kind you fight for.

This isn’t high school; this is PRIME, the greatest wrestling promotion on the planet, where the bitches spit, but the real motherfuckers go into the ring week after week and get shit done. 

And I’ve been doing more of that this past year than either one of you.

You want war? That’s what we do best.

Woe to the vanquished.