“If you have a beard, I would suggest you put glitter on it, because it will make you look fancy.” - Bianca Del Rio

NEWSFLASH, ASSHOE:

Fred was covered head to toe with glitter and not a damn thing about him felt even a teensy bit fancy. The shit was all over his hair, all over his beard, all over his back and all over his balls. He even had some in his ass. Does that make him a fancy ass, Bianca, or is it time to admit you’re a fucking liar?

If there was one thing Fred couldn't tolerate, it was someone lying about some shit.

Like RIA. Coming down to HIS motha fuggin Boiler room, kicking him in HIS motha fuggin nuts, and blowing HIS motha fuggin shid up with an adorable pink glitter bomb that she led him to believe was a mere teddy bear?

That's called being a liar, right there.

Fred Dick had never told a lie in his life, best he could recall. In fact, as far as he was concerned, he'd led a perfect life – behavior wise, that is. Sure, he'd thought some mean shit about people. Sure, he'd coveted his neighbor's hot wife. But he'd never acted on these feelings. And Fred knew enough to know that Jesus Christ was about that action. You want a blessing? You best be yo’ own blessing, because the Devil was surely a’ comin’, with a big ol’, red hot dong, pointed directly at your heavenly calamari ring.

That's because Reality, as far as Fred was concerned, was the Devil. Fred's entire theology seemed to boil down to two fundamental claims:

1) We live within Reality, who is the fucking Devil, and

2) He never stops fucking us in the butthole. Never.

And just when you think he's gonna give you a break?

He sends RIA to fuck up your toupee.

I mean hair.

And thus, Fred, post-glitter bomb, and post-end show ass whoopin’, waddled his ass back down to the Boiler Room and shut himself inside.

By shutting himself in, he could shut Reality out.

It was just Fred, spray paint, paint thinner, and six tallboy Four Lokos, original blend, well past their expiration date.

Here, he could tend to what really needed tending to!

Which was getting all of the glitter out of his…

…hair?

…Let's go with that until we can't anymore.

Fred quickly realized that there was simply too much glitter to clean his hair while it was still on top of his dome. He'd have to remove it.

Alright, the gigs up. It's a toupee. It's a dome piece. It's a hair program. It even has a tag on the undercarriage that reads, “Rugs by Randi Dick.” Yes, his ex-wife had made it for him. It was an original prototype.

God damn it, for over a year Fred was able to keep the wool over your eyes, even with Reality BUTT FUCKING him at every turn! And now, with Reality closed out of the Boiler Room? There was nothing left but the ugly truth.

Irony. Like the taste of a hammer.

Regardless, Fred whipped out a little clamshell mirror from his jorts pocket, and reached over for the canister of paint thinner.

Slowly…

Carefully…

He dumped the paint thinner on top of his head. Soaked himself in it.

Then, just as slowly…

and just as carefully…

He ripped the wig from the glue that held it on his head.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-YOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWW!!!”

And insodoing, he left remnants behind of glue and ripped up skin. Bad form, Fred.

Though silken, red hair flowed beautifully in the form of a magnificent horseshoe around the side of his head?

The dome itself was an absolute mess. Ungodly pale, color was added only by a red, second layer of patchy skin and small bloody splotches.

Fred nearly hyperventilated from the sheer amount of pain management he found himself doing. Not just the physical, but the emotional. With his hair, he felt like the man, the boss, the bee's knees, the yellow jacket’s yellow jacket. But without it? He felt like Quasimodo. He felt like a monster. He felt like an abomination.

He felt real.

AKA, the worst feeling in the world.

The depression made him forget altogether about cleaning the glitter out of his dome piece.

Really, why bother?

“Well, reckon there's nothin’ to do but crush these Four Lokos,” Fred said to no one in particular.

And Fred did, indeed, crush the Four Lokos.

Real or fake, Fred Dick could party.

👨‍🦲

“The tenderest spot in a man's make-up is sometimes the bald spot on top of his head.” - Helen Rowland

BANG!!!

That's the sound of the Boiler Room door flinging open and hitting the wall.

“OHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!!”

That's the sound of menacing, invading laughter filling the Boiler Room.

Fred sits up from the floor. How long has he been out? Is it Culture Shock? Is it 1997?

He looks up, and sees a Japanese man looming over him. A serious expression decorated with a five o'clock shadow. A pair of black wrestling trunks (the underwear kind) hiding his posterior and cocksterior, matching boots on his feet, and backpack on his back. On his shirt, a pink-haired hentai waifu with big ol' biddies.

In his arms, that very same hentai waifu on a full body pillow. He hugs her tightly, possessively.

“Fredward Dick,” the man says.

“Who the fug're you?” Fred asks.

“MAXKAEL Jr.,” the man known as MAXKAEL Jr. replies.

“Oh fug me man,” Fred says. “Honestly, fug me dude. I mean, ain't yo daddy dead? Huh? Last seventeen thangs his bench ass said to me was, ‘fug yew Fred Dick.’ So whatchu doin’ here, huh? You tryna FUG on me? You tryna FUG on tha BIG DAWG??? ROO! ROO! ROO! ROO! ROO!”

“I am asking you calmly to stop barking like a dog,” MAXKAEL Jr. says. “Max Kael was not my father. He saved me from North Korea, and he renamed me for doing so. I am neither affected nor am I disaffected by his passing. Rather, I am here because he once told me you were the strongest wrestler he knew.”

“...That's a fuggin’ lie,” Fred says. “Max has never complimented me. Not once. Even when he tried, all he could say as a compliment was my last name was Dick, which was kinda cool, since in a way, that means I'll always have a dick. Newsflash, MAXKAEL Jr., I had my buddy chop off my dick. All I gots now is a lasagna and a thick head of…”

Fred feels the top of his head. Bald. Fuck. He snatches his hair program off the floor and hastily places it over his head. It doesn't look right. It doesn't matter.

“...and a thick head of hair,” Fred continues. “So please, if he sent you here to fug on me somehow, from beyond the grave, I'm asking you – please, don't.”

MAXKAEL Jr. interjects, “Please. Do not associate me with my hero. I am merely a power wrestler with a beautiful wife, and I desire only to test my strength against the strongest men in the world.”

Fred lifts an eyebrow, nods his head at the pillow. “That your missus right there?”

MAXKAEL Jr. kisses the pillow, “Indeed.”

Fred examines the pillow for a while, like, an unreasonable amount of time, before saying, “She’s hot. Congrajja-fuggin-lashuns, you're a lucky man.”

“Thank you so much,” MAXKAEL Jr. says. “She has changed my life in many wondrous ways.”

“I'll bet,” Fred replies.

MAXKAEL Jr. suddenly screams, “I challenge you now, Fredward Dick!”

“That was incredibly abrupt,” Fred says.

“I challenge you now to a feat of strength!”

Fred sighs. “If I do your lil foot test will you fug off and leave me alone so I can fantasize about your hot, beautiful wife?”

“Yes,” MAXKAEL Jr. says.

And thus, the gauntlet is laideth.

THE FEAT OF STRENGTH:

MAXKAEL Jr. unzips his backpack and withdraws a shakeweight.

If you don't know what that is, it's a dumbell that, when held in the hands, gives itself a hand job.

“Whoever holds this shakeweight the longest will be declared the strongest,” MAXKAEL Jr. proudly proclaims.

“Alright,” Fred says dismissively. “Whip yours out and get this over with.”

“Unfortunately, Fredward Dick,” MAXKAEL Jr. says, “I only have one. However, I am polite. You may go first.”

“Well, ya know what they say,” Fred says. “Nice guys finish last. But strong guys come first.”

Fred grabs hold of the shakeweight. Wraps both hands around it.

And as the prophecy foretold, the shakeweight starts jacking itself off.

ONE HOUR LATER

Balmy layers of sweat coat Fred Dick's forehead and arms, which are sore, trembling from all the jacking off the shakeweight has been doing.

He's about to drop it. He knows he is.

“I could do this all day,” Fred says.

“You are truly as strong as my hero said,” MAXKAEL Jr. replies.

“Yesh I ayyyum,” Fred says. “In fact, I'm gonna go ahead and put it down. I'm bored and I don't thank you can jack this thang off as long as I did.”

“It jacks itself off,” MAXKAEL Jr. replies.

“I knew that damn it,” Fred says, setting the weight down. “There. It's yo’ damn turn now, ya peace interruptin’ sumbitch.”

MAXKAEL Jr. picks up the shakeweight. He bows to Fred.

“Win or lose,” MAXKAEL Jr. begins. “It has been an honor to compete against you.”

Fred curtsies. “And I, you,” he says.

WHAM!!!

MAXKAEL Jr. smacks Fred across the face with the shakeweight!

“Ohohohohohohoooooooo!!!” MAXKAEL Jr. giggles as Fred drops to the Boiler Room floor like ten pounds of shit in a six ounce bag. He snatches Fred's toupee from the floor, and takes off running out of the Boiler Room.

Fred can't believe it. He's been bamboozled by yet another Max Kael.

Fred scrambles to his feet and charges towards the door. He shakes his fist and screams into the hallway, “GOD DAMN YEW MAX KAEL JUNIOOOOOORRRRRRR!!!”

Distantly, Fred can hear the echoes of MAXKAEL Jr.’s reply:

“... FUUUUUCK… YOOOOOU… FREEEEEEDWARDDDDD… DIIIIIIIIIICK!!!”

Fred closes the Boiler Room door. He slumps against the wall.

“Well, reckon there's nothin’ to do but crush these Four Lokos,” Fred says to no one in particular.

But he's already crushed the Four Lokos.

Guess he'll have to settle on inhaling some spraypaint.

👨‍🦲

TO: RIA

FOR: Your eyes only 💋

FROM: Randi Dick

Hey sugar. It's me. Randi Dick. I know you don't know me (sometimes I think I don't even know myself *wink*), but I know you.

You're RIA. And you have lots of shit going on in your head. Well so do I. I lost everything I own in a twister. I'm pregnant with STRONK Godson’s baby. And my ex-husband is Fred.

And let me just say right now that Fred Dick has a lot going on in his head too. Even if it doesn't look like it. That's half the problem right there. You look at him and think he has absolutely zero going on behind those gorgeous green eyes of his, only he's actually plotting new and terrible ways to try to ruin your life.

I've been watching, RIA. The Citizens Against Fred Dick have a watch party for every PRIME event. And I have to tell ya, you've been doing something you shouldn't be doing.

You've been underestimating him.

And that, sister, is a recipe for getting your shit completely fucked up.

Now, I want you to win, because fuck Fred (obviously), but I think in order to illustrate what I mean, it's important to point out something you know, and then maybe something you don't already know.

What you know: Fred Dick has hated you from the moment he saw you.

Okurrrr?

But what you don't know: It's because he's jealous of your hair.

Well if you didn't know before gurl, you do now. This bitch is actually bald on top of his head. I made his toupee myself. I had me a little Etsy store for toupees. “Rugs by Randi Dick.” You may have heard of it, but I doubt it given how illustrious and luxurious your hair is. All that product you put in it, and it still looks that gorgeous? You got magic hair girl.

At least, that's what Fred thinks.

I think your hair is pretty. Don't get me wrong.

But Fred has woken me up before (he's so hard to resist sometimes) to tell me dreams about having your hair on his head.

And he's been hating your guts for it ever since he first saw it.

I need you to know this because, well, let's think about the kind of person Fred really is.

He's a delusional psychopath, gurl. He's probably got himself convinced that, to beat you, he has to go full Boiler Room Fred.

Which, if you have to ask? Then ask Coral Avalon what that means for you.

Normally, he would never do that – unless it was for a title opportunity.

But I think, in his eyes, this means more than a title.

This is about hatred.

This is about hair.

Only one of which he has in spades.

The other? Well, he only pretends to have in spades.

Like courage. And gumption. And honor. And the ability to love another human being that isn't a dimwit strongman who is probably from Mars or a planet where all the fellas got big sweaty hogs that don't quit.

See. Lots of people think that Lowell Dot Com artificially inseminated me with STRONK’s seed. But STRONK also banged me, RIA. Banged me in my own California King.

And Fred watched from across the street, on the roof of the Whataburger.

He cried, but he was impressed with STRONK. He was always impressed with STRONK.

And he has always hated you.

Here, in Chicken City, Georgia, exists a community of over 300 people whose lives were actually ruined by Fred Dick to the extent we formed a political action committee against him. For not nary a one of us did he possess an ounce of hate in his heart.

Imagine what he'd do to someone he hates, RIA.

Imagine.

I don't think he'll try to take your hair. That's not his style. If you have something he wants, he takes something bigger from you than that.

He wanted my body, so he took my heart.

He wanted his dad's money, so he took his freedom.

He wants your hair…

So he'll try to take your career.

RIA, I'm not writing you this to try and scare you. But only to implore you:

Take his, before he takes yours.

End that man's career.

Kill him if you have to.

He'd do it to you.

It is a death match after all.

Smooches!

👨‍🦲

“Good merchandise, even hidden, soon finds buyers.” - Plautus

TWO DAYS LATER

It's like it never happened.

It's like he never had hair to begin with.

Fred appears happy as he walks the streets of Tokyo, his bald head, crusty and scabby and pale, shining beneath the sunlight, reflecting in the windows of shops and skyscrapers.

In his arms as he walks around Tokyo is a box of t-shirts.

Navy colored. One hundred percent cotton. Nice. Quality. Expensive, really.

On the front, in white text, the t-shirt reads: "Every time I think about RIA I get diarrhea bc I want RIA to die, call it DIE RIA instead of diarrhea because I hate RIA and I diarrhea my pant when she should DIE instead of diarrhea, I wish my pants was full of DIE RIA" And he's handing them out for free to anyone who will take one.

Lots of folks do. Most of them don't know what the shirts said, but many of them know who Fred Dick is.

And they don't seem to mind the fact that his hair program is missing.

Fred smiles. He takes pictures with fans. He does the big, public song and dance that his boss, Lindsay Troy, expects from her roster when they're out in public. He is surprisingly professional. He looks vaguely happy to be there.

This goes on all day. He has a death match to promote, after all. What's a better promo than t-shirts? Bobbleheads? Fug that. That's some retro shid. Some nerd shid. This is a death match. It orta be something that says, “I want RIA to die.”

That pretty much limits it to mugs and t-shirts.

And you can give away more t-shirts than mugs.

Is there a typo? Sure. Does it matter? Not to Fred.

In fact, nothing matters to Fred. Not anymore.

Because while he is smiling, taking photos, a d generally being a good little PRIME monkey on the streets of Tokyo?

He isn't telling the truth.

He is hiding it.

If someone who really knows him could be there? Say, if STRONK Godson could be there? He'd tell you, “MAMA DICK IS COMPLETELY DEAD INSIDE.” Then he'd ask you for meat, and beat you up if you had no meat.

Oh child…

But Fred can't allow himself to think about STRONK. He has to keep faking that he was happy, he has to keep handing out t-shirts, he has to keep his own personal humiliation ritual going.

He is bald.

He is fucking. Bald.

And he hates himself for it.

And he can't hide it from himself.

And he hates RIA for it, too.

And he cann't hide that either. On that note, he doesn't even try, quite obviously, given the shirts.

After all, her glitterbomb did this to him.

MAXKAEL Jr. merely finished the job that RIA started.

Fred Dick is now a man without a country.

A man without his hair.

And if he doesn't beat RIA at Culture Shock? Then that is all he'll ever be.

👨‍🦲

In a couple of days, the maintenance staff at Osaka-Jo Hall will walk into the Boiler Room to check on things.

On the floor, they'll find Japanese McDonalds trash all over the grounds, six way-expired Four Lokos totally crushed, a puddle of paint thinner with an empty canister, and several cans of empty spraypaint.

There, all over the walls, they'll find three letters spraypainted, over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over. BRF. It is possible that this all seems pretty terrifying. He's like a bomb that's just as surely set to explode as the ring that will soon contain himself and RIA. His heart, and his hatred, are wrapped in barbwire.

But perhaps you'll sleep soundly, knowing that in Osaka, a man rests in his bed after pounding his beautiful wife.

She's a pillow.

He cuddles her gently, becomes the big spoon, and peacefully goes to sleep.

His beautiful wife has brand new hair.