This RP No Longer Features Intimate Bigfoots

I. In Which Everyone Has a Reasonable, Rational Discourse on the Nature of Tag Team Wrestling and Tournament Play

Rick was shouting.

"Cade, I swear to fuck, you ruin everything!"

Ollie was shouting.

"Oh, forgive me for not being able to fend off two people on my own. I guess the 'team' in 'tag team' must just be there for the alliteration!"

Even Zeke was getting in on things.

"Now now, Johnny Wombat, we shouldn't make fun of The Dickman for not learning to read."

Suffice it to say, everyone was big pissed. Well, everyone but one person.

"Guys?" Steve said, but no one seemed interested in listening to him. They were far more concerned with shouting at each other.

Steve hated shouting, because shouting always served as an excuse for people to start using swear words, and nothing made him feel as uncomfortable as swear words. If shouting was bad, then swear words were worse.

"You fucking saying I can't read now, Cade? Is that it?"

"Jesus Christ. I said alliteration, not illiterate. Those are different - you know what? Sure. Fine."

"He doesn't mean it, Rick. Honest," Steve said.

"Shut the fuck up, Steve," Rick shot back.

Steve took a step back, as if the words had shoved him away. This was supposed to be a weekend of bonding, he thought. The group had travelled to Minnesota for something called the Flynn Cup, and to help Steve prepare for his upcoming lumberjack match against Luc Labelle. But so far?

"This is two goddamn tournaments you've cost me now, dipshit. Two. First you get my ass thrown outta the Belmont last year..."

So far the trip had been nothing but a whole lot of angry voices.

"Oh fuck all the way off with that," Ollie interjected. "You got yourself tossed when you decided you stroll out from the back."

"Because you pointed me out!"

"You know the rules. No interference, and they take that shit seriously. Besides, did you honestly think they wouldn't notice you there? Or was everyone just supposed to ignore Ricky the Bitch with his pink feather boa."

Rick stabbed a finger at Ollie's face. "Don't you fucking call me that. Don't you fucking ever."

"Guys, please don't fight," Steve whimpered, but a sharp look from Rick silenced him again. Steve pulled his bright orange vest tighter around his body, shrinking into it.

"Sorry, my bad." Ollie put his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"Goddamn right it is."

"We'll go with Richard the Bitchard instead."

Rick's mustache began to twitch, and his face turned a shade of red not normally found in nature, because when that much blood gathers in one place you should call a doctor after four hours.

Despite being mere inches away from an avatar of white-hot murder, Ollie didn't relent. "What, did you think you were some kinda shitty glam-rock ninja. Really hard to be stealthy in tye-dye, you moron."

Especially since the Rainbow Punch flavor of Instant Ninjas was discontinued in 2003.

Rick took a slow, deliberate step towards his partner. His hands were twitching, each one a conduit for the electric rage building under the skin.

"You," he spat, "are the reason we're still on the outside, you know that? You are just like him." Rick nodded towards Steve but never took his eyes off of Ollie. His voice was low and surprisingly calm, though laced with an undercurrent of venom. "This stupid son of a bitch gets match after match. Gets to be on show after show. Pay per views, Cade. With honest-to-god stipulations. Tournaments with actual stakes. And he fucks all of it up. Every time."

"I know, Mister Rick, and I'm real sorry that I'm not very good," Steve started.

"I told you to shut the fuck up!"

Steve recoiled as if struck. He let his eyes fall to the ground, but not before casting a glance towards Zeke. The older man had taken off his mask and was slowly stuffing it into one of the pockets on his purple blazer. He cast a glance back at Steve and shook his head. The expression he wore was one of sadness, disappointment.

Steve had to get away, far away. All the shouting, all the cursing... the argument had given him a splitting headache and the best thing he could do right now would be to go somewhere else. # II. This Scene Has Been Redacted Because I Do Not Want to be Known as "The Guy Whose RP Had Bigfoot Furry Porn"

Title. # III. The Author Begins to Question About Whomst This Story Hath Been Written, and Some Content Remains Unedited

"Goddammit, Rick. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Backstage, a crowd had started to form. A collection of event staff had gathered in a small circle around the unconscious body of Steve Lemieux. Ollie Cade knelt beside him, but first aid was not his strong suit. Still, he did his level best to figure out whether Steve was dead or not. Had this taken place outside during recess, Ollie would have one hundred percent been the kid who suggested Steve "rub some leaves on it" before fainting.

"I told him to shut the fuck up." Rick let the folding chair fall from his hand, leaving it to clatter against the painted concrete flooring of the hall. "But he didn't listen. Maybe you will."

Ollie didn't respond. He did, however, try very hard to make Rick punch himself in the balls through the power of thought. Unfortunately for Ollie there would never be a room for him at Xavier's School for Giften Youngsters.

"You're the reason this team ain't goin' anywhere, Cade. You understand me? It ain't me. It ain't Big Ricky Dangerous. It's you." Rick bent down and leaned in close. "You remember that when you go to bed tonight. You remember that when you wake up tomorrow. You remember that the next time you're gettin' dressed for a match and wonderin' why your dick feels so small."

Rick stood to his full height and took a few slow steps back. The crowd parted around him.

"You think about it in a week when you're standing outside the ring supporting this puddle of fuck." He gestured down at Steve. "When you're dealing with a bunch of lumberjack dipshits, wearing whatever costume your psycho uncle dreamed up, that he's wrestling in the biggest company on earth and you're not. And it's because you can't get the job done when it counts. Have fun playin' babysitter, Cade. Try not to fuck my life up again tomorrow, yeah?"

"Don't listen to him, Ollie. He's just projecting." Zeke D. Badguy - or rather Dale Henderson, the man under the mask - placed a reassuring hand on his nephew's shoulder.

Ollie didn't react, not to that anyway. Steve, still very much splayed out on the linoleum, had started groaning. Groaning and swiveling his hips.

"Steve?" he put a hand on the sandwich-maker's shoulder and have him a light shake, not wanting to further jostle brains that had already been scrambled once in the last few minutes. "Hey, are you away?"

Steve's pelvis stabbed at the air.

"Uhh, Steve? You... you okay, bud?"

Steve's moan sounded like a weak man trying in turn to squeeze and then strangle an annoyed goose.

"Buh... buhfftttttt." Steve's odd vocalization was accompanied by his entire body falling slack. The crowd around them exchanged awkward glances. A few, the ones who had been holding their phones the entire time, had started giggling.

The Scandal Sheet would have a field day with this.

"Steve?" Ollie said. He chanced leaning in closer. "Hey, did you say something?"

"B-bigfoot," Steve mumbled.

"Bigfoot?" Ollie looked at his uncle, but Zeke just shrugged. "What about Bigfoot?"

Steve, barely conscious and hardly lucid, sighed his next words.

"Bigfoot is... a sensuous lover."