Pusha Pusha
* * *
Fact of the Day
On the last episode of Rampage, Wayne Ezra effectively failed to win his match with Chris Cage after guaranteeing that he would not only come out victorious, but that he would make an example out of Chris Cage by making him kiss his boot.
By way of Wayne Ezra saying the following: "There's not a shot in the damn dark of me losing to you, and that is the realist shit I’ve ever said." It can be deduced that Wayne Ezra is either a liar or stupid and has effectively put his foot in his mouth and stripped himself of all legitimacy for all future match ups where he will claim victory before the match has occurred.
Good fucking job.
Word of the Day
Scuttlebutt
-noun
rumor or gossip.
* * *
And now, for your feature presentation...
* * *
The ring is empty. Another show gone by where superstars of all calibers engrave their names in the history books by putting on a show where they arduously compete to maintain face beyond the boiling point. Filled with embroiled passion to be able to say "Hey, I can still put on a show after the pay-per-view is over." Fans, concessions and custodial have already taken leave on that pain in the ass drive home through traffic. The blistering heat of summer takes its toll on the arena corridors, as it seems only the vents through to the ringside area have remained geared. The trucking sound of the reducer fills the dead lit arena, leaving the only other clamor throughout the night time arena... a lone mouse scurrying beneath the seats, dipping its way around the legs of the steal chairs and feasting upon a popcorn bit that the janitor missed making his rounds.
The gloom of the murky setting was, then, suddenly overcast by a cascading light fixture which looped and gyrated to its central point at equilibrium in the ring. Static zipped over the feed of the camera on the incandescent spotlight for just a moment followed by what seemed to be a shadow of sorts that passed over the lens of the camera. We are treated with footage of the live audience at the show just a few hours ago as what seems to be a hologram of the rumbling crowds is cast over the feed of the empty arena. Every seat that was filled earlier is reunited with their butt donor as the gray-scale crowd roars in excitement while spectating competition between Chris Cage and Wayne Ezra.
The hologram then clicks into thermal mode, effectively removing the identities of every man, woman and child in their seats. Their faces are now obscured as their movements are only picked up by the thermal heat sensors, making them a walking silhouette with a smooth coat of fiery crimson exploding from their interior body heat and lightly distributing down to the limbs like Rockefeller III in the White House with trickle down economics.
The thermal imaging of the two men warring in the ring fades like an apparition in Church, but it seems the feed of the audience is still going as though they are in the ring.
The PA wakes up in a rambunctious roar to an energy that pervades its territory as if it were the master of its own dimension. Like a circus carnival spokesman, the voice ignites the room in a smooth, thinly layered New York accent.
???:
"Finally... de Magne... has come back! To Your Feature Presentation!"
There's a momentary pause as the voice reassembles itself...
???:
"Woo. Woo. Woo. Ladies and not-so-gentlemen, behold for the first time in Full Metal Wrestling...!"
Our audio can distinctly pick up a soft, French accent whisper to the charismatic man, cutting him off in a heap of impending fail.
???:
"Monsieur Ripplemagne, you are confusing ze Full Metal with le Full Throttle. Remember you said that it sounded too much like le anime? Ze one you signed with is ze one you went on and on about for days about ze intials being 'F.T.W.'"
There seemed to be a distinct pause after this momentary correction as the voice started again in almost the exact same tone as before...
???:
"Woo. Woo. Woo. Ladies and not-so-gentlemen, behold for the first time in Full Throttle Wrestling... the Patriarch of Pretty, the King of Hearts, the Suicide King, the Genitalia of Professional Wrestling, the Magistrate of Majesty, the Malefactor of Modesty, the First Magne of Win..."
An audio clip of Scrappy Doo sings sonorously over the PA in his trademark, "Da-dadada! Puppy pooooower!" In a seemingly enigmatic fashion, a fixture of steel whips around over the horizon of the arena with the incandescent spotlight affixed on its every virtuosic movement. Harnessed at peak of the steel tower was a man in what seems to be a crimson and ebony lavished magician's robe with a top hat over a white mask the encapsulates his entire face. Arms spread out majestically, the man latched on by his ankles, torso and collar raises his head in a proud nod. Randy Orton ain't got nothin' on this.
But before we know it, the poster child of egotism that we're beholding ripples. The young man in the harness looks down and seems a bit panicked at this point as another ripple casts over the sound of the air conditioner's reducer in the vast distance. The harness buckles as the young man inside squirms and the steel tower begins to perform a tribal dance of death with the young man strapped on like a young joey in its mother's pouch. It begins to spin around and around.
???:
"Confounded technology! You skank! Stop... fucking... spinning. Getting nauseous now..."
The metal beam begins to bend and buckle as the straps on both the young man's ankles and torso pop open, causing him to dangle from the collar of his shirt.
???:
"I need an old priest and a young priest! This bitch is all kinds'a Emily Rose up in hurr! I thought the name of that movie was 'The Last Exorcism'! Not 'The Last Exorcism Before Killin' That Pretty Nigga Up Thurr'!"
The beam swings and causes the young man's body to swing and dangle...
???:
"Alright, alright! Tell the gravekeeper at the cemetary that I'll return Anna Nicole Smith's panties! I already sniffed the fuck out dem shits anyway."
Just as he said that, the last strap snapped as we see the young man's body barrel down from the top of the metal fixture and collide at the top of the stairs in the arena, rolling down the flight like a tire down a hill, clunking with each ended step before crumbling into a splattered mess at the bottom.
Static casts over the lens again as our position shifts to a close up of the young man, struggling to get up to his feet while clasping the rubber mask over his head. Somehow, the top hat stayed on his head, but his pants did not. We won't question it. The voice behind the camera, the familiar French accent from earlier, chimes in as the camera feed leans over him...
???:
"Monsieur Ripplemagne, are you alright?!"
The young man scrambles up fully and nearly stumbles back on to his bottom, but catches himself before crash and burning in his Speedy Gonzales boxers.
Ripplemagne:
"Uuugh. I think so. W-Wait. Ah! I'm blind! Whitey, I'm blind! Call a doctor! The devil stole my eyes! Jacob Goodnight done gone and robbed mah shit!"
???:
"...Monsieur Ripplemagne, your mask is on backwards..."
Despite being in a panic, the French woman's clue-in caused the quirky lad to brace himself and slide the top hat from atop the crown of his head. A deep breath could be heard muffled beneath the white rubber mask as he raised his white cotton gloved hands; his slender fingers prying beneath the sticky rubber and cranking it over his porcelain skin, mashing his delicate features as it wrangled up over his forehead. The young man's golden blond hair popped out in tufts from the mask as he pulled the mask back and allowed his glistening goldie locks to flip and weave around him like that girl, Becky, that everyone had a crush on in High School and whenever she walked by in slow motion, flipping her hair, you'd fall back against your locker because you're a pathetic loser who can't muster up the courage to talk to a female.
...I mean, he flipped his hair. Yeah.
The young man's long, brown eyelashes rose up to reveal his beating blue-green eyes to our feed. Smarks and nerdy e-fedders who actually roleplay professional wrestling (can you believe how nerdy some people are?) would recognize the ectomorphic, model-esque appearance even if the French girl from earlier didn't introduce him. Er... kinda introduce him.
And if that was Ripplemagne, then the French girl behind the camera was his trademark camerawoman, The White Mage. Yes, she actually dresses like a white mage from Final Fantasy all the time. Don't question it.
Ripplemagne:
"Oh. Hey, I can see! Oi, Whitey! What is the magnificent Ripplemagne's name again? I believe the Ripplemagne may have a touch of amnesia after banging his coconut on the way down."
The White Mage:
"Um... Monsieur Ripplemagne, you just said your moniker twice. 'Tis Ripplemagne."
Ripplemagne:
"Antoine Dodson, you say?"
The White Mage:
"E-Er... no. 'Tis Ripplema--"
On that note, Ripplemagne burst into the air with jazz hands and pointed at the camera in a theatrical pose with a cheesy grin on his face. Oh, fuck. It's song time, isn't it?
Ripplemagne:
"He's climin' in ya windows, he's snatchin' your people up!
Tryin'a rape 'em, so y'all need to hide ya kids, hide ya wife. Hide ya kids, hide ya wife. Hide ya kids, hide ya wife!
And hide your husband 'cause they rapin' e'r'body out here!
You don't have to come and confess! We lookin' for you! We gon' find you! We gon' find you!
So, you can run and tell that, run and tell that. Run and tell that, homeboy. Home, home, homebo--"
The White Mage:
"Um... not to sound like Miss Sarah, Monsieur Ripplemagne. But we do have a limited amount of time to conduct le broadcast."
Ripplemagne:
"Ah, yes. The Patriarch of Pretty's debeauty in Full Throttle Wrestling! The magnificent Ripplemagne had an artillery of adorable "for the win" jokes prepared for this little number, but the way I saw it is that the "for the win" nonsensery has probably been beaten to death by every bottom feeding cafone like that little ragamuffin, Ace Centric, who's walked through the door."
It seems that this news shocks the woman behind the camera as she gasps, prompting Ripplemagne to stop talking.
The White Mage:
"Y-You mean you are actually going to skip out on making le silly jokes and talk about ze Six Man Scramble?"
Ripplemagne:
"Of course not! From what the King of Hearts has gathered, this Six Egg Scramble malarkey is some gimmicky hobknockery to determine number one contenders for those little belt buckles. And quite frankly, the Ripplemagne does not care two dingleberries for such trinkets."
The girl seems to remain silent at this point, effectively playing reverse psychology with Ripplemagne. It seems despite his claim that he wouldn't talk about the match, he's gone and started doing so anyway. Maybe if she doesn't' say anything else, he'll continue to talk about the match? Hopefully?
Ripplemagne:
"But de Magne has a rather homoerotic conflict of interest weighing on his pretty little cranium. It would seem that the only way for de Magne to not have to participate in that jumbo sized bottle of dog jizz is for the Patriarch of Pretty to not for the win -- ha! I did it anyway!
...This upcoming triple threat match. And given that fodder numero uno is a scathing boot licker like Wayne Ezra, the Ripplemagne does not see losing.
On the other hand, a paesan' of de Magne and 8-Bit Theater, Bucky Skyler, is the other opponent. Which means that we may, for the first time since that debauchery in the Ripplemagne's very first match and the faggot tree of his second match in that over the top rope doohickey -- see a singles loss by the magnificent Ripplemagne!"
Audio is superimposed into the video of a studio audience gasping as Ripplemagne seems rather shocked, himself. Though, the shock and dismay is surely feigned on his part.
The White Mage:
"Ah, well, that cannot sit well on le mind."
Ripplemagne:
"At first, I came saucers at the prospect of actually having some decent competition in Bucky Skyler and potentially losing a match. But then it dawned on the Patriarch of Pretty: I don't need to actually lose the match to lose the match. Now, granted, the Ripplemagne won't be too devastated if Bucky is the one to pin Wayne Ezra and mark the second of two losses by the man to an 8-Bit Theater member. Realistically, the opportunity to enter the Six Man Scramble is a better opportunity for Bucky Skyler because at least he'd try to earn one of the little trinkets, where my prerogative would just be to see how many wet willies I can give before the ring bell sounds.
But it's the simple principle of the thing! As I said, conflict of interest! It's either win the match and fight like some heathen for a piece of scrap metal... or lose and have a... a... tally mark under the 'L' column of my record!"
The White Mage:
"I see. Go on."
At this point, it seems Ripplemagne catches on and realizes that he did the unthinkable: talked about an upcoming match!
Ripplemagne:
"Oh, you tease! I see what you did thar! Gettin' a nigga all amped up and shit!"
The White Mage:
"E-er... well, uh... no. Th-that's not what I was doing. Th- ah!"
Ripplemagne:
"Boy, oh boy! De Magne is going to take the skin boat to tuna town on this one like the fist of an angry God!"
In that instant, Ripplemagne licks his lips and charges the camera like a raging bull, tackling The White Mage off of her feet, sending the camera flying out of her hands and onto the ground, catching a distorted view of him on top of her, with her screaming and wrenching from Ripplemagne keeping her pinned down by tickling her.
Ripplemagne:
"Believe it!"
As Ripplemagne pins The White Mage down, the screen goes black...
Fin.
Ripplemagne:
"Pusha pusha!
Haciendo mil locuras!"
* * *
Fact of the Day
On the last episode of Rampage, Wayne Ezra effectively failed to win his match with Chris Cage after guaranteeing that he would not only come out victorious, but that he would make an example out of Chris Cage by making him kiss his boot.
By way of Wayne Ezra saying the following: "There's not a shot in the damn dark of me losing to you, and that is the realist shit I’ve ever said." It can be deduced that Wayne Ezra is either a liar or stupid and has effectively put his foot in his mouth and stripped himself of all legitimacy for all future match ups where he will claim victory before the match has occurred.
Good fucking job.
Word of the Day
Scuttlebutt
-noun
rumor or gossip.
* * *
And now, for your feature presentation...
* * *
The ring is empty. Another show gone by where superstars of all calibers engrave their names in the history books by putting on a show where they arduously compete to maintain face beyond the boiling point. Filled with embroiled passion to be able to say "Hey, I can still put on a show after the pay-per-view is over." Fans, concessions and custodial have already taken leave on that pain in the ass drive home through traffic. The blistering heat of summer takes its toll on the arena corridors, as it seems only the vents through to the ringside area have remained geared. The trucking sound of the reducer fills the dead lit arena, leaving the only other clamor throughout the night time arena... a lone mouse scurrying beneath the seats, dipping its way around the legs of the steal chairs and feasting upon a popcorn bit that the janitor missed making his rounds.
The gloom of the murky setting was, then, suddenly overcast by a cascading light fixture which looped and gyrated to its central point at equilibrium in the ring. Static zipped over the feed of the camera on the incandescent spotlight for just a moment followed by what seemed to be a shadow of sorts that passed over the lens of the camera. We are treated with footage of the live audience at the show just a few hours ago as what seems to be a hologram of the rumbling crowds is cast over the feed of the empty arena. Every seat that was filled earlier is reunited with their butt donor as the gray-scale crowd roars in excitement while spectating competition between Chris Cage and Wayne Ezra.
The hologram then clicks into thermal mode, effectively removing the identities of every man, woman and child in their seats. Their faces are now obscured as their movements are only picked up by the thermal heat sensors, making them a walking silhouette with a smooth coat of fiery crimson exploding from their interior body heat and lightly distributing down to the limbs like Rockefeller III in the White House with trickle down economics.
The thermal imaging of the two men warring in the ring fades like an apparition in Church, but it seems the feed of the audience is still going as though they are in the ring.
The PA wakes up in a rambunctious roar to an energy that pervades its territory as if it were the master of its own dimension. Like a circus carnival spokesman, the voice ignites the room in a smooth, thinly layered New York accent.
???:
"Finally... de Magne... has come back! To Your Feature Presentation!"
There's a momentary pause as the voice reassembles itself...
???:
"Woo. Woo. Woo. Ladies and not-so-gentlemen, behold for the first time in Full Metal Wrestling...!"
Our audio can distinctly pick up a soft, French accent whisper to the charismatic man, cutting him off in a heap of impending fail.
???:
"Monsieur Ripplemagne, you are confusing ze Full Metal with le Full Throttle. Remember you said that it sounded too much like le anime? Ze one you signed with is ze one you went on and on about for days about ze intials being 'F.T.W.'"
There seemed to be a distinct pause after this momentary correction as the voice started again in almost the exact same tone as before...
???:
"Woo. Woo. Woo. Ladies and not-so-gentlemen, behold for the first time in Full Throttle Wrestling... the Patriarch of Pretty, the King of Hearts, the Suicide King, the Genitalia of Professional Wrestling, the Magistrate of Majesty, the Malefactor of Modesty, the First Magne of Win..."
An audio clip of Scrappy Doo sings sonorously over the PA in his trademark, "Da-dadada! Puppy pooooower!" In a seemingly enigmatic fashion, a fixture of steel whips around over the horizon of the arena with the incandescent spotlight affixed on its every virtuosic movement. Harnessed at peak of the steel tower was a man in what seems to be a crimson and ebony lavished magician's robe with a top hat over a white mask the encapsulates his entire face. Arms spread out majestically, the man latched on by his ankles, torso and collar raises his head in a proud nod. Randy Orton ain't got nothin' on this.
But before we know it, the poster child of egotism that we're beholding ripples. The young man in the harness looks down and seems a bit panicked at this point as another ripple casts over the sound of the air conditioner's reducer in the vast distance. The harness buckles as the young man inside squirms and the steel tower begins to perform a tribal dance of death with the young man strapped on like a young joey in its mother's pouch. It begins to spin around and around.
???:
"Confounded technology! You skank! Stop... fucking... spinning. Getting nauseous now..."
The metal beam begins to bend and buckle as the straps on both the young man's ankles and torso pop open, causing him to dangle from the collar of his shirt.
???:
"I need an old priest and a young priest! This bitch is all kinds'a Emily Rose up in hurr! I thought the name of that movie was 'The Last Exorcism'! Not 'The Last Exorcism Before Killin' That Pretty Nigga Up Thurr'!"
The beam swings and causes the young man's body to swing and dangle...
???:
"Alright, alright! Tell the gravekeeper at the cemetary that I'll return Anna Nicole Smith's panties! I already sniffed the fuck out dem shits anyway."
Just as he said that, the last strap snapped as we see the young man's body barrel down from the top of the metal fixture and collide at the top of the stairs in the arena, rolling down the flight like a tire down a hill, clunking with each ended step before crumbling into a splattered mess at the bottom.
Static casts over the lens again as our position shifts to a close up of the young man, struggling to get up to his feet while clasping the rubber mask over his head. Somehow, the top hat stayed on his head, but his pants did not. We won't question it. The voice behind the camera, the familiar French accent from earlier, chimes in as the camera feed leans over him...
???:
"Monsieur Ripplemagne, are you alright?!"
The young man scrambles up fully and nearly stumbles back on to his bottom, but catches himself before crash and burning in his Speedy Gonzales boxers.
Ripplemagne:
"Uuugh. I think so. W-Wait. Ah! I'm blind! Whitey, I'm blind! Call a doctor! The devil stole my eyes! Jacob Goodnight done gone and robbed mah shit!"
???:
"...Monsieur Ripplemagne, your mask is on backwards..."
Despite being in a panic, the French woman's clue-in caused the quirky lad to brace himself and slide the top hat from atop the crown of his head. A deep breath could be heard muffled beneath the white rubber mask as he raised his white cotton gloved hands; his slender fingers prying beneath the sticky rubber and cranking it over his porcelain skin, mashing his delicate features as it wrangled up over his forehead. The young man's golden blond hair popped out in tufts from the mask as he pulled the mask back and allowed his glistening goldie locks to flip and weave around him like that girl, Becky, that everyone had a crush on in High School and whenever she walked by in slow motion, flipping her hair, you'd fall back against your locker because you're a pathetic loser who can't muster up the courage to talk to a female.
...I mean, he flipped his hair. Yeah.
The young man's long, brown eyelashes rose up to reveal his beating blue-green eyes to our feed. Smarks and nerdy e-fedders who actually roleplay professional wrestling (can you believe how nerdy some people are?) would recognize the ectomorphic, model-esque appearance even if the French girl from earlier didn't introduce him. Er... kinda introduce him.
And if that was Ripplemagne, then the French girl behind the camera was his trademark camerawoman, The White Mage. Yes, she actually dresses like a white mage from Final Fantasy all the time. Don't question it.
Ripplemagne:
"Oh. Hey, I can see! Oi, Whitey! What is the magnificent Ripplemagne's name again? I believe the Ripplemagne may have a touch of amnesia after banging his coconut on the way down."
The White Mage:
"Um... Monsieur Ripplemagne, you just said your moniker twice. 'Tis Ripplemagne."
Ripplemagne:
"Antoine Dodson, you say?"
The White Mage:
"E-Er... no. 'Tis Ripplema--"
On that note, Ripplemagne burst into the air with jazz hands and pointed at the camera in a theatrical pose with a cheesy grin on his face. Oh, fuck. It's song time, isn't it?
Ripplemagne:
"He's climin' in ya windows, he's snatchin' your people up!
Tryin'a rape 'em, so y'all need to hide ya kids, hide ya wife. Hide ya kids, hide ya wife. Hide ya kids, hide ya wife!
And hide your husband 'cause they rapin' e'r'body out here!
You don't have to come and confess! We lookin' for you! We gon' find you! We gon' find you!
So, you can run and tell that, run and tell that. Run and tell that, homeboy. Home, home, homebo--"
The White Mage:
"Um... not to sound like Miss Sarah, Monsieur Ripplemagne. But we do have a limited amount of time to conduct le broadcast."
Ripplemagne:
"Ah, yes. The Patriarch of Pretty's debeauty in Full Throttle Wrestling! The magnificent Ripplemagne had an artillery of adorable "for the win" jokes prepared for this little number, but the way I saw it is that the "for the win" nonsensery has probably been beaten to death by every bottom feeding cafone like that little ragamuffin, Ace Centric, who's walked through the door."
It seems that this news shocks the woman behind the camera as she gasps, prompting Ripplemagne to stop talking.
The White Mage:
"Y-You mean you are actually going to skip out on making le silly jokes and talk about ze Six Man Scramble?"
Ripplemagne:
"Of course not! From what the King of Hearts has gathered, this Six Egg Scramble malarkey is some gimmicky hobknockery to determine number one contenders for those little belt buckles. And quite frankly, the Ripplemagne does not care two dingleberries for such trinkets."
The girl seems to remain silent at this point, effectively playing reverse psychology with Ripplemagne. It seems despite his claim that he wouldn't talk about the match, he's gone and started doing so anyway. Maybe if she doesn't' say anything else, he'll continue to talk about the match? Hopefully?
Ripplemagne:
"But de Magne has a rather homoerotic conflict of interest weighing on his pretty little cranium. It would seem that the only way for de Magne to not have to participate in that jumbo sized bottle of dog jizz is for the Patriarch of Pretty to not for the win -- ha! I did it anyway!
...This upcoming triple threat match. And given that fodder numero uno is a scathing boot licker like Wayne Ezra, the Ripplemagne does not see losing.
On the other hand, a paesan' of de Magne and 8-Bit Theater, Bucky Skyler, is the other opponent. Which means that we may, for the first time since that debauchery in the Ripplemagne's very first match and the faggot tree of his second match in that over the top rope doohickey -- see a singles loss by the magnificent Ripplemagne!"
Audio is superimposed into the video of a studio audience gasping as Ripplemagne seems rather shocked, himself. Though, the shock and dismay is surely feigned on his part.
The White Mage:
"Ah, well, that cannot sit well on le mind."
Ripplemagne:
"At first, I came saucers at the prospect of actually having some decent competition in Bucky Skyler and potentially losing a match. But then it dawned on the Patriarch of Pretty: I don't need to actually lose the match to lose the match. Now, granted, the Ripplemagne won't be too devastated if Bucky is the one to pin Wayne Ezra and mark the second of two losses by the man to an 8-Bit Theater member. Realistically, the opportunity to enter the Six Man Scramble is a better opportunity for Bucky Skyler because at least he'd try to earn one of the little trinkets, where my prerogative would just be to see how many wet willies I can give before the ring bell sounds.
But it's the simple principle of the thing! As I said, conflict of interest! It's either win the match and fight like some heathen for a piece of scrap metal... or lose and have a... a... tally mark under the 'L' column of my record!"
The White Mage:
"I see. Go on."
At this point, it seems Ripplemagne catches on and realizes that he did the unthinkable: talked about an upcoming match!
Ripplemagne:
"Oh, you tease! I see what you did thar! Gettin' a nigga all amped up and shit!"
The White Mage:
"E-er... well, uh... no. Th-that's not what I was doing. Th- ah!"
Ripplemagne:
"Boy, oh boy! De Magne is going to take the skin boat to tuna town on this one like the fist of an angry God!"
In that instant, Ripplemagne licks his lips and charges the camera like a raging bull, tackling The White Mage off of her feet, sending the camera flying out of her hands and onto the ground, catching a distorted view of him on top of her, with her screaming and wrenching from Ripplemagne keeping her pinned down by tickling her.
Ripplemagne:
"Believe it!"
As Ripplemagne pins The White Mage down, the screen goes black...
Fin.
Ripplemagne:
"Pusha pusha!
Haciendo mil locuras!"
* * *
