Post by Mag Aluf on Jun 29, 2020 18:42:31 GMT -5
Alberta, Canada
The sun shines brightly on the cold pavement running through Alberta, the frost glistening slightly before being crushed under the foot of a man's soft brown Timberland Boot. We pan upwards, past a pair of long blue denim jeans adorned with tribal designs and a single silver chain used to attach the belt loops to what can be assumed a wallet tucked away into the front-left pocket. The man is wearing a sleeveless puffer-jacket despite the cold, showcasing his olive-toned skin and Tribal Tattoos, as well as the large "MEM" tattoo on his bicep - He had asked for "Mom", but in truth he can barely spell his own name. His sunglasses block out most of his face, and his headphones obnoxiously blast "SpottieOttieDopaliscious" by OutKast despite being around his neck rather than actually on his ears. However perhaps the most identifiable feature, tied with the "Your Vag Here" tattoo on his neck with an arrow pointing up towards his face, is the over-sized hair complete with frosted tips. Something that would come to be a trademark for the man, hair that screams "Mag Aluf, Bitch".
Mag takes a look at the flyer promoting Alberta Wrestling Federation and looks over the address intently before looking past it at the large building stood in front of him.
Mag Aluf
Fuck, I wish I knew how to read.
He enters the building and is met by a concierge, a boy in his last few years of being a teenager, no older than 17. His ginger hair matches the assortment of freckles and acne splattered across his face. The grease glistening with every minute movement.
Boy
Welcome to Chuck E. Cheese - Table for one?
The welcome felt very disingenuous to say the least, not that Mag was paying any attention anyway.
Mag Aluf
'Sup Shitcunt, Where's your fucking shitter bro? Mag Aluf has to take a mad shit, bro.
The boy points behind him lazily, to a small door across the seating area. Mag proceeds towards the door, entering the toilet and promptly finding a surface to bump some cocaine from. He pulls a small baggy from his pocket and goes to pour some of the powder onto the dirty silver hand-dryer. Using a credit card, he cuts the powder into two thin lines. As he looks at his work, he notices the card has his friend Jeff Hardy's name on - one of the deceased's credit cards Mag had used to buy slurpees and snacks with. He looks up to the sky, kisses the card and rips a fat line of the coke.
He continues to do the same with the second line, however before he can snort it, the stall next to him opens. A meak-looking man washes his hands and moves to use the dryer - The vibrations proceeding to scatter the powder onto the floor. Mag pushes the man back towards the stall in aggravation.
Mag Aluf
What the FUCK, bro? That was my fucking Disco Candy!
The man retorts by trying to push Mag back but is unable to move the bigger man, he looks into Mag's eyes with pure fear as he never even realised there was coke on the dryer. Mag stares back at him, his rage boiling all over him. He holds a fist in the air ready to begin beating the weaker toilet-goer.
Man
P-Please man, it was an accident! And it's just coke, it's hardly rare in Alberta!
Mag's eyes suddenly lose the rage he had felt, his fist drops into an open palm and lands on the mans collar.
Mag Aluf
W-What did you just say? Did you say... Hardy?
Man
W-what? No? I-
Before the man can finish his sentence, Mag drags the man up and pushes him out of the stall. Mag crumples to the floor with tears in his eyes, softly whispering "Jeff..." to himself.
Man
Dude, if you want Meth, I can sort you out. Go here and ask for Marcus... He'll sort you out.
The man leaves a small note next to the now-sobbing Mag before quickly leaving before the situation can get any fucking weirder. The scene fades out as Mag softly reaches for the note.
The Next Day...
We resume to the exterior of a large warehouse, Mag studies the note, as he had previously done with the AWF flyer. He tucks it back into his wallet and enters the grey building. Mag seems to always find himself moving from one dilapidated building to another, S U B T E X T.
As he enters the warehouse, he sees what seems to be a make-shift gym featuring various punch-bags that have been repaired with duct-tape and scruffy blue mats on the floor, various posters of the same man with long black hair are tacked across the 4 walls. A small, elderly woman sits behind a desk, the light from the computer screen in front of her reflecting in the small round spectacles perched precariously on the tip of her thin nose. "Alive" by P.O.D. plays quietly in the background.
Mag Aluf
Ay slut, Marcus here? Mag Aluf needs some Biker Coffee.
Mag's voice seems to startle the woman as she lets out a small "What the fuck?". She looks the guido up and down before pointing toward the aforementioned gym area. He hadn't noticed before but a large square tarpaulin sits in the middle of the area, it seems to be a small marquee, as far as Mag can tell. Aluf walks into the gym regardless and calls for this "Marcus".
He hears a slight rustling from the tarpaulin. Suddenly a small, overweight man slides from underneath (I say slide, however he catches his stomach on the ropes and ends up rolling out instead). He looks to be in his thirties or forties, either way he looks fuckin' rough - the kind of rough that only years of drugs and drinking could cause. He's balding, wearing black jorts, also with a chain attached, and a denim jacket featuring various patches representing different Heavy Metal bands. He looks like the human embodiment of failure.
The fuck are you, Butt?
The small, balding, fat, jort wearing man speaks with a thick Welsh accent.
Mag looks down at the man in slight confusion.
Mag Aluf
You slingin' Scooby Snax or what bro? the Shitter elf told me you could sort me some sniff bro.
The welshman seems insulted by the question.
Oh right is it butty? Jus' 'cause ahm Welsh, ya think ahm a druggo is it?
Mag Aluf
Bro, you do sell Meth though, right? Your little Welsh ass is Marcus ye?
Ye Ahm Welsh and Ye Ah sell Meth, but those ain't joint points butt, and ah'll tell ye for why butt. And it's Markus or Mister Alice to little druggo cunts like ye.
The two stare at each other for a moment. Mag at Markus, Markus at Mag. This continues for what seems like an age before Mag seems to realise that he's wasting his time and begins to walk away. He's only stopped by the welshman's voice.
Markus Alice
Aye! Ye wan' Meth? Ye wan' head? Ah'll give ye a lifetime supply my son!
Mag's interest is piqued as he turns back to face Markus. Markus points to one of the posters of himself hanging on the wall, it features a younger Alice stood atop the turnbuckle of a wrestling ring, thousands of people seemed to have been in attendance.
Markus Alice
Nothin' gets pussy wetter and drugs more available than pro wrestling butt. Ah can turn ye into a wrestlin' machine - fuelled on clunge an' the devil's washing powder. An' truth be told, if ah dun train anycunt in the next week, ah'll lose me license to perform sports therapy massage - do ye realise how difficult it is to touch a gal's thigh otherwise?
Markus pulls the tarpaulin from the structure in one strong swoop. What was previously thought to be a marquee is revealed to actually be a wrestling ring. It was surprisingly bigger than Mag had expected, although that had been based on Jeff's description and he spent most of his time in a ring off his nut on meth.
Mag thinks for a moment.
Transparent images of Jeff appear in front of him, as he remembers watching his old matches together, he remembers the two play wrestling with each other. The two holding hands and running through the rain, them building their house together, their rainy trips out on the canoe, when they first met after Jeff climbed the ferris wheel that Mag was sitting on...
Mag Aluf
Shit dog, I fucking love The Notebook.
Markus Alice
Ye what cunt?
Mag sprints towards the ring and slides in to meet Alice.
Mag Aluf
I FUCKING LOVE THE NOTEBOOK.
The two lock hands and shake. Mag looks determined. Alice pulls him in close and the scene fades to black.
The Next Day...
Cue the training montage. Clips of Markus "Training" Mag appear. The "Training" consists mostly of the two eating Arby's, doing cocaine and tag-teaming the elderly receptionist, interlaced with clips of the two in a collar-elbow tie up. Finally we see the two in the ring, they finish with one of the aforementioned tie-up. Alice pats his protege on the shoulder.
Markus Alice
Well Butt, After a long week of training, ah've taught ye all ah know. Ye confident yet?
Say what you will, Mag Aluf is nothing if not confident. He nods and throws a bro fist up. Alice lights a joint and the two pass it around.
Mag Aluf
Fuck ye, bro. I'm gonna beat some mad puss. This wrestling shit is easy bro.
Markus Alice
Just remember the no. 1 rule butt. Every move is just a variation of the Collar-Elbow - if that ever fails ye... It's fuckin' fake anyways.
Mag Aluf
Fake, bro? Next you're gonna say every action I take is predetermined and written by some fat bloke on a computer for the amusement of himself and some gay-ass losers who enjoy forums and detest showers, with stupid-fucking names like Chris. Fuck Chris, man.
Markus Alice
Fuck Chris.
The two take a moment to finish the joint before making their way to the front desk. Alice is passed some papers from the elderly receptionist before turning to Mag.
Markus Alice
Ah've got something for ye. Ah pulled some strings with the Commish over at the local wrestlin' fed. Got ye a contract and a match.
Alice passes the papers - a contract - to Mag, who takes a look at it and shakes his head slightly.
Mag Aluf
The fuck dog? Actually wrestling is fucking gay bro, I ain't touching another man unless there's a slut in between us bro. I only know the collar-elbow dog.
Markus wipes some sweat from his forehead.
Markus Alice
Butt, ye may only know one move but it's a fuckin' killer of a collar-elbow. And it's too late now butty, ye've signed the contract.
Mag looks at the contract in disbelief, it appears as though Alice has forged Aluf's signature!
Mag Aluf
What the fuck bro? You at least gotta teach me something else, gimme another week's training bro! Don't try to fuck me, bitch, only bitches fuck Mag Aluf, bitch.
Markus sighs slightly and shakes his head.
Markus Alice
Listen butt, ah'd love to give ye another week, but the match is in 45 minutes.
Mag Aluf
45 Minutes!? That's only just enough time for the Tongue of Mag to make a slut cream like 5 times! Shit bro! At least it's only against one bitch though, right dog?
Markus Alice looks sheepishly from side-to-side, not having the heart to tell Mag the true number of opponents. He thinks for a moment before perking up.
Markus Alice
Listen kid, Ye don't wrestle then Commish Austin dunt give me this week's shipment of the 'ole Party 'n Play. Ah like ye kid, so ah'll tell ye what - For one night only, the Dropkick Kid, the Cardiff Composer will be in your corner!
Mag holds his temples in his hands, seemingly distraught. Suddenly he lets out an exasperated "Ugh" noise and punches the elderly receptionist in the face, breaking her glasses and causing her to fall and hit her head on the hard floor - killing her.
Mag Aluf
What fucking good is Tom Jones gonna do, bro?
Markus Alice shakes his head again and puts an arm around Mag's waist whilst patting his shoulder with his free hand. He begins to lead the PartyHorse back towards the ring in the middle of the gym.
Markus Alice
C'mon butt, maybe there's one move ah can teach ye quickly.
The scene fades as the two enter the ring for one more, last-minute, training session.
The sun shines brightly on the cold pavement running through Alberta, the frost glistening slightly before being crushed under the foot of a man's soft brown Timberland Boot. We pan upwards, past a pair of long blue denim jeans adorned with tribal designs and a single silver chain used to attach the belt loops to what can be assumed a wallet tucked away into the front-left pocket. The man is wearing a sleeveless puffer-jacket despite the cold, showcasing his olive-toned skin and Tribal Tattoos, as well as the large "MEM" tattoo on his bicep - He had asked for "Mom", but in truth he can barely spell his own name. His sunglasses block out most of his face, and his headphones obnoxiously blast "SpottieOttieDopaliscious" by OutKast despite being around his neck rather than actually on his ears. However perhaps the most identifiable feature, tied with the "Your Vag Here" tattoo on his neck with an arrow pointing up towards his face, is the over-sized hair complete with frosted tips. Something that would come to be a trademark for the man, hair that screams "Mag Aluf, Bitch".
Mag takes a look at the flyer promoting Alberta Wrestling Federation and looks over the address intently before looking past it at the large building stood in front of him.
Mag Aluf
Fuck, I wish I knew how to read.
He enters the building and is met by a concierge, a boy in his last few years of being a teenager, no older than 17. His ginger hair matches the assortment of freckles and acne splattered across his face. The grease glistening with every minute movement.
Boy
Welcome to Chuck E. Cheese - Table for one?
The welcome felt very disingenuous to say the least, not that Mag was paying any attention anyway.
Mag Aluf
'Sup Shitcunt, Where's your fucking shitter bro? Mag Aluf has to take a mad shit, bro.
The boy points behind him lazily, to a small door across the seating area. Mag proceeds towards the door, entering the toilet and promptly finding a surface to bump some cocaine from. He pulls a small baggy from his pocket and goes to pour some of the powder onto the dirty silver hand-dryer. Using a credit card, he cuts the powder into two thin lines. As he looks at his work, he notices the card has his friend Jeff Hardy's name on - one of the deceased's credit cards Mag had used to buy slurpees and snacks with. He looks up to the sky, kisses the card and rips a fat line of the coke.
He continues to do the same with the second line, however before he can snort it, the stall next to him opens. A meak-looking man washes his hands and moves to use the dryer - The vibrations proceeding to scatter the powder onto the floor. Mag pushes the man back towards the stall in aggravation.
Mag Aluf
What the FUCK, bro? That was my fucking Disco Candy!
The man retorts by trying to push Mag back but is unable to move the bigger man, he looks into Mag's eyes with pure fear as he never even realised there was coke on the dryer. Mag stares back at him, his rage boiling all over him. He holds a fist in the air ready to begin beating the weaker toilet-goer.
Man
P-Please man, it was an accident! And it's just coke, it's hardly rare in Alberta!
Mag's eyes suddenly lose the rage he had felt, his fist drops into an open palm and lands on the mans collar.
Mag Aluf
W-What did you just say? Did you say... Hardy?
Man
W-what? No? I-
Before the man can finish his sentence, Mag drags the man up and pushes him out of the stall. Mag crumples to the floor with tears in his eyes, softly whispering "Jeff..." to himself.
Man
Dude, if you want Meth, I can sort you out. Go here and ask for Marcus... He'll sort you out.
The man leaves a small note next to the now-sobbing Mag before quickly leaving before the situation can get any fucking weirder. The scene fades out as Mag softly reaches for the note.
The Next Day...
We resume to the exterior of a large warehouse, Mag studies the note, as he had previously done with the AWF flyer. He tucks it back into his wallet and enters the grey building. Mag seems to always find himself moving from one dilapidated building to another, S U B T E X T.
As he enters the warehouse, he sees what seems to be a make-shift gym featuring various punch-bags that have been repaired with duct-tape and scruffy blue mats on the floor, various posters of the same man with long black hair are tacked across the 4 walls. A small, elderly woman sits behind a desk, the light from the computer screen in front of her reflecting in the small round spectacles perched precariously on the tip of her thin nose. "Alive" by P.O.D. plays quietly in the background.
Mag Aluf
Ay slut, Marcus here? Mag Aluf needs some Biker Coffee.
Mag's voice seems to startle the woman as she lets out a small "What the fuck?". She looks the guido up and down before pointing toward the aforementioned gym area. He hadn't noticed before but a large square tarpaulin sits in the middle of the area, it seems to be a small marquee, as far as Mag can tell. Aluf walks into the gym regardless and calls for this "Marcus".
He hears a slight rustling from the tarpaulin. Suddenly a small, overweight man slides from underneath (I say slide, however he catches his stomach on the ropes and ends up rolling out instead). He looks to be in his thirties or forties, either way he looks fuckin' rough - the kind of rough that only years of drugs and drinking could cause. He's balding, wearing black jorts, also with a chain attached, and a denim jacket featuring various patches representing different Heavy Metal bands. He looks like the human embodiment of failure.
The fuck are you, Butt?
The small, balding, fat, jort wearing man speaks with a thick Welsh accent.
Mag looks down at the man in slight confusion.
Mag Aluf
You slingin' Scooby Snax or what bro? the Shitter elf told me you could sort me some sniff bro.
The welshman seems insulted by the question.
Oh right is it butty? Jus' 'cause ahm Welsh, ya think ahm a druggo is it?
Mag Aluf
Bro, you do sell Meth though, right? Your little Welsh ass is Marcus ye?
Ye Ahm Welsh and Ye Ah sell Meth, but those ain't joint points butt, and ah'll tell ye for why butt. And it's Markus or Mister Alice to little druggo cunts like ye.
The two stare at each other for a moment. Mag at Markus, Markus at Mag. This continues for what seems like an age before Mag seems to realise that he's wasting his time and begins to walk away. He's only stopped by the welshman's voice.
Markus Alice
Aye! Ye wan' Meth? Ye wan' head? Ah'll give ye a lifetime supply my son!
Mag's interest is piqued as he turns back to face Markus. Markus points to one of the posters of himself hanging on the wall, it features a younger Alice stood atop the turnbuckle of a wrestling ring, thousands of people seemed to have been in attendance.
Markus Alice
Nothin' gets pussy wetter and drugs more available than pro wrestling butt. Ah can turn ye into a wrestlin' machine - fuelled on clunge an' the devil's washing powder. An' truth be told, if ah dun train anycunt in the next week, ah'll lose me license to perform sports therapy massage - do ye realise how difficult it is to touch a gal's thigh otherwise?
Markus pulls the tarpaulin from the structure in one strong swoop. What was previously thought to be a marquee is revealed to actually be a wrestling ring. It was surprisingly bigger than Mag had expected, although that had been based on Jeff's description and he spent most of his time in a ring off his nut on meth.
Mag thinks for a moment.
Transparent images of Jeff appear in front of him, as he remembers watching his old matches together, he remembers the two play wrestling with each other. The two holding hands and running through the rain, them building their house together, their rainy trips out on the canoe, when they first met after Jeff climbed the ferris wheel that Mag was sitting on...
Mag Aluf
Shit dog, I fucking love The Notebook.
Markus Alice
Ye what cunt?
Mag sprints towards the ring and slides in to meet Alice.
Mag Aluf
I FUCKING LOVE THE NOTEBOOK.
The two lock hands and shake. Mag looks determined. Alice pulls him in close and the scene fades to black.
The Next Day...
Cue the training montage. Clips of Markus "Training" Mag appear. The "Training" consists mostly of the two eating Arby's, doing cocaine and tag-teaming the elderly receptionist, interlaced with clips of the two in a collar-elbow tie up. Finally we see the two in the ring, they finish with one of the aforementioned tie-up. Alice pats his protege on the shoulder.
Markus Alice
Well Butt, After a long week of training, ah've taught ye all ah know. Ye confident yet?
Say what you will, Mag Aluf is nothing if not confident. He nods and throws a bro fist up. Alice lights a joint and the two pass it around.
Mag Aluf
Fuck ye, bro. I'm gonna beat some mad puss. This wrestling shit is easy bro.
Markus Alice
Just remember the no. 1 rule butt. Every move is just a variation of the Collar-Elbow - if that ever fails ye... It's fuckin' fake anyways.
Mag Aluf
Fake, bro? Next you're gonna say every action I take is predetermined and written by some fat bloke on a computer for the amusement of himself and some gay-ass losers who enjoy forums and detest showers, with stupid-fucking names like Chris. Fuck Chris, man.
Markus Alice
Fuck Chris.
The two take a moment to finish the joint before making their way to the front desk. Alice is passed some papers from the elderly receptionist before turning to Mag.
Markus Alice
Ah've got something for ye. Ah pulled some strings with the Commish over at the local wrestlin' fed. Got ye a contract and a match.
Alice passes the papers - a contract - to Mag, who takes a look at it and shakes his head slightly.
Mag Aluf
The fuck dog? Actually wrestling is fucking gay bro, I ain't touching another man unless there's a slut in between us bro. I only know the collar-elbow dog.
Markus wipes some sweat from his forehead.
Markus Alice
Butt, ye may only know one move but it's a fuckin' killer of a collar-elbow. And it's too late now butty, ye've signed the contract.
Mag looks at the contract in disbelief, it appears as though Alice has forged Aluf's signature!
Mag Aluf
What the fuck bro? You at least gotta teach me something else, gimme another week's training bro! Don't try to fuck me, bitch, only bitches fuck Mag Aluf, bitch.
Markus sighs slightly and shakes his head.
Markus Alice
Listen butt, ah'd love to give ye another week, but the match is in 45 minutes.
Mag Aluf
45 Minutes!? That's only just enough time for the Tongue of Mag to make a slut cream like 5 times! Shit bro! At least it's only against one bitch though, right dog?
Markus Alice looks sheepishly from side-to-side, not having the heart to tell Mag the true number of opponents. He thinks for a moment before perking up.
Markus Alice
Listen kid, Ye don't wrestle then Commish Austin dunt give me this week's shipment of the 'ole Party 'n Play. Ah like ye kid, so ah'll tell ye what - For one night only, the Dropkick Kid, the Cardiff Composer will be in your corner!
Mag holds his temples in his hands, seemingly distraught. Suddenly he lets out an exasperated "Ugh" noise and punches the elderly receptionist in the face, breaking her glasses and causing her to fall and hit her head on the hard floor - killing her.
Mag Aluf
What fucking good is Tom Jones gonna do, bro?
Markus Alice shakes his head again and puts an arm around Mag's waist whilst patting his shoulder with his free hand. He begins to lead the PartyHorse back towards the ring in the middle of the gym.
Markus Alice
C'mon butt, maybe there's one move ah can teach ye quickly.
The scene fades as the two enter the ring for one more, last-minute, training session.