Post by Mag Aluf on Jul 12, 2020 21:18:33 GMT -5
Priscilla Kelly and Spud stand outside the ring, watching as the house lights dim and a flurry of pinks, blues and green strobe lights flash into life on the stage.
Mark Beverly
And their Opponents, introducing first... From the nearest Tiki Bar... Weighing in at 181 pounds... The PartyHorse... MAAAAAG ALUUUUUF!
The King of Vodka Shot Style nonchalantly walks from gorilla, his glasses hiding his coke-riddled irises and his headphones shielding his ears from having to listen to Mark Beverly's rancid voice. He holds a bottle of Smirnoff Ice in each hand and pours them into his mouth much akin to Stone Cold.
Mag steadily makes his way towards the ring, stopping at each large-breasted woman in the front row and taking time to quickly motorboat them, although he keeps his eyes on Priscilla Kelly whenever he can.
Taking care not to spill his beverages, Mag climbs into the ring and makes his way to the far left turnbuckle. He clambers onto the bottom rope and steadies himself before lifting both bottles above his head and clinking them together, again imitating the Texas Rattlesnake. However it is made very clear why Stone Cold uses cans, as the Smirnoff Bottles just shatter as they are smashed together. Mag looks down at the shattered glass and scoffs at the puddle of wasted vodka. He drops the pieces of bottle that remained whole in his hands to the outside of the ring and signals for a microphone, which is shortly thrown to him. He paces the ring shortly before lifting his sunglasses to perch on the top of his head.
Mag Aluf
'Sup cunts.
The crowd cheers despite being called cunts. Despite Mag still being fairly new, he has definitely been noticed from his screentime so far.
Mag Aluf
You want to hear some fuckin' bullshit? Some fuckin' Grade-A horseSHEIT?
Mag glances to Priscilla Kelly again, he ignores Spud, because Spud is a cuck.
Mag Aluf
So get this shit: I get told by my Manager, Shy Ron, that I'm supposed to fight like 10 fuckin' guys tonight. Imagine having to be told that by a fuckin' ginger? Imagine just going for a quiet key in the corner of the building furthest away from the bar, to be interrupted with news like that!
Mag looks from side to side, his eyes shifting as he makes it clear he was nowhere near the bar. Ever.
Mag Aluf
But I'll tell you something, hand on heart, Mag Aluf doesn't give a single shit about this crooked-ass company or any of those bitches backstage. Throw what you fuckin' want at me because I can fucking go, bro. Like, what the fuck man, step the fuck up man, I'll fuck you all up, bro.
Mag shudders slightly as it becomes clear that the Ketamine Kid has partaken in the party powder again for a little Colombian courage.
Mag Aluf
You want to know something else? Phil Goode is a fat fuck.
Phil Goode fans boo at the Guido.
Mag Aluf
He is fuckin' fat! Bro, I appreciate that you helped a little last week and I was willing to let you in on the action with that slut we got after, but how was I supposed to focus on The Defiler with you standing in the corner staring at the PartyHorse's ass and rubbing that chode?
Mag motions to the crowd with open arms, as if expecting an answer from them.
Mag Aluf
Like, what the fuck bro? What kind of cuck shit is that?
Mag takes a moment, shaking his head.
Mag Aluf
Speaking of cucks: Raging Dead.
Another round of cheering but this time from Raging Dead's many fans.
Mag Aluf
Bro, I follow you on Twitter and it's fuckin' strange because despite being a major cuckold, your wife is so fucking dogging bro, not even you could watch her taking dick.
A thunderous boo resonates from Raging Dead's fans. Mag throws a middle finger up to them and screams a barely audible "Fuck you, you're not even fucking real!"
Mag Aluf
Dog, maybe she needs some Mag meat - I bet you’d enjoy watching then, you fuckin' degenerate. Raging Dead? More like 'Shut the fuck up, you Raging Cunt'
Mag shakes his head, he's feeling his drug-fuelled oats, bro.
Mag Aluf
On the subject of raging cunts, Tyler Breeze, you fuckin' virgin. Bro, I appreciate a brother's need to fake tan bro, I do, but when I first saw you I thought you and Homunculus came from the same mud hut, homie.
Mag actually does receive a fairly loud boo for that jab, although he still has his headphones on so I don't suppose he gives a shit.
Mag Aluf
And you're 'Prince Pretty', right? More like Princess! Why don't you make like a real Princess and go die in a fuckin' car crash? The only difference between you and Princess Diana is her Head 'n Shoulders were found on the dashboard whilst you still need to invest in some, you dandruff-riddled motherfucker.
The LAD spits at his feet like a cunt, he can't stand a lack of hair healthcare.
Mag Aluf
And if you fucks think I'm almost finished, I'm just getting started. Let's have a quick-fire round! Dyno-Mike: What a fucking dumb cunt name, your personality is much like Raging Dead’s creativity: Non-existent. Barron Bone-whatever: What the fuck even are you dog? Go back to Party City and get a real job. Big Homo and Ruxx Rampede: Which one is which? Not a race thing I just cannot tell the difference between you two.
The Heel juices are flowing, much like the adrenaline as Mag begins to have heart palpitations from the narcotics. Although Rule #14 in the Book of Mag states OD'ing is gay.
Mag Aluf
Orange Fuckin' Cassidy.
The crowd go nuts for the ever-popular Orange Cassidy.
Mag Aluf
I'll be honest bro, I think you're fuckin' sick dog. You're great, really.
Mag nods towards the hard cam, fuck Orange Cassidy is cool.
Mag Aluf
Now who's left...?
He reaches into his pocket and removes a small piece of notepad paper, he looks at it for a couple seconds, remembers he cannot read and tosses it over his shoulder.
Mag Aluf
Ah Ye, Laci Valentine. You're a woman, what more needs to be said? I don't know who you are and couldn't care less, but I will say if you suck dick like you suck at wrestling, you might be worth Mag Aluf’s attention.
Aluf pulls his phone from his pocket, swipes a little and holds it out towards the hard cam. As the camera focuses on the device, it turns out to be a Tinder match screen with Laci's face on it.
Mag Aluf
Well Laci, looks like even if Mag Aluf loses tonight, there’ll be some pinning later on.
Mag motions down the Rockstar Spud.
Mag Aluf
And you... You look like you'd hire a hooker just to give her a foot-rub. I bet you reciprocate, you fuckin' simp.
Finally, Mag turns his attention to Priscilla Kelly. He stares at her for a short while, trying to think of the perfect words. He finds a thin smirk working it's way onto his face.
Mag Aluf
Priscilla... I would suck your dad off just to get a taste of what you were made of. I know that sounds odd, but you are god damn fine, girl.
Mag offers her a wink, then turns back to the hard cam.
Mag Aluf
So to all of you, I have just one thing to say: I have been called many things: The Ketamine Kid, The LAD, The King of Vodka Shot Style, Your Mom's Favourite Wrestler, The PartyHorse. However know this - at the end of the night and at the Brawl at Yankee Stadium, you'll all be calling me the same thing:
Mag stretches his arms wide before turning back to look at Priscilla Kelly, still standing on the outside of the ring.
Mag Aluf
Daddy.
Mag holds his arms out again, mouthing to the hard camera while the announcer finally prepares to introduce the next participant.
Mark Beverly
And his Partners.... Introducing first...
Mag Aluf quickly hones his sight in on Mark Beverly. A look of panic washes over the PartyHorse's face.
Mag Aluf
Partners? What the FU-
Before Mag can finish his expletive, he is interrupted by the first of his, no doubt now reluctant, partners.
Mark Beverly
And their Opponents, introducing first... From the nearest Tiki Bar... Weighing in at 181 pounds... The PartyHorse... MAAAAAG ALUUUUUF!
The King of Vodka Shot Style nonchalantly walks from gorilla, his glasses hiding his coke-riddled irises and his headphones shielding his ears from having to listen to Mark Beverly's rancid voice. He holds a bottle of Smirnoff Ice in each hand and pours them into his mouth much akin to Stone Cold.
Mag steadily makes his way towards the ring, stopping at each large-breasted woman in the front row and taking time to quickly motorboat them, although he keeps his eyes on Priscilla Kelly whenever he can.
Taking care not to spill his beverages, Mag climbs into the ring and makes his way to the far left turnbuckle. He clambers onto the bottom rope and steadies himself before lifting both bottles above his head and clinking them together, again imitating the Texas Rattlesnake. However it is made very clear why Stone Cold uses cans, as the Smirnoff Bottles just shatter as they are smashed together. Mag looks down at the shattered glass and scoffs at the puddle of wasted vodka. He drops the pieces of bottle that remained whole in his hands to the outside of the ring and signals for a microphone, which is shortly thrown to him. He paces the ring shortly before lifting his sunglasses to perch on the top of his head.
Mag Aluf
'Sup cunts.
The crowd cheers despite being called cunts. Despite Mag still being fairly new, he has definitely been noticed from his screentime so far.
Mag Aluf
You want to hear some fuckin' bullshit? Some fuckin' Grade-A horseSHEIT?
Mag glances to Priscilla Kelly again, he ignores Spud, because Spud is a cuck.
Mag Aluf
So get this shit: I get told by my Manager, Shy Ron, that I'm supposed to fight like 10 fuckin' guys tonight. Imagine having to be told that by a fuckin' ginger? Imagine just going for a quiet key in the corner of the building furthest away from the bar, to be interrupted with news like that!
Mag looks from side to side, his eyes shifting as he makes it clear he was nowhere near the bar. Ever.
Mag Aluf
But I'll tell you something, hand on heart, Mag Aluf doesn't give a single shit about this crooked-ass company or any of those bitches backstage. Throw what you fuckin' want at me because I can fucking go, bro. Like, what the fuck man, step the fuck up man, I'll fuck you all up, bro.
Mag shudders slightly as it becomes clear that the Ketamine Kid has partaken in the party powder again for a little Colombian courage.
Mag Aluf
You want to know something else? Phil Goode is a fat fuck.
Phil Goode fans boo at the Guido.
Mag Aluf
He is fuckin' fat! Bro, I appreciate that you helped a little last week and I was willing to let you in on the action with that slut we got after, but how was I supposed to focus on The Defiler with you standing in the corner staring at the PartyHorse's ass and rubbing that chode?
Mag motions to the crowd with open arms, as if expecting an answer from them.
Mag Aluf
Like, what the fuck bro? What kind of cuck shit is that?
Mag takes a moment, shaking his head.
Mag Aluf
Speaking of cucks: Raging Dead.
Another round of cheering but this time from Raging Dead's many fans.
Mag Aluf
Bro, I follow you on Twitter and it's fuckin' strange because despite being a major cuckold, your wife is so fucking dogging bro, not even you could watch her taking dick.
A thunderous boo resonates from Raging Dead's fans. Mag throws a middle finger up to them and screams a barely audible "Fuck you, you're not even fucking real!"
Mag Aluf
Dog, maybe she needs some Mag meat - I bet you’d enjoy watching then, you fuckin' degenerate. Raging Dead? More like 'Shut the fuck up, you Raging Cunt'
Mag shakes his head, he's feeling his drug-fuelled oats, bro.
Mag Aluf
On the subject of raging cunts, Tyler Breeze, you fuckin' virgin. Bro, I appreciate a brother's need to fake tan bro, I do, but when I first saw you I thought you and Homunculus came from the same mud hut, homie.
Mag actually does receive a fairly loud boo for that jab, although he still has his headphones on so I don't suppose he gives a shit.
Mag Aluf
And you're 'Prince Pretty', right? More like Princess! Why don't you make like a real Princess and go die in a fuckin' car crash? The only difference between you and Princess Diana is her Head 'n Shoulders were found on the dashboard whilst you still need to invest in some, you dandruff-riddled motherfucker.
The LAD spits at his feet like a cunt, he can't stand a lack of hair healthcare.
Mag Aluf
And if you fucks think I'm almost finished, I'm just getting started. Let's have a quick-fire round! Dyno-Mike: What a fucking dumb cunt name, your personality is much like Raging Dead’s creativity: Non-existent. Barron Bone-whatever: What the fuck even are you dog? Go back to Party City and get a real job. Big Homo and Ruxx Rampede: Which one is which? Not a race thing I just cannot tell the difference between you two.
The Heel juices are flowing, much like the adrenaline as Mag begins to have heart palpitations from the narcotics. Although Rule #14 in the Book of Mag states OD'ing is gay.
Mag Aluf
Orange Fuckin' Cassidy.
The crowd go nuts for the ever-popular Orange Cassidy.
Mag Aluf
I'll be honest bro, I think you're fuckin' sick dog. You're great, really.
Mag nods towards the hard cam, fuck Orange Cassidy is cool.
Mag Aluf
Now who's left...?
He reaches into his pocket and removes a small piece of notepad paper, he looks at it for a couple seconds, remembers he cannot read and tosses it over his shoulder.
Mag Aluf
Ah Ye, Laci Valentine. You're a woman, what more needs to be said? I don't know who you are and couldn't care less, but I will say if you suck dick like you suck at wrestling, you might be worth Mag Aluf’s attention.
Aluf pulls his phone from his pocket, swipes a little and holds it out towards the hard cam. As the camera focuses on the device, it turns out to be a Tinder match screen with Laci's face on it.
Mag Aluf
Well Laci, looks like even if Mag Aluf loses tonight, there’ll be some pinning later on.
Mag motions down the Rockstar Spud.
Mag Aluf
And you... You look like you'd hire a hooker just to give her a foot-rub. I bet you reciprocate, you fuckin' simp.
Finally, Mag turns his attention to Priscilla Kelly. He stares at her for a short while, trying to think of the perfect words. He finds a thin smirk working it's way onto his face.
Mag Aluf
Priscilla... I would suck your dad off just to get a taste of what you were made of. I know that sounds odd, but you are god damn fine, girl.
Mag offers her a wink, then turns back to the hard cam.
Mag Aluf
So to all of you, I have just one thing to say: I have been called many things: The Ketamine Kid, The LAD, The King of Vodka Shot Style, Your Mom's Favourite Wrestler, The PartyHorse. However know this - at the end of the night and at the Brawl at Yankee Stadium, you'll all be calling me the same thing:
Mag stretches his arms wide before turning back to look at Priscilla Kelly, still standing on the outside of the ring.
Mag Aluf
Daddy.
Mag holds his arms out again, mouthing to the hard camera while the announcer finally prepares to introduce the next participant.
Mark Beverly
And his Partners.... Introducing first...
Mag Aluf quickly hones his sight in on Mark Beverly. A look of panic washes over the PartyHorse's face.
Mag Aluf
Partners? What the FU-
Before Mag can finish his expletive, he is interrupted by the first of his, no doubt now reluctant, partners.