MATCH PROMO Fuck Medical Bills and Ugly Nurses - Dynasty I


The Grave Worm

I was semi-conscious and doped up on so much fucking morphine that it could tame a T-Rex. I laid there defenseless on my hospital bed against my will as a result of a rather dangerous mixture of a lingering case of title loss infused alcohol poisoning and so many fucking bent and blood-soaked nails in my bowel movements you'd think Tim Allen fucked me in the ass, no thanks to that streak of piss, Mr. DEDEDE. I couldn't get out of that soul-sucking shithole fast enough. Whether it was the surge of nurses marching in and out of my room like fucking soldier ants, always asking me how I'm feeling when the answer couldn't be more obvious, or the IV wires that were like pesky tentacles weaving their way in and out of my body, or the constant "bong" of the heart monitor that would go off every time it skipped a fucking beat, oh, and let's not forget the god awful food that they brought me on a tray every day with items such as expired jello, water that had to thicken, chunky applesauce that had one of the drag queen nurse's mustache hairs that she/he/it must have bought from fucking Party City swimming in it, whether it was the standard definition shitty RCA television set up in the corner of my room that played the same homemade self-serving advertisements over and over about how the hospital has helped so many people in need over the years. It was maddening, it was a fate worse than death, if I didn't pass out on the streets that fateful night after I was skullfucked with a guitar full of nails by EAW's resident Lance Armstrong on Dynasty, not to mention the whiskey that I threw down my throat to numb the agony, then I would have never been trapped in that fucking dreary wasteland of medical falsehoods and broken promises. I didn't need their supervision and I sure as hell didn't need the aid of the nurses who on a looks scale would range from ugly to homely, especially from the one token male nurse who was overly feminine and could put a lisp in the word cracker. But nooooo they kept me there, they even had the nerve to lecture my ass a few times when they caught me bumming a smoke from the janitor who had at least somewhat of an understanding of how tortuous the hospital was to the human psyche. Not to mention my not so illustrious escape attempt when I tried to torpedo myself head first through the fifth story window, but I somehow managed to stub my toe on a conveniently placed wooden leg of a hospital recliner, which I crashed face first into the fucking in-wall heater vent as a result. Needless to say, my doctor wasn’t exactly bursting at the seams with ebullience after that. He stood there a modest 5'6" at my bedside with his fists balled on his hips as if they were loaded pistols with one in the fucking chamber. I couldn't figure out what he was so up in arms about through his unbearable and indecipherable butchery of the English language as I'm sure he was of Indian descent the way he rolled his r's off of his tongue and through his wild and unwarranted "why would you do such a thing?" gesticulations at me. I told him to fuck off back into whatever backwards shithole he crawled out of. That didn't exactly leave me in good graces with the doc and as my stay at the hospital came to an abrupt end, which I'm sure they were rubbing their hands together in anticipation when they dropped the medical bill at the foot of my bed which in retrospect should have been a 300 pound weight - I never ran so fast in my life, except that time when I jacked the salvation army money pot outside of a Walmart or that time when I pistol-whipped a rather prosperous and well-known linchpin gangbanger during a high stakes drug deal in the midst of my teenage years, but fuck, that medical bill was worse than the equalizer itself, even with insurance they charge you up the ass.

Fuck medical bills and ugly nurses.

And while I'm at it, fuck what Dynasty has become - a miserable hotbed for lost souls. I rotted away for months, ripping my hair out strand by fucking strand while I was on my road to recovery because of what I was witnessing whenever I could grab the remote and turn on Dynasty. It's been a jumbled clusterfuck of Darkane wannabes who failed to fill my shoes while I was gone. There are halfwits such as Lucas Johnson who writes checks that his ass can't cash. There’s the Sons of Anarchy stunt double Hades who rode in on a Harley and rode out on a fucking tricycle. There’s the troglodytic village idiot Apocalypse who has the strength of an ox but not an ounce of gray matter oozing between his ears. There’s the ever so formulaic, paint-by-number Devan Plebian, someone who is a spot-starter, whenever EAW needs a hall of fame fill in due to the lack of competency from the rest of the fucking roster which also included the likes of Theron's former right-hand man; the tapeworm infested chocolate starfish of the 1%; Jack Ripley who shit the bed at Road to Redemption. The only man that was worth a single solitary fuck during my absence was Erebus Jennings and if I said that before my hospitalization I would have washed my mouth out with soap until I had the Dial logo embedded on my tongue but I gotta give Gene Simmons credit where credit is due - he fought hard in my honor, but let's get one thing straight: I never needed your help in my absence and I never asked for it. I'm not your partner in crime, I'm not your one and only friend besides the invisible characters that you made up on a whim one day while pulling the wings off of a fly as some sort of therapeutic woe-is-me pain release, albeit alone in the middle of a fucking sandbox in an abandoned playground covered up in cat turds. What we had, was a mutual interest at hand in the demise of the 1%. I don't need sympathy from you or anybody for that matter, because unlike Johnny Ventura I wasn't sent off into early retirement as a result of the equalizer, in fact, DEDEDE hits about as hard as Henrique hits the back of Carmen Ava's throat. I don't know if you've got the memo by now but here's a juicy tidbit for you Erebus: I don't like people, I never have and I never will, so whatever this brother-from-another-mother bond that you think you have with me is, I'd advise you to stay in your lane.

If there was ever a silver lining during my absence, it was witnessing 50,000 volts travel through Mr. DEDEDE’s nutsack and turning them into barbecued and deformed little bite-sized raisinets at Road to Redemption. His whole soldier-for-satan act ran its course considering it was portrayed by the same guy who hoodwinked the world into believing that he was a raging backdoor bandit who I’m sure, had blisters on his kneecaps while in the trajectory of oncoming bukkakes as some sort of ritualistic initiation to keep the rest of the gays convinced that he was part of the pack. Mr. DEDEDE’s actions were no more egregious than what you see from your average rebel flag bikini wearing hillbilly with peroxide hair/Cody Marshall reject, who has a skoal ring imprinting the back pocket of their blue jean cut-offs that also dress their kid up as a pack of fucking Marlboros for Halloween. You see that shit on your everyday mid-morning rerun of Jerry Springer from 1999. Fucking a 50 to 60 something-year-old raggedy ass cougar who had more tread on her tires than fucking Dale Earnhardt Jr. isn't exactly a novel concept, it's been done all the way back before Moses wore fucking short pants. Hell, even I've done it a few times, usually after a wild bender, but none of the MILFs that I porked fell out of the ugly tree and hit every fucking branch on the way down like Carmen did. Jesus Christ, she must have had tinted windows on her incubator when she came scorching out of the womb back in 47 B.C. How she managed to squeeze out two bombshells like Cam and Consuela I'll never know. You'd think DDD would come up with something much more convoluted and rewarding than drilling the dust out of that atrocity with piano legs who has more dimples on her ass than a fucking golf ball. I guess that goes to show you that even supposed evil masterminds can outsmart themselves and the only ingredients that were required were one woman scorned and one fucking taser. What Cam did in one night eclipsed EVERYTHING that Mr. DEDEDE did to her in a few months time. She humiliated him in such a way that he’s now and forever scarred for life and on top of all that she destroyed whatever sex drive that he still possessed in one fellow swoop when she toasted his pecker.


That was Cam’s personal slice of retribution, not mine. I could have emerged from the shadows at Road to Redemption, but somehow, someway, in the back of my mind I knew that Mr. DEDEDE was going to get his due and with his 1% running buddies absent, it was only a matter of time, but I still want my piece. It wasn’t enough to see him belt out I quit at the top of his lungs. It wasn’t enough to watch the tears which were no doubt caused by his inability to rid his hands of Cam for good - cascade down his face as if they were rushing rivers and it sure as hell wasn’t enough to see the man look at his reflection through the puddle of his own blood that slept in the middle of the ring. What I want, is for him to remember my ugly fucking mug for the rest of his life. I want him to forget all the faces of the despondent souls he’s battled throughout the years. I want him to forget the championships that he’s won and the trophies that rest on his mantle. I want him to forget all the people he’s taken advantage of, warranted or not for the past decade plus. I want him to sleep with his eyes wide open. I want his nightmares to be full of me. I want to be the reason for which he walks on eggshells every time he gets up to take a fucking piss in the dead of night because he knows that if he looks up into that mirror, I’ll be hovering over his shoulder like a demonic fucking poltergeist. I’ll be that constant reminder of that one somebody he shouldn’t have fucked with. I’ll be that one nasty fucking soul, that will meet him every fucking step of the way whenever he invokes that brutal spirit that we all know he’s capable of summoning. I’ve seen elitists time and time again stop dead in their tracks whenever Mr. DEDEDE got that look of blood lust in his eyes. It’s something out of this world. It’s almost supernatural. When we locked eyes on that fateful night, before the guitar smash that was heard around the world, I got the sense that there was a heavy burden lifted off of his shoulders. He didn’t look at me like I was yet another casualty to die before his sword. He saw me like an oncoming storm. As if I were a wicked twister on the horizon, tearing through the plains and everything that happened to be in my crosshairs. He didn’t look at me like he looked at the Jacob Senn’s of the world, who thought of himself as a punisher, but was exposed as a worthless mutt who was transparent in every single facet plausible and ended up committing career sennicide. He didn’t look at me the same way he looked at gargantuan cum dumpsters like the Carmen Ava’s of the world. The vulnerable, fragile types that he often preys upon because they’re easy pickings. He didn’t look at me like I was another youthful, up and coming star in the making like the Noah Reigner’s of the world, that he would drag behind the woodshed and whip until their whole body was blanketed with purple bruises and bloody welts. He looked at me with ire, with jealousy, and with outright detestation. He looked at me like I was a man that has seen it all and nothing that he could do would phase me because he finally found somebody who would stoop as low as he wanted to fucking go. They say misery loves company, but Mr. DEDEDE doesn’t. He soaks in his own conviction that he’s superhuman and that he carries out the devil’s dirty work. To him, there is no equal. Perhaps he’s right. When it comes to Mr. DEDEDE the wrestler, nobody can hold a match to him aside from Impact, but when it comes to Mr. DEDEDE the man, i.e. Ryan Adams, there’s enough meat on the bone for everybody to sink their teeth into. The fact is, when he’s held against the fire, he doesn’t embrace the kiss of the flames. Instead, he panics, so much so that his screams spread for miles.

When the time is right, I’m coming for your ass.

Leave it to the physical incarnation that Darwinism is alive and well to completely sweep everything that Theron said and did to him at Road to Redemption under the rug. You’re a few cans short of a six-pack aren't cha Apocalypse? They say opposites attract, but you and Theron take the fucking cake. Gotta believe fate itself paired up a pseudo-intellectual and a seven-foot wet fart who gets agitated that he can’t see his forehead when he looks up. You’re a miserable lab experiment that went haywire on a stormy night in ‘84 who has his blinders on because Theron is using you like an expendable poon palace escort. Not to mention Donovan Cross who hangs off of your nut sack like a fucking dingleberry who is also about as useful as a cock flavored lollipop and let’s not forget Soothsayer Hamasa who I’ve run into before when she was advocating for that ginger fuckboi Nasin Sidetaraoscobar or whatever the fuck his name was. Damn honey, you sure know how to pick winners, don’t you? Better to have bad luck than no luck at all. I want you to do some homework on Dynasty, Hamasa, of what human dismemberment is really fucking like up close and personal when I pick the frenzied eyeballs out of Apocalypse’s skull and mash them between my fucking teeth as if they were gummy bears. He’s gonna scamper back into the big house where he belongs, behind bars, head down and ass up. I bet Latrell the jacked up from head to tippy toe, eight-foot Zulu specimen with a schlong as thick as a fucking anaconda will be more than thrilled to see his prized bitch back because getting your colon pounded is going to feel like paradise compared to the trauma that I intend to put you through.

Everybody and their mother knows that you’re public enemy number one Theron and that’s what you’ve wanted all along, the people that heckle you day in and day out, the people that try and disprove your level of malignancy, the people that say you don’t deserve the Answers World Championship, they’re apart of the problem. I’ve seen it for months on end. They’ll scream for your head with pitchforks in hand, they’ll say Theron is a bad man! Theron did this! Theron did that! That’s just fuel to your fire. Those same porous saps didn’t stand a chance inside the chamber, you picked and chose your spots adequately, the odds were certainly against you and you came out on the other side relatively unscathed. It’s an art form if you think about it, the ability to outsmart a bunch of as you said, borderline autistic faggots is really fucking impressive. You lined them up and knocked them down, including your own partner this week. I know I know, he’s a moving part, he’s included in your diabolical master scheme, at least temporarily, to provide protection with the 1% nowhere to be found, but in reality, he’s a makeshift pussy pad to plug up the gaping hole where your balls used to be. Apocalypse doesn’t realize it, he can’t, he has a one-track mind of seek and destroy and that’s it. He’s easy to manipulate and because of that, you’re like a shark that smells blood in the water. Again, it’s all apart of your master plan but I want you to realize something Theron; whatever you do, whatever choices you make, warranted or not, there are going to be natural repercussions. I think that’s the part of all this you don’t understand. You were sure as hell that Jamie’s career was dead and left to rot, you’ve tried to let cooler heads prevail since his return, but you keep making the same mistake over and over. You’re trying so fucking hard to justify why you deserve to be the Answers World Champion instead of inviting him to take the stage to vindicate himself as to why he, in fact, deserves to be in your presence, he should be selling himself to the world, but it’s the other way around. Who gives a fuck how you got to the top, the fact is, you’re there. You scorched the earth at King of Elite last year because you wanted to prove that you belong, fast forward to present day, you’re still doing the same thing, but instead of leaving destruction in your wake, you’re squeezing your knees together in a feeble puddle of your own piss because you know you’re on borrowed time. Jamie wants restitution and he’ll damn well get it as he pleases and as for me? I’ve been asked time in and time out over the past few months if revenge is on my mind and my answer always stays the same.

Revenge isn't needed, because Theron will fuck himself on his own.

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