The screams of fear can barely escape the burlap prison that entombs the handcuffed man’s head. Shackled to the wooden chair, the helpless man can only struggle to break free--to no avail. Dick Tickler enters the frame with a chair of his own and places it directly in front of the man. Dick sits down and leans in towards him, holding his head with one hand as he whispers into the man’s ear.

Dick E.: “Here’s the thing about effigies, kid: Ya gotta burn ‘em. If you don’t, you just look like a greasy halfwit, hiring piss poor actors to portray the big, bad wolf that haunts your dreams and forces you to keep that Golden Girls nite lite plugged in right above your nightstand.”

“. That’s what you’re expecting, right? Hardy-har, old man Tickler is a one trick pony who can only saunter his testes-less old body into frame long enough to toss a couple jokes about you being a cock swallower before disappearing. It’s okay, little fella. You’re not really wrong. Dick Tickler is nothing if not consistent. But let me tell you a little secret…”

Dick grabs the quivering prisoner by the throat and pulls him in even closer.

Dick E.: “Tush, you marvel of human ineptitude, you don’t even warrant me wasting the half-a-breath it takes for me to insinuate that you’re a semen sucker. You see, all these other pantywaists that run around the XWF locker room trying to tickle each other's prostates are at least deserving of being recognized for the dick polishers that they are, but you? You don’t even deserve that. When I hear your disgusting voice struggle to formulate even the most basic of sentences, I feel utter contempt. Not anger. Not loathing. The reaction I have to your poorly thought out, and even worse acted, wrestling promos can most closely be described as that feeling you get in your gut when the nightly news ticker flashes with another story of child rape: That feeling of nausea that accompanies the thought of ‘How could any deity allow for such an inconsequential sack of flesh to share the same plane of existence as me?’ Congratulations Tush, you’ve either completely disproven the existence of God, or proven that he’s just a vindictive asshole.”

“. You’re hoping for that, aren’t you? It’d be so much easier I bet. Dick Tickler just prancing around like a little fairy fucker accusing you of being a fairy fucker as well. It’s not going to happen. As much as I think are simple, godless creatures that would fuck the shit chutes of any man or animal that they could get their hands on, I don’t think they’re stupid enough to let themselves be exposed to your toxic genetic make-up. That’s like sticking your cock into a pile of broken glass and praying you don’t extract a mangled tube of bloody flesh.”

Dick pulls a cigar out of his breast pocket and inserts it into his mouth. He pulls out a match book and sarcastically offers it to his prisoner.

Dick E.: “So here we sit. Your mortality hanging by the thinnest of strings. And for what? A meaningless match? The chance to advance in some stupid tournament with a grand prize that’s not worth a bucket of bum shit? You dumb son of a bitch. Did you really think you could just get away with trying to talk about Dick Tickler with no consequences? There’s always a consequence, and you didn’t even have the forethought to make your shitty promo even the least bit entertaining. I could have literally watched Peter Gilmour fuck that diseased fleshcrust while listening to Mozart and had a more enjoyable time. Hell, I would’ve enjoyed a Frodo Smackins promo more than that garbage…”



“Okay that’s a lie.”


“Here’s the thing Tush. We both know you are literal human waste: A violently excreted stream of feces that messily splatters against the porcelain walls that keep the XWF standing. And I understand the difficulty you have in admitting it. Hell, if I were as big of a piece of shit as you I wouldn’t be able to admit it either. I’d be too busy making sure the garage door had an airtight seal to it so that I could snuff out my offensive existence in carbon dioxide induced peace.”



“And then...the others.”



“Maverick. Luca Arzegotti. One of these two get two stumble their happy asses on into the ring only for me to slap it like it belongs to a cheap Taiwanese hooker. I’m supposed to call them too, right? I’m sure that wop Arzegotti would just love that. And Maverick? Well honestly I can’t feel good about myself standing here and making fun of such a poor, defenseless creature. My god it’s like an infantile hedgehog testing his mettle against the rubber of an 18-wheeler. If Maverick even dared to stand up to me I’d leave him as a streak of fine red paste and torn muscle fibers.”


“And then there’s that hipster doofus, Arzegotti. Could you explain to me how this mush-mouthed little bitch-toy has managed to make any kind of name for himself in the XWF? He just keeps on setting you idiots up and yet somehow you fall for it. It’s amazing, really. It’s like you fucking morons want to lose to this shit-throated little goombah. But hey, I’m not here to judge. I’m just here to call you all right?”

“That’s all Dick Tickler is good for ain’t it? Calling you ?”







“Well I hate to disappoint, but it’s not happening.”.




Dick E. rises from his chair and produces a can of gasoline. He pours the entire contents of the can over his struggling prisoner as faint screams barely escape the burlap sack fixed over his head.



“.”



Dick lights the cigar.



“Whoops.”


Dick flicks the cigar onto his prisoner, setting him ablaze as Dick hobbles off with a smirk on his face.