30 for 30 "The Journey to Mecca of Manhood Pt2"
May 6, 2022 14:13:28 GMT -5
Marcus Welsh, TLS, and 3 more like this
Post by TheMeccaOfManhood on May 6, 2022 14:13:28 GMT -5
*Mere moments after Massacre has ended and TM1 sits backstage in his private dressing room, because he refuses to share space with the riff-raff OCW employees. The Mecca of Manhood sits in a folding chair, still dressed in his gear. The Bod God slowly lifts his palms up and looks at his blood covered hands. For a moment the Big Natty Daddy looks at them with a monstrous grin, proud of the damage he has done. Then, it hits him, this is the blood of a weak man who probably enjoys cuckolding.
Triple M rushes to the sink, turns the hot water on full blast, and quickly begins scrubbing his hands with the antibacterial soap. The thoughts of all the diseases that Wilson could be carrying race through his head. The thought of the type of women, or men that would lay with Wilson truly disgusts the Marvelous One.The Bod God scrubs his fingers feverishly, even breaking out his toothbrush making sure he scrubs his quiticals and under his nails. As TM1 scrubs the blood from beneath his fingernails, he looks down at his massive pecks, ripped abs, Marvelous package, and then thinks of how he could also have Sadie's bodily fluids on him. Her sweat and saliva, and someday soon, her blood.
The Messiah of Muscle looks down at the bloody water in the sink, and he begins to gag and heave. The Abdominal Adonis almost throws up, but holds the bile back with his amazing core strength. The Titan runs to the shower, and turns the hot water on. Quickly he unlaces his boots and pulls them off. Then as fast as he can he pulls off his socks, knee pads, trunks, and jock strap. He jumps into the shower and begins washing his Marvelous body of all the germs that the diseased ridden Saide would have. He scrubs the stench of suck that Sadie protrudes, and shutters as he lathers up his massive chest as he thinks about Sadie's poop flavored fingers in his throat.
The steam from the shower covers the lense, and as it is wiped clean we are now back to the reenactment of 3M's past. *
Imagine having one dream for your entire life. Not a dream you came up with, but a dream that was planted into your brain before you were even old enough to form your own dreams or thoughts. This is Mike Mason and football. His father had been in the NFL, with two trips to the Superbowl, and five Pro Bowls. From birth Mike Mason's father Andrew had pushed him to be not just a football player, but an all-time great, and Mike had never thought of doing anything else.
Football had been good to Mike Mason, well actually, it had been Marvelous to Mike Mason. It got him through high school with minimal effort, it had gotten him laid countless times, it got him a free college education, and it got him a contract worth millions of dollars with the Dallas Cowboys. But as he laid in a hospital bed with his leg elevated after knee surgery caused by a torn ACL, Mason wished this is one thing football hadn't given him.
The Mecca of Manhood lays in his hospital bed, depressed at his current state, and alone. Mason flips through the channels looking for something to watch, there is Monday Night Football, but he can't bare to watch it at that time. He changes the channel and sees professional wrestling, the sight of this causes Mason to shake his head and mumble "how stupid". He changes the channel again to a rerun of Golden Girls, Mason smirks and says, "I'd give Blanche a go, maybe she could teach me a thing or too"
Mason sighs and changes the channel again, and again, and again. Finally frustrated he turns the TV off and throws the remote down onto his bed. Mason leans back into the bed and stares up at the ceiling. "What am I going to do now", he thinks out loud. He exhales deeply and slowly, he doesn't know anything but football and training, it is all he has ever done and all he ever dreamed of doing.
As he lays in the bed a new feeling creeps over him, a feeling he has very seldom ever felt, a feeling of loneliness. Mason has always been on a team, always had people cheering him on and telling him how great he is. Just a mere twenty-four hours ago Mason was at the height of his life, starting outside linebacker for the Dallas Cowboys as a rookie, playing in his fourth NFL game, making millions of dollars and swimming in W.A.P.
But twelve hours ago Mason fell from that high to a new low. Mason had some around the corner on a blitz, ready to sack the Carolina Panthers all-pro quarterback. Mason was focused on the QB, and not on the left guard who had pancaked the defensive tackle he was blocking. To save his quarterback the guard had to move fast, and a three-hundred-and-thirty-pound man doesn’t always move very fast. The guard dives low and cut blocks Mason on the side of his left knee. Mason falls on top of the guard, and the guard was still on top of Mason’s knee. Mason felt his knee twist and bend in a way that was not natural. He felt a pop, followed by a burning pain, a pain that he hadn’t felt before. As the play ended and the guard rolled off of the knee, Mason was in severe pain, but refused to stay down. Mason tried to stand up he collapsed under his own weight, finding he couldn't put any weight on the knee. Mason knew he was in trouble, he knew he wasn’t just hurt, but he was injured.
Mason had to be carted of the field, and was taken to the hospital before the game even ended. Since being in the hospital Mason had not heard from anyone. No calls, no visitors. Mason had heard the Cowboys had defeated the Panthers, so he could understand his teammates and coaching staff being distracted with celebration, but what about everyone else he had surrounded himself with? His agent, his assistant, his dietitian, his personal trainer, his stylist, none of them had reached out to Mason. It was at this moment Mason realized they were not his friends; they were his employees. He paid them for a service, and the more they were around the more he paid them.
Mason began to wonder if he truly had any friends at all, and then slowly realized he was alone. Mason realized the only person he could count on in this world was himself, and that is all he needed. Mason had always been on a team, and while he was brash and arrogant, he had always done what was best for the team. But now, it was time to focus on Team Mason, after all that is the most Marvelous team.
After that point in time Mason would no longer be a team player, he would no longer concern himself with the needs and wants of other individuals, but only of what would best benefit himself. Mason would ensure he got the last drop out of all his paid employees, and ensure he kept them at arm’s length. Mason would never allow himself to be vulnerable again. His body was going to come back bigger and stronger, and so would his psyche.
*The shot changes to rapidly changing shots of The Bod God over the years of his lifting and bodybuilding career, and finally the shots stop at a live one of The Mecca of Manhood loading up a bar in a squat rack. As he loads the bar he wonders if any of you have ever had 500lbs laid across your shoulders? Have any of you ever squatted 500lbs for reps? Probably not, most people couldn't handle such a weight, especially at high repetitions. The Marvelous One though, can, and does. He isn't some norm, like those that have invaded and plague the sport of professional wrestling. No, he is The Titan, he is the Bod God, he is the Messiah of Muscle.
Triple M squats down like a female Instagram model, and then drives up through his feet to complete his fifteenth rep of the 500 pounds. You can tell by the tree trunk sized quads, that the Bod God never skips leg day. Much like how you can tell by all the Spirit of Halloween gimmicks in OCW that the benefits package doesn't cover mental health. TM1 racks the weight, and catches his breath as he loosens his lifting belt. *
Alexandra Calaway, are you named after the golf company? I ask because you kind of resemble a golf club. Long and skinny body, with a fat head that has a face that smacks into a lot of little white balls.
Oh, wait Callaway is spelled with two L's. It's ok though, because the Marvelous One will give you that missing L at Massacre. You'll catch that L in a way you are familiar with catching a lot of things, laying flat on your back and looking up at the light. Don't worry, I'll make it as quick as Mark Storm does, in and out in two to three minutes. A lot like how he is in and out of wrestling promotions in two to three matches too.
See a trend here? Storm is a little beta boy, who when faced with the slightest bit of pressure, crumbles. That is the type of boy, not man, BOY! The type of boy you let spill his beta baby batter in you. I'm sure that being the firm six that you are, that you couldn't do any better, but use protection for the sake of all our futures.
Now before you lose your mind and have a melt down like the pic base of a liberal meme, I'm not insulting your child Alexandra. No, I'm insulting you and your choice of bed partners. See there is an old saying that goes, walk with the lame, develop a limp. Well Alexandra you have done much worse than walking with the lame, you've fallen head over heels for a bitch-mabe beta soy boy.
You followed Storm to OCW like some love struck high schooler that passes on her dream school to follow her boyfriend to some crap state school like Alabama or Texas. Only for him to discover he likes taking it up the pooper during rush week. Now you are left alone, looking like a fool, and doomed to a miserable life of failure. You thought you and Storm were going to live out an epic love story, and you are, but it isn't some sappy Nicholas Sparks story. Na, Ball Face, it's Romeo and Juliet, and you both meet a tragic ending.
Alexandra, you thought you were following the love of your life to the promised land. But this is OCW, not some Reese Witherspoon rom-com. You are nothing more than a lamb who has been led to the slaughter, and The Marvelous One, is the Beefcake Butcher.
*The Mecca of Manhood smirks as he tightens his belt and slides back under the bar. Triple M busts out another impressive set of fifteen before racking the bar again. TM1 loosens his belt and takes a moment to collect himself before he continues to verbally bury Callaway. *
Alexandra, I know you think you're some mixed martial arts badass, who could toss Walker Texas Ranger and Steven Seagal around. But in all honesty you can't even spell mma, and the only thing you're tossing is Storm's salad. You can try your Tae Bo and your Brazilian-Wax Jew Get Sued, but your rainbow belt won't mean a damn thing when I punch you in the mouth. Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth. I'm bigger, stronger, smarter, prettier, and just all around better.
I'm the Sensual Spartacus, against me you're hopeless. To list the ways I'm better than you would require a novelist. I know your starring at me with carnal lust, but I'm going to leave you in a necropolis. At Massacre I will be barbarous, as I show the world I am… SIMPLY MARVELOUS!!!
*Climax.*
Triple M rushes to the sink, turns the hot water on full blast, and quickly begins scrubbing his hands with the antibacterial soap. The thoughts of all the diseases that Wilson could be carrying race through his head. The thought of the type of women, or men that would lay with Wilson truly disgusts the Marvelous One.The Bod God scrubs his fingers feverishly, even breaking out his toothbrush making sure he scrubs his quiticals and under his nails. As TM1 scrubs the blood from beneath his fingernails, he looks down at his massive pecks, ripped abs, Marvelous package, and then thinks of how he could also have Sadie's bodily fluids on him. Her sweat and saliva, and someday soon, her blood.
The Messiah of Muscle looks down at the bloody water in the sink, and he begins to gag and heave. The Abdominal Adonis almost throws up, but holds the bile back with his amazing core strength. The Titan runs to the shower, and turns the hot water on. Quickly he unlaces his boots and pulls them off. Then as fast as he can he pulls off his socks, knee pads, trunks, and jock strap. He jumps into the shower and begins washing his Marvelous body of all the germs that the diseased ridden Saide would have. He scrubs the stench of suck that Sadie protrudes, and shutters as he lathers up his massive chest as he thinks about Sadie's poop flavored fingers in his throat.
The steam from the shower covers the lense, and as it is wiped clean we are now back to the reenactment of 3M's past. *
Imagine having one dream for your entire life. Not a dream you came up with, but a dream that was planted into your brain before you were even old enough to form your own dreams or thoughts. This is Mike Mason and football. His father had been in the NFL, with two trips to the Superbowl, and five Pro Bowls. From birth Mike Mason's father Andrew had pushed him to be not just a football player, but an all-time great, and Mike had never thought of doing anything else.
Football had been good to Mike Mason, well actually, it had been Marvelous to Mike Mason. It got him through high school with minimal effort, it had gotten him laid countless times, it got him a free college education, and it got him a contract worth millions of dollars with the Dallas Cowboys. But as he laid in a hospital bed with his leg elevated after knee surgery caused by a torn ACL, Mason wished this is one thing football hadn't given him.
The Mecca of Manhood lays in his hospital bed, depressed at his current state, and alone. Mason flips through the channels looking for something to watch, there is Monday Night Football, but he can't bare to watch it at that time. He changes the channel and sees professional wrestling, the sight of this causes Mason to shake his head and mumble "how stupid". He changes the channel again to a rerun of Golden Girls, Mason smirks and says, "I'd give Blanche a go, maybe she could teach me a thing or too"
Mason sighs and changes the channel again, and again, and again. Finally frustrated he turns the TV off and throws the remote down onto his bed. Mason leans back into the bed and stares up at the ceiling. "What am I going to do now", he thinks out loud. He exhales deeply and slowly, he doesn't know anything but football and training, it is all he has ever done and all he ever dreamed of doing.
As he lays in the bed a new feeling creeps over him, a feeling he has very seldom ever felt, a feeling of loneliness. Mason has always been on a team, always had people cheering him on and telling him how great he is. Just a mere twenty-four hours ago Mason was at the height of his life, starting outside linebacker for the Dallas Cowboys as a rookie, playing in his fourth NFL game, making millions of dollars and swimming in W.A.P.
But twelve hours ago Mason fell from that high to a new low. Mason had some around the corner on a blitz, ready to sack the Carolina Panthers all-pro quarterback. Mason was focused on the QB, and not on the left guard who had pancaked the defensive tackle he was blocking. To save his quarterback the guard had to move fast, and a three-hundred-and-thirty-pound man doesn’t always move very fast. The guard dives low and cut blocks Mason on the side of his left knee. Mason falls on top of the guard, and the guard was still on top of Mason’s knee. Mason felt his knee twist and bend in a way that was not natural. He felt a pop, followed by a burning pain, a pain that he hadn’t felt before. As the play ended and the guard rolled off of the knee, Mason was in severe pain, but refused to stay down. Mason tried to stand up he collapsed under his own weight, finding he couldn't put any weight on the knee. Mason knew he was in trouble, he knew he wasn’t just hurt, but he was injured.
Mason had to be carted of the field, and was taken to the hospital before the game even ended. Since being in the hospital Mason had not heard from anyone. No calls, no visitors. Mason had heard the Cowboys had defeated the Panthers, so he could understand his teammates and coaching staff being distracted with celebration, but what about everyone else he had surrounded himself with? His agent, his assistant, his dietitian, his personal trainer, his stylist, none of them had reached out to Mason. It was at this moment Mason realized they were not his friends; they were his employees. He paid them for a service, and the more they were around the more he paid them.
Mason began to wonder if he truly had any friends at all, and then slowly realized he was alone. Mason realized the only person he could count on in this world was himself, and that is all he needed. Mason had always been on a team, and while he was brash and arrogant, he had always done what was best for the team. But now, it was time to focus on Team Mason, after all that is the most Marvelous team.
After that point in time Mason would no longer be a team player, he would no longer concern himself with the needs and wants of other individuals, but only of what would best benefit himself. Mason would ensure he got the last drop out of all his paid employees, and ensure he kept them at arm’s length. Mason would never allow himself to be vulnerable again. His body was going to come back bigger and stronger, and so would his psyche.
*The shot changes to rapidly changing shots of The Bod God over the years of his lifting and bodybuilding career, and finally the shots stop at a live one of The Mecca of Manhood loading up a bar in a squat rack. As he loads the bar he wonders if any of you have ever had 500lbs laid across your shoulders? Have any of you ever squatted 500lbs for reps? Probably not, most people couldn't handle such a weight, especially at high repetitions. The Marvelous One though, can, and does. He isn't some norm, like those that have invaded and plague the sport of professional wrestling. No, he is The Titan, he is the Bod God, he is the Messiah of Muscle.
Triple M squats down like a female Instagram model, and then drives up through his feet to complete his fifteenth rep of the 500 pounds. You can tell by the tree trunk sized quads, that the Bod God never skips leg day. Much like how you can tell by all the Spirit of Halloween gimmicks in OCW that the benefits package doesn't cover mental health. TM1 racks the weight, and catches his breath as he loosens his lifting belt. *
Alexandra Calaway, are you named after the golf company? I ask because you kind of resemble a golf club. Long and skinny body, with a fat head that has a face that smacks into a lot of little white balls.
Oh, wait Callaway is spelled with two L's. It's ok though, because the Marvelous One will give you that missing L at Massacre. You'll catch that L in a way you are familiar with catching a lot of things, laying flat on your back and looking up at the light. Don't worry, I'll make it as quick as Mark Storm does, in and out in two to three minutes. A lot like how he is in and out of wrestling promotions in two to three matches too.
See a trend here? Storm is a little beta boy, who when faced with the slightest bit of pressure, crumbles. That is the type of boy, not man, BOY! The type of boy you let spill his beta baby batter in you. I'm sure that being the firm six that you are, that you couldn't do any better, but use protection for the sake of all our futures.
Now before you lose your mind and have a melt down like the pic base of a liberal meme, I'm not insulting your child Alexandra. No, I'm insulting you and your choice of bed partners. See there is an old saying that goes, walk with the lame, develop a limp. Well Alexandra you have done much worse than walking with the lame, you've fallen head over heels for a bitch-mabe beta soy boy.
You followed Storm to OCW like some love struck high schooler that passes on her dream school to follow her boyfriend to some crap state school like Alabama or Texas. Only for him to discover he likes taking it up the pooper during rush week. Now you are left alone, looking like a fool, and doomed to a miserable life of failure. You thought you and Storm were going to live out an epic love story, and you are, but it isn't some sappy Nicholas Sparks story. Na, Ball Face, it's Romeo and Juliet, and you both meet a tragic ending.
Alexandra, you thought you were following the love of your life to the promised land. But this is OCW, not some Reese Witherspoon rom-com. You are nothing more than a lamb who has been led to the slaughter, and The Marvelous One, is the Beefcake Butcher.
*The Mecca of Manhood smirks as he tightens his belt and slides back under the bar. Triple M busts out another impressive set of fifteen before racking the bar again. TM1 loosens his belt and takes a moment to collect himself before he continues to verbally bury Callaway. *
Alexandra, I know you think you're some mixed martial arts badass, who could toss Walker Texas Ranger and Steven Seagal around. But in all honesty you can't even spell mma, and the only thing you're tossing is Storm's salad. You can try your Tae Bo and your Brazilian-Wax Jew Get Sued, but your rainbow belt won't mean a damn thing when I punch you in the mouth. Everyone has a plan until they get punched in the mouth. I'm bigger, stronger, smarter, prettier, and just all around better.
I'm the Sensual Spartacus, against me you're hopeless. To list the ways I'm better than you would require a novelist. I know your starring at me with carnal lust, but I'm going to leave you in a necropolis. At Massacre I will be barbarous, as I show the world I am… SIMPLY MARVELOUS!!!
*Climax.*