All Cops Are Bastards
Jan 27, 2023 19:32:34 GMT -5
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Marcus Welsh, Thunder Knuckles, and 2 more like this
Post by The Nickleman on Jan 27, 2023 19:32:34 GMT -5
We catch up with Them Wild Bastards inside the Tennessee State Trooper station.
So you boys want to become deputies, eh?
The Nickleman and Bobby Bourbon are seated across a table from the fattest law enforcement officer in La Verne township history. The obese officer is spilling out of his rolling chair, and his disgusting gut rests on the table, literally acting as a paperweight. The fat deputy lifts his gut up and pulls out a pair of applications, handing one to each man. The Bastards look less than amused. Bobby glances up and notices the cute deputy from earlier. He smiles, glances down a hall, then back at her. She coyly smiles, nodding her head towards said hall.
I, uh, I’ll be right back.
Where are you going?
I gotta go get coffee or take a pee, I dunno.
Bobby stands and walks down the hall with the cute deputy. Charles is looking at the application in front of him with illiterate confusion.
When do I get a gun?
The fat deputy laughs.
Oh, in like fifteen minutes, how’s your aim when it comes to poors and minorities?
Oh you sly dog you, everyone knows the best thing about me is the way I shoot!
Alright, just don’t hit any rich folk, we’ll get in trouble for that.
The ol 'Thad Duke rule', don't worry, I've followed those protocols before.
The deputy nods and smiles. As he does, another trooper, this one looking suspiciously like a younger version of the OCW World Champion, walks by, disdain in his eyes. He makes eye contact with The Nickleman, who glares at him, before walking away like a pussy!
I think I better go check on your friend, he might have gotten lost!
The Nickleman snaps his focus back to the fatass cop.
Oh, okay!
The fat deputy stands and heads towards the hall. As he does, the Nickleman stands and pulls a rag from his back pocket and from behind, presses it to the fat deputies face. In short order, the fat deputy drops.
Good ole’ chloroform rag, works every time.
The Nickleman drags the fat deputy into a nearby office, and in seconds, walks out wearing his uniform, which is quite loose on that filthy Bastard. He adjusts his belt, and then pulls his pistol out.
This took way less than fifteen minutes!
The Nickleman starts doing James Bond poses with the pistol, then tries to twirl it around his finger like a cowboy, dropping it in the process. It skitters across the floor harmlessly.
Oh, shit! That could have been dangerous!
The Nickleman retrieves the pistol and disengages the safety.
Can't have that going on in a firefight!
A phone rings on the fat deputy’s desk. Charles answers.
Tennessee Cops, the piggies that pork ‘em! What can I do you for?
The Nickleman nods as his eyes glance sideways, his face showing he’s struggling to answer whatever is being said.
Uh, sorry, it’s my first day, call back later!
Charles hangs the phone up. It immediately rings again. Charles answers.
Tennessee Police, stopping crime between lovemaking times. What do you need?
The Nickleman looks confused again by whatever is being said.
Well if he has a gun, you should just listen to him!
Charles hangs the phone up again. It immediately rings, and in frustration, the Nickleman points the pistol at it and shoots it.
That's that! No more crime!
Bobby steps out from in the hall looking concerned.
Was that a gunshot?
Yeah, I killed the phone.
Good idea! Hey, c’mon, you gotta get in on this!
In on what?
Oh, you know, think of it as a coin toss. Heads or tails, chum?
A sneer works its way from behind the Nickleman’s beard and mustache. He holsters his pistol and walks over to Bobby.
Our match is in Florida, we have time to visit Paris for the old Eiffel Tower?
Oui!
Bobby and the Nickleman exchange a fistbump.
SPITROAST!
The scene fades to black amidst a chorus of giggles and moans.
We then cut to a shot of the Bastards walking around a police evidence room, going through all the confiscated items.
They're seen pocketing drugs, money, guns, really everything cool that the police have stolen from the honest criminals in La Verne, Tennessee. The Nickleman is tucking half a brick of cocaine into the back of his pants as Bourbon sips on a bootleg bottle of maple syrup smuggled in from Canada. The OCW tag championships are proudly displayed around their waists.
It's time for the Bitchford to stop telling his lies, once and for all. I swear every damn week it's the same sloppy drool with this guy, because he just repeats all the same fibs, over and over again, everytime he touches a mic. I'm about to peel back each and every layer of fat from this motherfucker's last fluff piece, and you all get to see me do it live on camera.
Let's start with the biggest lie of all: the Bitch-end.
As The Nickleman talks his smack to all the smack he's stealing, Bobby can't help but interject, stolen bottle of Bourbon still in hand.
Do you mean the Biff-End, his not so finishing move?
The Bitch-end! It ain't exactly what he's been telling y'all it is, week after fucking week. That move ain't ending SHIT- it ain't ending nobody anymore! It couldn't end PIC, it couldn't even end Zybala! And God knows it wasn't enough to end the Nickleman when we last met inside that ring. Now that one trick pony is truly and forever FUCKED, because the only dish he knows how to cook has forever lost it's 'special' flavor.
The only thing being ended at Decadence is…
Charles looks at Bobby.
Biff-Knight?
Bobby swiftly shakes his head ‘no’.
TK usually parodies our opponents names. How about Girth and Girl?
Hmm, too wordy, also sounds like a hipster duo playing at a vineyard.
Yeah, too arthouse. Burger and the Cutes?
I don’t know what that even means. Two Piece and a Biscuit?
Nah, I like that too much. I know, Mustard and Mayonnaise.
Perfect. We’ll end Mustard and Mayonnaise’s championship dreams. But I guess that's why we can all agree that the match ain’t finishing with a Bitch's-end!
The Nickleman looks over to Bobby with a jovial smile, but Bourbon takes a big swig of his drink before staring back at Charles with a look of near perplexion.
I'm still blown away by how bad their strategy is coming into this championship fight. The Biff-End won't be effective at all in a tag match! Even if he hits one Bastard with it, the other Bastard will just break up the pin! It's like these fools don't understand anything about tag team wrestling!
The Nickleman nods up and down in agreement before Bourbon chugs the rest of the syrup and throws the bottle against the floor, shattering the glass. Neither man seems to mind.
Now give ‘em the business, thou Filthiest Crucible of the Bastard, Brother Charlie!
IT'S NICKLEMAN HERE-
And like I was saying earlier….this jolly Saint Nick may have come to town a month late, but I've still got plenty of lumps of coal to bash this bitch in the head with! I'll even stuff Alice Knight's fucking stocking while I'm at it!
Her 'fucking' stocking, you say? Jesus, Alice Knight is cute, but I prefer an equal in the bedroom, not someone who can’t keep up!
Bourbon cocks a playful eyebrow as Charles leans in close to him.
You're goddamn right. Fuck Mustard and Mayonnaise, I'm filling that bitchs stocking up with my homemade MIRACLE WHIP, baby!
The Bastards burst out into shared laughter, each man needing a few seconds to compose himself after. Bourbon wipes away a merry tear from his eye before getting serious again.
Miracles are the only thing saving that woman from the beating of a lifetime, Charlie, and there’s no miracle here, just the will of the Bastards.
Alas, all that spinster's going to get is a a fucking WHIP to the face! And then into our team's corner, so we can really go family style on her ass!
The Nickleman pretends to crack a whip, then he pretends to bend someone over, and honestly it just gets a lot more graphic from there. Bobby watches all these charades unfold with a sick smile plastered to his face.
And all Bifford will do is stand there and watch, hell, he'll probably get off on our carnage! I heard he likes his tag partner even less than we do, so he'll be happy to watch us beat that little birdie into bloody submission.
The Nickleman slams his hand down on an evidence locker in excited agreement.
We already have this match in the bag! We've been practicing our game plan all week with the fine men and women of the La Verne Police Department. And you know, I'm usually the kind of guy who says 'fuck the police', but this week? All I've done is FUCK the police!
And THAT makes for great television! Unlike the garbage our opponents put out, where they just bitch and moan with each other over who's origin story is lamer, having a shitting contest when all they do is fart. Them Bastard’s Bitch had nicer things to say about us than his fucking partner! I wouldn't be surprised if she switches sides halfway through the match like her old friend, CRASH!
Oh come the fuck on, we'd never let that gaped-hole bitch in BOB! But you're right, these idiots don't know how to work together, so I bet this tag match turns into two separate handicap matches with the QUICKNESS! Bitchford and Alice can't even seem to stand each other, let alone defend each other! We are going to be marching in unison, completely lockstep and in rhythm throughout the match, because we are quite literally EXPERTS in tag team action, in every sense of the word!
But these bozos?
They're out of their element and they're in way over their heads. It's clear that they're marching to the beat of two separate drums, and Bobby, do you know what that rhythm sounds like?
Bobby takes a break from inspecting a rocket propelled grenade launcher to answer his partner.
DISASTER!
Bobby slings the rocket launcher over his shoulder.
I’m keeping this.
The Nickleman gives a thumbs up.
Anyhow, to me it sounds like Alice gargling her own blood while her partner watches from the sidelines like a happy lil' cuck!
Bobby lets out a little giggle before he starts looking around the evidence room for even more goodies.
Well now we know what Biff is beating his dick to. Damn, must suck to have a dimepiece like Knight in your corner and zero chance of smashing, but it's gotta be pretty shitty having no chance of even paying a homeless woman to just shout at your dick. But, you know, kink shame. He's too fat to find his own dick, so he finds other people to dick down his woman instead. Maybe, beneath all those disgusting layers of fat, there's a warm, fatty, struggling heart behind those overgrown 40E cup chesticles somewhere.
There ain't nothing inside his manboobs but Cheeto Dust and dried up cum! Trust me, when I pinned his fat ass on Massacre - TWICE - I had to plug my nose for all six seconds just to avoid the stench!
Bobby looks back to The Nickleman with legitimate disgust.
He should take a shower before our match.
He's too fucking fat to fit inside showers!
Well then… Sea World isn’t too far away from the arena, we can airlift the sumbitch to take a bath with Shamu.
Bobby and Charlie share another laugh together, clearly strengthening their bond with each and every chortle.
You know, there's not one tag team in all of pro wrestling that can compete with the Bastards: so how the fuck will two singles wrestlers randomly thrown together pull out the upset?
The simple truth: they fucking won't. They don't even have a shot!
Far better teams have tried to take this gold, and all of them failed miserably. BOB is a tag-team machine, something the likes of which OCW has never seen before, and will never see again! Back in 02' the Bitchford tried to retire the OCW tag belts- a certified bitch move- and that's why he'll never be able to lift these straps off us.
We're keeping these tag team championships because that's just what the fuck we do, BOB is a whole god-damned gold mining operation! When that curtain closes and Decadence ends, BOB plans to walk away with ALL THE OCW GOLD- IN EVERY DIVISION- so Bobby and I will damn sure not be the ones to fuck it up!
The only thing getting fucked up tomorrow night is the condiments section of OCW's tag division. We’re the sizzle to the steak, the meat the matter, and the main course, they’re just the horseradish you didn’t ask for.
The Nickleman and Bobby Bourbon exchange a fistbump, having raided the evidence lock up at the station. They depart the building, get into a cruiser, hit the lights, and tear off towards destiny.