Post by Nicky Douché on Sept 25, 2024 12:32:54 GMT -5
The morning sun filtered through the large windows of an exclusive gym, casting long shadows over the weight racks and pristine equipment. It was empty, except for two figures who dominated the space. The always dapper, yet deceptively strong, Nicky Douché, was doing some light dumbbell curls in front of the mirror, his signature Burberry scarf hanging around his neck even while he worked out. Next to him, Avery Bitterman was effortlessly bench-pressing weights that would make most men buckle. The clang of iron and the faint hum of the gym’s air conditioning were the only sounds in the room.
Douché glanced over at Bitterman, his face splitting into that familiar smug grin.
"Look at us, Bitterman. The kings of the gym," Douché said, setting his weights down. "But you know what's even better than being kings here? Becoming the kings of All Action Wrestling."
Bitterman racked his barbell, his muscles rippling as he sat up, still silent but attentive. He never needed to say much—Douché did most of the talking, but Bitterman’s presence alone was enough to send a message.
"You see, Bitterman," Douché continued, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, "we’ve already proven we’re better than everyone in this gym. But that’s just the warm-up. All Action Wrestling? That’s where the real takeover begins."
Douché walked over to the treadmill, not to use it but to stand in front of the massive screens displaying highlight reels of so-called top stars in All Action Wrestling. A reel of the current champion, a dominant force known as Axel Shaw, flashed on the screen, showing him standing tall after a brutal victory at the debut episode of Friday Night Impact.
"Look at that idiot," Douché sneered, watching the highlights. "He thinks he's untouchable because he's got muscles the size of a Buick. But muscles don’t make you smart. Brains win wars, and I’ve got enough brain power to run circles around everyone in that locker room. Including that oversized blockhead."
Bitterman, grabbing a towel, walked over and gave a short nod, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at the screen.
"You know what we have that no one else does, Bitterman?" Douché asked, turning to face his bodyguard. "We’ve got the perfect mix. I'm the mastermind, the guy who can manipulate every situation to my advantage. And you? Well, you’re the muscle that’s going to crush anyone who tries to get in our way."
Bitterman’s stoic expression flickered with a hint of a smile, the silent acknowledgment of the truth in Douché’s words.
"And it’s not just about winning matches," Douché continued, pacing back and forth now, getting fired up. "Winning titles is only the beginning. We’re going to embarrass every so-called hero and top guy on the roster. We’re going to make everyone realize that this company belongs to us. You know what’s better than having gold around our waists, Bitterman?"
Bitterman tilted his head, listening.
"Having power," Douché said, his voice low, but intense. "When we walk into All Action Wrestling, we’re not just there to wrestle—we’re there to take over. Every deal, every match, every move that happens backstage—we are going to control it all."
Douché pointed at the screen as another highlight reel started, this time showing the scrappy brawler Anthony King.
"And that guy," Douché said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Anthony King. Everyone loves him because he’s ‘scrappy’ and ‘never gives up.’ That’s the kind of crap these fans eat up. They don’t realize that guys like him are just steppingstones for people like us. We’re going to take him and every other fan favorite in this company and tear them apart, piece by piece."
Bitterman folded his arms, his face hard as granite as he nodded along. He didn’t need to say anything—he knew his role, and Douché knew how to use him to perfection.
Douché walked over to Bitterman, placing a hand on his shoulder. "When it’s all said and done, Bitterman, they’re going to be begging us to stop. They’ll have no choice but to acknowledge that we are All Action Wrestling. Every title, every headline, every paycheck—it’s all coming to us."
Bitterman’s deep voice finally broke through the silence, low and menacing. "And anyone who gets in the way?"
Douché’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent. "Anyone who gets in our way? You do what you do best."
Bitterman cracked his knuckles, his muscles tightening as he prepared for the inevitable destruction. "Crush them."
"Exactly," Douché said, turning back toward the mirror, admiring his reflection. "Let the others chase their dreams. Let them fight their little battles for the spotlight. While they’re busy doing that, we’ll be taking everything."
He leaned back, tossing his scarf over his shoulder with a dramatic flair. "And when we’ve taken over All Action Wrestling, they’ll all realize one thing: It was never about the matches. It was never about the fans. It was always about us."
Douché smirked, the picture of arrogance and confidence, while Bitterman stood behind him, the perfect picture of brute force and intimidation. Together, they were an unstoppable force.
"Now, let’s go ruin some careers," Douché said, walking toward the exit with Bitterman following closely behind. They had a kingdom to conquer.
It was a crisp autumn afternoon at Los Angeles Elementary School, where excitement buzzed in the air as students gathered in the auditorium for a special guest speaker. The teachers had been hyping it up for weeks—an actual professional wrestler was coming to talk to the kids. Most of the students had no idea who, but rumors swirled that it was going to be a huge star.
The chatter in the room grew louder as a figure stepped onto the stage, a well-dressed man with slicked-back hair, wearing an expensive suit and, strangely enough, a Burberry scarf. He strutted to the microphone, grinning like he owned the place.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the principal announced, "please welcome... Nicky Douché!"
The kids clapped, some enthusiastically, others unsure of who this guy was. But as soon as Douché took the mic, the room went quiet. He had a presence, and even the kids could feel it.
"Wow," Douché began, looking around with that trademark arrogant smirk, "I’ve been in some pretty sorry places, but I’ve got to say, Los Angeles Elementary might take the cake."
The teachers exchanged worried glances, but Douché was unfazed. "I know, I know," he continued. "You’re all wondering, ‘Who is this incredibly handsome man standing in front of us?’ I’ll tell you who—I'm Nicky Douché, the absolute greatest sports entertainer to ever live. But I’m not just here to tell you how amazing I am. No, no, no. I’m here to give you a lesson. And that lesson is: ’John Blade is a terrible role model’.”
A murmur rippled through the audience. Some of the kids gasped—John Blade was a hero to many of them. But Douché didn’t miss a beat.
"Oh, I know," Douché said, waving his hand dismissively. "You all probably love him. ‘But Douché,’" he said in a mocking, high-pitched voice, "'John Blade says never give up! He’s a good guy!'"
The kids nodded. A few of them even cheered at the mention of Blade’s catchphrase.
"Yeah, sure," Douché said, rolling his eyes. "John Blade, the man who’s been wearing the same outfit since 2005. Jorts, kids—he wears jean shorts. How’s that for fashion advice? You really want to be like a guy who looks like he’s stuck in a time warp?"
Some of the older kids laughed, and even a couple of teachers tried to hide their smiles.
"But let’s get serious for a second," Douché said, his tone dropping. "John Blade tells you to never give up. That sounds great, right? Except here’s the problem—life isn’t always about trying really hard and hoping everything works out. Sometimes, you’ve got to be smart. You’ve got to know when to play the game, and more importantly, how to win it."
He pointed at one of the kids in the front row, a boy wearing a Johnathan Surgeon of Thug Blade t-shirt. "What’s your name, kid?"
"Uh... Tommy," the boy answered nervously.
"Okay, Tommy," Douché said. "Let’s say you’re in school, and you’ve got a big project to do. Are you gonna be like John Blade and try to do all the work yourself, just 'never giving up' even if you don’t understand half of it? Or are you gonna do what a real winner does—find the smart kid in class, make a deal, and get the job done without breaking a sweat?"
Tommy blinked, unsure how to respond, but a few of the kids snickered.
"Exactly," Douché said, straightening his tie. "John Blade wants you to believe that working hard is enough. But the truth is, it’s not. You’ve got to be better. You’ve got to be smarter than everyone else. You’ve got to use your brains, not just your biceps."
A girl in the audience raised her hand. "But John Blade helps sick kids. Isn’t that a good thing?"
Douché paused, a sly smile forming on his lips. "Ah, yes. The charity work. John Blade does his little hospital visits and makes everyone feel all warm and fuzzy. And don’t get me wrong, that’s fine. But let’s not kid ourselves here, people—he’s doing it for the cameras. Every time you see Blade helping someone, there’s a film crew behind him, capturing the whole thing so everyone can go, ‘Wow, what a great guy!’"
Some of the kids looked confused, others skeptical. But Douché pressed on.
"You want to help people? Great. Do it because it’s the right thing to do, not because you want a pat on the back. John Blade’s out there waving his hand in front of his face like an idiot, pretending he’s invisible, while I’m out here being real with you. He’s not some superhero. He’s just a guy who figured out how to make people think he’s something special."
He leaned forward, eyes gleaming with the certainty of someone who knew he had the room in the palm of his hand. "You want a real role model? Look at me. I’m successful because I play the game better than everyone else. I didn’t get here by following some cheesy slogan like ‘Never Give Up’. I got here because I outsmart everyone. And trust me, if you want to win in life, you’ve got to be more than just a nice guy in jorts."
The principal nervously stepped forward, clearly unsure how to reign in the charismatic Douché. "Uh, thank you, Mr. Douché. Perhaps we should wrap—"
But Douché wasn’t finished. He turned back to the kids one last time. "Remember this, all of you: life’s not fair, and the sooner you realize that, the better. Don’t be like Blade, stuck in the past, relying on corny catchphrases. Be like me—smart, ruthless, and always one step ahead. That’s how you really win."
He tossed the microphone back to the principal and walked off stage, leaving a mix of confused, entertained, and slightly shocked students in his wake.
As he strutted out of the auditorium, he muttered to himself with a smirk, "That ought to set them straight."
One night, in a dimly lit comedy club tucked away in a corner of Los Angeles, the audience was buzzing with excitement. The neon sign outside read--
***** Special Guests Tonight: Douché and Bitterman! *****
Inside, the energy was electric. Fans of wrestling and comedy alike filled the seats, ready to witness something unique. The spotlight illuminated the stage, and out walked intergalactic sports entertainment megastar Nicky Douché himself. Dressed in his signature scarf, he swaggered toward the mic with that arrogant smirk plastered across his face. Bitterman, his muscle-bound enforcer, followed closely behind, arms crossed and stone-faced as ever.
Douché grabbed the microphone and surveyed the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen, you're welcome!" he said with a mocking grin. "I know, I know, you're all so honored to be in the presence of the absolute greatest sports entertainer to have ever lived. But don’t worry, I’m not here to talk about me. Well, not only about me."
The audience laughed, already hooked by his ego.
"Tonight," Douché continued, "I thought we’d take a little time to talk about someone who isn’t here. Someone who couldn’t be here because he's too busy pretending he's still relevant. You might know him—he wears jorts, a baseball cap, and waves his hand around like a malfunctioning traffic cop."
The crowd erupted, knowing exactly where this was going.
"Yeah, you know who I’m talking about," Douché said, smirking. "John Blade!"
Bitterman rolled his eyes, pretending to be exasperated by the mention of Blade’s name, as Douché dove into his roast.
"Now, don’t get me wrong, Johnathan Surgeon of Thug Blade was huge back in the day. But let’s be real here, folks—who over the age of twelve is still wearing jean shorts? I mean, seriously, John! It’s like the guy raided a clearance rack in 2002 and thought, ‘You know what? This is timeless!’"
Laughter filled the room. Douché paced back and forth, feeding off the energy.
"And then there’s that whole ‘You Can’t See Me’ thing," Douché continued, waving his hand in front of his face in a mocking gesture. "Blade, buddy, I wish I couldn’t see you! But unfortunately, I can’t turn on my TV without seeing your face in some terrible action movie where you play ‘Generic Muscle Guy #4!’”
The audience howled. Bitterman, standing at the edge of the stage, even cracked a small smirk, which only added to the fun.
"You know, John Blade’s like that friend who doesn’t get the hint to leave the party. The party’s over, John! Roman Gunn already ate all the chips and left with the title! But there’s Blade, still standing there with his goofy grin, like, ‘Hey guys, who wants to play charades?’"
Douché paused for dramatic effect, his grin widening. "Except the only charade is Blade pretending he's still in his prime!"
The laughter echoed around the club, but Douché wasn’t done. He motioned for Bitterman to step up to the mic.
"Go on, Bitterman," Douché said, patting his massive companion on the back. "Tell them what you think about John Blade."
Bitterman, towering over the microphone, leaned in, his deep voice booming across the room. "Blade's cool," he said, stone-faced.
The crowd fell silent for a beat, confused by the sudden turn. Then, without warning, Bitterman added, "If you’re into kids' shows."
The room exploded with laughter as Douché gave Bitterman an approving nod.
"Well said, big man, well said!" Douché chuckled. "At the end of the day, John Blade can’t be all bad, right? I mean, the man has done a lot for charity. Mostly by making millions of wrestling fans donate their time trying to figure out why they ever cheered for him."
Douché dropped the mic, flashing his smug grin as the crowd rose to their feet in applause. Bitterman crossed his arms, standing stoic as ever, while the cheers and laughter filled the club.
As they left the stage, Douché turned to Bitterman. "You think Blade's watching?"
Bitterman shrugged. "Probably. But you know he can’t see us."
Douché smirked. "Good point. The biggest joke of all is that I have to wrestle him this week at Friday Night Impact. No amount of hustle, loyalty, and respect can save him from the merciless beating that's coming his way this Friday. If any of you aren't total poors, I hope you can make it out to watch John Blade have his final match. It won't be by his choice though. It will be mine. It's time for the Surgeon of Thug to put down the verbal scalpel and retire. To everyone around the world... you're welcome."
And with that, they walked off into the night, leaving the audience with a night of laughs—and maybe a few jokes that would make their way back to John Blade himself.
And with that, they walked off into the night, leaving the audience with a night of laughs—and maybe a few jokes that would make their way back to John Blade himself.