“Bobby,” a familiar voice calls out as if from a far away distance. “Bobby, get up!”
A foot nudges me in the stomach, causing me to roll to my back, groaning as I do. I pull away the myriad of blankets, tossing aside a pillow that was laying haphazardly across my face. Looking up into the scowling visage of my beautiful daughter, Bobbi Jean Dean, who’s dressed in a very skimpy spaghetti strapped cami, showing an incredible amount of midriff, and cut off blue jean shorts.
“I swear to god!” BJ swears with a scowl on her face. “The next hotel we’re in you better get two rooms!”
BJ looks around at the clothes scattered all over the place, tissues crumbled into little balls litter the floor, and two large, and very naked, women are sprawled out on the king size bed sound asleep, as I lay on the edge of the bed with my leg dangling across the wide expanse of a female belly.
“At least get a room with two beds,” she says shuddering as she remembers the previous night, with three large people rolling around the bed, oblivious to her lying there trying to sleep.
“Come on honey,” I say patting the sheet next to me, for her to pop a squat, which she refuses. “I’m teaching you the life of a wrestler! You see, these lovely ladies are what we in the business like to call ring rats. They like us because we’re wrestlers. They’re not stupid, they’re not throwing themselves at my feet to be my “girlfriend”... I mean who really asks someone to be their girlfriend when they’re over 30 years old!? It’s, “Hey, ya wanna fuck?” Or “Oh shit you’re pregnant!? I guess let’s get married…””
BJ rolls her eyes in disgust as I give her the classic “birds and the bees” story.
“Daddy,” BJ pleads, “You’ve got to get ready, you’ve got a match with Amy Harrison later this evening!”
“Ugh,” I mutter, tossing my hand in the air and flipping my limp wrist, as if I were brushing her off before I begin to roll back to sleep
“Seriously!” BJ implores, “You need to get ready! Get a shower, get your gear together, and let’s get to the arena early so you can stretch and get your mind on the task at hand.”
I begin to chuckle, stopping my roll midway to look over my shoulder back at my daughter as if I were seeing her for the first time. “Are you retarded?”
“Huh?” BJ grunts in return.
“That’s what a retard would say,” I inform her softly. “Why would you think I’d take someone like Amy Harrison seriously!? Who the fuck is Amy Harrison other than a overzealous ring rat!? She’s fucked half the locker before she was even signed, and now she wants to act like she’s a vital member of this company!”
“But she’s beaten Ron Hall!” BJ pleads, trying to hype up the 2 cent hooker.
“SO!?” I can’t help but shout, causing my foot rest to stir. “I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but Ron Hall is like 80 years old… Beating someone that’s escaped from the retirement home isn’t something to brag about.”
“But, but, but she’s really anxious to beat you tonight!” BJ stutters. “If she beats you, won’t she be the third best wrestler in the UTA then?”
“No, no, no.” I say with a smile. “The day a woman like Amy Harrison beats “Beautiful” Bobby Dean, is the day “Beautiful” Bobby Dean… Well, fuck, I can’t think of anything.”
I draw a complete blank because it’s unfathomable to even contemplate Amy Harrison beating me. We’ve all heard of the phenomenon of “It’s just not my day” or “I’d have one 9 out of 10 times” or “I had a flare up with my herpes and I couldn’t stop scratching.” Well those things just can’t happen when you’re in a match with a person who hails from Belfast.
“Listen honey,” I say to my daughter as I go back to rolling over. “I’m not worried about no Amy Harrison. Or Sabrina Baker. Or Marie fucking V Cunt. In fact, you’d even be able to beat a person like Amy!”
“But I haven’t had a proper training lesson yet.” she says with fear in her voice.
“Exactly.” I deadpan back.
“Seriously?” she asks, as I grab a nearby pillow and stuff it back onto my head.
“Wake me up when we’ve got like 10 minutes before the show starts.” I order, closing my eyes and going back to sleep. “Amy Harrison, psh.”
“Good evening folks, I’m Bobby Dean.” I say with a camera crew outside the arena of tonight’s Victory. “I’m about to poll our audience as the doors are moments away from opening.”
A long line of UTA fans snake back and forth and back again through a maze of ropes, awaiting their entry. As Bobby Dean walks amongst them, they shout out and cheer.
“Now, a lot of you might be wondering, what question am I going to ask these loyal UTA fans? Well, it’s simple, “What are Bobby Dean’s biggest flaws?”” I recite into the camera, as I stop in front of one fan. “What are my biggest flaws, sir?”
“Uhm, you’re big boned?” he asks uncertain.
“Fat?” I ask back.
“Yes.” he nods his head emphatically.
43. Small peepee?
“Mom!?” I shout as my mother smiles at me, holding up her fingers just millimeters apart. “When was the last time you even saw my mile long schlong?”
“When you were taking a bath, oh when you were about 7 years old.” she answers smiling devilishly.
I couldn’t help but shake my head, kissing her on the cheek before heading on down the line.
“In other words, Amy, I think everyone already knows I’m fat. And you know what? I’d rather be fat than a prude like you. And that goes double for you too, MVC!”
"It's time for everyone to stop dreaming and come down to earth. It’s… My… Time."
- La Flama Blanca