Title: Salty
Featuring: Bobby Dean
Date: Right after Victory
Location: A bar
Show: Victory XXXVIII

Apparently subtlety is a lost form in this day and age. You’ve got to be blunt, obvious, and straightforward. Hit people over the head with whatever it is you want them to know. It’s so easy for people to say “Bobby’s fat” and win. But heaven forbid you use a little subtlety; using someone’s unimaginative setting, mixed with a parody of their very mind numbing drivel they call dialogue, devote nearly 99% focus towards an opponent, albeit slyly, only to lose! All because they inferred that Bobby was fat…


Bobby’s been “fat” since the day he arrived to the UTA and flaked. He’s been fat while he was “retired” from this sport. Let’s just say, he’s been “fat” for years, so how is that new? The fact that person after person after person says the same fucking thing, “you’re fat,” and wins, is atrocious! In my opinion, a person calling Bobby fat should automatically be disqualified, because they obviously have no sense of imagination. Bobby is like an onion, people peel away the first layer and see that he’s “fat” and then suddenly stop, like that’s the only thing he is. They don’t peel layer after layer after layer, exposing him and his myriad of faults.


So here we go, again, allow me to arm you with ammunition.

- Bobby’s fat. (Duh!)

- Bobby’s disgusting! (both on a hygienic level as well as a personality level)

- He’s a horrible person. ( He would not help an old lady cross the street, he would take ALL the pennies from the penny tray, he would even take the quarters out of that little cardboard cutout for cancer research. He knows he’s supposed to be some sort of “good” guy but honestly, he’s just Bobby Dean. )

- He’s probably half retarded.

- He’s got a daughter, who many people think is not a “daughter” at all, if you catch my drift?

- He’s got an addictive personality. You name it, he’s been addicted to it. Alcohol, drugs, cigarettes, porn, ladyboys, pokemon, Yu-Gi-Oh, Beyblade, Subway diet, QVC shopping, 1-800 numbers. Seriously, name any fad you can think of and he was into it.

- He’s just a god awful wrestler.

- Is he gay? Or is he straight? Bi? Asexual? Pansexual? Seriously, what the fuck is his sexual orientation?

- He doesn’t care about winning, but he does care about losing unjustly.


The list goes on and on and on. So instead of saying he’s fat, how about we talk about more than the girth of his stomach? And since he apparently don’t know what Match Relevance is, how about we show him a better understanding of it.


Show: Victory

Opponent: Lisil Jackson (also known as Black Guy Jackson for some odd reason? I guess because he’s a big black guy and his last name is Jackson? I guess that makes Bobby WGD? White Guy Dean? Or is it FGD? Fat Guy Dean...)

When: September 29th, 2015


Bobby is set to face Lisil Jackson on the next Victory. I’m sure he’ll job to him, but hey, he jobbed to Amy Harrison! Could it get much worse than that!? I guess he could job to MVC AND Amy Harrison, luckily that hasn’t happened, yet. Cross your fingers Mikey!


But then again, maybe NOW he’ll get a fucking title shot? Look at Ron Hall, he jobs to the glorified stripper and suddenly he gets a shot at the title Bobby’s been campaigning weeks for. A title shot that the champion has already agreed to! Although, if Bobby got a title shot I’m pretty sure he’d probably just disappear off the face of the earth, again, yeah?


Fuck it.


Where was I? Oh yeah, Lisil, Lisil Jackson, a Jamaican who smokes weed… Original… A jamaican who believes in voodoo… Okay, seriously was Major League running on one of those old movie channels again? Do I need to sacrifice some chickens to Jobu? Maybe then I’ll be able to hit a curveball, whatever the hell that is? Who are we kidding, if we’re sacrificing chickens it isn’t going to be to some wooden idol tucked away in a locker smoking a stogie, it’ll be to Bobby’s expansive belly. All praise the belly!


Oooooo, maybe if I talk about how Bobby is fat, maybe then I’ll win!?


Who knows, instead of Jobu voodoo, it’s voodoo like in Weekend at Bernies 2? You play some music and Bobby will start dancing? He’ll twerk his way to the sunken treasure? Then we can mix it with some Goonies action and Mikey Unlikely can set up some booty traps, and I can be Sloth. Bobby, of course, would be Chunk and he’d do the Truffle Shuffle. Now that would make for some interesting TV!


Is that all we do now a days? Rip off movies and television shows? We’ve got Serrano, That guy from Eastbound and Down that just about everyone has made a comment on, Vivian Ward, you know Julia Roberts playing the hooker looking for Prince Charming? Ronda Rousey aka Alex Beckman, and whoever Mikey Unlikely is supposed to be. I’m still trying to figure that one out...


Fine, I guess I’ll go ahead and rip off some movie stars too. Who can Bobby be? Uncle Buck? Maybe that guy from Lost, you know the guy I’m talking about, the FAT one! Or maybe he can be Fat Albert? But he’s not black…




“There you are!” a voice calls out, drawing me out of my contemplations. “I’ve been looking for you all over the place!”


I look up from my near empty bottle of Jack Daniels and see my father standing at the entrance to the hotel’s deserted bar, smiling from ear to ear. I scowl at him, not in the mood for his shit, but apparently he’s too stupid to realize I don’t want his company as he walks over and, with difficulty, manages to climb his lard ass into the bar stool next to mine.


“What’s wrong sweet pea?” he asks as I grab my bottle and drain the remaining liquid, burning my throat as it goes down.


“I lost.” I mutter, wiping the spittle off my lips with a swipe of my forearm. “I lost to Amy fucking Harrison!”


My father, Bobby, begins laughing hysterically. Serious guffaws, slapping the bar with his meaty hand, to the point that he suddenly begins to hiccup. Which only makes him giggle all the more.


“Why are you laughing!?” I demand, throwing the bottle across the room. Luckily it’s near 3 in the morning and Bobby and I have the whole place to ourselves.


He sobers as the bottle shatters against the far wall. Looking at me with a bit of disappointment in his eye. “You my dear have a lot to learn about this business.”


“Yeah, and who’s going to teach me!?” I shout back. “Certainly not you! So far all you’ve taught me is how to make an entrance! And look how that ended…”


Bobby wraps his arm around my shoulder, pulling me to his side. “My dear, we win some, we lose some. And if you check the website tomorrow, that loss won’t be on your record it’ll be on mine. So chin up princess, you’re still undefeated!”

I still can’t smile, I cost my father the match. Maybe if I hadn’t been involved he would have smashed that chick and his win streak would still be going.

“Look pumpkin pie, sometimes we’re better than we normally should be, and sometimes we’re worse. Tonight might not have been our night, but who cares? I never gave a shit if I won or lost before, so why start now? We gave Amy something to tell her grandkids, and it’s not like we’ll never have a shot with her ever again. When that time comes we’ll wipe the floor with her and her fake jizz injected lips.”

He doesn’t understand, *I* do give a shit. I want to be more than this, I want my father to be proud of me. I want to do more than make people laugh at me. I want to be over, not because of a beard, or because of a belly. I want people to cheer me on because they believe in me.


“But, I cost you your title match!” I wailed, tears streaming down my face, in which Bobby simply begins to laugh once more. “What’s so funny!?”


“They’re never going to give me a title match, honey!” Bobby says gently. “Look at me. I’m the comedic relief. You don’t give a title to the court jester. You give it to guys like Mikey, or Colt, or Dane. Hell, Amy Harrison would get a title shot before I ever would.”


“But the fans love you!” I argued, as it didn’t make a lick of sense to me why my dad hasn’t had a single title shot in the UTA.


“And they can love me with or without a little gold plated leather strap wrapped around my thigh.” he says with a chuckle. “Can you imagine *me* with a title!? Oh jeez!”


The image of my dad standing there with the Wildfire title wrapped around his thigh like a garter makes me smile and chuckle, as Bobby reaches across the bar and grabs the nearest bottle. He doesn’t care what it is, he simply opens it up and takes a swig before passing it to me.


“So what are you going to do now?” I can’t help but ask as the bottle sits poised at my lips.


“What I always do, move on to the next one.” he says with a gleam of mischief in his eye. “I’ll harass Colt some more, square up with Lisil, maybe pal around with my bestie Mikey. But no matter what, I’ll have as much fun as I can while I’m at it.”


I can’t help but shake my head. 1. because I was drinking sour mix, it didn’t have an ounce of alcohol in it. And 2. because I’ll never understand how unambitious my father is. He’d gladly be at the bottom of the UTA ladder of success, instead of near the top where he rightly belongs!

I can’t help but hope that I never feel the same way he does. I don’t want to spend my whole life watching people use me as a stepping stone. Especially people that don’t deserve it! But he was right about one thing. It’s time to stop dwelling on the fiasco that was Amy Harrison and start focusing on the upcoming match with Lisil Jackson.

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