Virgil was sitting at yet another wrestling convention.
As usual, nobody was coming to his booth to buy one of his autographed pictures or get a picture with him and the Million Dollar belt. The sign taped to the table clearly said Virgil and Ted DiBiase, but people were probably used to the fact that The Million Dollar Man was not going to show up. In reality Virgil realized it was a terrible con since Ted DiBiase had last been seen in the same room as Virgil in WCW, back when they would gather up anybody who had a cup of coffee in WWE to be in the NWO.
Yes, even Virgil.
Currently, somebody was standing in the distance and taking a photo of Virgil looking miserable and alone.
“Every god damn time,” muttered Virgil. “I’ve gotta stop coming to these fucking things.”
It seemed like every convention or any time Virgil would set up his booth in the streets, somebody would take a photo of him sitting all alone with the hope of somebody stopping by his booth. Even on days when a crowd actually showed up at his booth, Virgil would only see photos online of him all alone at his booth moments after sitting down.
At this point, it was a sad tradition for nobody to go to Virgil’s booth at a wrestling convention.
Virgil considered running up to the fan and bitching him out in an attempt for somebody to record his meltdown and send it to TMZ. The microsecond of buzz he would get on the internet might earn him five shirts and a couple of autographs sold, but Virgil just didn’t have the energy to create a commotion.
“Who fucking cares? Nobody gives a fuck about washed up celebs on TMZ.”
Virgil was aware of this fact from the dozens of times Hulk Hogan and had TMZ record them shaking hands at the gym in order to show how Hulk Hogan didn’t actually hate black people after his sex tape controversy.
Only a few dozen people had ever seen the video.
It was horribly depressing when even bitter angry smart marks didn’t bite on such bullshit. To this day, Virgil had yet to see any wrestling blog repost the video. It was hard to stomach the fact that he was more irrelevant than backyard wrestlers from the early 2000s.
Virgil sat back in his chair and thought back about his glory days in the WWE. He missed the days of being The Million Dollar Man’s bodyguard. Everywhere he would go in the late 80s, children and women would awe and admire his rock hard bicep muscles. Grown men were always so jealous of Virgil’s muscles and fame. They so badly wanted to be him but could never achieve such a level of greatness.
Virgil then thought about the era when he turned babyface and whooped the ass of Repo Man in front of house crowds every night. He’ll never forget the way people in the Midwest would clap and mildly cheer for Virgil to beat up the Repo Man.
“I had those mother fuckers eating out of the palm of my mother fucking hand.” said Virgil, reclining in his chair with his arms crossed and a large grin plastered across his face.
As Virgil closed his eyes, he could hear Vince McMahon cheering him on as he faced Yokozuma at Survivor Series.
“That white boy knew I almost had that chink laying down for the three count.”
He never understood how Vince could turn on him and squash his epic babyface run. Virgil knew in his heart and soul that he was destined to be the Stone Cold Steve Austin or The Rock of his time. All he need was approval from the office.
“Ah well, their loss. They obviously weren’t interested in making real money.” said Virgil with his eyes closed and calmly shrugging his shoulders. He had come to terms with how idiotic wrestling politics were for a black man.
After daydreaming about his former glory days, Virgil waited another half hour for fans to come by his booth.
As was usually the case, nobody stopped by. Virgil wasn’t even able to get lucky and get someone who was feeling sympathetic. Usually, he could count on Mick Foley to stop by and give him the French fries of whatever fast food meal he had just recently gotten, but it was apparent that Foley was not working the current wrestling convention Virgil was at.
Virgil stood up and stormed away from his booth. He was bitter that the wrestling convention was filled with a bunch of smart mark hipsters who thought they were too cool to come up to Virgil. He couldn’t stand overweight white kids who felt they knew everything about professional wrestling because they spent a majority of their lives on pro wrestling message boards and forums.
The fat fucks tended to know as much about professional wrestling as they did about preventing acne.
Virgil walked by a fan who was holding a cell phone and taking pictures of him. Virgil imagined the addition to some Lonely Virgil website and snapped. He grabbed the kid’s cell phone and smashed it against his forehead.
The kid fell flat on his ass and was groaning as he rubbed his forehead. Already the kid’s forehead was bright red and swelling up as if Big Van Vader had stiffed him.
“Post that to Twitter you little bitch!”
After the altercation with the fan, Virgil looked over at the booth closest to him and noticed that it had a decent line formed in front of the table. Virgil wondered who it could be. Virgil imagined it to be Kevin Nash, Scott Hall and Sean “X-Pac” Waltman, collection an epic amount of fuck money from nostalgic marks who were NWO fa life. Virgil wished he could be a part of the NWO signings. Those were always pure fuck money.
Virgil got closer to see who it was and saw that it was actually WCW jobbers Disorderly Conduct. Virgil looked closer at everybody standing in the line and saw that they were all the hugest hipsters of the convention. They were the type of guys you’d know from a Facebook group made of pro wrestling fans who always had to feel superior once a month by overloading the page with pictures of nobodies who were regulars on WCW Saturday Night or Thunder.
Virgil wanted to take every smart mark hipster currently in line, dress them up as The Blue Blazer and toss them down to the ring from the rafters.
Virgil’s body was filled with such anger and hatred that he grabbed the nearest folding chair and rushed up to Disorderly Conduct, smashing it over their head. They fell over and were knocked out instantly. They barely had time to realize what was happening to them.
“Fuck you and fuck your WCW Saturday Night spots!”
Virgil threw the chair at the unconscious bodies of Disorderly Conduct and spit on them, letting his disgust be known among the smart marks watching the incident.
As Virgil looked up, he saw multiple obese white males with handlebar mustaches and Ring of Honor shirts from ten years ago holding up their cell phones. Virgil rushed up to them all and grabbed their cell phones, smashing them all across their foreheads. Virgil’s speed and strength had been kept up after all these years since he still believed in going to the gym after doing some carny shit like setting up an autograph booth in a subway station or telling someone to buy a shirt so he could use the money for a charity that did research on children’s cancer, knowing he was just going to pocket the dollars for his fuck money jar.
“And fuck you fucking smart marks!” yelled Virgil at the small crowd of hipster marks on their knees crying over their broken cell phones. “You aren’t giving Virgil any fuck money so you can all kiss my black ass!”
As Virgil stormed away, he kicked a couple of the smart marks in the face. He felt a rush of adrenaline when kicking the pasty white males in the face and being reminded of when he was The Million Dollar Man’s bodyguard and he would have to punch fans blocking their way from the limousine outside the building or to the hotel.
Punching and kicking angry smart marks used to be one of Virgil’s greatest joys.
When he was Vincent in the NWO, he even recalled punching a small kid wearing a Lex Luger shirt who threw a cup of soda at him. Luckily, the internet was barely a thing at the time.
“Bitch about that on Angelfire you fucking faggots!” Virgil said to the barely conscious hipster marks at his feet.
“W-we don’t use that anymore.” said one of the smart marks in between sniffles and tears.
Virgil curb stomped him, shoving his face into the carpet until a light film of smoke came up and the smart mark screamed into the carpet.
“Don’t talk to me like that bitch! I won the Million Dollar Belt when you were in elementary school and getting man tits from Lunchables!”
Virgil stormed away from the group of smart marks. As he was power walking away, a pudgy white female blocked him from walking any further. She looked rough, like she had gotten shitfaced and popped pills at every party she had ever come across. Virgil imagined her to be some kind of bus driver who developed all of her wrinkles from dealing with shitty children who should have been aborted years ago.
In her down time, she probably did low budget milf porn or cam shows for guys who looked like Greg Valentine.
She put her index finger in between her lips and then rubbed it against Virgil’s chest and around his Million Dollar Belt. Virgil hoped the bitch didn’t have Hepatitis. He reminded himself that when he got home to bathe his Million Dollar Belt in alcohol and bleach.
“Well hey Virgil baby, you seem a little stressed. Do you need a little help unwinding?”
The pudgy blonde puckered her lips and licked them in a seductive fashion. Virgil looked at the girl’s smile and seemed to find something familiar about it. Under all of the wrinkles and flab, he could have sworn she looked like someone from Virgil’s past.
“Do I know you?”
The girl rolled her eyes with a smirk on her face.
“Have you ever had a…….sunny day?” said the girl with a wink.
“Jesus Christ! Sunny?”
Virgil couldn’t believe how much the girl who was once the most downloaded woman on the internet had let herself go.
In the late 90s, Sunny single handedly increased the sales of tube socks from how often guys ruined them over her photos. Now she looked like she could be the mother or even the grandmother of one of the smart marks attending the convention.
“Yeah it’s me baby, hey I got an idea. How about we partner up and make one hell of a steaming hot sex tape.
“A sex tape?” said Virgil, running it over in his mind. “Well that all depends on if this is going to lead to some sweet fuck money.”
“Well I believe I can sell the tape to Vivid for a price that would include a ten thousand dollar cut for you.”
Virgil smiled ear to ear as he heard the price, his brain vibrated in utopian pleasure as he pictured bathing in all of that fuck money. He usually had to attend twenty four independent wrestling shows to achieve that amount of money.
His old boss was correct when he used to say that everybody had a price.
“Well what the fuck are we waiting for baby? Time to go get in a fucking bed and make some fuck money!”
Fifteen minutes later, Sunny and Virgil had a hotel room in the resort they were hawking autographs and t-shirts inside of.
The entire way up to the room, Virgil sang to himself about how he was in the fuck money.
Sunny was on the bed completely naked with her legs spread. Virgil was also completely nude. Around his waist he wore the Million Dollar Belt. The way it glistened and shined in the light helped distract Virgil from how beat up and bruised Sunny’s vagina looked. It looked to be in worse shape than Chyna’s clit.
It was obvious that for many nights long ago, Sunny’s vagina was under the abuse of the entire ECW locker room.
Behind his false smile, Virgil was cringing and groaning in pain as his body rubbed up against Sunny’s sagging and sweaty flesh. The road to achieving fuck money was never an easy one.
Virgil was at least able to see that her body appeared to be better than what he saw in blurry screenshots of Sunny’s infamous Skype sessions. The fact that those photos belonged to the most downloaded woman of 1997 truly showed Virgil how much time had passed since the late 90s.
Sunny moaned in pleasure as Virgil increased the speed of penetration. Virgil increased the level of friction in order to end the pain quickly.
“O yeah Virgil, give me that Million Dollar Piledriver.”
Virgil closed his eyes and did his best to picture the girl from 1997 and not the one currently in front of him, but it was near impossible to imagine when the reality in front of him was so horrifying.
Eventually, Virgil was able to pull out and ejaculate all over of Sunny’s tits and her face. Virgil exhaled and laughed in what appeared to be pleasure, but in reality it was satisfaction from being over with the embarrassing act. He would’ve cried tears of relief if there wasn’t a camera currently on him.
“Ah yes,” said Sunny, licking the cum from her lips and tits. “There’s that Million Dollar Cumshot.”
A couple of weeks after making the sex tape and receiving his fuck money royalties, Virgil was out on the streets once more attempting to sell homemade shirts and autographed photos. The money he earned afforded him a little time away from doing typical Virgil carny shit, but he knew he would have to return to hawking merch in order to continue raking in fuck money.
Virgil hoped that the new porn tape would bring in more people to buy his merchandise. Hopefully a section of people who realized that Virgil not only had talents in the ring but outside of it as well. He hoped for groupies who would want to be in Sunny’s place, but he didn’t mind if guys became fans of his pornography as well.
As long as they had fuck money.
A group of girls walked by Virgil as he was dreaming about acquiring more fuck money. Virgil watched as they strutted down the sidewalk and licked his lips, eyeing their legs and ass being strangled in tight short shorts.
“Come on bitches, help Virgil get some fuck money! I can eat the pussy like Tubby custard if that’s what it will take ladies.” Virgil said, flicking his tongue between his fingers.
The girls looked at Virgil in disgust and walked away like he was Ron Jeremy’s creepy black uncle.
After they were gone, a guy in a Jimmy Havoc t-shirt and a suit jacket walked up to Virgil. He had medium cropped sandy brown hair and facial hair that looked as if he had last trimmed it a month ago. He also wore prescription glasses and had all of the aura of a typical smart mark.
Virgil hoped this wasn’t some nerd who wanted to do a shoot interview with him. He had grown tired of doing shoot interviews to be put on YouTube and watched by fewer than a thousand people. There were only so many stories of Hulk Hogan pissing on Randy Savage’s gym bag or Hogan shitting on Andre’s shower towel that he could make up on the spot.
The last shoot interview Virgil did he blabbed an untrue story about The Mountie, which nobody really gave a shit about. On the bright side, since it was a story involving him being an asshole nobody called bullshit on Virgil.
The Mountie and Renee Dupree were proof that not all Canadians were nice and sweet, in fact they could very well be the biggest assholes you ever came across.
“Well well well, if it isn’t Fuck Money himself, Virgil.” said the smart mark.
Virgil looked the guy up and down, not knowing at all who he was.
“Who in the fuck are you?”
“I run a local wrestling promotion in the area, the Wonderful Wrestling Federation. I’m not like that pussy you used to work for. Those wildlife fund fags can suck my dick if they have a fucking problem with me using the same abbreviation as them.”
Virgil smiled and nodded, enjoying the guy’s style and attitude. Hopefully this wasn’t one of the many independent wrestling promoters that Virgil had pissed off. It wouldn’t be the first time Virgil encountered an independent wrestling promoter who was pissy with Virgil for trying to sell t-shirts as he walked to the ring or after wresting the opening match on a card, set up a booth at the side of the ring to sell merch for the rest of the night.
“I saw that sex tape you made with Sunny,” said the guy with a smile and roll of the eyes. “Come on man, that isn’t the way to earn true fuck money.”
Virgil could sense the guy had an idea up his sleeve, hopefully it lead to a pile of supreme fuck money.
“O yeah? You got another other ideas to get Virgil some fuck money?”
The guy smiled showing off his pearly whites.
“I got this hardcore wrestler on my roster. He’s your typical white trash asshole who claims he’s a juggalo but such a piece of shit that even the juggalos who come out to the shows are tired of his shit. The most recent match he had he did a ten minute promo on how Insane Clown Posse sold out before the fucking match started. It was as if Lenny Bruce during his rambling about the government phase was a juggalo, emptied out the god damn building. He tells everybody that will listen that he’s kayfabing a heel gimmick but in reality he’s just an annoying trailer park scumbag. Pretty sure he’s got like three kids he isn’t paying child support on, how fucking kayfabe is that? Anyways, I’ll give you twenty five thousand dollars if you kill him in the ring during a match.”
Virgil smiled from ear to ear. He felt like a child trick or treating who had just gotten an entire bag of candy from a house.
“You’ve got a deal!”
Virgil shook hands with the guy and could feel himself going down the yellow brick road to the wizard of fuck money.
It was Friday night when Virgil wrestled on the local indy show. The two hundred seat gymnasium was packed with people eager to see Virgil, the top washed up wrestler from the late 80s and early 90s on the card. As he walked down to the ring, Virgil listened to the cheers from the energetic crowd.
“Woah Virgil! Wasn’t he in the WWE?”
“Virgil! I remember you wrestling in 1991!”
Virgil strutted down to the ring with a shit eating grin on his face, realizing how the people haven’t forgotten him. He still had what it took to be a white meat babyface. The crowd would forever be connected with Virgil’s heart and soul.
As Virgil waited in the ring, generic rock music began to blare over the PA. The music could best be described as if Avenged Sevenfold had a love child with Nickelback and some generic rock station cartoon character.
From behind the curtains came a white guy who easily tipped the scale at over three hundred pounds. Virgil was disgusted by the man’s enormous gut. He looked like the type of guy who didn’t even masturbate because it would be considered exercise to his clogged arteries.
His hair was red and green, everything he wore was Insane Clown Posse merchandise. In his right hand he wielded a hatchet. Everybody in the crowd booed him. Virgil was surprised that there wasn’t even a few marks in the crowd who thought they were cool to cheer on the heels. It was the first he had seen of this since the late 80s.
“Fuck all you nigger faggots,” said Virgil’s opponent, grabbing at his crotch. “Ya’ll just hate me cause Imma Juggalo whoop whoop!”
Virgil’s opponent followed this up by mooning the audience. He was the exact type of guy that Fox News would show on their highlights while they talked about some city with Juggalo gang activity, the type of asshole only your grandma could believe represented everybody in a group.
After showboating, Virgil’s opponent, who was announced as Henry Hatchet walked into the ring and glared at Virgil. He followed this up by spitting on Virgil’s pectoral muscles.
“Can’t wait to fuck you up nigger.” said Henry with a shit eating grin on his face.
The bell rang and within the span of three seconds, Henry Hatchet grabbed a kendo stick on the steel stairs closest to him and began swinging at Virgil.
Virgil was able to dodge most of Henry’s full swings. Henry missed at least twelve times before he struck Virgil on the left side of his back. The echo of the kendo stick connecting with Virgil’s back popped the crowd. It seemed as if everybody in the crowd jumped an inch closer towards the ring.
“Say your name is Toby and you can go home nigger!”
Virgil ran towards the ropes. As he jumped through the ropes, Henry Hatchet swung full force at Virgil and missed. The kendo stick connected with the ropes and bounced back, hitting him in the forehead. While Henry Hatchet was dazed, Virgil was reaching underneath the ring for a weapon. The first thing he grabbed was a cheese grater.
Virgil ran back into the ring and swung the cheese grater against Henry Hatchet’s forehead. Henry fell backwards and Virgil jumped on top of him, rubbing the grater against his forehead as Henry let out a blood curling scream.
“Not my face! Not my fucking face!”
After giving Henry Hatchet a crimson mask, Virgil swung the cheese grater against his head once more. He then grabbed the kendo stick and began swinging it against Henry’s torso with all of his strength. This sent Henry leaping to his feet and running away from Virgil. Virgil easily chased the fat bastard around the ring, swinging the kendo stick against his back until that too was drenched in blood and sweat.
Virgil watched as Henry Hatchet reached a high level of adrenaline from realizing that it was time to fight for his life. He picked up Virgil and shoulder pressed him outside of the ring. Virgil’s body went through a nearby table.
“This is the end of the road nigger!”
Virgil was able to shake off his current daze and get up a couple of minutes after going through the table. He looked across from him and saw that inches away from his hand was Henry’s hatchet. Virgil picked it up and leapt to his feet.
“O fuck.” was all Henry could get out when he saw Virgil wielding his hatchet.
Virgil threw the hatchet. Henry could only watch as it spun in the air and connected with his neck. A large stream of blood sprayed across the ring once Henry’s head fell from his shoulders.
Henry’s head bounced on the ring apron and rolled over to where Virgil was standing. Virgil picked up the decapitated head and threw it into the crowd that was now on their feet, celebrating the asshole they hated most of all being dead. It was the feeling only people who shot up their office loaded with ticky tacky cubicles could understand.
Virgil went into the ring and grabbed Henry’s corpse. He threw it into the crowd and watched as everybody in the audience ripped it into shreds like a chicken at an Alice Cooper concert. An entire section of people were bathing in the dead man’s blood.
Later that night at a nearby dive bar, Virgil celebrated with local wrestling fans with drinks being bought by all of the marks who were thankful to Virgil. Virgil even got a free smoke from a few smart marks who dealt to guys like Rob Van Dam, Sabu and Jack Swagger.
After all of the drinks and weed, Virgil was then visited by a group of prostitutes who happened to be juggalettes. They were in clown makeup and bikinis with Joker cards on the bra. This got Virgil harder than when John Cena saw Nikki Bella no selling a female wrestler’s signature move.
All of the girls left Virgil’s room with a million dollar moneyshot drying on their face and chest.
The next morning, Virgil woke up in his hotel room to a pounding on the door. The pounding vibrated violently against his forehead because he was currently more hungover than Michael Hayes after getting drunk enough to tell a black guy three times his size that he was more of a nigger than said black guy.
“Please stop!” cried Virgil to the door. “Virgil had a fun time with bitches and now his head feels like Mick Foley’s back.”
The knocking ceased at once and after a few seconds of waking up and taking some ibuprofen, Virgil made it to the hotel door and opened it. Standing in the doorway was none other than HHH, wearing a suit that probably costed more than Virgil’s monthly salary.
“Hey Virgil, I heard you killed a guy in the ring. I’m interested in hiring you for similar services.”
Virgil smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“Hunter, if you got the fuck money then Virgil is all yours.”
Hunter came into the hotel room and sat on Virgil’s bed as Virgil shut the door.
“I don’t know if you’ve been watching the product, but in our developmental system NXT I have been employing women that actually know how to wrestle, not just women who show their tits and shake their ass in a Playboy Lingerie Pillow Fight.”
“Well you lost me but continue.”
“Anyways, I’ve got this great product of female wrestling. Female wrestlers that little girls can actually look up to. But Vince, that god damn coot sent down this fucking modeling broad he hired a couple of years ago, Eva Marie. She does what needs to be done for his little reality show on E! but jesus fucking Christ, she can’t wrestle to save her fucking life.”
“Well what are we talking about here Hunter? Like Giant Gonzalez bad?”
Hunter rolled his eyes and shook his head.
“Eva Marie makes Giant Gonzalez look like a WCW cruiserweight.”
Virgil cringed at the sound of this.
“Christ, that isn’t good. So tell me Hunter, where does Virgil and the pursuit of fuck money come in?”
Hunter laughed at this.
“If you ever write a book you should call it that. As for the hit on Eva Marie, I’m thinking about one hundred thousand dollars if you go into NXT at Full Sail University, have an inter-gender match with her and kill her in the middle of the ring.”
“You’re sure you don’t want me to do this off camera?”
HHH shook his head.
“God no, the death of Eva Marie will be the most watched thing on the WWE Network. Marks will consider it the moment WWE resurrected from the grave and reclaimed the throne of entertainment it once held.”
“Well shit Hunter, for one hundred thousand dollars I’ll fuck her corpse and tell people how I really screwed her brains out and whip some at the mother fucking hard camera.”
“Easy pal, that’s my gimmick.”
Virgil walked down the ramp at NXT. The Million Dollar Man’s entrance music was blaring and the crowd was marking out at seeing Virgil on WWE television once more. Virgil watched with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face as people in the crowd were rushing to be the first to announce on Twitter that Virgil was back in the WWE. The millennials were so glued to their cell phones that Virgil was certain he could probably finger Ms. Elizabeth’s corpse and nobody would even notice.
As Virgil was walking to the ring, the crowd chanted things like “fuck money” and “wrestling superstar” at him. Virgil smiled at how well the crowd knew him. It only proved his knowledge that he could still be a high drawing white meat babyface. Virgil knew that in no time, he would be taking John Cena’s spot and having Cena job clean to him.
“I’m coming for your fuck money John and to fuck your bitch on a pile of my new fuck money.” said Virgil to himself, with a grin on his face from ear to ear.
After he entered the ring and his entrance music cut off, Eva Marie’s came on and the audience showered her in a sea of boos. The heat was nuclear, Virgil hadn’t experienced anything like it since the days when kayfabe was alive and strong. Those were the days when heels would have to stay in their hotel rooms like recluses to avoid being killed and have someone else get their food to avoid spit covered burgers.
As Eva Marie came out, Virgil looked into her eyes and saw a look of confusion and stupidity behind a wave of bright red hair. From how uncharismatic she looked and walked, Virgil could tell she didn’t know a thing about professional wrestling. Her knowledge at best stemmed from catching The Marine once on cable TV or sucking the dick of a guy watching Spider-Man as Toby Maguire was wrestling Macho Man Randy Savage.
She didn’t even look like a basic wrestling bitch who could lie out of her ass and say that she liked watching Hulk Hogan or Ultimate Warrior as a child as she looked into the camera with bright and empty eyes. Nowadays, her type would probably say they had a crush on The Rock as a little girl and give a fake embarrassed laugh. Virgil could see the fake countdown commentary right now.
Eva Marie slowly walked to the ring in a long red robe as the crowd chanted things such as “you can’t wrestle” and “you’re a cunt”. Virgil was surprised at how brutally honest the crowd had become. WWE crowds weren’t even that chaotic for a slob in the ring like The Great Khali. This bitch was so bad she was turning PG-Era crowds into the old ECW crowds full of angry single guys in Philadelphia, whose brains were boiling inside of an unconditioned bingo hall.
After she entered the ring and the bell rang, Virgil gave Eva Marie a clothesline with as much power and aggression behind it as JBL’s Clothesline from Hell. Eva Marie flipped in the air and fell flat onto her face. The crowd popped as if The Rock had just appeared. They were so happy to see the bitch that they despised having her ass handed to her.
“I-if you l-let me win, I-I’ll get you a spot on Total Divas.” muttered Eva Marie from the ground.
“Louder you little whore!” said Virgil, shoving a boot into her ass.
Virgil made her repeat it louder so the crowd could hear. A sea of boos rained down upon the ring. Virgil was happy this wasn’t WCW because if that were the case, they would probably have to deal with soda and popcorn raining down upon them.
Virgil stepped back, appearing to the crowd as if he was thinking about it.
“I’d rather be on Legends House you fucking bitch!” shouted Virgil.
The audience popped like they were watching The Undertaker making his entrance to the ring, Ministry of Darkness Undertaker, not today’s Randy the Ram like Undertaker.
Virgil picked up Eva Marie’s body, preparing her for a piledriver. He then charged over to the ropes. As he yelled fuck money, Virgil leaped over the ropes and drove Eva Marie into the steel steps head first. The snapping her neck echoed throughout Full Sail University.
The crowd groaned in pain and then cheered as it was made clear that Eva Marie was dead. A camera zoomed in on her lifeless face and the crowd was happier than if they saw Stone Cold Steve Austin return for one more match.
The image of Eva Marie’s lifeless face would be the symbol of the end of Vince McMahon’s version of female wrestling. No longer would it be acceptable to just be some ditzy woman with a rocking hot body in a ring and put on a mediocre product that went on as the audience went outside to have a smoke or take a piss or get something at the food court.
It was now time for actual female wrestlers to replace models who had to strip down to their bras and panties in order to keep a crowd emotionally invested in their match. With the sleaze being pushed out of cable television, so was it pushed out of professional wrestling.
After pinning Eva Marie’s corpse, Virgil stood in the middle of the ring as he was showered with streamers and the crowd chanted “We Love Virgil and “Thank You Virgil”.
Everybody in the crowd hugged one another in celebration and had eyes tears of joy running down their face. It looked like the moment that the Berlin Wall finally came down in 1989. Which was a tad ironic, since after a few minutes of Virgil’s music playing, it cut out and was replaced by David Hasselhoff making a guest appearance to sing his hit song, Looking for Freedom.
Full Sail University was celebrating at full force with people screaming with joy and clapping their hands.
Eventually the fans stormed over the barriers and into the ring. For at least a good hour, everybody had a chance to punch Eva Marie in the face. Some of the fans were disappointed that they didn’t tie up Eva Marie when she was alive and just punch her to death, but this was just as great.
A few of the guys in the audience suggested that they fuck her corpse to degrade Eva Marie even more than she already currently was, but the rest of the marks realized that Eva Marie was not worth an inch of their erections or a drop of their semen.
Some of the women queefed in her face to show that they too were never interested in Eva Marie, even though Vince McMahon may say differently to people in shareholder meetings.
Eventually, the audience ripped apart Eva Marie’s corpse and burned her body so she would be unable to have a proper burial or visitation from her family. In reality, this was not an issue since Eva Marie’s family hated her guts for being the drizzling shits and only getting by in life by watching her carb intake.
Even her husband was well known for going to independent shows and fucking girls he actually respected so it didn’t bother him as well.
The celebration of Eva Marie’s death was recorded after NXT went off the air and after the ratings were tallied up, it was single handedly the most watched thing on the WWE Network with a one hundred percent satisfactory rating.
WWE soon released a shirt with Virgil standing tall over the corpse of Eva Marie and it became the hottest selling item in the WWE Shop, annihilating the record Austin’s 3:16 shirt had made years before.
Virgil was backstage at a WWE pay-per-view counting all his fuck money and smiling from ear to ear. It had been years since he acquired so much fuck money. If he recalled correctly, the last time he acquired this much fuck money was when he was on the roster in the heyday of The Golden Era. On top of his salary, he was pocketing money he was supposed to use out in public to make people buy into the Million Dollar Man gimmick and he was also partnering up with Earl Hebner to sell some WWE t-shirts that happened to “fall off the truck”.
That truly was the summer of fuck money.
“Who would have thought Virgil would be backstage at WWE and Hulk Hogan would be banned? Times are changing. Good things are in the beholder of fuck money!”
As Virgil counted, HHH and Stephanie McMahon walked up to him. Both of them smiling from ear to ear, obviously happy with Virgil’s work of deposing of the tumor that was Eva Marie.
This was the first time Virgil had seen Stephanie McMahon since she was a teenager running around backstage. He rushed up to her and gave her a hug.
“Hey Steph! I haven’t seen you since the days you used to come by Macho’s place.”
Stephanie blushed and laughed in an uncomfortable tone. HHH looked at his wife in confusion, looking like a mark when Lex Luger randomly showed up on Monday Night Nitro or when Mick Foley won the WWF title.
“Is that shit actually true?” asked HHH. He then shook his head and turned his attention to Virgil.
“We got another thing we need to take care of.”
Virgil shrugged his arms and smiled. He was ready to add some more fuck money to his pile.
“If you got the fuck money, you got Virgil.”
HHH sat down while Stephanie chose to stand with her arms crossed, looking like her kayfabe authority character. Sometimes when you became a character for so long you found yourself living the gimmick.
“There’s this guy on the roster, one of Vince’s guys who is just the drizzling shits. Think his real name is Ryan Reeves but he goes by RyBack. Just picture Goldberg with a better steroid cycle in Rob Van Dam tights. The best way to describe him is Ultimate Warrior without the charismatic character.”
Virgil shook his head in disgust. He never really cared for Ultimate Warrior to begin with. Ultimate Warrior was a man who was so roided up, he lived the gimmick more than anybody. Virgil imagined the stupid bastard for days on the road on a freeway looking for a sign that said Parts Unknown.
“Sounds like the drizzling shits just like you said. The roided up goons never work out, always too damn green.”
HHH nodded in agreement, recalling the amount of time he had to work with Goldberg in the early 2000s, when Smackdown was easily winning the ratings war against Raw. While Smackdown was using the legendary WCW Cruiserweights effectively, Raw had HHH working with a guy who put Bret Hart out of commission.
“Trust me, the fucking guy is greener than any strain of weed. He’s taken out half the roster with his retard strength. With his fucking bald head, obvious mental retardation and inability to care if those around him live or die, he’s like the WWE’s version of Jason Voorhees.”
“So what needs to be done and how much fuck money does Virgil get? It better be a lot because this sounds riskier than getting into a street fight with New Jack.”
“Kill the bastard or drain him of all his steroids for two hundred and fifty grand.”
Dollar bill signs flashed before Virgil’s eyes. He couldn’t believe he had the prospect of acquiring this much fuck money. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what he would do with that large amount of fuck money. All he really wanted to do was have a room where he could dive into a swimming pool of fuck money.
“Woo! Virgil is gonna dive into that fuck money like Scrooge McDuck!”
Virgil followed this by doing Jeff Jarrett’s signature strut. He then kissed Hunter and Stephanie on the cheek and did Ric Flair elbow drops to celebrate his luck.
Thirty minutes after being told about what had to be done, Virgil was walking down to the ring as the Million Dollar Man’s entrance music blared in the arena. Once more, Virgil got a huge pop and everybody in the crowd was rushing to be the first one to announce on Twitter that Virgil was back on the WWE main roster.
“These mother fucking white kids with their iPhones are worse than Jake Roberts with his crack pipe.”
To his surprise, Virgil even got green fireworks exploding behind him. He turned around and saw that the fireworks made the shape of dollar bill signs. Virgil was happy to see that WWE was finally treating him like the big deal that he always was.
Virgil was also happy to see that a majority of the audience were wearing his t-shirt with a drawing of him standing over Eva Marie’s corpse. This would only add to his staggering amount of fuck money.
“I’m in love with the fuck money!” announced Virgil.
The audience chanted fuck money back at him.
After Virgil climbed into the ring, he noticed that it was surrounded with tables, ladders and chairs.
Although he was a little intimidated being surrounded by weapons with a roided up goon soon to climb into the ring, he was at least thankful it wasn’t a ladder match for a briefcase of fuck money. Climbing up and down stairs for fifteen minutes could be rougher on Virgil’s knees than if he spent as much time on them as a hopeful ECW valet paying her dues in the locker room.
After Virgil’s music cut off, a few moments of silence passed through the arena. Ryback’s music came on and it began with a chant of Ryback stating to feed him more. Even for a man who wrestled in the 1980s, Virgil found this to be too cartoonish and lame. The entrance music was so over the top and ridiculous that it made the music that Jimmy Hart wrote seem to be something that could be on the level of Frank Sinatra or Paul Williams.
Ryback came out and waved his vein covered arms at the entrance ramp and yelled something about waking up because it’s feeding time. Virgil rolled in eyes in disgust. The man he was wrestling was obviously a mentally retarded man that Vince McMahon had put on a steroid cycle. With his natural retard strength combined with the steroids, it was surprising that Ryback had never accidentally ripped a man into two during a match.
He had the aura of a Mortal Kombat super villain, similar to Goro.
Ryback acted so retarded, Virgil found him to be more over the top than Eugene.
“I’m wrestling a retarded boy.” said Virgil shaking his head. “I’m going straight to fucking hell.”
Virgil told himself that he would do his absolute best to not kill a mentally challenged man who thought he was a professional wrestler but if it came down to Ryback’s life or his, he’d kill the retard.
After Ryback got into the ring, he marched over to Virgil glaring into his eyes.
“Ryback hungry, Ryback want feeding time!” screamed Ryback. As he moved his arms, his pectoral muscles flexed.
With how big he was, Virgil was surprised that Ryback wasn’t hooked up to a tank of steroid juice like the Batman villain Bane.
Virgil was at least happy to see that the giant goon seemed to feel slightly winded from all of the movement he was required to do, it couldn’t have been easily to wake down to the ring with all of the muscle he was carrying on his frame. It reminded Virgil of when the Ultimate Warrior would run down to the ring and would be out of breath by the time he stepped into the ring and the bell rang.
Once the bell rang, Virgil grabbed the first thing he saw which happened to be a steel chair. He swung the chair against Ryback’s head, hoping to knock out the gassed up goon. Ryback didn’t even have time to put his hand up to block the blow. Although the man took an unprotected chair shot, he had no reaction towards it, only a look of indifference.
With how he no sold the chair shot, you’d think the chair was either a cheap prop made from plastic or that Ryback was trained in a dojo by Masato Tanaka.
Virgil swung the chair a few more times at Ryback’s head until the chair finally broke. None of the chair shots took the big guy off of his feet. Virgil noticed there was a slight dent in Ryback’s head, but it didn’t seem to bother him. Ryback was so still and emotionless, he looked like Festus before the ring bell would ring.
“Ryback carnivore who want food.” said Ryback, in a monotone voice. He reminded Virgil of Mongo from the film Blazing Saddles. He looked sad and confused, looking up into the lights as if they would answer his questions.
It seemed like Ryback could only say his programmed catchphrases. Steroids had turned him into a talking keychain.
Virgil noticed that there was table set up in front of a set of turnbuckles. He decided that this was his only chance to walk out of this match alive. It wouldn’t be long before the roided up goon picked up Virgil and shoulder pressed him out of the ring and onto the Spanish Announcer’s table. Virgil looked over to the Spanish announcers and judging by their worried looks and sweat coming from their hairlines, they seemed to believe the same thing.
Without thinking too much about it, Virgil ran into the ropes and used the momentum to spear Ryback off his feet into the table.
Luckily, the momentum from the ropes was enough to take Ryback’s massive frame off his feet and through the table. Virgil’s heart popped with excitement just as much as the crowd was currently popping.
Part of the table was now pierced through Ryback’s stomach and liters of clear liquid began to bleed out of his body.
After bleeding out all of the steroids, Ryback returned to his natural form, which was that of a young boy who didn’t even look as if he hit puberty. The child ran up to Virgil and gave him a hug.
“Gee thanks mister! It feels great to be myself again! I should have never let Vince McMahon inject me with happy muscle candy.”
The little boy went out of the ring and skipped out of the arena. Everybody in the crowd looked around at each other in confusion wondering what they had just witnessed. Because it was professional wrestling, they weren’t exactly sure if they were watching reality, or if Vince Russo was back on the writing staff.
The referee counted to ten with a look of blank confusion on his face and then instructed the timekeeper to ring the bell.
“What in the fuck was that?” asked Michael Cole on commentary.
Jerry Lawler shrugged the shoulders that were currently covered up in a shirt so bedazzled and tacky, even The Situation from Jersey Shore wouldn’t wear it.
“I don’t know Cole, to be honest I stopped paying attention after the girls with implants stopped being hired.”
After Virgil made it backstage, everybody cheered and clapped, congratulating Virgil on getting rid of such a dangerous person working on their roster. Everybody appeared as if they had regained twenty years of their lives back.
“That roided up goon had no business being here.” said someone.
“That piece of shit wouldn’t have even made it in Kronik.” said another
All of the wrestlers was all ecstatic and cheers at their job becoming a much safer environment. After a few minutes of celebration, the cheers died all at once. Virgil wondered why this was, until none other than Vince McMahon emerged from the crowd like a baby from between its mother legs.
Vince McMahon’s face was bright red and filled with so much hatred, it reminded Virgil of Kane’s mask.
“God dammit! What the hell happened to my steroid masterpiece? I’m backstage and he’s back to his pencil geek self.”
Vince was addressing the crowd, he then looked in Virgil’s direction and his eyes widened in horror. It even looked as if his lower lip was quivering. Vince looked as if he had just seen a ghost.
“You! I thought I got rid of your ass in the early 90s. What in the fuck are you doing here?”
This was the moment when HHH emerged from the crowd and patted Vince’s shoulder. The moment was perfectly timed like a typical WWE backstage segment.
“I signed him, he’s making one hell of a comeback Vince. Hell, he might even be our new champion soon.”
Vince glared at his son in law as if he just said WWE is all about wrestling and not sports entertainment. He looked as if he wanted to strangle the life out of HHH right then and there. He probably would have too, but Vince then appeared to be distracted by a thought he just had and looked around like a child lost in the mall.
“W-wait a second. Where the hell is that redheaded broad with the nice body?”
As Vince was spinning around, he looked at Virgil and saw that Virgil was grinning from ear to ear. Vince seemed to realize what had happened and the shade of red increased in his face.
“I’m becoming surrounded by professional wrestlers and it’s all your fault!”
Vince was stomping his feet and shaking his arms like a child having a temper tantrum over not being able to have a toy.
“I’m putting an end to this bullshit right now. I call for a deathmatch at WrestleMania! You and me you fuck money bitch!”
Virgil smiled and shook Vince’s hand accepting the invitation. After they unlocked from one another’s grips, Vince stormed off. Virgil watched as he did his traditional corporate strut and found it odd and even a little sad that the man did kayfabe things in reality. At this point there probably wasn’t much of a difference between Vince McMahon and Mr. McMahon.
“If you win this one Virgil,” said Stephanie. “Your payment will be six hundred and fifteen thousand dollars, all cold hard cash.”
Once more, dollar signs flashed in front of Virgil’s eyes. He could hear an orchestra superior enough to only have Bing Crosby or Frank Sintra singing with them playing in his head. The hills were alive with the sound of fuck money.
“Show me the fuck money Jerry!”
Once WrestleMania finally came, Virgil once more made his way to the Million Dollar Man’s entrance music and a crowd cheering him on. The only difference was the fact that there were over 50,000 people in attendance. They were all here to watch Virgil kill Vince McMahon. The deathmatch was the main event, given to the fact that more people were interested in seeing someone die than another John Cena title reign or Randy Orton taking ten minutes to walk down to the ring for a same old BS main event.
Vince McMahon made his entrance and was showered with boos by the massive crowd. Some in the audience seemed to be smart marks who realized that someone was actually going to die today, while others seemed to be thinking it was all about the storyline and were just booing the character. Vince glared at the crowd in disgust as he did his corporate strut down to the ring in black khakis and a black tank top.
Before entering the ring, Vince grabbed a baseball bat with barbed wire wrapped around it and smiled a devilish grin as he looked at it. Even in something as serious as a deathmatch, Vince was playing to the camera and the audience watching at home. Virgil didn’t know whether to contribute it to the man’s level of dedication or pure insanity.
It was probably a balance of the two.
The two men glared at one another from opposite sides waiting for the bell to ring. The intensity of the crowd and adrenaline boiling between the two men made the match have a fight feel of a boxing match, back when boxing gave people something to care about instead of two nameless spics punching one another or Floyd Mayweather literally running away from a fight.
“Kiss my ass you fuck money bitch!” said Vince.
The audience booed and even gasped at hearing the king of PG swearing like a character out of a Quentin Tarantino film. The crowd still wasn’t all that used to things not being PG ever since WWE became pussified once Chris Benoit snapped.
After the bell ring, Vince charged at Virgil and began to swing with maddening insanity. Luckily, Virgil was able to dodge all of the deadly swings. After dodging a majority of the blows from a crazed juggalo with a kendo stick, a roided up senior citizen with a baseball bat was a walk in the park.
Virgil began making his way towards the turnbuckles with a plan in his mind. He hoped it would work. He was worried since he could see the desire to kill in Vince’s eyes, they seemed to glisten at the thought of turning Virgil into a fuck money corpse.
Luckily, because Vince was so blinded with anger and a strong desire to hit Virgil like he was a mole. Because of this, Vince once again missed Virgil and slammed the barb wired covered bat into one of the turnbuckles and the bat was stuck. Vince, angered by his own stupidity did everything he could to try and wrestle the bat from the turnbuckles and almost seemed to forget about facing Virgil.
Virgil punched Vince as Vince attempted to pull the bat out of the turnbuckles like it was a sword in stone. Eventually, Virgil got a punch in Vince’s kidneys and Vince fell down onto the ground screaming in pain.
“Come on Virgil, let me be!” cried out Vince holding up his hands. “I’ll let you have all the fuck money your heart could desire, I’ll make you the Million Dollar Man you always wanted and should have been.”
Virgil looked down at Vince, wondering about his offer. A part of him had grown tired of killing people in the middle of the ring. Then again, it was pretty awesome killing people on live television and feeling like Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Running Man. He also knew Vince McMahon had to have a shit ton of cash. The idea of receiving monthly fuck money royalties was more sexually arousing to Virgil than whatever middle school boys experienced that witnessed the Trish Stratus- Mickey James storyline.
Virgil was so deep in thought and contemplation about Vince’s fuck money proposal that he didn’t notice that behind him, Undertaker had emerged from under the ring and was climbing up. He slowly walked up to Virgil, taking his time and milking the crowd.
Well, that and his doctor strictly told him a certain number of steps he should walk per minute to not upset his brand new hip and heart. After all of the steps he was already taking in the ring, Undertaker would have to spend a majority of the night with an oxygen mask attached to his face.
He was just happy to be out of the nursing home he was currently staying in. If he could remember, he was going to tell Ernie and the other guys how cool it was to wrestle again as they ate green jello and played Chinese checkers. Undertaker would have to remember to whisper because the nurses strictly told him not to relive memories in the ring because it always sent his heart rate sailing through the roof.
Hopefully they didn’t notice he had used the Ferris Bueller gimmick to sneak out.
Virgil was in shock as he was spun around and grabbed by the throat. The Deadman still had an iron clenched grip that could probably squeeze the life out of a man in under ten seconds.
“Yes!” screamed Vince McMahon. “Chokeslam that son of a bitch straight to hell!”
Undertaker glared into Virgil’s eyes. He then looked up at the monstrous titantron above the entrance ramp and looked into his own eyes. He saw the old, grey and decrypted version of himself. He was horribly depressed at the sight. As he looked up at himself, Taker thought of how intimidating he looked in his early days with Paul Bearer standing by his side with an urn. He also recalled the days when he had the Ministry of Darkness and how he got letters about how haunting the satanic version of his character was.
He thought about all this and how those days were long gone. It was then that he finally realized how sad and ridiculous his character had gotten. He felt like Michael Myers chasing teenagers in his 70s, holding a butcher’s knife in one hand and moving a walker with the other.
“I used to be somebody,” said Undertaker, shedding a tear. “Now, I’m just a shadow of my former self.”
Taker removed his hand from Virgil’s throat. Virgil fell to his knees and sucked in oxygen once more. Taker slowly walked over to the ring rope and gripped his own throat. He then chokeslammed himself over the ropes and through a table loaded with dynamite.
The crowd was more shocked than when Brock Lesnar conquered Undertaker’s streak as they caught his discarded body pieces that rained down upon the audience.
“O god Taker no!” cried Vince, not only losing the most important professional wrestler for WWE but also his advantage in the death match.
After Virgil got to his feet, he grabbed Vince into a suplex hold and threw him over the top rope and into a pile of deathly sharp barb wire. Vince McMahon was impaled through the chest, stomach and both of his arms. His legs were ripped into shreds of beef jerky and his face developed a crimson mask.
As he slowly died, instead of images of his life flashing before his eyes, visions of a young Lex Luger posing flashed before Vince’s eyes. Vince died with a tear of joy running down his face and an erection in his pants as he saw Lex Luger flashing a perfect double bicep pose and Lex Luger on the WCW entrance ramp holding his fists out in front of him to bring out his pectoral definition.
After the suplex, and the hard camera caught Vince’s final moments of existence, the camera then caught Virgil laughing and smiling in the ring as the bell rang. It then caught a quote that would be repeated for most of that year.
“Fuck Money City bitch!”
As The Million Dollar Man’s entrance music came on, HHH and Stephanie McMahon came down to the ring and handed Virgil a suitcase with his fuck money. Virgil hugged the suitcase and fell to his knees with tears of joy coming down his face as confetti rained down upon him.
It was the perfect ending to a fuck money fairy tale.