Matt Mitrione: His Hate-Boner for Fallon Fox Turned Out to Be a Real One

 

"Curb Stomp" Kirby Lawler, Axle's Enforcer from "The Accusers"

 

Molly Carlson vs. Mike Tyson

 

Code Breaker

“I’m going to say this for the last fucking time, so take your daddy’s dick out of your ears! I didn’t bully anybody backstage and I didn’t take any shortcuts! Everything I have in my career has been earned! There’s no controversy! There’s no early stoppage or misjudged scorecards or any of that bullshit! You all are just a bunch of whiny snowflakes who commit suicide over the stupidest shit! If someone calls you a doo-doo head on Twitter, you slash your wrists! If someone calls you an SJW on Face Book, you tie the noose! If someone you don’t like shows up on your college campus, you destroy everything like a big fucking baby! I didn’t do shit to those refs and judges, so wipe tears out of your mascara!”

Zoey Davis wouldn’t have bought Marcus McKnight’s press conference speech if his tongue was notarized. She watched the whole thing on her tablet with furrowed eyebrows and clamped teeth. She firmly believed that being an MMA heavyweight like Marcus didn’t entitle him to do whatever the fuck he wanted. Zoey remembered her own locker room experiences in high school. The N-word echoed throughout he brain quicker than having her dreadlocks ripped out. The jokes about her having a visible ribcage were usually followed by racist jocks throwing fried chicken and corn biscuits at her. To Zoey, Marcus McKnight looked and acted just like those dip shits in school…and she was going to do something about it.

With her gray hoodie pulled over her head, Zoey watched the mixed-martial arts pay-per-view from the back of the arena, hardly anybody seated around her. Those who took up real estate close to her were too invested in the cage fights to pay attention to her playing with her tablet. Every knockout punch within the eight-sided wire fence earned a boisterous roar of approval from the audience. Every choke, every dislocation, every head kick, every vicious elbow, they were appetizers to a much larger meal in the form of the main event, featuring Marcus McKnight and an opponent whose Polish name was difficult to pronounce, but easy to make fun of for any xenophobe in attendance.

The thumb stick in Zoey’s tablet picked up a signal from Marcus’s cell phone. He had recently logged onto Twitter and Face Book, using the same password for both accounts. Zoey shook her head and smiled, “This is too fucking easy.” She noticed that Marcus didn’t even bother using numbers and punctuation marks in his passwords, just a series of lowercase letters. “Lazy as fuck,” Zoey grinned as she worked her hacking magic on those accounts.

What to post, what to post, what to post. Zoey swiped through a bevy of embarrassing Photoshop pictures that would look hilarious on Marcus’s social media pages. Which one would hurt him the most? A picture of Marcus sucking off a goat? A picture of him getting sodomized in a clown suit by a horse? How about one of him milking a cow with his yellow-toenailed feet? Oh, why not all of them? She fiddled around on her tablet some more and posted all three of these pictures onto Marcus’s Twitter and Face Book pages. She quickly tucked the tablet away in her hoodie pocket and watched the action with a smile.

She was so busy with her hack job that she didn’t even notice that Marcus McKnight was already making his way to the octagon with the Polish opponent inside. Even from so far away, Zoey could easily see why someone like him would be intimidating to a bullying victim. Seven feet tall, barely cracking the maximum weight limit at two hundred sixty-five pounds, more muscle on his sausage fingers than most people had in their entire bodies, and “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns n’ Roses blasting over the sound system. Zoey crossed her fingers in hopes that he would actually lose his match tonight, but given that the Polish opponent looked like a midget next to him, it was unlikely.

The referee explained to the fighters the rules of the match and already Marcus was in bully mode when he spit a silver glob in his opponent’s mouth. Zoey shivered hard enough to make herself dizzy. If she thought that was sickening, she was in for a real treat when the match started and Marcus threw bloody haymakers at his opponent. With every stone fist that connected, Zoey’s stomach turned as she remembered more bullying from her childhood. She felt her own bones break, her own face get disfigured, her own skin being ripped open like a birthday present of violence. She felt so ill to her stomach that she stuck out her tongue and gasped for air, while everyone around her stood up and cheered at the “delicious” gore.

Zoey secretly wondered if her vigilante hacking would be doing any good to begin with. At the very worst, Marcus could just delete the pictures and change his password to something more secure. She kicked herself for thinking this immature prank was even a good idea. There were evil corporations and governments in the world that needed to be brought down and she chose to use her skills on one backstage bully in a world swarming with them. One guy could get humiliated and there would be more Marcus McKnights waiting in the wings. Tears welled up in her eyes as she tucked her face in her lap.

And then she heard the drunken choir around her chanting, “Goat fucker! Goat fucker! Goat fucker!” Zoey lifted her wet face and saw that people in attendance were looking at their phones and laughing their asses off. It was at that moment she remembered the old adage of whatever was on the internet was there forever. She smiled and wiped away her tears as the chants continued. Hell, she even stood up herself and chanted along with them with her fist pumping in the air.

Marcus’s bruised ego was more obvious than the bruises on his opponent’s hamburger face. He kept yelling, “Shut the fuck up!” to the crowd and missing wildly with his punches. Meanwhile, the Polish fighter, as bloody and swollen as he was, threw some punches of his own and even landed a nice head kick, which staggered Marcus backwards against the cage. Zoey stood on her sneaker-wearing tippy-toes and cheered wildly as Marcus was getting his comeuppance.

The raucous taunting turned to dead silence when Marcus’s answer to his opponent’s offence was a head-splitting elbow to the side of the face. Blood squirted out of the brand new orifice as the fighter flopped to the ground unconscious and the ref waved the match off, awarding the victory to Marcus McKnight.

“No…no…no, this can’t be happening,” Zoey whispered to herself with wide eyes. She pulled her hood back and grabbed her fuzzy hair in disbelief. All that taunting did was anger Marcus to where he nearly killed his opponent. He had never hit an opponent that hard before, not even in victory. “This is all my fault…” the hacktivist whimpered. These were the same words she used in high school whenever she got clocked by smaller bullies, thinking she could easily take them with her six foot stance. Zoey pounded the sides of her head in a feeble attempt to exorcise these traumatic ghosts from her mind.

She felt a meaty hand clamp down on her shoulder along with the word “Ma’am!” shouted in her ear. Zoey slowly turned around and saw a chubby security guard with a bald head and sunglasses standing over her, menacing stare and all. “You’re in a lot of trouble, ma’am. You need to come with me peacefully. And hand over that tablet you got in your hoodie. I ain’t joking around, baby girl!”

Zoey would be damned if she let another traumatic vision flood her mind for the rest of her life. This guy easily had two hundred pounds of meat in his tale of the tape and he could snap her in two just like that. If she handed over the tablet, it would all be over for her. When she realized it was over the day she left high school, she formed a nasty frown on her face, pulled out the tablet, and smashed it against the security guard’s jowly face.

The glass from the tablet shredded a few pounds from the guard’s face, causing him to drip all over the arena steps like a running faucet. Any last shred of evidence that Zoey hacked Marcus McKnight’s accounts was little more than computer dust on the floor, mixing perfectly with human blood. Zoey hopped over the barricade when she saw more security guards chasing after her.

Zoey’s lightning quickness on her feet was an afterthought when security guards seemed to pour in from every exit she had. Turned to the right, a pack of Shrek clones in blue shirts. Turned to the left, a flood of human protoplasm flooding her direction. The drunken lard asses in the crowd didn’t help much either as she tried to squeeze past them. With no other exit aside from the cage itself, Zoey Davis’s adrenaline boost clouded her judgment and caused her to scale the cage quicker than a squirrel up a tree.

Greasy blond haired Marcus raised his arms in the air, stuck his tongue out, and taunted her with “snowflake” insults and middle fingers. Ordinarily, Zoey would freeze up like the very insult she was being berated with. Up close, Marcus had the height of a skyscraper, the strength of a brick wall, and the screaming volume of a marine corps drill instructor all rolled into one. Being next to him would make even the bravest of men wet themselves in a biblical flood.

Not Zoey. Not anymore. She screamed, “Take this, you goat fucker!” before planting both of her rubber soles against Marcus’s crotch, doubling him over  and eventually leaving him beached like a smelly whale corpse. Even with the referee and the security guards grabbing her by the arms and legs, even with no visible exit anywhere in the building, even with decades of prison ahead of her, Zoey felt free at last. The adrenaline boost cleansed her mind of all negative voices and any remaining were drowned out with crowd chants of “Goat fucker! Goat fucker! Goat fucker!”

“Was it worth it, you little shit?” spat one of the beefy security guards. “Was it fucking worth it?”

“Bitch, you’ve got no clue!” said Zoey with a wicked grin on her face. Even while laying on her back and being dragged out across the beer-soaked floor, she stood tall against those who oppressed her and people like her. Could one bold move spark a revolution? Could hacking skills really make that big of a difference? Zoey didn’t know and didn’t give a damn at this point. Prison or not, she was free.

Finn Cosgrave

NAME: Finn Cosgrave
AGE: 28
OCCUPATION: Heavyweight Mixed-Martial Artist
CANON: It’s Just a Joke


I can be quoted as saying that people shouldn’t choose combative occupations for the sake of finding romance. If you join NCIS thinking you’re going to walk out with Ziva David as arm candy, you’re dead wrong. If you become a cast mate on The Ultimate Fighter, you ain’t leaving with Ronda Rousey. And if you join the FBI, the other half of your bed won’t be occupied by Dr. Temperance Brennan. Nobody knew this better than Finn Cosgrave. After all, he didn’t need distractions going into his match with Chris Johnson. Seeing as how Finn had lost three fights in a row, if he lost one more, he would be fired.

So if Finn Cosgrave is fighting for his career and making very little money doing so, why would a marketable female fighter named Zelda Lee want to flirt with him in the gym? She has championship gold around her waist and an undefeated streak to go with it. Shouldn’t she be chasing someone higher on the food chain? Maybe Zelda likes Finn for his “charming personality” even though they hardly know each other. Finn has the muscles and height to be a Gary-Stu, and yet he feels like he has a huge mountain to climb to deserve a woman like Zelda.

Even though the two of them are technically supposed to be cutting weight for their upcoming fights, Finn and Zelda eat at Subway anyways. While there, a horny fan asks for Zelda’s autograph and verbally abuses Finn. The newfound couple work together in verbally dismantling this loser fan and leaving him embarrassed and lonely. Somehow, this is all some sort of motivation tactic to Finn to train harder in the gym and eventually win his match against Chris Johnson, which he does and therefore keeps his job.

Here’s one of the things that made “It’s Just a Joke” so unrealistic in my eyes: so Finn fights his ass off to earn a knockout victory over Chris Johnson and keep his job. And then later in the evening, he quits. He quits because Zelda’s opponent for the evening, an Amazon lady named Cameron Gillespie, kills her with an illegal up kick. There’s no clarity as to whether Cameron will get suspended, fined, or even jailed for her actions. There’s even some blame being placed on the ref for not stopping the up kick earlier. Finn Cosgrave apparently doesn’t care where the blame goes, because he’s so disenfranchised with MMA that he wants to quit due to losing the “love of his life”.

Good for you, Finn. You’re standing up for what you believe in and you let the whole world know that you’re not to be fucked with. There’s just one problem: you’re unemployed and MMA is the thing you do best. So now what? What other options are there for Mr. Finn Cosgrave? Washing dishes? Pumping gas? Selling Little Debbie cakes? Or maybe he can go into professional wrestling where more people die there than in mixed-martial arts. And if Finn does live through it all, he’ll still have a permanently aching body, a relentless travel schedule, and weird ass storylines. He might have a little bit of a push due to his MMA background and his heavyweight build, but other than that, he won’t like the transition.

There are two routes I can go down with Finn Cosgrave should I decide to use him again in a short story or novel. One of them is to keep this background story and have his emotional profile made up ahead of time. The other is to give him a fresh start and have him be a typecast big guy such as a bouncer or a cop (because he’s technically a hero). Whatever role he has, he might have to take a backseat to someone else lest he be considered a Gary-Stu. He can be the Chewbacca to someone’s Han Solo or the Deus Shadowheart to someone’s April Farrow. I don’t know what Finn Cosgrave’s role will be in the future, but all I can say is when this emotionally charged train is on the tracks, you’d better move out of the way.

　

***ADVICE OF THE DAY***

If you’re unemployed or ashamed of your job, the next time someone asks you what you do for a living, tell them, “I work with underprivileged children in the Democratic Society of Who Gives a Fuck.” That’ll raise a few eyebrows, maybe get a few chuckles.

Lionel Casey

When I first heard the male name Lionel existed, it was the late 90’s and I was really into The Thundercats. I previously watched it when I was a baby in the 80’s, but about a decade later, Cartoon Network was showing it on their Toonami programming block. It was your typical 80’s action cartoon: badass fighting and piss-poor dialogue. The latter of the two keeps me from watching it as an adult.

But as a middle schooler, Thundercats was my own version of Sunday mass. When I saw Lion-O swinging his Sword of Omens on TV, he was my equivalent of Jesus Christ. Lion-O and Lionel were the same thing to me at the time and now I want to continue that tradition with this latest unemployed character, Lionel Casey.

Oddly enough, I didn’t intend for Lionel to be a Thundercats parody. I had two different roles lined up for him: one as a heavyweight MMA fighter and one as a shooting game character. As the former, his leonine beard and ursine muscles are the sole reason why his opponents should wear diapers to the octagon instead of shorts with “Condom Depot” printed on the ass.

As the latter, he’s comparable to Gorge from the Unreal Championship series. In other words, not only is he a giant among pixies, but he has a fucking rocket launcher. Why does a fee-fie-foe-fum giant need a long range weapon that can blow up a whole building? Don’t his punches and kicks do that enough already? When he’s in MMA, does he really win his matches by knocking his opponents up and over the cage?

Look on the bright side, Mr. Casey: if you don’t get used as a badass warrior, you could always be the model for the MGM movie logo. It’s bad enough moviegoers have to be greeted by a roaring lion who could quite possibly eat them in one or two bites. But what about Lionel Casey? What if his bearded face ended up on that logo? In so many ways, that would be worse.

Having that sociopathic monster give you the death stare might actually be scarier than the Gracie Films logo at the end of every Simpsons Treehouse of Horror episode. Maybe that’s why the shush lady likes to scream every October: because Lionel Casey is in the same theater as her. Where in the theater is anybody’s guess. He could be hiding in the trash bin. He could be underneath the lady’s seat waiting to pounce. Or he could be shown on the movie screen as the MGM logo mascot. I can be so sadistic sometimes!

I have a lot of action-packed roles Lionel Casey could be a part of. I’m also currently writing a dark fantasy novel called Fireball Nightmare. You’re probably asking yourself why I’m not using Lionel as part of that novel’s character roster. I’m mainly writing Fireball Nightmare for nostalgic purposes. The characters who have made the cut are ones I’ve used in past pieces of fiction and have had the greatest impact on my audience.

For my friends Kenny Flynn, James Howell, and Robert Hatfield, my barbarian Deus Shadowheart and my sadistic scientist Dr. Scott Cain are household names. For Heather Woody and TJ Johnson, Brutus Warcry is a Dungeons & Dragons character they’re used to hanging around. For my brother James Haines-Temons, Charles Goodhorn was also a Dungeons & Dragons character he’s most familiar with. Lionel Casey is a fresh face and this profile is the only exposure he’s had so far. Guys like Deus, Dr. Cain, and Brutus are the WWE Raw and Smackdown to Lionel Casey’s WWE NXT. Sorry, Lionel. You’ve got a lot to learn before I use you in a story.

　

***WRESTLING JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: Why doesn’t Alberto Del Rio like driving in traffic?

A: He can never get over.

"Death Clutch" by Brock Lesnar

Here’ s a question for all of you wrestling and MMA fans out there. Have you ever wondered why Brock Lesnar doesn’t have a Twitter account or a Face Book page? It’s because like Bentley Little and Ted Kaczynski, he makes himself a little bit difficult to find. Don’t worry, it’s not because he’s making bombs. He’s a 300 lb. freak who can cause explosions with his fists alone, so he wouldn’t need bombs. Lesnar bills himself as a private person who enjoys a boring life in the woods. He hates the media, he hates cameras flashing on him and his family, basically the man just wants to be left alone. On the back of “Death Clutch”, he specifically states that his memoir is the only real access you’ll ever have to his personal life and that you shouldn’t expect another invite. You’d think being a hellishly strong athlete would be the life people could only dream about. You’d think being a former WWE and UFC champion would be the golden ticket to paradise. Lesnar’s life is anything but paradise. The road to getting the NCAA Division 1 wrestling championship was lined with massive bumps and potholes in the form of horrible losses, expensive classes, and disappointing outcomes. Being a WWE superstar was no better since it requires constantly traveling and being far away from your family a lot. Transitioning to the UFC wasn’t a piece of cake either since that was when Lesnar battled an intestinal disease that not only kept him out of action for so long, but also threatened his life. But despite all of these deadly obstacles, Lesnar came out a survivor. As I’ve mentioned earlier, his many accolades prove it. An NCAA Division 1 wrestling champion. A multiple time WWE champion. A King of the Ring and Royal Rumble winner. A UFC heavyweight champion and submission of the night winner. Considering Brock Lesnar started out as a mere farm boy with shallow pockets, that’s not a bad way to earn six to seven figures a year. You show me someone who can duplicate these accolades and I’ll show you the next Brock Lesnar success story.

　

***WRESTLING JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: Who did Paul Heyman vote for in the 2008 presidential election?
A: Barack Lesnar.