Post by Dollface on Apr 5, 2014 14:25:32 GMT -5
Hey, Stormm? Let’s play doctor.
C’mon...I need a nurse! We’ve got a couple of sick little guys on our hands, and it’s our job to make them better. We can be just like Doc McStuffins on TV! I wish I could make my stuffed animals talk, that would be super interesting. Sometimes I think they DO talk though. Just, don’t tell anyone, okay?
A tag team match with you, Stormm...have fun. No, really, have fun! I won’t hurt you, I won’t get in your way, I’ll just have your back so you can keep your belt. Yeah, I dunno if I made that clear enough, but I. Don’t. Want. It. I will throw a stomping, flailing temper tantrum in the middle of that ring if I have to, but I REFUSE to put that belt back on. It’s like stepping into a cute pair of cement boots before going for a swim. No, kthxgofuckyourselfbye. So here’s what we’ll do. I’m gonna be the doctor, okay? Not that dude that flies around in a blue box that every hipster nerd is needlessly obsessed with, but an actual DOCTOR. Like, the ones who fix sick people. I’ll do the fixing and leave, you can be the one to do all the talking and patting their hands and getting the love for fixing them. We get into the ring, I’ll give them their medicine, and then you can go ahead and do whatever you want. I’m here to HELP you.
Really, I am.
So let’s take a look at what we’re facing, shall we, Stormmy-britches? Patient one presents with antisocial behavior, evidence of latent sadistic tendencies, difficulty maintaining healthy interpersonal relationships, and career damaging codependency. Now, Mr. Wasp, I know it would make sense to establish your independence, but... isn’t it sort of late to be striking out on your own? I mean, you’re not exactly a spring chicken, (But oh my god have you SEEN spring chickens?! They’re so fluffy and cute and squeaky and fuzzy!), you’re more like the fat, crusty old hen about to be turned into Sunday dinner. I mean that in the nicest possible way, of course, because who doesn’t love a good Sunday chicken dinner?
I’m hungry.
Patient two presents with delusions of being a pirate. Alcoholism, inability to maintain functional relationships, and a lackluster career. Yes, Mr. Tide, we understand. It’s not YOUR fault the tag team belts are gone, and we all know how damaging the profession can be to the mind and body. I’m sure the rum binges have nothing to do with you being a relic of a dead division. Ever wonder how the division died? Oh, sure, I get it, no competition and chasing the same few people around. But have you ever wondered WHY?
You’re The Virus.
You can argue, but I’m right. Why do you think the rest of the tag division not only dissolved, but left Pure Class Wrestling entirely? You decided to buddy up with Majors, and look how THAT worked out. He’s still alone, broken, and degenerating into a sob story everyone is long past tired of hearing. You could have helped him, if you weren’t so sick. You could have tried reaching out and showing him what was happening, but instead you couldn’t see past your own selfish goals. Goals that ultimately mean nothing, because they serve only you.
You’re contagious.
We had the cure here, we really did. He was going to boost our own systems enough to fight off The Virus, to clear out the static with pure vibrations. He was what we needed, what we ALL needed, whether we knew it or not. You know how the doctor always tells you to take all your antibiotics even after you start feeling better? Yeah. Yeah it’s about like that. Only we didn’t. I wasn’t enough to protect him on my own, and no one would help me.
Now he’s gone.
You made him leave. You both, you two idiots with your heads lodged so far up each other’s asses that I’m going to have to refer you to a proctologist, YOU MADE HIM LEAVE. You HURT him, you hurt him more than was EVER necessary, for no reason at all! What, was he in your SPACE? Was he making you uncomfortable, not allowing you to be the negative, small minded, uselessly braying wastes of sentience that you are?
We could just be patient. The Virus, when treated properly, will fade away once it’s run its course.
He promised me everything would be alright. It’s not alright. I’m still sick. The Virus is still here, you’re still spreading it. It gets stronger every day, harder and harder to wake up knowing that just BEING is going to suck. I still smile and do the dance because it’s expected of me, and there’s nothing else to do but keep doing it. If I let them know how bad things are, if I let them know how tight The Virus has me, they’ll start feeling sick too...and I can’t allow that. We had the cure. We had him here with us.
Now he’s gone. He’s gone and I can’t find him. Sometimes I hear or see him, but it’s never there for long. He promised me everything would be alright.
Now I’m going to MAKE it alright.