Drake Benton was pissed. He had just done the combination that most often gets him into trouble: taking his pre workout but getting distracted and not working out. Instead he paced in his apartment fuming, his energy boundless and his face abuzz with sharp electric tingling. His phone in hand, he looked back and forth at the messages that set him off.
The Boss Bitch(?): “Oscar’s finally back in Japan and you haven’t done anything to him. All you’ve done is embarrass yourself at his party.”
Me: “LAW ain’t put us in a match yet. The bookers won’t answer my texts.”
The Boss Bitch(?): “What am I paying you for? Did Oscar’s bitches take your balls too?”
Me: “Hey fuck you. Dude’s always busy and I got in trouble during my last match.”
The Boss Bitch(?): “If you have to ask for permission to fight, then that explains why he’s a champion and you’re not.”
Me: “Haha whatever. I do what I want.“
The Boss Bitch(?): “Oscar is signing autographs at the arena right now on a show where you didn’t get called to even show up at catering. You have my permission to do something about it.”
He tossed the phone onto his bed.
”Huh. Who does that fucking bitch think she is? Idiot. Of course I can beat his ass anytime. I’m just waiting for the right opportunity. I’m Drake Benton and I can do whatever I want. I’M DRAKE BENTON AND I CAN DO WHATEVER THE FUCK I WANT.”
Huffing and puffing, Drake stormed out of his apartment and drove to the arena, hoping to catch Oscar while he was still there.
*Sometime later*
Drake drove his pickup truck into the backstage freight entrance where a lot of talent and crew parked. Seeing Oscar just strolling around all happy with his championship, Drake rolled up, his tires screeching as he braked to a stop. On principle since he was in gym bro Super Saiyan mode, Drake tore his own t-shirt off as he stormed up to Oscar.
”OSCAAAAAAAAR!! FUCK UUUUUUUUU!!!”
