Peter File Presents... The Dingo Ate Yo Baby
* Peter File RP for C15.
(Fade In: Peter File sits in a red satin chair smoking a cigar wearing nothing more than the pixelated square of the censors. Behind him a black backdrop does nothing to help avert attention.)
Hmmm… it appears as if something is rotten in Denmark or is this Massachusetts? I’m not really sure.. really, it could be a back alley in Slummerville with a hopped-up horndog named ChiChi offering you handies for a pack of Juicyfruit or it could be the dank underbelly of some Dansk peepee soaked heckhole where uh.. Surprisingly ChiChi has followed you due to some mishap in your contractual agreement.
Well does it really matter anyhow, isn't this merely a game of geographic semantics? Because we all know that the stench lingering in the air can only be that of the newly reformed New Era of Wrestling.. hahahahahahahehehaha.. excuse me… hold for a moment.. we've lost contact with the cerebellum or the urethra.. coming in for a landing nooooooooowwww… Hmm, it appears as if LaRoque has found another financial teet to suck from. Maybe this will allow him to keep it afloat for more than a few shows while letting his repressed, in the most gallant of ways, talent wither and die in the scum-infested, assless chap parading, cheek-paddlin’ ways imaginable. But, what can a handsome and uniquely endowed individual like myself, the one and only Peter J. File, Esquire to do? Like a 50’s housewife I know my place.. lowest rung, flaying, charading… hrmph. My place is here among the kinkiest knapsack full of cultures you’d ever darn run across.
So when the slobberknocker on that aforementioned teet was finished for the evening I received a telephone call via my Nextel that the lovely commander in chic wanted the ol’ boy to pull himself up by his bootstraps as Marquis Deroque was callin’ in a favor. Well cats and kittens here I am… in all my thunderous glory.
So I guess on the 24th of March in the dreaded snow-drenched year of twenty-oh-fit-teen I shall strut, jive and shuck my way down the ol’ red carpet of wrestling. This time I’ll be in the Assonance Arena.. no wait, uh.. Asscream.. that can’t be right? Right? Agatha Christie Arena! Bingo! Bango! We’ve got a chicken dinner. I hope my prize is a trip to Newbury Comics! As I was saying.. Cyberstroke 15 barrels down your throat with the speed of a Johnnnny Wad and you see at the other ringpost a poopy butthole named ‘The Maraschino Dingoman’ .. er, ‘The Macho Man’, … uh.. ‘Chicken Crippler?’ I’m not really sure where I’m going with this.. so let us just call him, ‘Point Shoes, Bad Jacket, Overly Dressed Canadian Tuxedo Man’ Psycho. Sounds like it’d make an awesome t-shirt… I wonder if we can have some pressed before then!? I’ll take a small…. As in my old age I’ve slimmed down some. SCHVELT.
Now I can’t really remember much about Psycho, or maybe I shouldn't? Wasn't he the guy who was in a Pole on a Pole match? No.. wait, that was me. Was he the guy that wrestled a kangaroo for a tube o’ lube in a tube top match? We’ll go with yes. Y’see, it has come to my attention that while I may garner lil’ more than a crumb of respect from the boys in the penthouse, I still garner all the love-tred, y’know love and hatred, of the adoring fans that populate the swollen gut of the Boston area. For them I must take on the mess that is Psycho, bringing his ripe ol’ reign as a bottom feeder. ‘Cos kids, I ain’t no ladder no mo’. Unless of course you pay enough then I’ll give you anything but the Z Jay.
Tootaloo.
(Fade Out)