"Bitches Ain't Shit But Hoes And Tricks" 1 of 2

(Wrestleworld Logo. Black Screen. Fade In. Scene On. The dark clouds in the sky that hovered the Motor City late in the morning. In the North Eastern district, a small apartment building could be see, as a rather handsome man carrying a set of briefcases walked down a set of steps with an annoyed expression. As he reached a dark blue car in the driveway, he set down the luggage, opening the back and tossing everything in, sighing with a tired expression.)

Shawn Lockhart: First thing I do when I get that fat Wrestleworld paycheck, I'mma buy 'sum bitches to carry my shit.

(He tried to shut the back, struggling with it a bit before dropping a mini-elbow to cram it. He wiped his hands seeming proud of himself, ready t-)

Mama Lockhart: SHAWNEY! SCHNOOKUMS! ARE YOU ALL READY?!

Shawn Lockhart:

(Looking down on her baby boy was Mama Lockhart, adjusting her glasses and waving at her son.)

Shawn Lockhart: ...yes...

Mama Lockhart: MAKE SURE YOU WEAR YER CUP TO THE RING!

Shawn Lockhart: Ok...

Mama Lockhart: DID'JA PACK YA LUNCH?!

Shawn Lockhart: Yes. Can I g-

Mama Lockhart: MAKE SURE YOU GET A GOOD NIGHT'S REST!

Shawn Lockhart: I just-

Mama Lockhart: AND DON'T FORGET TO GIVE YA MOTHA A CALL!

Shawn Lockhart: DRINK YO PRUNE JUICE MAHMAH DAYUMN!

(Trying not to face the wrath of back talking ya motha, he slid into the car seat, revved the engine, and was on his way. Mama Lockhart looked on, blinking with one eye and then the other. Real slow like.)

Mama Lockhart:


I'mma be real with you chief, this isn't ain't it.

I was thinking more, big lights, fine hunnies, and complimentary brewskies to celebrate Wrestleworld getting a much needed shot in the arm of talent. A prodigy, a wrasslin' gawd among peasents. But no. I'm here. Wrestling in a match with some of the most generic looking people I've met on this Earth. Seriously. Emojis on my phone have more personality then anyone else in this match not named Shawn Lockhart.

S'cool though. I'm not mad mad. Just perturbed. I'm still gettin' paid either way, and I'm bound to sky-rocket up the card when the big wigs in the Wrestleworld office get a look at their future main eventer. I figure anyone else in my shoes right now would introduce themselves, tell the self-entitled their schtick, their goals, and all of that shit from the 80s, but nah. I'm wearing that Gucci shit. That shit Chinese markets rip off. Lockhart's the Jordan shoes of pro wrestling, the rest of y'all are straight up sandals. Smelly motherfuckers, for real. I don't feel like rehashing the trend of "HAI GUIZ, I'MMA BE A SUPAHSTAR" like most of the geeks and freaks that come into a new wrestling company. I feel like being a straight up playa and smackin’ a hoe. These “future stars” all have the same thing to say, and when it comes to walking the talk, they don’t deliver. They lose one match, get pissy, and quit the company to look for another, hoping they give them easy matches. I don’t need to worry about any of that shit, cuz I know my shit’s gold. Wrestleworld’s just been handed their MVP in the form of yours truley. Shawn Lockhart’s a soon-to-be marquee name, not just for my masterful wrestling, but also my approach to getting off the ground running.

I'm o-riginal. A one in a million. A unique snowflake. Something that can’t be remade. One day, Hollywood is gonna be searching far and wide for an actor to play me in Lockhart: “A G.O.A.T.’s Journey”, but no matter who they get, DiCaprio, Christian Bale, whoever, they won’t be able to recreate the upcoming accomplishments I’ll be earning. But a guy like Daniel Horror?



I thought I’ve seen some shit in my day on the indies, but I never thought I’d see someone so unoriginal. Who the fuck is gonna be scared of a guy named “Daniel”? Do you go boo too? I don’t have any candy for you lil fella, I got some gospel for you though. Kids like you love dying your hair, painting your nails, and telling your parents “iT’s NoT a PhAsE iT’s WhO i Am”, thinking you’re so unique and your own person. You’re a little boy who can’t make up his mind if he wants to be like the lead singer of My Chemical Romance before he became a fat fuck or a bad Sons of Anarchy rip-off. An emo-biker? Seriously? You must’ve lied about your age to get onto this show. You’ve got the creativity of an angsty 14 year old who thinks society’s agaisnt him. Grow a set, cut your hair, and get a real job you bum, because you can’t compete against a stud like myself. You’re probably crying black streaks down your face because I exposed you for what you are, but the bad news is what’s gonna happen if you get your Freaky Friday looking-self anywhere near me, I’ll beat you worse then a pissed off step-dad. Them lips of yours aren’t meant for cutting promos, they’re meant for suckin’ dick on a street corner for five bucks with black lipstick so you don’t go hungry after you quit this company, courtesy of a verbal bitch slapping from me. You look like a cheap whore on heroine that’s had a train ran on them five nights straight.

The real Horror here is that so many of these shit-birds who think they’re unique little snowflakes get the bright idea they can use this sport as a platform to fufill whatever stupid fantasy they have in their mentally deficent brain. Pathetic. Aren’t you, the fans, glad to have an actual wrestler like me? Bet you are. Bitches love Shawn Lockhart, foh sho. Bitches don’t love someony like Ozymandias, who is so fuckin’ ugly they gotta wear a mask. I go tongue first a bitch’s coochie, you’d probably try biting that shit, you Hannibal Lector wannabe-fuck. If someone were to find a crackhead from a back alley, put him on steroids, and shave is head, then you’d get an exact copy of Ozymandias. You ain’t shit, Oz. You never were shit, and you never will be shit. You feel me playa? Muscleheads like you are one in the same. You’re big, you’re bad, and you pop like a balloon. A very, very veiny balloon with a shrivled up puss-plower because you’re too busy taking steroids instead of training to be a wrestler. I’m all-na-tru-al son, all day. Your fake ass machismo’s nothin’ against an actual wrestler. A guy like you’s got no biz-e-niz in a ring with me. I can, and will, wrestle circles around you.

You hear that, “Joel”? I’m gonna wrestle. You should try it sometime. You’re Indy Darling #69 and shitbird number 3 that’s gonna be suckin a big fat L. You move fast, you do some dives, big whoop. Who cares? Only time I get high is when I’m smokin’ a doobie. In the ring that shit doesn’t matter. You bounce off some ropes, think a thrill is worth something. You’re not special, just like your partners, you’re a sheep following in the modern trend. Ten years from now, guys who do this flippy shit are gonna have a broken neck, because sooner or later they crash and burn. I’m gonna be the one who speeds up time and causes the inevitable demise of your worthless career before it even gets started. Fuck you. All three of you. You ain’t slick, and you ain’t in my league. I don’t speak for my partners, but anyone on Team Lockhart is straight up bitchin’. Glam star bitchin’. Axl Rose style bitchin’. So now it’s you three muskafucks turns to start bitchin’, make it interesting. I got places to be and matches to win.