Post by deathrow on Feb 28, 2021 22:01:45 GMT -5
What if I told you that a man who travels the world winning professional wrestling championships doesn’t have his license. Would you be surprised? I mean it’s pretty hard to make towns with no license. Especially when you’re in your mid-thirties and are making money now.
Okay, now what if I told that it’s Matt Deathrow King that doesn’t have his license? Less surprising right?
Now, that’s not to say that the man known as Deathrow doesn’t drive because he definitely does. But the last time at a traffic stop he ended up on the internet by challenging the officer to an arm wrestling match to determine if he should be allowed to drive or not.
In court he defended himself and said he was a sovereign citizen that was being held captive as a prisoner of the war on freedom. Long story short, if he’s caught driving again he will be locked up and unable to defend his tag team championships in the states and Japan.
He was in a bit of a predicament for quite some time walking everywhere when Lisa showed him about Uber. Lisa, since she began dating Santana, has brought both of them into the twentieth century with technology.
“Are you…. Deathrow?”, a man in a black Sonata asks with a disappearing smile on his face
Matt was posted up outside of an abandoned hotel that he’s been living at, “Who the fuck wants to know? You a cop?”
“I-I’m your Uber dri-ver?”
The man keeps looking back at the profile picture of a bloodied man screaming with a championship belt and Matt.
“My homies call me, Matt” He says getting into the front seat of the car.
“O-okay Matt. Um could you sit in the back?”
He looks at the driver and tilts his head to the side, “I said my homies call me, Matt. We ain’t homies. And I don’t sit in the back, this ain’t a fucking cop car”
That’s that then. He aggressively slams the door shut and we’re on our way in dead silence because Deathrow ‘doesn’t listen to that pussy ass 80s music’
“So… uh… Deathrow … what do you do for a living?”, small talk in an Uber? The fucking worst. Especially when it’s generic bullshit chatting.
“I smash motherfuckers in their mouths. Baseball bats, barbed wire, steel chairs. All that fucking shit. You ever hear of Union Battleground?”
With his eyes wider than a deer in headlights he just silently shakes his head
“Yeah well I gotta go fight these motherfucking pussies calling themselves the motherfucking murder junkies. Right? And I just beat these motherfuckers in Japan and took their fucking titles. Now they’re trying to take these titles I got by two piecing the bitch my fucking partner is smashing and her girlfriend.”
Have you ever seen someone nod in confused horror? It’s not like absolute horror, because he’s not screaming. On the outside anyways. But he is definitely wishing he had not accepted this ride.
“These motherfuckers do got their corny ass name right. They do be craving the death of their fucking fucking careers if they keep coming for Deathrow and Santana. So in a way their stupid fucking name makes sense. You got me?”
Still, wide eyed and nodding, the driver can’t find the words he just keeps looking at the GPS and then back to the road.
“They get off in the fucking shit and I don’t like the thought of stupid Kuntz jerking his flat dick to me bustin him open. If he’s into that shit I wish he’d just die jerkin it with a belt around his neck or some fifty shades shit. I hate motherfuckers who fetishize deathmatch wrestling. You ever seen any?”
The nodding changes to a vigorous head shake back and forth, “N-no. No. Can’t say I ha-“
“You seem more like a bachelor type of motherfucker. Like that fucking Simp Tommy.”
The car swerved because Deathrow slapped the man in his chest when he said that and it jolted the driver
“This deathmatch shit? This shit is for real mother fuckers. Not two fucking drug addicts who are too pussy to kill themselves. They’re trying to make me and Santana do it. But I’d rather let them live with the fact that they couldn’t get the job done TWO fucking times while they get stitched up. Fucking posers.”
The car slows down at a rundown gas station that has a dimly lit parking lot. They had to have passed at least five other gas stations, but apparently his stop was this one.
“I-I guess we’re here…”
Deathrow smiles with his awful fucking teeth in agreement, “yeah I’ll be right fucking back.”
“Th-this was just a one w-“ driver couldn’t even finish the sentence before Deathrow slammed the door and headed inside.
Normally? He’d probably drive off, but there’s something about Deathrow that says he will hunt you the fuck down and spread your body parts in your basement. To strangers at least. But to this gas station? They’re homies.
“Hi sir how a- sir you need a mask to be in here.”
“I ain’t robbin the motherfucker why would I need a mask? Where’s Jerry at?”
The woman shakes her head and looks at him, it’s clearly a name she’s never heard before
“Jerry, the fat mother fucker with the beard. Always looking at nude mags behind the counter. C’mon you know Jerry”
She clearly doesn’t.
“Sir, again. I’m gunna have to ask you put on a mask”
Deathrow is stunned, who the fuck does this bitch think she is?
“I’ll only be a fucking second. Take a fucking Xanax, saddle bags”
Back out in the car the driver is on the phone with his wife
“Okay you have the ping? Okay. I don’t want to leave him here Julie what if he finds where we live? Okay well I didn’t think I could deny the rides. I thought I j- wait shh. He’s coming back out”
He scrambled to hang up the phone like an old person does. Like they pull it all the way away from their face and hit the red button with their index finger. Except his hand was trembling.
“Who you talking to?”, Deathrow says getting into the car with bags of Doritos under each arm and a 2 liter of Mountain Dew. “Was it the fucking cops? You call the cops?”
“The man puts both hands in the air and shakes his head, “N-n-no sir. No. I would never. What?! Ha! The cops?! No. No no no. Noooo.”
“Good, because she did and we gotta fucking go”
“Wh-WHAT?! What?! WHY?!”
“She didn’t put this shit on my tab. But I know the owner of every fucking Shell gas station around here. I got tabs.”
“THIS IS A SUNOCO! TH- WH- OH MY GOD. Okay. Okay. Breathe. Breaaaaathe.”
“You in fucking labor? Let’s fucking go. Look I got a lot of evil fucking shitn going through my head right now and it’s all designated for two bitchmade gang banging mother fuckers who look like scarecrows the farmers ain’t gave a fuck about for a decade. So unless you want me to tear your fucking head off and leave the straw of your scarecrow ass all over the fucking streets? We. GOTTA. Go.”
The man peels out of the gas station and heads down the road, there’s no sirens yet. Maybe there never will be but this dude just went from nerd to need for speed. Suddenly the Sonata was a bullet flying down the freeway until…
Oof. Dude hit those trash cans full of water in the middle of the freeway that keep you from being launched out of the front windshield. The drivers head did bounce off the steering wheel but somehow Deathrow, Doritos and Mountain Dew in hand, was fine and exited the vehicle. Although he did have to make a decision between nacho cheese and cook ranch. He went cool ranch, and started hitchhiking.
“Some mother fuckers can’t handle this lifestyle. That prude one star ride motherfucker back there who probably counts out the potato chips he eats in a serving? He ain’t about this life. And as much as these two bitches will tell you that they are about this life? They ain’t even about the Yamashi life. How the fuck are they gunna hang over here in the states? Where nobody gives a fuck about you? You ain’t shit over here, pussies. Over here? We beat the best fucking tag team in the game.”
That’s a lot of yelling on the freeway and his throat his dry, so he takes a second or ten to chug some Mountain Dew.
“But this shit ain’t even about all that. This about how you fucking cunts ain’t beat a soul without cheating. But where’s your boys at?”
He looks around on the empty freeway
“Back in Japan? Celebrating the death of the goth parade? So fucking what. As pathetic as those pussies are you motherfuckers are second on that list. And as long as me and Santana wanna be Tag team champions? Y’all gunna be the second best fucking tag team at best wherever you go.”
Okay, now what if I told that it’s Matt Deathrow King that doesn’t have his license? Less surprising right?
Now, that’s not to say that the man known as Deathrow doesn’t drive because he definitely does. But the last time at a traffic stop he ended up on the internet by challenging the officer to an arm wrestling match to determine if he should be allowed to drive or not.
In court he defended himself and said he was a sovereign citizen that was being held captive as a prisoner of the war on freedom. Long story short, if he’s caught driving again he will be locked up and unable to defend his tag team championships in the states and Japan.
He was in a bit of a predicament for quite some time walking everywhere when Lisa showed him about Uber. Lisa, since she began dating Santana, has brought both of them into the twentieth century with technology.
“Are you…. Deathrow?”, a man in a black Sonata asks with a disappearing smile on his face
Matt was posted up outside of an abandoned hotel that he’s been living at, “Who the fuck wants to know? You a cop?”
“I-I’m your Uber dri-ver?”
The man keeps looking back at the profile picture of a bloodied man screaming with a championship belt and Matt.
“My homies call me, Matt” He says getting into the front seat of the car.
“O-okay Matt. Um could you sit in the back?”
He looks at the driver and tilts his head to the side, “I said my homies call me, Matt. We ain’t homies. And I don’t sit in the back, this ain’t a fucking cop car”
That’s that then. He aggressively slams the door shut and we’re on our way in dead silence because Deathrow ‘doesn’t listen to that pussy ass 80s music’
“So… uh… Deathrow … what do you do for a living?”, small talk in an Uber? The fucking worst. Especially when it’s generic bullshit chatting.
“I smash motherfuckers in their mouths. Baseball bats, barbed wire, steel chairs. All that fucking shit. You ever hear of Union Battleground?”
With his eyes wider than a deer in headlights he just silently shakes his head
“Yeah well I gotta go fight these motherfucking pussies calling themselves the motherfucking murder junkies. Right? And I just beat these motherfuckers in Japan and took their fucking titles. Now they’re trying to take these titles I got by two piecing the bitch my fucking partner is smashing and her girlfriend.”
Have you ever seen someone nod in confused horror? It’s not like absolute horror, because he’s not screaming. On the outside anyways. But he is definitely wishing he had not accepted this ride.
“These motherfuckers do got their corny ass name right. They do be craving the death of their fucking fucking careers if they keep coming for Deathrow and Santana. So in a way their stupid fucking name makes sense. You got me?”
Still, wide eyed and nodding, the driver can’t find the words he just keeps looking at the GPS and then back to the road.
“They get off in the fucking shit and I don’t like the thought of stupid Kuntz jerking his flat dick to me bustin him open. If he’s into that shit I wish he’d just die jerkin it with a belt around his neck or some fifty shades shit. I hate motherfuckers who fetishize deathmatch wrestling. You ever seen any?”
The nodding changes to a vigorous head shake back and forth, “N-no. No. Can’t say I ha-“
“You seem more like a bachelor type of motherfucker. Like that fucking Simp Tommy.”
The car swerved because Deathrow slapped the man in his chest when he said that and it jolted the driver
“This deathmatch shit? This shit is for real mother fuckers. Not two fucking drug addicts who are too pussy to kill themselves. They’re trying to make me and Santana do it. But I’d rather let them live with the fact that they couldn’t get the job done TWO fucking times while they get stitched up. Fucking posers.”
The car slows down at a rundown gas station that has a dimly lit parking lot. They had to have passed at least five other gas stations, but apparently his stop was this one.
“I-I guess we’re here…”
Deathrow smiles with his awful fucking teeth in agreement, “yeah I’ll be right fucking back.”
“Th-this was just a one w-“ driver couldn’t even finish the sentence before Deathrow slammed the door and headed inside.
Normally? He’d probably drive off, but there’s something about Deathrow that says he will hunt you the fuck down and spread your body parts in your basement. To strangers at least. But to this gas station? They’re homies.
“Hi sir how a- sir you need a mask to be in here.”
“I ain’t robbin the motherfucker why would I need a mask? Where’s Jerry at?”
The woman shakes her head and looks at him, it’s clearly a name she’s never heard before
“Jerry, the fat mother fucker with the beard. Always looking at nude mags behind the counter. C’mon you know Jerry”
She clearly doesn’t.
“Sir, again. I’m gunna have to ask you put on a mask”
Deathrow is stunned, who the fuck does this bitch think she is?
“I’ll only be a fucking second. Take a fucking Xanax, saddle bags”
Back out in the car the driver is on the phone with his wife
“Okay you have the ping? Okay. I don’t want to leave him here Julie what if he finds where we live? Okay well I didn’t think I could deny the rides. I thought I j- wait shh. He’s coming back out”
He scrambled to hang up the phone like an old person does. Like they pull it all the way away from their face and hit the red button with their index finger. Except his hand was trembling.
“Who you talking to?”, Deathrow says getting into the car with bags of Doritos under each arm and a 2 liter of Mountain Dew. “Was it the fucking cops? You call the cops?”
“The man puts both hands in the air and shakes his head, “N-n-no sir. No. I would never. What?! Ha! The cops?! No. No no no. Noooo.”
“Good, because she did and we gotta fucking go”
“Wh-WHAT?! What?! WHY?!”
“She didn’t put this shit on my tab. But I know the owner of every fucking Shell gas station around here. I got tabs.”
“THIS IS A SUNOCO! TH- WH- OH MY GOD. Okay. Okay. Breathe. Breaaaaathe.”
“You in fucking labor? Let’s fucking go. Look I got a lot of evil fucking shitn going through my head right now and it’s all designated for two bitchmade gang banging mother fuckers who look like scarecrows the farmers ain’t gave a fuck about for a decade. So unless you want me to tear your fucking head off and leave the straw of your scarecrow ass all over the fucking streets? We. GOTTA. Go.”
The man peels out of the gas station and heads down the road, there’s no sirens yet. Maybe there never will be but this dude just went from nerd to need for speed. Suddenly the Sonata was a bullet flying down the freeway until…
Oof. Dude hit those trash cans full of water in the middle of the freeway that keep you from being launched out of the front windshield. The drivers head did bounce off the steering wheel but somehow Deathrow, Doritos and Mountain Dew in hand, was fine and exited the vehicle. Although he did have to make a decision between nacho cheese and cook ranch. He went cool ranch, and started hitchhiking.
“Some mother fuckers can’t handle this lifestyle. That prude one star ride motherfucker back there who probably counts out the potato chips he eats in a serving? He ain’t about this life. And as much as these two bitches will tell you that they are about this life? They ain’t even about the Yamashi life. How the fuck are they gunna hang over here in the states? Where nobody gives a fuck about you? You ain’t shit over here, pussies. Over here? We beat the best fucking tag team in the game.”
That’s a lot of yelling on the freeway and his throat his dry, so he takes a second or ten to chug some Mountain Dew.
“But this shit ain’t even about all that. This about how you fucking cunts ain’t beat a soul without cheating. But where’s your boys at?”
He looks around on the empty freeway
“Back in Japan? Celebrating the death of the goth parade? So fucking what. As pathetic as those pussies are you motherfuckers are second on that list. And as long as me and Santana wanna be Tag team champions? Y’all gunna be the second best fucking tag team at best wherever you go.”