Sweet Tooth
It’s 3 am, and the air is obnoxiously saturated with tacky bass and twangs blasting from an oversized stereo system playing some made-in-Montréal House beats. We’re in what used to probably be a pretty swanky upscale condo in Downtown Montreal, but at this very moment, it appears to have a drug fueled tornado passed through it. There are empty beer bottles all over the counters and floor, as well as rolled up bills scattered about. There doesn’t seem to be anyone left In the main area however.
Bobby Tremblay casually walks through the front door and takes a quick look around. He shakes his head and pinches the top of his nose, lets out a sigh, and temporarily lifting his signature pink sunglasses off his face. He’s wearing a pristine grey suit and a black tie. He looks frustrated, and all business. He starts to walk towards the back of the apartment, attempting, fruitlessly, to not hit any bottles along the way.
He clears his throat.
Johnny! JOHNNY! We got business! Get your panties on, and get your ass out here you lunatic!
Bobby’s obnoxious voice echoes through the living quarters, but ultimately is unanswered. Bobby continues to stressfully walk towards the back, seeing a closed bedroom door at the far end corner.
Johnny!
As he approaches the bedroom door, the music becomes louder, but is becoming more and more interrupted by what can only be describes as freaky moans, grunts, sniffs and slapping sounds. Bobby mutters under his breathe.
This kid is going to be the god damn death of me, this is going to cost a fucking fortune in cleaning fees...
He bangs on the door as loud as he can, waits, then casually walks in to a very chaotic and erotic mess. Johnny is bare assed, balls deep and going hog wild doggy style with some skanky blonde. Beside them is a pretty young naked thing, on all four, with a mirror on her ass loaded with a mountain of cocaine. For some reason, Johnny is wearing a extra small Montreal Canadians jersey and a signed Carrey Price goalie mask. He occasionally lifts the mask to sniff what should be described as an extremely unsafe amount of powder. A lubed-up broom is also ominously in another corner.
What in God’s green earth are you doing son! I’ve been calling you for THREE HOURS now! What the actual fuck Johnny...I’m fucking speechless here...
And he really was. The scene of pure insanity is too much even for this veteran handler to simply ignore.
Johnny casually stops his business, reaches out quickly for a Habs inspired pair of speedos, hops into them, smacks lady number one in the booty cheek, and takes off his mask to face his long-time manager and occasional mentor.
Bobbyyyyyy! My main man! Did you see that fucking win tonight! We fucking swept em! I’m just having a little celebration!
Johnny is yelling incredibly loud, and is clearly intoxicated as all hell. On top of that, he’s contending with some really loud, really shitty music. Bobby suddenly puts his hand in front of Johnny’s face in a sign to stop. He reaches across to the speaker remote control, and turns it off. He then slowly pulls out his wallet of his dress pants. He removes a few crisp hundred-dollar bills, and hands them to both ladies.
Party's over now. You ladies take a cab home, courtesy of Bobby Tremblay, esquire.
Bobby’s tone is somehow friendly but commanding, he’s not fucking around.
Even Bobby can’t help himself but to check out the merchandise as both ladies quickly grab their things and prance away as they came, full of giggles.
Well at least they left the candy!
Johnny belts out, very bummed out his party had just been cut abruptly short by some cranky boomer mother fucker. He goes over to the mirror, now on the far table, but Bobby cuts him off.
Enough of that shit, kid. Get your god damn head in the game!
Bobby is yelling now, and Johnny immediately pays attention, like a scolded kid.
I’m fucking thrilled your hockey team won a series. Fucking great! But we got to get your ass on a plane, pronto.
You’re just mad because you’re a leaf fan!
Johnny defiantly slurs and takes a sip of a beer bottle. Sadly, he discovers, empty. He chucks it behind him and shrugs.
Don’t you fucking dare with the fucking Leafs right now!
Bobby is furious but suddenly calms himself, and reclaims his demeanor. He takes a deep breath and repositions his tie.
As I was saying, I need to get your ass on a plane to Texas, pronto. You got a match.
Who are we crushing this week, who cares? We just smoked their “Ace’’, should be a piece of cake.
Not we, you. They got you guys having single matches. You going up against Killer Kandy.
Are you fucked? That big assed hottie with the face ya got to baggy? But she’s got tits! I don’t smack skanks unless they kinky.
Johnny is throwing up his arms in protest. He’s way above beating up chicks for cash, he thinks.
I’m afraid it’s in the fine print, this promotion is intergender, and through some backdoor politicking, looks like they split you guys up this week.
What the shit do I even pay you for, fucking hell bud.
Johnny puts his hands on his hips in protest.
Well you pay me to clean up messes like these, for one. And to get you big ass pay days like last week. Not to mention I’m also working on putting pressure on them to present you with some titles in the nearest of futures. Bobby fires back, clearly prepared for this childishness.
Alright alright fair enough, give me a second and I’ll get dressed.
Johnny ushers Bobby out and closes the door. Bobby is now standing alone in the hallway, grumbling furiously.
These fucking millennials have no god damn respect or work ethic. If he didn’t make me millions I’d kick him right in his little d...
Bobby mutters to the camera, but stops short as the door flings back open. Johnny is now, somehow, in full ring gear.
What are you doing now...
Bobby is completely exasperated now. A coked up hyper Johnny gets in the shot of the camera and strikes a pose.
Gonna cut a promo for these marks before we take off, eh!
Sure, I give up. Go ahead, you got 5 minutes kid. I’ll go settle up with the front desk and wait in the car.
A defeated Bobby Tremblay adjusts his cufflinks, shakes his head and walks away clicking his shoes loudly behind him, leaving a cameraman to continue to film Johnny’s antic. Johnny looks right at the camera and takes a big breath, and shakes some energy off as he hops up and down.
Listen up, Psycho Jujube, or whatever the fuck your cute little ring name is. It looks like you're about to make history, courtesy of yours truly. You’re going to be making history because it’s a matter of literal fact that Johnny Lou usually only puts ring rats on their back in the ring, if you catch my drift. Because that’s the reality of being me, it’s undeniable, and you’ve just witnessed it, mere moments ago. All women simply want to look good laying under me.
Johnny is getting pretty sweaty already, likely due to the inhuman amount of nose candy he’s consumed in the back room regardless of Bobby’s earlier protests. He wipes some sweat off his face, but still locks in his best fuck boy face and smirk while delivering his lines above. He starts again.
See if you wanted a little bit of Frenchman inside of you, you could have simply asked. You wouldn’t look so bad with your head buried in a pillow, after all. But picking a fight with me? Now that’s just a proof that you are severely lacking in intelligence and manners.
Johnny giggles like an immature douchebag, but he truly thinks himself far above this ant that is Killer Kandy.
I mean, please. Have you seen this body? Have you seen these muscular, mammoth sized calves? I was just squatting both my lady friends earlier, it was amazing! You may think you can match this Adonis looking motherfucker right here in terms of muscles and beauty, but you're not even close to this God!
Johnny lifts his shirt revealing a sculped 8 pack. He holds a flexing pose for an awkward amount of time, counting each one individually multiple times.
I’ll make this real clear for you sweety, so even your simple little ass gets it. Me and the Northern Touch, we're born champions. We are the top echelon in this business. And just like my boys the Habs, we are coming down south, and we’re going to fuck all of your little bitch asses up. So if that means smoking some dog-looking, low ranking, superstar wannabe hussy, then so be it. I’ll kick that mean mugging face of yours back to the plastic surgeon it truly needs.
Johnny puts his hand over his mouth and bends his knees as if he had just laid out the diss that ended all disses.
Maybe then, AMA and their shit for brains bookers can get us Northern Touch boys back in a tag match. If laying this Kandy ass on the mat in front of the world isn’t enough, then we’ll just come for whatever other gold you’re afraid of us to grab.
Johnny motions a belt around his waist and smile with a cocky demeanor. He grabs the camera with his left hand and points into it with his right.
So book it in your Hello Kitty calendars, you neckbeard sweaty marks. June 15th, TEX ASS, your boy Johnny Lou and the Touch are going to once again show your simple asses why we are the best godamn team the world of professional wrestling has ever seen. Single, tag, it doesn’t matter. We’re the Northern Touch, and everything we touch turns to gold! Deuce it camera bro!
He points the camera down and forces the camera guy to deuce him as he films it. He slaps the guy on the arm in thanks and goes to walk away. He then stops, slowly turns his head and smiles. Mr. Cameraman #2 is superkicked as the camera goes flying to the ground and rolls to point at a corner.
Charge the hospital to Bobby Tremblay esquire, mother fucker ruined my party...
We hear the footsteps of Johnny Lou walking away, loudly laughing at his handy work.
