On the edge of a mountain, as the sun sits high in the sky, three figures, butt-ass naked, lie on their backs with their legs up in the air, the sun shining nicely upon their sphincter.
Miles Driftwood.
Wilder Meadow.
King Homewrecker.
Homewrecker, in his mask and nothing else, steals a peek at Wilder's body. She is aware. She does not mind.
Nice.
King Homewrecker’s discomfort is palpable. It’s not the gratuitous butthole or being naked in front of another man. No, he relishes in both of those things. It’s the silence.
All of this finding yourself shit is killing him. Look inside, the hippies say. He has looked inside and all he sees is a big dicked mustachio with blazing hot abs, a huge dick, and an inability to be quiet.
“Thundercunt,” he murmurs finally, almost a sigh of exhaustion rather than a statement.
Wilder grins. Miles chuckles.
“So, a freak of the night,” Miles says. “A King of Wrecking Homes, and two sunworshippers with no homes to wreck, are invited to a war game at Daybreak. I assumed it must've been an accident. Something that would end up corrected. After all, why the fuck would any man choose to play war games with someone like me, someone like Wilder, who have already won the war against themselves?”
The sun dances just nice upon the perineum.
“But as time passed, there was no correction. The card still reads: Daybreak, Thunderwolf War Games Invitational. Thunderwolf, Emiko Fujimoto, Chad Kyle, and Aiden Vanity, vs Chance Kelser, King Homewrecker, and the Sunflower Cartel.”
A pregnant pause, then:
“Thus, it was not an accident. It could've only been a mistake. For just as surely as the sun rises and sets, the Sunflower Cartel, myself, my love, we were built for war.”
Miles makes a “butterfly shape” with his knees as he holds his legs in the air.
“Don't you see, man?” Miles continues. “Ego. Vanity. Self-worth. The very wars you struggle with, we've already won a thousand times over. We are enlightened. So what is our role in this game then, but to enlighten the four of you?”
Please, ignore the fact that King Homewrecker may or may not struggle with those very ideas.
King Homewrecker clears his throat. For two-hundred plus pounds of rock solid muscle, the ease and confidence he holds in his supine happy baby pose is majestic.
“SHOOT, allow me to introduce myself. I am the Sultan of Sex With Your Mother. Captain of the U.S.S. Cunnilingust. I am King Homewrecker. Think about that handsome kid in your high school who fucked the girl you jerked off over and drove an Iroc. I’m him - on PEDs.”
KHW pauses for a moment to ponder the implication. He decides he’s above clarifying to the fat slobs watching this.
“While it is only fitting that the gods saw to book King Homewrecker against a bunch of cuckolds for his first match, I’m let down. War Games? Ha. Budget Ken, Old Man Thundercunt, Cucklefuck Kyle, and… well, I must say Fujimoto looks like a fine little piece.”
Thinking about the tight little number Fujimoto, Homewrecker drifts off and begins wondering how to spell ‘autoerotic asphyxiation.’ As instructed by the Hippies, he lets the thought float through his mind like a leaf down a river and slowly comes back to the warmth of the sun running across his perfectly hairless butthole. Maybe the Hippies are onto something.
“I digress. This isn’t exciting. The obese, sloppy hillbillies watching SHOOT working a hard day stealing catalytic converters don’t use their grocery money tickets to see some wet brain cut promos on people from other promotions. Seriously, I hope SHOOT made Thundercunt sign a waiver because he’s one bump to the head away from disability.”
Wilder grins and turns her head to Miles.
“We are gonna win,” she says.
All three point their buttholes even harder at the sun.
“We are gonna win,” they say in unison.
fin.