Hey all. New story up. DIARY OF A HEEL. Filled with the tales of a heel’s career. With special appearances by: Red Tyler, Tommy Angel, Joe Cruz, Ron Cumberledge, Trent Knight, Chris Hawn, Tom Zenk, a jobber orgy, handcuffs, Madusa Micili, Stephanie McMahon…and more! Hope you enjoy this 20,000-word opus. Let me know what you think!
DIARY OF A HEEL
SEPTEMBER 21, 1988
What the fuck. Just kidding. This isn’t some pussy’s diary. Don’t even know why I’m doing this. Guess because it’s lonely on the road being a pro wrestler and when I’m not fucking hookers or beating up wannabes in hick bars, I have a lot of downtime. So might as well talk about my career a bit. Maybe some day some archeologist will discover this and see what a wrestling heel was like in this country in the late 20th century.
Anyway, me. Bad Billy Butcher’s my name. It was William Butcher. The Bad and Billy were added by promoters. I’m 31 years old right now, been in this business 12 god damn years. I’m a heel, a bad guy. About 6-2, 250 pounds, strong, bit of a gut. I wear black trunks and black boots. Occasionally I’ll wear a mustache.
Love beating up jobbers. I’ve never won a major title but I’m always in some pretty good matches. I’m known as a great worker and a master of execution. I can do any move, any hold, any slam. And I enjoy my work. Lord do I enjoy it. Nothing better than a young jobber who’s practically just out of diapers and now he’s being paraded around in front of thousands – or dozens – of people in little spandex trunks. I love kicking their ass, spitting on them, yanking their trunks up their ass, slapping them and, sometimes when the mood strikes me, making them suck my cock later in the night, back in the locker room. I was married at 18 cause we had a kid, but we divorced at 20. Don’t talk to my ex much and that’s fine. I got my wrestling. All I need.
Anyway, had my first match with the NWA today. In their little TBS Georgia studio with Tony Schiavone on the call. Maybe three dozen people crammed into that little place. But I like it already. So close, so intimate, the crowd really gets to see me as I work over the jobbers. Wrestled this little blonde fairy named Tommy Angel. You’ve seen him getting worked over every week on TBS. Maybe 210 pounds and wears the skimpiest little white spandex trunks you’ve ever seen. Before the match in the locker room, the little fucker came up to me to shake my hand, welcome me to the organization and wish me good luck in the match.
I took his hand and squeezed. And squeezed. Establish some dominance right off the bat. The Midnight Express stood nearby and looked on with big grins as Tommy went to his knees, trying to pry his hand out of mine. I grew up on a farm and have good strong farmer’s hands.
I now lorded over him.
“You don’t talk to me. You don’t look at me. I’m your god, you understand me, punk?” Tommy nodded while grimacing and holding his hand. I discarded it and he rolled on the floor, holding the hand, wondering aloud if I had broke it.
“Get the fuck away from us,” I told him. “Go wait in the toilet until our match. And if I hear a fucking word from you, I’m going to piss down your throat before the match.” He retreated to the toilet stall and sat on it like an obedient servant, decked out in his slick white trunks and jacket, until it was showtime. I think I’d established my dominance in front of my new comrades fairly well.
As I walked to the ring, I first walked toward the camera by the announcers. I shoved Schiavone aside and spoke directly to the American people.
“Listen up. Bad Billy is in town. I don’t take prisoners and I don’t take crap. It’s a new era. And you’re about to get a glimpse of excellence in action.”
I walked in and removed my vest. Walked around in my black trunks, eyeing little Tommy, who looked scared to death, probably wondering if I’d use him as a toilet after the match. Maybe. If he made me mad. The crowd cheered him madly. He was a Southern boy and they wanted him to make them proud, beat up this Yankee bad guy (I’m from upper New York) just like their great great granddadies would have back in the day.
I always love wearing my black trunks compared to a jobber’s white, or pink or orange trunks. I’m serious, no business. Mine aren’t skimpy but they aren’t completely covering either. For instance, when I sometimes get hard from manhandling a rookie, you’ll see me growing. Give the ladies something to lust after, give the jobbers something to fear.
I stood in the center of the ring slapping my shoulders a bit as Tommy bounced of the ropes and threw his shoulder into me. I didn’t budge. He went off the other side of the ropes and again delivered a shoulder jolt. Didn’t move me at all. I barely felt it. This time, as he stood contemplating his next move, I went into the ropes and delivered a shoulder block of my own. He felt mine. Tommy went down and his head snapped against the canvas. I picked him up by the hair and drilled his head into a turnbuckle, then took him to another one. This could concuss any normal person and he may well have been. Throwing him into the ropes, I greeted him with a knee to the stomach and he somersaulted over. Time to show Tommy off to the crowd. I gripped the back of his white trunks and fired him through the ropes, taking special pleasure in noticing how the right side of them rode up his ass as he fell to the floor. Like all NWA wrestlers, I threw him on the side where the camera sits so everyone can see a jobber destroyed. A good-looking female in blue jeans operated one of the main cameras off to the side and I picked Tommy up and brought him over, holding him by the hair. I held his face inches from the camera, I’m sure the people at home could see his nose hair.
“Anyone mess with me, this is what you’re going to get! I want Sting! I want Dusty Rhodes! Give me someone tough! Not like this geek!”
With that I marched Tommy back toward the main camera and announcer’s area, where there was more cement. I easily scooped him up and held him in place, pulling down on the trunks a bit to reveal the top of his crack. I sprinted forward into a turnbuckle and let him slide down, clutching his back. Two boots to his head subdued him. Some girls in the front row kept yelling, “Get up Tommy. You can do it,” but he really couldn’t. I threw him back into the ring by clutching the right side of the trunks, simply adding to the wedgie that had already developed and watched as Tommy rolled onto his stomach and removed the wedgie.
As he staggered around, I climbed to the top rope, showing off my agility. When he turned, I jumped down with my padded elbow, drilling him right on top of the head. That had to hurt.
Slowly lifting him up, I clutched the side of his trunks and lifted Tommy high into the air for a suplex as the crowd popped at my strength and the announcers said, “Look at how Bad Billy is manhandling this youngster.” Yes indeed. And thank you, announcers, for pointing out this manhandling.
A word about vertical suplexes. Such an effective move, one I loved the first day I learned it in school. It probably could be a finishing move, in that many guys are finished after it, but it’s not sexy enough to be a finisher. Still, it totally takes the wind out of a man and if you hold him up there long enough – letting the blood rush to the brain, as Gorilla Monsoon would say – he’ll be disoriented as well.
When I execute one, I like to grab the side of the jobber’s trunks. Some people prefer getting ahold of the front waistband and I’m not totally against that. The advantages to the front? When you lift the jobber up,if you pull back on the front just a bit, there’s a decent chance to get a look at some jobber cock, pointing downward. Sometimes they’re hard, often they’re soft, all scared and shriveled, just like their owner.
Still, it’s harder to control a man’s body with the front, so I still go with the side. Guys like Buzz Sawyer, crazy fuckers, do love yanking on the front. Buzz once nearly ripped a poor jobber’s testicles in half when he lifted him up from the front waistband. The kid could be heard bawling even as the Mad Dog held him up in front of the folks at this rinky dink gym. He cried throughout the rest of the match, which only ended after Buzz lifted him again by the front of the trunks for a brainbuster. The jobber was practically a castrato after that match; back in the trailer he laid on a bench rubbing his balls for about a half hour, while Buzz threatened to do it again, right then and there, if he didn’t quit his whining.
When I hook a jobber’s arm over my head, I grab the side. I like to grasp it more by the leg than the waistband. Sometimes I like to deliver a little slap when I grab ahold, it’s great in the smaller arenas like on TBS because you can hear the slap and there’s no doubt what’s coming next. I’ll sometimes walk around a few steps, doing a jobber tango, while getting a firm grip of the silky trunks. Give the jobber a few seconds to prepare to be lifted. And up we go.
Occasionally I’ll do a snap suplex or just an up and drop but I love holding them up there. A jobber’s long, lean body 12 feet up in the air, perfectly straight. After 15 seconds you see their legs begin to shake a bit. I like to do a little spin, just to dizzy them even more. After about 25 seconds the crowd will begin to buzz, wondering just how long I’m going to keep this rag doll positioned like this. I can see the cameras flashing and I maintain my grip. I want everyone who’s looking to immortalize this moment on film to have a good look at this stud. Later they can look at the photos at the family’s dining room table and the jobber can know that forever more, people will have photographic evidence of me holding him up his his trunks. Finally, mercifully, I’ll fall back, holding onto the trunks all the way to impact. Sometimes I like to slingshot myself onto his chest for a pin and when I do that I use the trunks as leverage, sometimes giving the folks at home a near-glimpse of some jobber cock.
Like I said, you could pin a jobber 9 times out of 10 after this move. But of course we never do. There’s more punishment coming.
And so it was for young Mr. Angel. I fell backward and I heard him go, “Ahh, noo,” and I must have really hurt his back. I covered him for a two-count but rudely pulled him up by his hair. With his back hurting from the outside turnbuckle and the suplex, I tossed him into the ropes and we he got close to me, scooped him up for a powerlsam, holding on all the way through impact. Again I counted to two and again I yanked him up by his hair.
Time to show this new crowd and this new organization my finisher. The Superplex. Learned it from my buddy and mentor Dr. D, David Schultz. It’s a move jobbers fear and the crowd always stands up for when they realize what I’m going to do with the jobber’s who’s propped up on that top turnbuckle, just waiting for his trunks to be yanked one final time and for his back to be nearly shattered.
I put his arm over my head and lifted him by the trunks to the turnbuckle in one of the corners nearest the cameras. I looked back to the crowd, who, as I predicted, stood up, all the mullets rising as one. I made sure to look at one of the cameras that had come near the ring apron.
“This is what’s coming,” I said.
With that I again grabbed Tommy’s trunks, gave them a little yank to remind him of what he was – a jobber pussy – and then up and over we went. This time I let the ref count to three, though it could have been to a hundred, which is just what the announcers said too. They replayed my superplex while saying, “A dangerous newcomer, someone to look out for in the NWA. Bad Billy Butcher. Goodness gracious.”
A good first day.
JANUARY 6, 1990
Tonight I wrestled the man who’s known around the various federations as the King of the Wedgies. Red Tyler, of course. Red hair, hairy chest, great worker, perfect jobber. When Red first appeared on the scene he wore these cute red trunks – fittingly – that would end up in his ass against guys like Ted Dibiase and the Barbarian. He graduated to red, white and blue ones, spandex ones, very hot, which, again, ended up in his ass against the likes of IRS and the Nasty Boys. I don’t know what it is about Red but when heels see him, they want to humiliate him and expose his ass.
Last week Red broke out some new trunks, lime green, tight fitting that show his bulge in front and, yep, get wedged in the back door. Mr. Perfect yanked him up by the back of them and gave him a thong in the ring as the crowd popped and even the ref snickered. I wanted to try to humiliate Tyler even more than Perfect did.
It just so happened we were in Red’s native Minnesota. He was a two-time state wrestling champion here and before the match I heard Red talking with another wrestler and he said his old wrestling coach and mom and sister would be in attendance.
“I wish McMahon didn’t make me wear these green trunks,” he said. “He promised me, if I took wedgies and bumps for a few years, I’d get a real shot at becoming a name. Yet here I am. I don’t care what the script says, I’m going after Butcher tonight.”
I smiled to myself and slunk away. No room for improv tonight, Red. Unless it’s me deviating from the storyline. Red got a nice cheer when introduced, mostly because the ring announcer said he was from Minnesota. I don’t know how many recognized him, though. But as he walked out and I watched from behind the rear curtain, I saw him point to a 50-year-old guy, a 50-year-old woman and a 25ish girl with cute red hair in the front row. Must be the old coach, Ma and sis. They cheered like mad, even with him prancing by in his ludicrous, butt-hugging trunks that were already riding ever-so-slightly up his ass, which Red acknowledged by adjusting them once he was in the ring.
The crowd greeted my entrance with boos, no surprise. The man in black. I hocked a loogie on the floor of Target Center as I walked in, right at the feet of some dweeb in a Minnesota Vikings shirt. That got the natives upset. As I ducked through the ropes, Red attacked me, sending me sprawling to the floor. He was moving off the script. Impressive. I still had my jacket on as he rolled up on me outside the ring. He delivered two big haymaker rights, sending me back toward the ring post. Red easily scooped me up and slammed me to the concrete, a move I love performing. The crowd roared its approval of the hometown hero. But then he made his fatal flaw. When he tried throwing me into a ringside barrier, I easily reversed it and sent him flying backfirst into it and immediately followed with a boot to the chest, that left him crumpled, giving me a few seconds to catch my breath and contemplate the punishment I’d dole out to this sissy jobber.
First, let’s get started on my desire to one-up Mr. Perfect. I took Red by the seat of his trunks and marched him around half the ring, slowly pulling up all the way, until finally lifting him into the ring in front of his mom, sis and coach. I turned around to see his mom putting her hands up to her cheeks and his old coach shaking his head. Easing my way back into the ring, I came upon Red and saw he’d adjusted the trunks, something he didn’t do against Mr. Perfect. I threw the hairy-chested boy into the ropes, waited, and at the last second lifted my elbow right into his chin. It’s the type of move that can knock out some lower teeth, but I didn’t see anything going flying, just Red himself. That chest really attracted me, made me want to work it over for about an hour, maybe with some nipple clamps or something. I didn’t have an hour but I could still pound on the chest. I lifted him for a slam but instead hung him up upside down in the turnbuckle, a vulnerable position for any man once you lock their feet under the ropes. No matter how much he fights or struggles with his arms or tries to sit up, he ain’t going nowhere. Standing sideways, four quick kicks to the chest formed deep red imprints on his chest and I could hear him wheezing. I then took the boot and applied the pressure to his neck, only breaking it at the four count. Then four more seconds on the neck. It was time to get him down so I unhooked him and he flopped down. I walked him over to the center of the ring, where I stood him in front of his old statemates.
Now the real fun. Reaching under his crotch, I scooped him up for a military press, one of my favorite ways to: show off my power, and humiliate a jobber in little spandex trunks.
Sidebar on military or gorilla presses: Like with suplexes, different guys have different forms with this. Some reach in between the jobber’s legs and put their thumb between his balls and leg and the rest of their fingers basically on his ass crack, then lift him straight up. Very impressive show of strength and you can really elevate the man. But I learned the press from Nikolai Volkoff, where you lift the man by his trunks, hold the material well above his ass and then hold him like that for several seconds. If you lift closer to the waistband, you can actually show off part of the man’s crack, depending on the camera angle. Or if you clutch further down, you can lift the material further above his ass, say six, seven, eight inches, depending on how stretchy the material is. Either way, it’s one of the most humiliating moves for any jobber to undergo. They’re powerless as you hold them by the trunks, shoving them up his ass, and holding him by his mouth or throat. Often drool will spill down from his lips as you hold him there, displaying him like a prize, controlling his every action with the leverage, deciding when and how to drop him back to Earth. I always follow it with a backbreaker, just like Nikolai taught me.
Now I’ve got Red up there and his trunks must be six inches above his ass. The crowd pops the instant they see me lifting up on him and his legs dangling helplessly behind. I grab onto his throat, near his chin and walk around the ring with him, pressing him like a barbell four times. Each time I bring him down on top of my head and then back up, the material goes further up his ass. Take that, Mr. Perfect. I make sure to lift him while facing his family and coach and to my surprise his sister, the good-looking red haired one, is taking his picture and grinning a bit. Maybe she never liked her brother and likes seeing him used like this. Maybe she caught him wearing her panties once and always knew he was something of a panty fag. Mercifully for him, I drop him down for a dominating, crushing backbreaker, but I hold him in place. Not done with you yet, boy. I stand back up with my green-trunked prey and again show him off to the crowd, high above my head. My arms are a bit weak so I don’t hold him as long before dropping him for another backbreaker.
When I release him and he rolls off my knee, screaming and clutching his lower back, I see the trunks are thonged in his ass nicely, making it look like he should be on a beach in France or a gay club. This time he’s in too much pain to fix them and besides, they sort of live up his ass, they practically pay property taxes in there. Red might have had ambitions coming into tonight but he knows his place. He’s weak, I’m strong, he’s a jobber, I’m not.
Now that his chest and back have been properly worked over, why not another body part? This time I reach between his legs from behind, grabbing a hold of his nutsack and lifting him stomach first onto my knee, knocking the wind right out of him.
I felt a little twinge on my knee after dropping him so I decide to finish him off. Instead of the superplex, I go with a simple front facedrop off a suplex, again clutching the wedgied trunks. I love having guys on their stomachs in the moments before I pin them. Almost always I’ll pull them onto their back by pulling on the side of the trunks. When I do that with Red and go for the pin, I lift his leg, then use my leg to lift his other, rolling him up into a little package that shows off his wedgied ass and own small package, the most humiliating pin there is in our sport.
As the ring announcer comes in to announce my victory to a chorus of boos, I grab the mic and look at his family. Over the loudspeaker, I demand to know if they’re his mom and sister and old coach. The sister nods and I point at Red, “This fairy is your big brother? Mom, you proud of your son? Coach, is this how he won a state title, by showing off his ass to the guys and distracting them?” Red is finally starting to move a bit as the crowd starts pelting me with paper cups and soda bottles.
By the way, I get paid for doing this. How’s your job?
JUNE 19, 1990
Interesting night. Found myself in Pat Patterson’s office. He had young Ben Jordan over his knee, trunks down, mouth gagged. But go back earlier in the night.
Jordan had refused to wrestle that night against Kevin Sullivan. I saw it in the locker room. Pretty sad. Jordan screamed that no one could make him be a jobber anymore, that he was sick of wearing the floral trunks he’d been outfitted in for months. Said he was sick of being dominated in tv and in arenas. Said he knew Sullivan was coked up and he worried about being seriously hurt. Said he was tired of the buttplug Patterson made him wear. Patterson stood there silently, listening to the whole tantrum.
“You done?” Patterson finally asked.
“Fuck you, old faggot,” Jordan screamed.
“You done?” Patterson said while advancing on the young jobber, who was backed into a corner of the locker room, still decked out in his ridiculous looking trunks.
“Fuck you,” he said again, though quieter now, as if trying to still convince himself that he was a tough guy who could talk like this to heels or promoters or whoever the hell he wished. Patterson was now upon him and Jordan found he had no place to go, trapped like a rat. The other wrestlers stood transfixed. It was rare seeing a jobber punk act up like this but not completely unheard of. Unfortunately for Jordan, transgressions were always dealt with swiftly.
Patterson, dressed in his slacks, buttoned shirt and dress shoes, kicked Jordan in the stomach. With the jobber bent over, the old gay promoter put Jordan’s head under his arm and delivered a DDT onto the filthy locker room cement.
“Oooh, shit,” I heard Paul Orndorff mutter.
Jordan’s right leg twitched. He wasn’t selling anything. I had a perfect view as Patterson made sure Jordan’s forehead slammed into the floor. The kid was out cold, unconscious, flopping like a god damn fish pulled onto a boat. Just to make sure Patterson kicked him twice in the back of the head.
I thought that was a bit much. One kick would have sufficed.
“You’re done, huh, boy?” Patterson muttered, though Jordan couldn’t hear him in his state.
Patterson asked for help lifting Jordan’s carcass. I wandered over along with Mike Rotunda and we scooped him up under his armpit and the trunks and held him up in front of Patterson. Blood trickled down Jordan’s forehead and into his left eye, which was trying to flutter open. Pat lifted Jordan onto his shoulders so the youngster’s ass, still looking good in the floral trunks, stuck up in the air. Patterson patted the kid’s rump twice before walking with his prize through the locker room, out into the hall and into his office. He looked like some hillbilly carrying an oversize giraffe he just won for his girl at the county fair.
An hour later I had to ask a question about a payment so went into his office.
So that’s when I found Jordan draped over Patterson’s lap. Patterson had a cigar in his mouth and was on the phone, talking to some other promoter. I could see Jordan was conscious now and probably had been for awhile. His white ass was blistered, red from the severe spanking Patterson had apparently delivered in the past 60 minutes. His trunks had been yanked down and were around his knees. As I sat on the couch, I just grinned. What a business. Patterson occasionally stuck a finger in Jordan’s ass while still on the phone and I heard the kid moan as it plunged in and out. Jordan couldn’t really scream out much, not with his mouth wrapped in about five layers of duct tape, which went around his head and his pretty locks. That’d hurt when yanked off.
We talked about my pay and he surprisingly agreed with me. As I got up to leave, he asked if I wanted to stick around for a bit more. Sure.
Patterson removed the cigar from his mouth and it hovered over Jordan’s sweet ass. Christ, he’s not going to stick a lit cigar up the kid’s ass, is he? Some demented Bill Clinton fantasy here? As sick as that’d be, I wouldn’t have minded seeing it. No, it wasn’t going in Jordan’s ass but it was going to make a mark. Patterson burned Jordan’s right cheek and Jordan flailed frantically, screaming as best he could through his gag. I winced. This was a bit much for me. Patterson removed it and branded the left cheek. Jordan kicked and moaned. Patterson grinned. He lightly patted Jordan’s lower ass cheeks, telling him it was going to be okay, though surely it wasn’t.
“You’re a jobber Ben, right?” Patterson asked.
“Mmgmdmdm,” Jordan muttered, which I guess meant yes.
The last thing I saw before leaving the room was Patterson putting the cigar out in an ashtray, reaching into a drawer and pulling out a thin purple vibrator. As I heard it buzzing and saw it going into Jordan’s ass, I closed the door as I heard Patterson say, “Now we just have to get you loosened up a bit more for daddy.”
I think Jordan had a long night ahead.
MAY 21, 1991
Call me a redneck. Guilty. But tonight I got an extra little thrill out of my match. Went up against a 22-year-old black heart throb named Ron Cumberledge. Good lord. Some promoter found him in a local gym pumping iron. Sent him to wrestling school and a few months later here he is, all polished. The only thing missing is a big bow wrapped around him. Some people think he’s going to be a big star, and he very well may be. But for now he’s a jobber, having to earn his keep like anyone else. Cruel white dude beating up a black guy, I know, politically incorrect. So be it.
As I dressed in the locker room, Vince McMahon strolled in with his 20-year-old knockout daughter, Stephanie in tow. What an ass, what tits. Okay face. She wore short white shorts and a T-shirt that displayed all her assets. She looked a bit nervous and that’s not surprising since a variety of pro wrestlers were in various states of undress around her. Vince carried a bag and walked up to Cumberledge.
“Hey, Mr. McMahon,” Ron said cheerfully.
“Don’t you think you should call me Dad,” Vince asked.
“Well, since you’re fucking my daughter and all, I figure you think we’re family. Thought you might want to call me dad.”
“DAD!” Stephanie screamed and Ron’s mouth dropped.
“Mr. McMahon, I can, I can explain.”
“DAD!” Stephanie said again, as if we didn’t hear her high-pitched shrill the first time.
“You really need to do a better job hiding your sex tapes, honey,” Vince said. “We found it. Watched it. No daughter of mine is going to fuck a jobber. Are you such a slut you can’t even keep your legs closed for jobber cock?”
Ron stood there, breathing deeply now, looking a bit faint.
“So I brought your new trunks,” Vince told him and reached into the bag. He came out with a pair of shiny pink trunks. Perfect jobber trunks.
Cumberledge followed orders, perhaps thinking it’d earn him a break. With Stephanie holding her hands up to her face and McMahon staring in a rage, he dropped his boxers to reveal a thick 7-inch cock. Jesus. Some stereotypes are true.
“I can see why you liked it, hon” Vince said. “But you’re not going to be seeing that anymore. In fact, no girl will for awhile. Put these on Ron.”
The pussy jobber held the pink ones motionless for about 10 seconds and I could tell he was trying to process this. I saw his fingers rub over the material a bit, it’s always a shock the first time a jobber boy feels the silky spandex, which he knows he’ll be encased in in a public venue. He looked like a girl touching her first bra, if that girl had no desire to ever wear the bra.
All those dreams he’d probably had about this business. “I’m going to beat Hulk Hogan! I’m going to beat Ric Flair! I’m gonna fuck the boss’s daughter!” Sure, champ. Now he had to realize that in a few moments he’d be in front of 10,000 people and a hundred thousand on TV wearing white boots and pink trunks. All those friends he’d told to watch his match. They’d watch. Would he ever hear from them again? Would he be the butt of jokes at school reunions? McMahon kept watching as Ron pulled the trunks up his muscular legs and over the cock and cute ass. They rode up pretty high on his abs and had about four inches of material on the side. Nice fit.
“Let’s get your panties adjusted there, big guy,” Vince said as he pulled at the waistband a bit, turned Ron around and situated the trunks on the obedient jobber’s ass just so. He gave him a light spank and ordered him to bend down in front of him and Steph, with his ass facing them. He made him stay in that position for about 20 seconds while Vince fondled his ass and talked about how Ron’s days of fucking his daughter were long gone. And that if he didn’t do exactly what he said, this ass of Ron’s would be filled with cock day and night.
“You can’t make me do this, Mr. McMahon,” Ron finally said, while standing.
“No? How about I tell the cops you raped my daughter. Who they going to believe? A jobber in pink and my whore daughter who they’ll think is protecting her abuser, or dear ol’ daddy?” Vince finally left and told him to break a leg.
“But don’t you break his, Billy,” he said to me while the other heels laughed and Ron stood dumbfounded. Vince told Stephanie to find her mom, Linda, and then pulled me aside for a few minutes of discussion.
Ten minutes later the ring announcer called my name and I slowly strolled to the ring. I like to take a look at the crowd, a good long look. Like to see the hotties and the fat men who will be watching me dismantle some youngster. Wonder if they get off on it too. But as the bad guy in black, it’s my job to get them pissed, get some heat on myself. I walked over to the railing and saw a kid, couldn’t have been more than 5 or 6. Little bastard had a thing of Cotton Candy that was bigger than his head. Had a Hulkamaniac T-shirt on. Probably ate his vitamins, said his prayers. His mom and dad, in their early 30s, stood behind him. I went and stood in front of them and told the husband, “How’d you like your woman to have a real man sometime?”
He stood up, as if he was going to take me on or something. Moron must have weighed 150 pounds. With glasses. Good lord, this is the kind of guy whose head I stuck down toilets in high school. Would have snapped his neck with a piledriver, then given him another one just for good measure. Then fucked his wife in the ring while he laid paralyzed next to us. The wide-eyed kid kept munching on his cotton candy. Little snot-nosed fucker. I snatched it out of hand and took a huge bite out of it, then put it on the ground and gave it a big boot. The mom just stared at me. The dad yelled, “You son of a bitch,” and after the initial shock, little Johnny broke out into tears. Real tears, heaving, screaming for his mommy. I picked up the remnants and stuffed them on the dad’s head, right in front of his wife he stood there with a pile of pink cotton candy on his head like the worst toupee in the world. I’m sure the kid would recover from his heartbreak.
As I made my way around the ring, I glanced at another kid who suddenly sat down and protected his Hershey’s Candy Bar while his mom covered him up. In the front row, I spotted Stephanie with Linda McMahon, who I’d later learn was actually the one who discovered the sex tape and demanded that Vince do something to that son of a bitch who violated their daughter. But here she was playing mommy protector while Stephanie wept at her side. Her man was about to be dominated, crushed and humiliated in front of her and Vince had assured me that they’d be playing the tape of this match in their home over and over and over again.
Finally I looked into the ring. ah, there’s my quarry. Big ol’ Ron in pink, jumping up and down like he’s getting ready to run the 100 meter dash at the Olympics.
I stepped into the ring and we started circling each other. We locked up and he shoved me backward. Kid had some strength. He was a musclehead at the gym, after all. The crowd cheered as I turned and looked at them, a bit surprised. Ron gained a little confidence with his show of strength. If this was a bodybuilding contest he’d have a shot. Alas.
We locked up again. This time I put a little more into it, trying to gain an edge. But again he shoved me back and this time the little pink pansy had a ton of confidence. A third time we met up and this time I was done with fucking around. I brought my right knee up into his tight abs and he wilted. Not so strong now, huh? I lifted his upper torso up and chopped him into the chest. Ron fell backward. I lifted up both his legs and gazed down. I knew what was hidden by those pink trunks, that nice cock that he probably fucked all the white sorority girls with. Why not give it a little work now? I brought my boot right down on his dick and he crawled into the fetal position. The ref warned me to watch it and that I might get disqualified. Ooooh, scary. I picked his legs up again and widened them a bit, stretching that groin some more. This time I dropped down and headbutted his sac, again causing him to roll up in pain.
The only bad thing about Cumberledge’s look is that he has a nearly shaved head. No thick mop of hair to grab onto. Nothing like grabbing on to jobber locks, pulling them, controlling them with it. No matter, I pulled him up and walked behind him, lifting him for an atomic drop. Work the balls first, now the ass and tailbone. I held him for about five seconds, way up, giving the crowd a good shot of his taint, before finally dropping him onto my knee. He bunny hopped over to the ropes, comically grabbing his ass. I retrieved him and fired him into the ropes. I greeted him with a back body drop. At the last second I put a little extra oomph behind it and sent him higher near the roof. He came crashing down in a thud on his lower back and ass.
Now I walked around the ring looking at the crowd some more, smirking. The cotton candy kid was still weeping while dad picked cotton candy out of his own hair. A bunch of people were taking pictures, a bunch were booing. I saw Stephanie and also noticed that a few seats down from her were four incredible looking girls in University of Florida gymnastics sweatshirts.
I grabbed Ron by the rear waistband of the trunks and fired him between the middle and top ropes, right in front of Stephanie, Linda and the gymnasts. Scooping Ron up again, everyone thought it’d be another atomic drop. Instead, per Vince’s instructions, I crotched him on the railing, right next to the great piece of ass he’d been fucking a few days earlier. I impaled him on the steel ring as the crowd ooohed and ahed, Stepahnie cried, Linda smirked and the gymnasts giggled and shot pictures. I toppled him over onto my feet and lifted him again, this time reaching between his legs. Instead of dropping him throat first onto the railing, I dropped him on his midsection and heard the wind suck out of him.
“Ronnie, Ronnie, I’m so sorry,” Stephanie said. He slid down and I positioned him so his throat and arms were draped while he was on his knees. It was like he was in the stockades. I reached around and grabbed inside of his mouth. I ripped open his cheeks, as if I was trying to peel them off his face. Another request from Vince, who said he wanted me to punish “that fucking faggot jobber’s mouth,” because, on the notorious tape, Ron had gone down on young Stephanie and put on a world class exhibition of pussy eating. I began to wonder, how many times did he and Linda watch that damn tape? And how many times did they rewind? And where could I get a copy?
But I kept peeling back on the face as Stephanie cried out, “No.” I released my grip as Ron collapsed onto his back on the concrete.
“Leave the kid alone Butcher,” I heard some elderly woman nearby yell. Aw, what a sweet granny. I walked over to the old bitch and asked her what she was going to do to stop me. She pulled out her cane, as if to hit me. Bitch. I pulled it away from her and snapped it in two with my knee, like Bo Jackson breaking a baseball bat. If the kid with the soiled cotton candy had a look of shock on his face, that was nothing compared to the loo on the face of this woman with a bad hip. She started crying too. Jesus. The kid, Stephanie, this old hag, how many audience members could I make cry today? I had an inkling of looking for another victim but returned to Ron. Beating him up and humiliating him was why I was being paid, after all.
I walked back to Ron, still rolling around on the floor, clutching his worked-over groin, and slowly lifted him to his knees. From there I pulled up on his trunks, until the pink trunks were totally lodged up his ass.
“Oh, no, don’t,” Stephanie cried and that only encouraged me more. I pulled up until Ron was on his feet, then pulled up some more until on his tippy toes, like a pretty ballerina. I held him there for three seconds, making sure Steph and the gymnast girls got a good shot of wedgied Ron. The trunks must have been rubbing a bit on the jobber’s prostate because I heard a bit of involuntary moaning from his mouth, or maybe he was still hurting from having his cheeks ripped open.
I walked him to the ring apron and slid him under. Just for fun, I turned and did a theatric bow to Stephanie. My pleasure, m’ lady. By the time I got back into he ring, Ron had managed to pry one side of the trunks out of his ass but the other stayed stuffed, making him look almost as ridiculous than if he’d just left them both.
I positioned Ron so he was on his back, then stepped on his forehead, raking it with my black boots. Again I pulled him up and again I wished he’d grown some hair, a little afro or something to haul him around by. When I stood him up, he whispered to me, “Please Billy, please pin me, no more.” Wrong thing to say. He might as well have said, “Please sir, can I have another?” Why would I listen to a jobber’s requests?
I backed him into the turnbuckle. Not so strong now, huh Ronnie? I draped both his arms over the ropes, pinning him there and exposing his chest and abs. Three quick boots to the midsection had him gasping and a snap mare out of the corner had him back on his ass.
Slowly bringing him up to his feet, I reached under his crotch and lifted him for a slam, making sure to firmly grasp the pink trunks. I squeezed and walked around the ring with him giving all four sides a good look at this jobber I was handling like a rag doll. I thought of a simple slam but wanted to punish his ribs a bit more so I sprinted forward about five feet and delivered a crushing power slam. Could have pinned him there but it was time for a finisher. I planted him in the corner nearest Stephanie, on the top turnbuckle. Two quick punches made sure he didn’t have any thoughts of escaping. I climbed to the second rope and hooked his arm over my head. Grasping the side of the trunks that were still wedgied, poor kid never did get them out. I grabbed a handful, counted to three and then took us both flying backward. Always hurts like hell but hurts the jobber a lot more. I rolled over and covered Ron, making sure my crotch was practically covering
his face – another request from Vince. The ref counted one, two, three and old Ron was done. As I walked back to the locker room, I saw Linda escorting Stephanie out of their seats. They might have been taking her to a convent for all I know, but it was going to be a long time before she let any jobber dick enter her wrestling royalty pussy.
MAY 22, 1991
You know, I write about these jobbers and how much I enjoy humiliating them, but I do have some sympathy for them. How could I not, as I used to be in their place. At some point, everyone’s a jobber in this business.
I got started when I was 19. Business was much different. Regional action ruled, you didn’t have Vince McMahon or Ted Turner ruling everything.
I didn’t have any family in wrestling. I was a star wrestler in high school and loved watching it when it came to our local high school. One night after some matches, I went up and asked one of the wrestlers how to become a pro. He was a burly guy, fat I suppose, hairy. He looked me over, I weighed about 190 then, and grinned a wolfish grin. He asked me if I wanted to be a pro and I said “Yes sir.” He gave me the name and number of a school 100 miles from me. A few months later I graduated from it and was a pro wrestler. And I was a piece of shit, at the bottom of the food chain, a jobber.
Back then they didn’t really have the silky spandex trunks that jobbers have to wear. And thank god. It was bad enough being dominated in my plain trunks, couldn’t imagine doing it in that material.
But I’ll never forget my first match. Was against Harley Race, who in later years I’d tag team with. We did it at this local community college in North Carolina. I didn’t own any trunks, the promoter, Bill Watts, told me he’d take care of me when I got to the gym. Said he didn’t want to give me a pair and then have me puss out and he’s out a pair of trunks. I arrived and waited in the locker room. I was the youngest guy there, by far. A lot of guys in their 30s and 40s, old vets, old hands, hard men. Literally.
I was a tough guy, tough kid growing up, but being in this environment made me nervous. I had a feeling everyone in that locker room could beat the shit out of me without a second’s thought. I wanted to be them. But for now, I was a low-life, a jobber.
Watts wandered in wearing cowboy boots and a big belt buckle. “Stand up, William,” he said to me. I wasn’t yet Billy. And I certainly wasn’t Bad Billy. Watts said a jobber’s first day in the business is a big one, especially when he get his first trunks. He pulled out a pair of white briefs. Like I said, they weren’t Tommy Angel like, but they were skimpier than the standard wear of the day. They didn’t go high up on my stomach and they had maybe six inches of material on the side. By now all the heels had gathered round and watched as Watts told me to climb into them. I slowly took off my shirt and pants and the heels saw my 6-inch dick. Soft. Thank god. If I had a tiny cock, I might have been subjected to a career as a jobber, I’ve heard it’s happened. I pulled the trunks up and felt the waistband. Watts smiled and said I looked pretty hot, “Good enough to fuck,” he said and the heels laughed while I chuckled nervously.
“Think I’m joking, son?”
I just shook my head no. I prayed he was joking, but didn’t know. And didn’t know how to answer.
“Here’s the deal, boy,” Watts said. “If you can survive Harley Race’s sleeper hold tonight and don’t have the ref call the match, you won’t get fucked back here after the match. If you can stay awake through it and only get pinned in a traditional way, your ass will be saved. Literally.”
I didn’t doubt my toughness, but I also didn’t doubt Harley’s. Still, this was a challenge to my manhood and I accepted.
In the ring Harley worked me over big time, like the true pro he was. Long, drawn out holds, the type you don’t see much nowawadays. Really wearing me down. He put me into everything you could imagine: camel clutch for a brief time, abdominal stretches, grueling headlocks, scissors. Oh god the scissors. Those big strong legs locking around my throat for five minutes at a time. One time I got into a position where I was basically had my head down on the ground and was standing on it. He pulled me up by my white trunks and lifted me in the process as the entire crowd laughed. I’ve never been so embarrassed as I was as he held me like that for several seconds, my ass a few feet from his face. He finally released me and like a good boy I’d learned my lesson. I went back to my side as the scissors squeezed the life out of me. Don’t get choked out I kept telling myself. You can do this.
He also worked my body over with a series of slams and suplexes, moves he executed brilliantly. But always he’d return to the punishing moves. A long bearhug where I wilted in his arms, falling like putty until he’d scoop me up and I’d find myself wrapping my legs around his ample midsection, pathetically.
After 20 grueling minutes in the ring I kept praying he’d get tired and just pin me and save me from an ass fucking. I’d been mauled and manhandled in front of this crowd and fully realized that I was nothing but a jobber punk. He put me up into a shoulder breaker, or what I thought was a shoulder breaker. Instead he slid me down between his knees for a piledriver. When he dropped, I saw nothing. The last thing I remember was being between his legs. I came back to consciusness after a few seconds and turned onto my stomach. I next felt Harley yanking me up with ease by the back of my trunks, adding to the wedgie and getting a big round of laughter from the crowd. My vision was blurred, I couldn’t remember my name or really know where I was. All I knew was someone was holding me tight by my trunks and not letting me go. Harley then slapped a sleeper move on me. I fought. God I fought. This was it! He was going for the kill, I realized. My arms flailed but
he only increased the pressure on my neck, squeezing the life out of me.
I felt myself going to my ass and then the ref appeared in front of me. I felt him lift my arm once…then nothing…
When I woke up, I was back in the locker room. Later I learned I’d been taken there by stretcher, humiliatingly loaded onto it, for some reason, stomach first, so the crowd got a gander at the white trunks lodged up my ass as the paramedics carried me back to the locker room.
When I finally came to, I was on the locker room floor, hogtied with some rope. I kicked but that did nothing. My trunks had been removed and placed over my head, with the crotch part stuffed into my mouth and taped up with white athletic tape. The first voice I heard was Watts’.
“Well, well, lookie who’s up?”
He walked over and untied me before pulling me up by my hair. I had no strength, I knew what was coming, though I dreaded it. He marched me near an old storage container and bent me over it. He used the rope to tie my arms to a pair of hinges on the trunk. He forced my legs apart and there I stood, cock dangling between my legs, ass open, mouth gagged, arms restrained.
Watts went first, his dirty Southern cock plunging into me. I screamed into the gag, but was silenced by the material and the pungent smell of my own trunks. I felt the first tears after about his third thrust, which felt like it was ripping into my ass. He only went for a few minutes when I felt him shooting into me. As he pulled out, he told me, “Damn boy, you got a future.”
Harley was next. The victor gets the spoils, after big Bill of course. he had about 8 inches of King cock but he went a bit slower, treated me more like a subject. Or more like a bitch. He occasionally grabbed my hair or yanked back on my trunks, forcing my head back, as if it was a bridle and I was his pony. Soon enough his jizz joined Watts. I could feel it all leaking down my thighs and the tears continued to flow. Why’d I ever sign up for this? Why couldn’t I have been tougher in the ring? Nick Bockwinkle followed. This was before we knew about AIDS remember. These old fuckers didn’t care about anything. They all had wives, of course, but on the long nights on the road, I was later to learn, you take what you can get. You have to pay for hooker pussy. Jobber ass is free.
Bockwinkle had been all showered and dressed so as he pulled his pants down he removed his belt from the loop. He proceeded to strap me across the ass with it five times, telling me that he liked to tenderize his jobber meat. Horrifically, he then reached between my legs and played with my limp dick.
“Let’s get this going here,” he said. As he stuck a finger in my ass and shoved it back and forth, he stroked my dick until I was as hard as I was the night I lost my virginity by fucking Becky Jones in my dad’s car. Just as I was about to cum, he stopped and plowed into me with his dick.
“Oh you fucking jobber, you little cunt, jobber boy, you little sissy,” he kept muttering while pounding me until the inevitable conclusion. He scooped up a bundle of the cum that had leaked from my worn out ass and briefly ripped the trunks out of my mouth to feed it to me. The tape was gone from the trunks but he stuck them back in my mouth, keeping the cum in my mouth and preventing me from spitting it out.
Mad Dog Vachon was last. Oh god. I don’t think he’d showered since Nixon resigned. He stunk. I couldn’t imagine what his cock looked like or smelled like. But I soon knew what it felt like. Painful. He didn’t last long at all, a minute or two before finally breeding me. At the end, I put my head down on the trunk and wept while the other wrestlers left. Only Watts remained. He walked over and removed my trunks and told me to get showered and get dressed. He told me I took it well, took it like a good jobber, that all wrestlers go through this at some point. Thank god my then wife wasn’t in the arena that night to see me. Or to see me afterward. Would she have smelled the cum on me?
I jobbed for maybe two years, but my natural dominance soon won out. Promoters saw I was a mean son of a bitch, that I should be the fucker, not the fuckee. Still, I know what it’s like to be a jobber. I know the humiliation they go through. The degradation and public ridicule, not to mention the private ass fuckings. I know their pain. It’s just that I like delivering it and am much better at it than I was taking it.
DECEMBER 11, 1991
I feel bad for Tom Zenk. Sort of bad. Well, as bad as you can feel for a jobber. The kid has awesome physical skills and is good-looking to boot. Can’t figure out who he fucked over that he’s still a mid-card guy and an occasional outright jobber. I know Ole Anderson loves booking him as a jobber and it seems like Z-Man is stuck. Too bad. But since he’s stuck, I’m going to have some fun with the boy. Tonight we had a match on WCW Saturday night. Good back and forth.
Tommy came out in his orange trunks and I had seen back in the locker room that he had put on his little white briefs that he occasionally likes to wear. Guess he’s a bit self-conscious when his trunks get yanked and doesn’t want his ass exposed, just his cute panties. Well, he’d get his wish. This match featured some great back and forth action. I love squashes. Live for them. But it’s also fun having an extended match. Yeah I take some punishment, but I get to dish it out too on a featured pretty boy.
Early on the Z-Man drilled me with a dropkick and his patented kick, that caught me right on the chin and sent me back. I bit my tongue and could feel blood pooling in there, which really pissed me off. I slid out of the ring and rubbed my chin as the crowd screamed at me and I looked back “in fear” in the ring, where Z-man was posing and preening. When I climbed back onto the apron, the pansy surprised me by kicking me in the gut, then slingshoting me over the top rope. Zenk really must have wanted to take out his frustrations about Ole Anderson on me. When he fired me into the turnbuckle, he followed it up with a bizarre flip – which seemed a bit much – and an elbow, again right to my chin, and this time I could feel the blood coming out of my mouth. Fucker.
The crowd, especially the women, who rub themselves to his long locks and tight-fitting trunks, were cheering like crazy and the men loved seeing a cocky asshole like me beaten. His second toss of me into the turnbuckle had me walk out toward the center of the ring, where he dropped me with a flawless hip toss, followed by a headlock. Now he worked it. As I got my bearings, I dug my fingers into the rear waistband of his trunks. I felt his little white panties, but ignored them and grabbed ahold of the orange trunks. I used them to pull him onto his shoulders where the ref got two counts. Zenk complained about me pulling his tights but when asked, I denied it. I did it again and this time I knew his orange trunks had gone up his ass, surely revealing the white panties below. How’d I know? Because as I put him on his shoulders again, the crowd buzzed loudly and Zenk groaned a bit. When we stood up, I pulled up on the front this time, revealing the front of the white briefs to the crowd and audience and fired him into the ropes. As retribution for his kick, I brought a boot straight up to his model, pretty boy face.
I dropped a big elbow on his chest to subdue him, then went to work on his right arm. I locked an armbar on that I kept for a good two minutes. I eventually worked him to his stomach, so everyone could see the white briefs that protruded beneath the orange trunks. I bent his arm behind him, pinning it to his lower back and slowly raised it, bringing a scream from the babyface jobber’s face. I’d bring the arm back down, then lift it ever so slowly again. Pulling him up by that arm, I then pinned it behind his back and reached down under to lift him for a slam. This trick I learned from Arn Anderson, the bodyslam with the man’s arm behind his back, which puts all his weight on the limb when he comes crashing down to the canvas. Arn broke a jobber’s arm like that more than once. After I slammed him he finally reached under his ass to adjust the trunks, but he only got one side. The white briefs still stuck out completely on the left side of his ass and would remain like that the rest of the match.
After throwing him into the turnbuckle, I drilled him with three straight shoulders to the midsection. I grabbed his hair and marched him back to the center of the ring, but as I went for another slam, he pulled off a small package that somehow managed to get a two count and I barely kicked at three. Little son of a bitch. When I kicked out he got to his feet before me and flung me into the ropes and hit me with a powerslam. As I got my wind back, I saw Z-man climbing to the top rope like some kind of pantied superhero. But right when he stood up, I sprinted over, and brought my hand up right into his crotch, dropping him on to the top turnbuckle. He hadn’t climbed quite fast enough and now he was in no man’s land, stuck on the top rope, with aching balls he’d have to have healed by some ring rat’s mouth tonight. I looked around at the crowd, which knew what was coming: the superplex. I decided to do it a little different. Because his orange trunks had gone up his ass, the white briefs were completely visible, just sitting there, waiting to be grasped. So I took a hold of the flimsy satin and hauled Tom backward. As I hit, I realized the briefs had torn. They weren’t built like trunks, they weren’t constructed to withstands a manhandling, unless they were being ripped off for someone to to be fucked. So Tom laid in the middle, waiting to be pinned, while the left side of his white briefs dangled below the trunks, an emasculating scene.
I exited first but watched as Tom walked back to the locker room, unable to fix the torn garment. I heard a young guy tell him to fix his panties and I saw Tom blush. Maybe next time he’d learn not to wear the white briefs under his trunks.
FEBRUARY 13, 1992
Got my first valet. Madusa Micili. Hot piece of ass, former women’s champion in the AWA and now she’s in the WCW. We’ve started using her as my valet and I absolutely love it. Turns me on to have her ringside watching me as she parades around in front of the crowd and the jobber in her tight-fitting pants and shirts that come to her midriff and show her big ol’ tits. She’s sassy, cocky, sometimes mean. Intimidating to dweebs and jobbers. She’s also good at occasionally delivering a bit of a beating to a jobber and I find it’s especially degrading for a jobber boy when a girl – a girl! – kicks his ass in a public place. Especially when they’re basically wearing panties while she walks around in pants.
Tonight’s victim? Bob Emory. Or is it Bob Emery? The big dummy spells it both ways. Bob is something to look at. God. Every muscle just perfect, tall, strong, great face, IQ of an ox. I don’t know how he graduated high school, much less made it into college on a football scholarship. He looks like a horny promoter constructed him in some perverted jobber lab. Except then forgot to include a brain. Or maybe wanted a brainless jobber. You look at Bob and realize that his thoughts probably consist of, “Duuuuuuhhhhh.” But now at 23 he’s in the wrestling world. You’d think he’d be a star, he has a lot of the tools. But for whatever reason, a promoter decided he’d be jobber material. Maybe because he has the charisma of a stool. Yes, I jobbed when I was young but like I said, my natural personality shined through, my charisma, my machismo. Bob is a milquetoast pantywaist. A cipher. A cipher in cute tights.
Today he wore these little blue things that hugged his ass and had maybe two inches of material on the side. Before the match, Madusa asked who we were wrestling today and when I said Emory, she laughed and said, “Oh my god. I had such a crush on him the first time I saw him in an arena. My panties were wet thinking about him. We actually went on a date but back at my place when we started making out, his little three-inch dick couldn’t get hard. It was like playing with the Fabulous Moolah’s clit. I asked him if he was a fag and he said he was just nervous. Uh, okay. I threw him out. Then I saw him wrestle Bad News Brown and he had these little silvery aqua trunks and Bad News yanked him up and treated him like a ghetto bitch. And he took it! What a pussy! Can’t wait to kick his ass today.”
He was waiting in the Atlanta arena as Madusa walked me out. Walking behind her, damn, what an ass. Emory could have had this if he wasn’t such a weasel dicked, trunks wearing jobber. Madusa sat on the middle rope so I could climb in. When she removed my jacket, the last thing she said to me was, “Make sure you throw him out to me.”
No problem. I motioned Bob over to talk. I got up into his face. He already looked like he wanted to wet himself right then and there. Maybe I’d put a diaper on him in front of Madusa. I got next to him and told him, “Bob. I’m going to kick your ass. And then I’m going to toss you out to Madusa and she’s going to kick your ass. I just wanted you to be ready for it, okay? And it’s all because you couldn’t get hard for a beautiful piece of ass like that. There’s nothing you can do about it. Just be ready, faggot.”
He took both hands and shoved me on the chest, like a five-year-old boy pushing another kid. I smirked. What had set him off, calling him a faggot or reminding him of his impotency? To counterpunch, I brought a leg right up to his crotch. I turned and laughed to the crowd as he stood bent over holding the family jewels and his little, as Madusa called it and signaled with her pinkie, clit. I quickly put a swinging neckbreaker on him and the party was on.
It is strange. Emory is stronger than me, more athletic, better looking. But something makes him submissive and it’s not just because a promoter makes it so. I was a jobber too but grew out of it. Something inside him makes him this weak little pussy whose only job in life is to now make me look good. What’s the psychology of it? Who damaged Bob – and other jobbers – in their youth so much that they think a good living can be had by serving them up as sacrificial lambs each week? Whatever.
I think about that for about two seconds as I watch him roll around. I stand him up for a belly to belly suplex and am able to feel his little cock against mine for the briefest of seconds.
Madusa is screaming outside that she wants to get ahold of him so, being a gentleman, I oblige. I throw him out by his trunks and he lands at his old date’s feet, with the left side of his trunks wedged up his ass and the other side just waiting to join it. I distracted the ref. Later I watched the tape to really soak in what happened next. With Bob on his back, squirming like a pig in shit, Madusa put her heel right to his chin. As the cameras zoomed in, she moved it up to his lips and told him to start sucking it. Poor Bob. With any pride he had long ago gone, Bob opened his perfect jobber mouth and accepted the filthy three-inch (hey) intruder. You could hear her on the broadcast, “You can’t please a real woman, maybe you can clean my shoes. Or maybe learn to suck on something a little bigger.” On the commentary, Jim Ross said, “This is outrageous. The ref has to stop this!” Why? She grinded it further down Bob’s throats and finally pulled out, but was far from done. At this point I joined the two on the floor. I didn’t want her having all the fun. I walked over and kissed her in front of the cameras – man has to please his valet – and Bob started crawling away. When he was about 10 feet away, I told Madusa, “Why don’t you go get him and bring him back to daddy.” With a huge smile and bigger tits, Madusa stalked after her prey.
When she caught up with him, Madusa reached down and lifted Bob by his satin blue trunks. When a strong man yanks up jobber meat by his trunks, he can do it in one quick motion, pulling him all up in a second. But Madusa had to do it slowly, which added to Bob’s misery. On her first yank, it brought him to his knees and you could see the blue trunks completely invading his ass. Another slow tug brought him deliberately to his feet and I heard him yell out as she turned him around and marched him back to me, clinging to his hair and trunks while displaying her conquest to her favorite heel. Bob’s face grimaced. Again, he could kick Madusa’s ass in two seconds. Yet here he is, being manipulated and wedgied by this strong yet still relatively small woman, who’s holding him in some type of humiliation bondage.
I smacked my lips and looked around at the crowd, sharing my love of this steroid-freak’s demolition. I could see that his little dicklet had leaked a bit of precum in his trunks. Maybe Madusa had found a way to get him hard, just humiliate and degrade him. She held him by the hair and trunks but slightly off to the side, instead of directly behind him. She had him set up like a football tee. And unlike Charlie Brown I was not going to miss. I walked back about 15 feet, sprinted forward and right after she released her grip, clubbed him with a clothesline that sent him sprawling to the floor. It felt good. I rolled back into the ring to break up the ref’s, what, 20 count, and then picked Bob up. I told Madusa what to do and we hooked his lovely trunks for a double-team suplex, she with one hand full of trunks, me with another. We snapped him back and I contemplated rolling him back into the ring. Madusa had other ideas.
“Help me piledrive this pussy,” she said. I grinned. Evil bitch.
She pulled him up and put his head between her legs. Bent over, he gave the whole crowd a perfect shot of his wedgie, the blue trunks having taken up permanent residence in his oh-so-fuckable ass. Madusa gave just the slightest of tugs to the rear waistband and his legs buckled a bit. She wasn’t strong enough to lift him so I took him by the legs and held them up and helped drive him into the cement.
Checking his eyes, it certainly seemed like he was out cold. A woman scorned is a dangerous thing. Especially for jobbers in speedos.
I saw some other muscle freak in the front row and went over to him and asked if he wanted to end up like Bob. He sat down, like a chastened child. At one point he probably had dreams of being a wrestler, just like Bob used to. But now this guy at least got to see the reality. That unless you’re a real star, someone with charisma, toughness and guts, you end up like Bob, on the jobber assembly line, being used and humiliated for the pleasure of others. I went back to Bob’s motionless body and eased him up. I scooped him up in my arms and walked him over, gently setting him on the apron with his ass up, still exposed. I slapped his right cheek loudly and the crowd murmured. By the time I had made my way back, he was still out of it. I pulled him onto his back and covered him with my pinkie figure, right on his hairless chest.
Madusa climbed into the ring to mock her conquest a bit more. We stood over Bob and I planted a huge kiss on her and felt up her ass while I saw Bob’s eyes fluttering open. He was apparently still among the living. Madusa sat on his chest and bent down into his face.
“See what you’re missing, faggot?” she taunted. “This is your life pussy. You can’t have real women. You’re nothing but a punching bag you sissy.” With that she stood up, stood between Bob’s legs and kicked him in the nuts, the second time his package got kicked that match. This time he vomited onto the mat. They didn’t show that part on TV, a bit too graphic. But I worried for a second that she had kicked his testicles up to his stomach and I’m sure it felt like that to Bob. With that I peeled her off so we could prance in front of the camera some more.
So let that be a lesson to you jobbers out there. Soft cocks can lead to hard punishment in the ring.
JUNE 18, 1992
Fucked up match today. Fucked up because I wrestled with a fucked-up partner. Catcus Jack. He’s been playing this crazy man role for a few weeks now and is really getting into it. I think they’re going to branch him off from me sometime soon but today they paired me with him because they wanted him to show off his looniness while in a squash match against a pair of jobbers.
Trent Knight and Joe Cruz were the unfortunate victims. These two jobbers went to wrestling school together and I sometimes get them mixed up. Both tall, blonde, doofus looking. Both sometimes have ridiculous mustaches, though both were clean-shaven tonight. Joe had little red trunks on while Trent went with these aqua things that hugged his ass beautifully. I know they heard Cactus ranting in the locker room like a mental patient so they must have been a little worried about what they were getting into.
They stood in a corner of the ring together as Cactus and I approached the ring. Cactus was slobbering for some reason. As we got close, he leaned into me and said, “Let’s attack.” Before I could react, he crawled under the bottom rope and charged the jobbers. Right behind him, I ran into the corner too. All hell was about to break loose. Gorilla Monsoon would call it a “Pearl Harbor attack.”
Cactus went after Cruz so I took Knight. Both were on their knees as we gave them big boots to the face and chest. We both grabbed ahold of our victims’ blonde hair and threw them over the top rope. Cruz landed awkwardly on his ankle and started screaming out on the floor while Knight laid there like a beaten dog, probably wishing he could crawl back to the locker room. Cruz definitely had a sprained ankle but that was the least of his issues. As I slowly stepped through the ropes to get my boy, Cactus had climbed to the turnbuckle. Jesus Christ, was he going to jump? He looked like a goateed Jimmy Snuka.
“Set him up! Set him up!” he screamed at me. I wasn’t sure which jobber he wanted to crush so I took Knight. I laid him out so he was on his back on the floor, his tiny jobber cock showing signs of perking up. He breathed heavily, his clean-shaven chest heaving up and down. Cactus looked at the crowd that now egged him on, not believing this big man would leap from there to the floor. Did he want to kill himself? Kill Knight?
I moved out of the way to watch the spectacle. Gave a boot to Cruz’s bad ankle as I stepped over him. Finally Cactus flew and splashed down onto Knight’s midsection as the crowd went bananas. Knight looked like he was having a seizure. Who knows if Cactus broke one of his ribs. Cactus meanwhile looked fine. I’d learn later it was because he was coked up, but he looked around wild-eyed as the camera man crept pass me to get a look at the madman’s face.
I thought the match should continue back in the ring so I grabbed Joe by the hair. I latched onto the rear of his red trunks, below the waist band, right on the ass, and lifted, stuffing him under the bottom rope and giving him a perfect wedgie in the process, both ass cheeks exposed. That got Cactus off of Knight. He slithered under the rope and kicked Cruz in the chest and face. Standing him up, Cactus bitch slapped him, then backhanded Joe like he was a naughty whore and Cactus his pimp. But then Cactus stepped through the ropes so he stood on the ring apron. He again looked crazily around at the crowd and I realized he was standing Cruz up in a suplex position. The fuck? I’ve never seen a suplex from the inside to the outside. This move could literally kill Cactus as he’d be landing on his head, while who knows what could happen to Cruz? Paralyzed? I again stood slack-jawed as Cactus hooked Cruz’s arm and grabbed ahold of the side of the red trunks.
Cruz tried fighting him, tried getting away but Cactus cranked up on his chin, cutting off the air, subduing the naughty jobber. Finally he lifted Cruz up to the rafters and held him vertical for a second or two. Cactus then unbelievably fell backward, totally disregarding his safety. Joe actually hit the floor first as he’d been catapulted back. His legs- including the injured one – hit before his back, but that might have saved him from a lifetime in a wheelchair. The middle of Cactus’ back took the brunt of the punishment, but instead of crying I could hear him laughing.
As I had been watching all this, Knight had indeed started crawling back to the locker room area, hoping we’d forget about him. I looked around and noticed he was missing so slowly went to retrieve him. He was on all fours, his back still heaving up and down as he tried helplessly to get his breath back. I stood behind him and looked at the crowd, shaking my head and smirking.
I got around Trent and stood in front of him. Like a puppy trying to get out of the house, he tried going to the left on his hands and knees. I moved to block him. Then he went to the right. I moved to block him. The crowd laughed.
“Get that pansy back in the ring,” I heard a middle aged man yell.
Gotta make the fans happy. I went back behind him and pulled up on the back of his waistband, lifting him up and sending the aqua trunks up his ass. I walked back to the ring like that, grasping onto the trunks. When we reached the ring, I fired him back in and saw Trent reach back and adjust the trunks.
As I looked down, I saw that Cactus was now biting Cruz’s chest. Jesus Christ. Hannibal Lector? I went over and pulled him off and told him we had to get back to the ring. The ref had come out, trying to get back control of the match but what was the point?
Cactus finally agreed. He pulled Joe up by the front of his red trunks. Cruz’s left nut fell out after Cactus’ manhandling of the trunks and the crowd saw it and tittered. If you saw it on TV, you noticed they blurred it. He tossed him in to join his jobber partner and Joe was able to adjust the trunks, with a little help from the ref, who I know enjoys touching jobbers in their naughty parts. There was no semblance of order in this match so I went with the flow. There weren’t going to be any tagouts or anything in this match. Just pure jobber destruction. Cactus seemed to have a hard-on for Cruz – literally – so I went after Trent while he took Cruz. We backed each into a turnbuckle corner and then threw them into each other in the center of the ring, where they collided and fell in a heap.
While Cactus made some strange Satanic gestures to the crowd, I collected both fairies and headbutted them together, causing Joe to break out bleeding on his forehead. As you can imagine, this pleased Cactus. He smeared his hand with Joe’s blood and started licking it. Jesus. Did he know if Joe had had HIV tests? Hell if I knew.
I could see the faces in the crowd, these people were generally wondering if a lunatic was on the loose. Should someone call the cops? The National Guard? A mother covered her 8-year-old daughter’s eyes in the front row. Yet many kept taking pictures, just like the Romans watching the Gladiators would have. We worked in unison for the next moves. Double body slams right next to each other, followed by both dropping an elbow on our our respective jobber. By now Cruz’s face was covered in blood so Cactus took some more of it and smeared it over Trent’s cute face. He coughed violently, probably wondering about HIV too. Now we had two blood-covered jobbers and I wondered just how far Cactus was going to go with this. The ref kept begging us to just pin them and get this over with and I finally told Cactus, “They’ve had enough.”
With that we threw them into the ring and delivered dual powerslams. I stood up as Cactus retrieved Trent and dragged him toward Joe. He laid Trent right on Joe’s trunk-covered cock, putting Trent’s ass directly near Joe’s face. I couldn’t think of a more humiliating pinning maneuver and we both stood with one foot on a jobber to get the pin. We left them like that so the paramedics had to peel each jobber off the other before putting them on the stretcher.
The announcers said we had gone too far this time and I couldn’t disagree. But god damn, it was fun. Would I Want to wrestle with a madman every day? No. But once in awhile, yeah. That crazy son of a bitch knows how to dismantle a jobber.
POSTSCRIPT: A few weeks later Cactus sent me a poster of us standing on the jobber’s faces for the pin. Some fan had sent him a picture and Cactus had it blown up. He loved how the jobbers were cock to mouth and ass to mouth in the picture. Loved the blood. To him it was the picture of heel dominance. I don’t keep it out in the open but every once in awhile I check it out. Gets me hard.
NOVEMBER 1, 1992
Ever been to a jobber orgy? I hadn’t, until tonight. Terry Funk had the idea, said it’d been something he’d been thinking of for awhile. We had it out at his ranch. The invite said it’d be a chance to drink, eat, and beat the crap out of jobbers and, if we wanted, do more to them. The payment for entry? Each man had to bring a jobber with him. I corralled Kenny Kendall. The invite also said to bring the jobber in his normal trunks and boots, so I drove to Funk’s place with young blonde Kenny tied up in the backseat, in his blue satin trunks and white boots. I had him handcuffed and shackled, with a collar and leash just waiting.
When I pulled up I saw a ton of cars already there, the typical heel vehicles like pickups and jeeps. When I got out I could hear yelling and hooting, along with a lot of loud music. I pulled Kenny out with his leash and he hobbled behind me, his hands cuffed in front of him, the cuffs attached to his leg shackles. When I stepped in the first thing I saw was not the most appealing thing. A naked King Kong Bundy sitting in a recliner with a naked black jobber named Gary Jackson sitting on his lip, legs dangling as King Kong played with his jobber dick. Jackson had a ballgag stuffed in his mouth and could only moan and drool as King Kong’s giant hands manipulated his cock. On the couch, John Studd, Ken Patera and the Barbarian were watching old squash matches and some of their own work. About a dozen beer cans were spread beneath their feet on the floor and they’d obviously been going at it for awhile. Patera whistled and Reno Riggins came prancing out in his orange jobber trunks, wearing high heels. Guess he was the maid for the night. He picked up the beer cans in a bag but as he walked past Barbarian, the monster heel – decked out in his traditional ring gear, including face paint (it was quite a sight) – reached over and pulled Reno by his trunks back to the heels.
“Where you going, fairy?” Barbarian grumbled and Reno only said, “Excuse me.” Barbarian stood up and told Patera to help him.
“Let’s see how high we can lift this jobber,” Barbarian said and the bleach-blonde haired Patera smiled and stood next to his heel buddy. Riggins still stood there submissively as Barbarian reached two hands into the back of Reno’s trunks and Patera put two hands down the back on the right side. On the count of three they lifted Reno up by the orange trunks, sending them up his ass and Reno into the air. They held him there, about nine inches off the ground as Reno’s high heels fell to the floor and he grunted in pain from the spandex ripping into his jobber asshole. They lifted him up and down five times, a form of weightlifting with live meat. Barbarian turned Reno around, knocked the bag of beer cans from his hands and then scooped him up for a slam. He deposited Riggins on the cans that had spilled out of the bag. Patera picked up some stray cans and fired them at Reno’s head, who was busy pulling his trunks out of his rear so couldn’t protect himself as it pelted off his head.
He started crying and who could blame him? I looked back at Kenny, as we were still standing in the entry way, and he just looked at the whole scene in wide-eyed horror, surely wondering what would be in store for him tonight. I took the leash off and uncuffed his hands and legs, left the chains laying by the door and pulled him by the hair through the living room and into the kitchen.
When I got there Terry Funk’s wife was making hamburgers. She came over and gave me a peck on the cheek, looked Kenny up and down, shook her head with a smirk and then said most of the boys and Terry were down in the basement.
Funk’s basement is legendary. Giant. Big screen TV, and, off to the side, a regulation sized wrestling ring. I had Kenny step in front of me to go down the steps and as he hit the first step I kicked the back of his legs, sending him down the 10 steps. Don’t worry, they’re carpeted. And as a trained jobber, he knows how to fall and take a bump. When he finally reached the bottom, he found himself at the feet of Arn Anderson, who looked down, then up at me to say hi.
“Welcome to the party Billy!”
Kenny rolled on the floor until Arn gave him a boot to the stomach that put him in the fetal position. When I got down I stepped over Kenny and looked into the basement ring.
The host Funk was in there with Tully Blanchard and Kevin Sullivan. They were joined by the Mulkey brothers and Eddie Jackie, who were in various states of dress. Randy Mulkey was wearing nothing but white boots and a white jockstrap. Bill Mulkey had his purple trunks on while Eddie was in baby blue satin trunks that had obviously been yanked around because one side was up his ass. Randy was tied up in the ropes, his arms hooked between the top and middle one while Funk kicked him repeatedly in the stomach and then pulled back on the front of the jockstrap to deliver blow after blow into his stomach. As he pulled on the jock, Mulkey’s nuts fell out of the athletic supporter but his little cock remained entombed in the material.
Sullivan yelled at me to throw Kendall into the madhhouse and I obliged by directing him via his blue trunks into the ring.
As I stepped in dressed in blue jeans and T-shirt, I came upon a discussion between Funk and Blanchard, talking about bodyslams. Blanchard said that for a long time when he picked up a man for a slam he didn’t grab him by the trunks, simply kept his hand on the man’s ass. Funk couldn’t believe that and pointed out that it’s the perfect opportunity to clutch the trunks, because the jobber is utterly helpless. If you want you can just squeeze the trunks or pull down on the waistband a bit.
“Let me show you. Billy, mind if I use Kenny?”
Kendall moaned as Funk grabbed him by the hair and stood him up.
“What I like to do is grab the trunks right at first contact. Watch my hand.”
Tully looked down as Terry’s hand appeared beneath Kenny’s crotch and on his blue spandexed ass. Terry instantly grabbed on as he lifted Kenny up for a traditional slam.
“Now I do whatever I want,” he said, before demonstrating one of his greatest memories.
“One time in Texas, I had this little faggot up like this and he’d really pissed me off. So I pulled his waistband down halfway down his ass crack, like this.” Kenny’s ass crack was suddenly exposed and he moaned as Funk pulled the trunks down, then showed how he also liked to stick a finger in the man’s crack, just to add a little extra reminder about who controlled the action here.
Tully picked up Eddie Jackie to try it out. So there Funk and Blanchard stood, both holding jobbers’ trunks halfway down their ass. By this time, the burgers were apparently done because Funk’s wife had appeared beside the ring and was snapping pictures of the jobbers’ cute ass cracks, “To add to the family collection,” she said. “And Kenny and Eddie, don’t worry, I have your parents’ addresses so I’ll make sure to send copies to them too.”
As they put on their demonstration, I wandered over to the Mulkey in the jock in the ropes. I started choking him with a single hand and he thrashed. I’d let up, then do it again and I saw his cock growing from the physical sensation of having the life choked out of him. I finally pulled his jock down and his 6-inch hard Mulkey cock dangled there while I choked him. Funk liked the sight of this and slammed Kendall down and retrieved the other Mulkey, Bill. He pushed him over to his brother and told him to start sucking his bro’s cock right there.
“And oh my, won’t you boys’ parents be so proud too,” Mrs. Funk said as she started clicking pictures of Bill, in his cute purple trunks, blowing his naked, bound, hard, choked brother. Mr. Funk, meanwhile, the orchestrator of this decadence, held Bill by the hair and Spielberged the entire direction, telling him how to lick his brother’s cock, how much to take, when to peel off, when to lick the hairless nuts (all jobbers are always clean shaven down below. Always. No exceptions). I kept choking Randy, and still was when he finally shot his jobber load into his brother’s waiting mouth. Terry told him to keep it in his mouth and pulled him by the hair over to Eddie Jackie, who was still on his back, rolling around like a fallen soldier at Normandy. Funk had Mulkey put his brother’s jizz into Eddie’s mouth, who proceeded to spit it out as we all laughed and Kendall sat in the corner, bawling his eyes out, trying to take his collar off, then finally just
covering his eyes.
I heard some type of avalanche coming down the steps and saw that it was King Kong Bundy. Still naked. 400 pounds. Bald. Naked. Ugh. He was carrying his black jobber Jackson, who had his legs wrapped around Kong like a child as the big man made his way down. Jackson was now outfitted back in his bright red trunks and soon enough he joined the other decimated jobbers in Funk’s ring of horrors. King Kong slowly made his way in. When he saw the puddle of jizz on the floor, which Eddie had spit out, he said, “Looks like I missed some fun.”
The fatso went over and released Randy Mulkey from his roped prison and flung him into a turnbuckle. Oh oh. The nude Mulkey, drained, literally, looked up just as 400 pounds of naked man sprinted toward him for a big splash in the corner. When Bundy stepped back, Mulkey staggered forward about two steps before collapsing to the mat, where his naked body twitched. Tully moved him out of the way as Bundy fired Kendall into the corner and repeated the splash. By the end he had flattened every jobber and patted his stomach in approval. What, did he want to eat them too?
Shortly later, Tully and I had a contest: Who could execute the most slingshot suplexes in one minute? Tully was the master of the slingshot suplex, he used it for his finisher. But I was the master of all suplexes. He took Eddie Jackie while I of course grabbed Kendall. Bundy just watched, having stacked Gary Jackson onto the Mulkey brothers to make a jobber chair. Funk watched the clock as Tully went first. Up and down he took Jackie, locking onto the trunks, dropping him leg first onto the ropes, then backward. Then up for more punishment, again clutching the tights, dropping him, falling back. He managed to get 10, a good number but he slowed down a bit at the end. Jackie also weighed a bit more than Kendall so I thought I’d have an advantage.
Kenny moaned as I grabbed the side of his trunks and lifted him for the first slingshot. Usually I’d hold on for much longer before lifting my victim but this was about speed. Up and down we went, up and down, grab him by the hair, lock him, yank, lift, repeat. In the final 10 seconds I knew I only needed one to beat tully so I took a bit of time this time, really cinched it in, pointed at Tully in a cocky way and said, “You owe me 100 bucks,” then lifted Kendall for one final slingshot and a cursory cover of 1, 2, 3, which Sullivan helpfully provided while impressively maintaining his hold on his beer bottle.
The night ended with me fucking Kendall, Funk fucking Riggins, Bundy taking both Mulkey brothers – and Gary Jackson – and Tully dusting off Eddie Jackie.
Funk says he’s going to have another one of these sometime soon. Can’t wait.
JANUARY 18, 1993
I’m doing some, I don’t know, freelance work for this new outfit, the Global Wrestling Federation, GWF. They somehow have a contract with ESPN to broadcast at 3 p.m. on weekdays. Film out of Texas. Some good talent here, but not sure they’ll make it. Still, being on ESPN every day? I could do this for awhile. They got me in a minor feud right now with this 19-year-old kid, whose fat-ass dad Tugboat has been in the business for awhile. Kid’s name is Chaz and I think he’s the creation of some gay porno producer.
Long brown hair and he wears the *skimpiest* trunks you will ever see outside of a BG East tape. They look like panties but he flaunts his young body around in them with no problem.
We had this storyline going where, during an interview with Boni Blackstone, she asked Chaz what he thought of all this impressive talent coming to the GWF. Eddie Gilbert, Black Bart, Dutch Mantel and Billy Butcher.
“Billy Butcher? That old man? Let him try to take me on, I’m ready for any challenges in the GWF, but I might feel a little bad beating up on the elderly.”
Thirty-six is old now. So a few days later I was doing guest commentary on a GWF show and Chaz was wrestling the Lightning Kid. The play by play guy asked me about Chaz’s comment and I brushed it off, said it didn’t bother me. But at the end of the match, as Chaz, in tiny purple trunks that barely covered his cock and ass, celebrated his victory over the Kid, I snuck up behind him in the ring and delivered a knee to the back, sending him sprawling outside the ring. I quickly picked him up and gave him a gourdbuster on the concrete, but only after grabbing a firm hold of his trunks. I flipped onto his stomach and sat on him. I screamed at the PA guy to give me the mic. And in the Global Dome, I got into his face, the spit from my mouth falling onto his, and yelled, “Little boy, I’m gonna teach you to respect your elders.” With that I threw the mic down and stood up. I grabbed the chair I’d used for the commentary and moved it near Chaz’s body. I pulled him up by the brown hair and turned him over my knee, his purple trunked ass sticking up. I gave him five quick spanks while telling him he will be a good boy from now on. I only released him after several other wrestlers came down to break it up.
The next week Chaz declared on a broadcast that I only beat him because I snuck up behind him, that I was nothing but a yellow coward. An old man who couldn’t hack it and that he wanted revenge.
So that’s where we are now, our big revenge match. I came out first this time because Chaz is the local hero, the young star with a lot of hype surrounding him. Even after the spanking I gave him, people still somehow respect him.
Chaz in his purple panties leaps over the top rope with those young legs and points his finger at me, telling me he’s going to kick my old man ass. I stand in the corner, slowly shaking my head, smirking.
We meet in the center of the ring and begin jawing at each other, face to face, like two prize fighters, me telling him I’m going to kick his ass, teach him some manners and humiliate him in front of his adoring fans and him telling me he’s going to run my old ass out of Texas. I finally break up the trash talking by slapping him right across the face. But instead of backing down, Chaz, surprisingly, reacts strongly. He slaps me back, then again, gaining the upper hand. He pushes me to the ropes and throws me to the opposite side. When I come off he delivers one of his patented dropkicks that sends me down. His boot got me right on the bridge of the nose and that hurts like hell.
When I stand up and turn around, he gives another one, this one from a standing position. Kid’s got great athleticism, no doubt. He goes for a pin but I easily throw his 200 pounds off me after a one count. He quickly locks in a headlock and tries grinding on me. It hurts a bit, but not much. His pencil thin arms can’t squeeze too much, but still it stings. I get him into a standing position and throw him into the ropes. Displaying a tad of athleticism myself, I drop to my stomach and he leaps over me, flying to the other side.
As I stand and turn, he surprises me with a cross body block that drops me for a two count. That was close. He hauls me up by my hair and tosses me into the turnbuckle and pounces, climbing up and punching me as the crowd counts. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. His punches actually hurt but as he looks to his adoring fans for approval, I grab him below the ass and drop him on my knee, ending his momentum and giving me a chance to regain my senses. I needed to rest for a few minutes and sap his strength so I slapped on a reverse chin lock. Locked it in and left it. I could feel Chaz weakening in my grip but I didn’t let up. He started kicking his right leg, trying to give himself some momentum. The morons in the crowd took that as a sign to start clapping in rhythm. That in turn got Chaz going. Vicious cycle. I grinded even more under his neck but now his arms were pumping too.
He managed to get his feet but I maintained my grip. Sick of his actions, I pulled him down by the waistband of his purple trunks, dropping him to his back while the crowd jeered. The ref asked if I pulled his trunks.
“I didn’t touch his panties, ref,” I said.
Back to the chinlock, sapping more strength. Taking his young guy’s energy from him, bringing him down to my level. I finally let him go but his reward was a rake to his beautiful eyes. Throwing him to the ropes, I greet him with a patented clothesline, that hits him right on the neck. why not work that neck a bit more? I lift the babyface up by his neck, gripping it, choking the life out of him. His eyes bulge and he tries slipping his fingers under mine to relieve the pressure. He’s so light I could hold him up there all day, but the ref is counting to five now and I release him at four. Don’t want to be disqualified, after all.
He’s on his stomach now, that purple pantied ass just staring me in the face. I can’t take it anymore, I need to grip them again. Deliberately, I scoop him up by the back, pulling up on the waistband about five inches, exposing his crack to the crowd facing him and lifting him up. Slowly, so he really feels the trunks being pulled up. He haplessly reaches back with his hands trying to stop it but when you’re controlling a man by his trunks, he’s really helpless, especially when he’s still struggling to breathe. I pull him back so he’s up against my crotch and I’ll admit I was hard by this time. Having this 19-year-old pansy who’s adored by all the girls at my mercy turned me on. What to do with him, what to do? I pushed him forward but hung on to the trunks and elbowed him in the small of the back. By now he had a thong and I let him fall. The crowd gave a big pop as his trunks remained up his rear and in full view of the Global Dome crowd – and the ESPN audience – he reached back and pulled them out. don’t know why, cause I wasn’t done with them.
I gave him a kick in the ass, like he was an old dog I’d tired of. Then another, pushing him toward the ropes. One more sent him sprawling out onto the floor, in front of his fans who kept telling him to “Get up Chaz! You can do it! Kick that old man’s ass!”
Now it was time to veer off our script, just a bit. Or a lot actually. I grabbed Chaz by the hair – seriously, can you imagine gripping those locks while fucking him from behind? I can. I have – and marched over to the TV announcers table. I pushed the monitors off the table, which I’m sure cost a few hundred bucks while the announcers yelled at me, asking what the hell I was doing. I scooped Chaz up like a child and slammed him onto the wood. This was a cheap table and I knew splinters stuck out. Hopefully some wood lodged on his back. He groaned and moaned but didn’t move. Couldn’t move. The announcers were now standing although still broadcasting through my reign of terror. Regular Edward R. Murrows here.
I pulled the table a bit closer to the ring. I don’t know, guess I had a bit of Cactus Jack flowing through my blood. I climbed to the apron and did a splash onto Chaz and the table, which shattered, much like Chaz’s insides.
I didn’t give him anytime to recover and took him by the back of the trunks and provided him with another thong, firing him into the ring. He was so dazed I noticed he didn’t reach back to adjust them. Time to put him out of his misery.
Superplex is my preferred finisher but I love me a good piledriver. I placed Chaz between my legs and had him bent over, giving the crowd a perfect look at his wedgied ass. I just stood there for about 30 seconds, letting the kid know what was coming, letting the crowd know it was over, the villain was going to win. There was no justice in this world. Reaching under his stomach, I lifted, his thonged ass now in my face. Could have bit it. I held him for 10 seconds and then jumped as high as I could. I’m not Michael Jordan but I have some ups. I came crashing down and I know his head got hammered on the canvas.
I covered the nearly unconscious hippie and got the three count. Good times. But I wasn’t done yet. I pushed Chaz onto his stomach so we could all see his ass one more time. Now for my surprise. Before the crowd arrived that day, I stashed some yellow paint in a bottle and a paintbrush under the ring. Now I retrieved it and marched back in. Chaz and his thong greeted me as I stared at the crowd and demanded that the ring announcer come in. With him holding the mic at my face, I yelled, “I’m going to show all of you right now who the yellow coward is in this ring. Here’s your hero everyone!”
With that I poured pain on Chaz’s spine and took the brush, painting a big yellow stripe from his purple waistband up to his neck. Later on the ESPN broadcast, I heard the announcers screaming, “What kind of humiliation is this? Who does Billy Butcher think he is, embarrassing this kid like this? There’s no place in pro wrestling for this kind of action! This is a disgrace! Look at that yellow paint on CHaz’s back!”
As I watched it back in my room, I came at the moment he said look at the yellow paint on his back. Yeah, I jerk off to my conquests. And watching Chaz’s thonged ass, seeing my own boner in my black trunks, and seeing that paint on his back, exposing him, ridiculing him, marking him, labeling him…that’s a turn on.
FEBRUARY 13, 1994
Six-man tag matches are always weird. Seems to be too many guys all bunched together. But McMahon wants this team of The Mountie and The Big Bossman to be the new bullies on the block and he thought it’d be fun to pair them with me, another bully. They’re like a Law Enforcement guys gone bad type of thing, complete with cuffs, nightsticks, cattle prods and big egos. I’m sure police love the PR of having these guys break the law and bones. Both are mean sons of bitches too.
So today it’s a little six-man squash between us and Chris Hawn, Todd Overbow and Ross Greenberg. Couldn’t have picked three better pussies for us to stomp on. As we got ready in the locker room, Bossman and Mountie put their gear together. I noticed Bossman put in two sets of cuffs and the Mountie one so we were going to have enough handcuffs for everyone, it looked like.
I walked over to the jobber area of the locker room and saw McMahon with our sissy opponents: Hawn in lime green trunks he was self-consciously already adjusting, Overbow in skimpy, thin, high-waisted purple ones and Greenberg in delicious pink trunks. McMahon told all three to lower their trunks and turn toward the lockers. Each boy meekly agreed as Vince pulled out three butt plugs from their plastic containers. “Picked these up especially for you girls,” he told them. “And even better? They vibrate. I’ll be ringside commentating and will have the controls. Should be a fun match.”
Each boy moaned as they were fitted for their respective plug.
“Let it in, let it in sissy,” Vince commanded the 21-year-old Hawn, who looked like he’d just gotten off the turnip truck. Vince pulled Hawn’s trunks up and repeated the procedure with the other two jobbers. He had three controllers and played with each one. You could tell which one he used because the jobber would bounce around on his feet as his ass filled with the sensation that was simultaneously degrading and turning him on. Greenberg especially seemed to be reacting as a dollop of precum stained his pink trunks while his body shivered and McMahon chuckled. McMahon walked away, leaving his three plugged jobber prisoners together. They finally looked up and saw that I’d just witnessed their degradation and I smirked while turning to tell Bossman and the Mountie that today’s match got even more fun.
Half hour later, we stood as the three jobbers hopped up and down in their corner, trying to grin through the humiliation of being in front of the crowd in their little trunks. McMahon was ringside with Bobby Heenan and I could see the three controllers next to him on the announcer’s table. Greenberg had the unfortunate task of starting the match against the Bossman, who immediately tossed him into the ropes and caught his attempted flying body block. As he walked around with him like a sack of flour, I saw Vince twist one of the controllers and Greenberg started thrashing a bit on Bossman’s big daddy like arms. Bossman just grinned because he knew what was happening. He lightly tapped Ross on the rear and could feel the jobber’s clit growing a bit in the trunks against his stomach. He took a tour of the ring holding the pink pansy and finally tagged me in. I walked in and crouched down while holding one knee out. Bossman pressed Greenberg by the trunks and dropped him onto my knee. I could hear the buzzing going off after he landed on the mat.
This time I picked him up and carried him around before tagging the Mountie, who also put his knee down as I lifted Ross by his trunks for a press and drop stomach-first onto the Canadian’s leg. Ross finally rolled over and tagged in Todd Overbow, who leaped over the top rope to try and attack the Mountie. But Mountie pulled Todd by the front of the trunks, face first into our corner, where Bossman wrapped the string that hangs in the turnbuckle around his throat,while I delivered devastating knees to his back and the Mountie punched him in the front. Bossman tagged in and suplexed Overbow. As he held him up in the air for about 10 seconds, Vince picked up the other controller and flicked it on. As Overbow dangled in front of 5,000 grinning fans – one of whom, a girl of about 18 I’d already heard tell her boyfriend,”Have you ever seen three fags like these guys in trunks?” – Overbow’s legs started shaking as his ass vibrated. Bossman held him up a few more seconds before dropping him. He tagged me in but the Mountie came in as well. What was the ref going to do, arrest us for violating the rules of a tag team match?
Bossman threw him in and stepped out of the way while Mountie and I linked hands and clotheslined the mulleted jobber boy. I tossed him back into his own corner so Chris Hawn could come in. But the sissy refused. Overbow tagged him and Hawn stood there, shaking his head. He looked like he wanted to piss his pants. But he got distracted for a second when McMahon flicked on his vibrator. When I saw his legs buckle, I ran over, grabbed him by his blonde hair and pulled him over the top rope while he yelled, “Don’t hurt me, please!”
I kicked him in the back of the head for uttering such a ridiculous phrase. As I worked over Hawn, the Bossman pulled Greenberg in by the hair and the Mountie attacked Overbow before he could get out. We each took our jobber to a corner, stood on a rope and punched the ever living shit out of our man. The crowd really seemed to be enjoying it, like they would cheer against us if we were individually out here, but they just couldn’t bring themselves to cheer for the collection of three jobbers in tiny trunks who were being dominated in front of them. You’d think they’d want to give them hugs or coddle them but they seemed to be enjoying our humiliation of the trio. We each fired our boy into the center of the ring where they met in a three-jobber collision. As they laid there, I saw McMahon pick up all three controllers and turn them on. Each boy flopped on the ground as we put the boots to them.
Now we could put them away. We positioned each man on his stomach. I stood behind Hawn and could see the plug actually moving inside his green trunks. I took it in for several seconds as he comically kept reaching back to touch his butt, as if he was going to, what, pull the damn thing out? We had them situated so Hawn’s face was inches away from Overbows and to the side of them was Greenberg, also inches away. All on their stomachs, practically humping the mats as the plugs controlled their movements. A jobber triangle. We each latched on a camel clutch, pulling back as far as we could so the screams could be heard throughout the arena. Their open faces were inches from each other and they were forced to stare into each other’s eyes as their necks were peeled back by the heinous heels.
I could feel Hawn buckling under me and I saw the other jobbers doing the same. When they finally gave in we kept the moves locked on for another minute, until the refs begged us to let them go. When we did, we turned the boys on their backs and could see, quite clearly, as could the camera, that each had put a little puddle of jobber juice into their satin trunks. All came as we decimated them with the camel clutches, the pleasure mixing with the pain, humiliation, and feel of the trunks on their ass and balls. Hawn tried covering up his shame while Greenberg massaged his neck and the jobber jizz spread up the front of his trunks. Wonder what their girlfriends thought back home?
Mountie and Bossman then pulled out their handcuffs. Each cuffed a jobber and they all laid their on the mat, cuffed behind their backs, plugged, covered in ejaculate. Mountie gave each one a shock with the cattle prod and they flailed up and down. I stood up Hawn and frog-marched him around the ring, showing him off to all four sides of the crowd while Bossman and Mountie did the same with their boy. None of them could do anything to cover up their groins. Even though they’d cum, McMahon again turned on the plugs so their asses vibrated while we led them around in a ring of shame. I held Hawn by the hair and heard him groaning. A few people in the front rows could see the stained trunks, especially on Greenberg’s pink panties and Hawn’s briefs. Finally we all flung our man over the top rope, dangerous moves because they could not break their fall at all, not with their arms cuffed behind their backs. Each hit the floor with a plop and laid their in
agony while we walked past and into the locker room.
I took a long shower. Rubbed myself just a bit thinking of the three jobbers we’d just manhandled. When I walked out, I had a surprise waiting for me. Our three jobbers all their again. They’d been uncuffed and then recuffed and rearranged, like art pieces. All three had their trunks yanked down to their knees. Hawn and Greenberg faced each other, their hands cuffed behind the other’s back so they were basically stomach to stomach, jobber cock touching jobber cock. Overbow was cuffed behind Greenberg, so his cock was against Ross’s ass. What a sight.
Bossman was berating all three of them, telling them what weakless pussies they were. How could they allow themselves to be treated like this? Were they men or sissies?
“I know you guys are all scared,” Mountie said in his Canadian accent. Maybe Chris and Ross should kiss to make each other feel better.” The two jobbers met their lips and kissed while Bossman gave stage directions. He told Overbow to grind his cock a bit against Ross’s ass crack while the other two jobbers kissed like long-lost lovers.
I had a thing for Chris so went behind him. God that ass. I pulled his cheeks apart and he pulled away from Ross’s lips but I punished that transgression with a slap to the back of the head. I pulled out the poopy plug in his ass and it emerged with a plop. He groaned as the invader left his rectum. I told Chris to lift his legs and step out of the green spandex trunks. He finally obeyed.
Bunching the trunks up, I ordered Chris to spread his legs slightly and I crammed them up his ass, giving him a nice little green il. I loved the site of the trunks dangling out of his ass, like a little ponyboy or something. He groaned.
“Clench those cheeks boy,” I said into his ear. “If your tail falls out, I’m going to send you home with no teeth.”
Under Bossman’s orders, Overbow started to fuck Greenberg from behind while I made Hawn high-step with his new green tail. I laughed my ass off. All three jobber boys had tears rolling down his eyes. Not sure who had it worse. PRobably Greenberg, he was being fucked after all. Then again, I’m sure Overbow had never had his cock in another man’s ass, and Hawn had to endure the humiliation of parading like a show pony while kissing another man, while his jobber cock rubbed against Greenberg’s ever-hardening dick.
As I said, what a sight. I got dressed and walked out. As I did, Mountie and Bossman were still belittling and manhandling the boys, making sure each one got a chance to be fucked by the other. Jobber love at its finest.
APRIL 18, 1995
No, kidding. Well, this is the final entry, at least for this portion of my life. I’ve had to retire as a wrestler at the age of 37. It’s okay. Too many neck injuries, too many disc problems. I’m going to become a promoter and that will be fun too. Now I’ll be the guy sizing up little wannabes and turning them into wrestling jobbers. I’ll pick out their trunks, come up with their stories and their humiliations. It will be all right. But won’t be as fun as being a heel. Nothing’s as fun as dominating and degrading young punks in trunks.
Here are some of the matches that inspired some of the matches in this story.