Hey all. Finally a new story (I know, I know). Hope you enjoy. Throughout the text I put some videos of some of the people I write about or matches that inspired (I’ve posted some of them before but oldies are always goodies). Thanks for reading.
They come by the hundreds. Fans stream in. Men, women, teenagers, children, grannies, grandpas, cripples.
The giant banner over the front of the Atlanta Convention Center announces the show: WELCOME TO JOBBER CON.
It’s an annual event. Three days of jobbers. Three days of squashes. Three days of heels. Three days of humiliation. Three days of skimpy trunks. Three days of hair-pulling. Three days of screams. Three days of claws. Three days of body slams. Three days of suplexes. Three days of jobbers in bondage. Three days of plugged and gagged jobbers. Three days of seminars devoted to what makes jobbers tick and why do they make so many people hard? Three days of ruthless promoters putting hot jobber boys through the paces in front of crowds, who alternate between adoring and sneering. Three days backstage where promoters fuck and face fuck jobbers, whether they’re willing or not.
Atlanta beat out New York City and Las Vegas for the rights to host Jobber Con. New York offered up the Javits Center and organizers wrote in their proposal about the city’s long relationship with WWF wrestling at Madison Square Garden. Las Vegas touted its night life and the fact if some hillbilly found a jobber fag he wanted to marry, he could do it at one of the city’s thousand chapels. But it had to be Atlanta. For years the city hosted NWA and then WCW Saturday Night Events, when jobber after jobber was trotted out in front of blood-hungry crowds, all decked out in their skimpy trunks while being embarrassed by the likes of Arn Anderson, Tully Blanchard, Kevin Sullivan and Barry Windham. Atlanta has the rednecks who loved seeing the jobber boys slapped and kicked. Atlanta it was.
Here then, scenes, moments, vignettes and more from Jobber Con.
The jobbers are kept in a giant pen in a corner of the convention during the day. It’s big and has bars and can hold dozens of trunks-wearing jobber boys. It probably violates the Geneva Convention, what with openly displaying prisoners like this, parading them in front of others for no purpose other than humiliation. When a jobber is needed – whether for a match, or a vendor, or a game, or a display or a blowjob – he’s simply summoned. He walks to the designated spot with a guard and walks through the masses in his trunks and boots and kneepads, mingling with people who are wearing real, regular clothes. One time Bryan Walsh was tripped by a frat boy who then kicked him in the gut three times. Felt like the pledge days again. The jobbers take it, until the guard yanks him up by his trunks and frog marches to his designated area.
Often they’ll self-consciously reach back to adjust their trunks as they walk and they ride up their ass and they must endure the wolf whistles wherever they go. Anyone walking past is allowed to slap them in the ass. They endure taunts from the customers: “Hey, buddy, you look real tough in your green panties.” “They’re trunks,” the jobber might respond. “Sure.” People often just sit outside the pen to watch the jobbers in their prison. Many are restrained inside of the bars, the worst offenders are forced to sit on a dildo chair, ball-gagged, near the front of the cage, while others are simply cuffed to the bars. Once out of the cage, they can try to escape out the door but it’s hopeless. That’s why you see Reno Riggins hanging from a net above one exit. It caught him and his orange trunks as he fled, scooping him up like the humans in Planet of the Apes. Now he hangs there, dangling for all to see, the subject of pokes and prods from passersby who gawk at the captured jobber.Those who are called to vendors are subject to other forms of restraint, whether it’s stockades or shackling.
A big main ring is the centerpiece of the convention floor, that’s where many events – such as the jobber panel – take place and it’s where the convention ends with two hours of Squashapalooza, nothing but squash matches between your favorite heels and favorite jobbers. For this ring, there are about six rows of chairs set up around it, so it sort of resembles the old NWA TBS studio in Atlanta, where so many jobber memories were made. But in other corners of the convention floor are smaller rings, where normal people can beat up any jobber they want and old heels give advice to young heels about how to beat up and humiliate jobber fags. The rest of the convention floor is filled with vendors and games and screens showing nonstop jobber action.
HILLBILLY KICKS TOMMY ANGEL’S ASS
One of the great things about Jobber Con is that fans can beat up the jobbers they’ve always dreamed of beating up. Pay a fee and get a smaller ring with any jobber you like. It’s the standard 10-minute time limit. All matches are recorded, so the wannabe wrestlers can watch time and time again as they use and bully jobber boys. A ref stands in the ring too, making it as close to a real squash match as possible. The jobbers loathe these moments. It’s bad enough being destroyed by heels like Terry Funk and Hercules, but to have the Average Joe Plumber do it adds a level of embarrassment.
One of these matches saw a giant hillbilly hick named Jim Bob beat the shit out of Tommy Angel, in his angelic white trunks. Jim Bob comes from West Virginia. He’s 6-5, 275 pounds and a farmer. He brought his fat wife and 10-year-old son along with, as well as his 16-year-old twin daughters, who are all here to see Daddy beat up a jobber fairy. Jim Bob grew up watching squash matches and was always a tough ol’ boy. He played offensive lineman in high school and never lost a fight as an adult and when he got drunk he liked to fight and he liked to get drunk. His wife got him a ticket to Jobber Con for his 40th birthday and so here they are. The kids sit in three chairs next to the ring while his wife Sue Lynn stands outside the apron like a valet. Tommy is nervous as he climbs into the ring to face the ogre, who’s wearing bib overalls and big boots. Tobacco drips out of his mouth and Tommy notices the guy is missing most of his front teeth. Maybe I can somehow surprise him, Tommy thinks to himself. This big dumb fuck has never been in the ring with a real wrestler. Yes, the jobbers are supposed to lose and let the civilians have their way but nothing says he can’t get some shots in, maybe humiliate this asshole in front of his wife and kids.
The ref brings the men to the center and checks them for foreign objects. Jim Bob smirks at Tommy in his white trunks. Angel tries to seize the momentum from the bell and springs off the ropes, delivering a hard shoulder to the big man, who Tommy thinks might just be a big softie, despite appearances. He’s wrong. Jim Bob barely moves as Angel’s shoulder drills him in the chest. Angel flies off the ropes on the other side and a second shoulder has the same effect. Finally, on the third time, Jim Bob has had enough and greets the pansy in white spandex with a giant boot to the face, which he raises at just the right moment and catches Angel flat on the cheek. The jobber plummets to the ground, seeing stars. Jim Bob turns to face his family and his wife is already jumping up and down. She’s seen her man beat up idiots in the bar but nothing like this.
Jim Bob lets Tommy rise to his feet and as Tommy contemplates his next move, the hillbilly sticks out one of his giant paws – the type that can kill a chicken in a second – and grasps Tommy by the throat. Tommy spits up and tries to wrench the arm off his neck while Jim Bob squeezes the air out of Tommy. With just one powerful arm, he lifts Tommy up off the ground and flings him backward and again turns to his wife and kids, who are cheering in the front row. The boy especially is so proud of his papa and the daughters, both the best looking girls in their class, giggle at how their old man is dominating a real pro wrestler. A few other conventioneers have gathered as Jim Bob stands over Tommy and spits tobacco juice on his white back. Now he pulls up Tommy by his blonde locks and throws him into the ropes. As Tommy bounces off them Jim Bob sticks his right arm out in a devastating clothesline. Angel somersaults in the air and lands on his head. He’s shocked at the big man’s strength and ability to deliver these blows. Any thought of offense he had are now gone, replaced by a desire to survive without permanent injury. Who knows what this hillbilly fuck will want to do with him. Pathetically, Angel throws two weak punches into Jim Bob’s stomach while on his knees and again Jim Bob barely registers them. He keeps Angel on his knees and grasps him by the hair, a position he’s had his wife in thousands of times. He looks at her and can tell she’s thinking the same thing because she’s brought her hands to her mouth. Oh god, she wonders, does Jim Bob want a blowjob from this fairy in white? And why does the idea of it make her kind of hot? Instead Jim Bob pulls Tommy up and lifts him up for a bodyslam. Finally he gets to feel the satin white trunks in his hands and he holds Tommy in the position for several seconds before pulling down, revealing just the top of Tommy’s crack. When he slams him, Angel’s carcass hits with a powerful thud and Jim Bob follows it with two boots to the stomach, followed by one to the face. Tommy could almost swear he still smells pig manure on the boots but he puts it out of his mind.
Now Jim Bob pulls Tommy up by the rear waistband and as he stands him up gives him a nice little wedgie, the type he used to give the nerds back in high school, back when he was king shit. Tommy cries out, “aah,” as Jim Bob fires him over the top rope, where Angel lands at the feet of Jim Bob’s kids. The girls move their legs just in time to avoid being drilled by the flying jobber and as Tommy lays on his stomach in front of them one of the girls screams out, “Oh my god, wedgie!” The other one snickers and buries her head into her sister’s shoulder while the boy takes his box of popcorn and fires it at Tommy’s head. It tasted like shit anyway. The kernels nestle in Tommy’s hair as he tries to find his bearings. He reaches back and picks out one side of his trunks from the ass and this brings out more giggles from the girls, who remind him, “Forgot a side big guy.” He gets the other one out and lays there, moaning.
“Jenny, Jessica, throw his pansy ass back in here,” Jim Bob bellows from inside the ring to his two lovely girls. The girls stand up and try to figure out how to get this 210-pound man back into the ring. Gingerly, each takes a hold of Tommy by the back of the trunks and they slowly bring him up to his feet. “Stand up, tough guy,” one of the girls says while their mom looks on with pride. The girls slowly march Tommy over to the ring and his work to free his earlier wedgie is now all for naught. Each girl takes a glance down at his exposed cheeks and when they make eye contact while holding him they again burst out into laughter. Their little brother is recording all of it with his phone and they can’t wait to put this on Facebook. When they fire him back under the ring, Tommy lays at Jim Bob’s feet, again wedgied, his lips touching Jim Bob’s dirty boots.
Jim Bob takes Tommy again by his kernel-polluted hair and scoops him up, dropping him throat-first onto the top rope, sending Tommy flying backward. As Tommy rises and turns he’s greeted by another big clothesline by the hillbilly, who, like Hulk Hogan, isn’t the most technical adept wrestler but knows how to deliver the big blows. When Tommy finds himself flying off the ropes again, it’s a back body drop that greets him in mid ring, Jim Bob putting every last ounce of strength he has into throwing the jobber to the top of the ceiling, or so it seems. Hoping to work the jobber’s back just a bit more before putting him out of his misery in the allotted 10 minutes, Jim Bob slaps a devastating bearhug on Tommy, who is devoid of pride now and screams. As he tries to lessen the pain, he finds his legs wrapping around Jim Bob’s waist and he hangs off the mat. Jim Bob clinches in, cruelly sucking the wind out of the jobber. The ref lifts Tommy’s hands once, then twice but Jim Bob releases Tommy before a third time would end the match. He doesn’t want Tommy going out in submission. Tommy is now motionless on his stomach, his wedgied ass still on full display. Jim Bob pulls him up again by the white trunks and lifts Tommy up into what appears to be an atomic drop. Instead he sets the boy on the top turnbuckle, so Tommy is facing outward, his back to the ring.
Showing surprising agility for a hillbilly his size, Billy Bob climbs to the second rope and lifts Tommy up off the turnbuckle. He falls backward, dropping Tommy on his upper back and neck. Jim Bob feels the impact himself but Tommy is knocked cold by the high-impact maneuver. Just to be safe, Jim Bob scoops Tommy’s right leg so his ass is even more visible to Jim Bob’s family. The ref counts to one and two and three. But Jim Bob asks him to count to 10. He saw King Kong BUndy do that on TV once and he wants to do it. So the ref obliges. Hecould count to 100, as Gorilla Monsoon might say, and it wouldn’t matter. He stands up as the ref raises his arm in victory. Tommy is still knocked out as Jim Bob’s family climbs into the ring to stand next to their father and the vanquished jobber piece of meat. A cleanup crew arrives and loads Tommy onto a stretcher. He’ll be taken back to the pen, where a doctor will make sure he’s not dead. Provided he is still living, he’ll be given an hour to recuperate, then will be back in action, whether it’s at a game or a vending spot or in a squash with a real wrestler or a match against a redneck or a racist or a hillbilly or a gay dude on a power trip. The cleanup crew carries him out on the stretcher ass up, so all who see him on the convention floor see Tommy’s horrific wedgie. It’s a final indignity, but one Tommy isn’t even aware of.
The main offices for the promoters are tucked away from the main floor and that’s where some of the true debauchery happens. Vince McMahon, Watson, Ole Anderson, Vern Gagne and Jim Crockett were some of the main organizers of the event, along with some shadowy figures in the wrestling world. Whenever they want, a jobber is summoned from the pen and brought to them. There’s Chris Hawn in the corner, his lime green spandex trunks around his knees, his ass red from the over the knee spanking Ole just delivered. Head bowed, he weeps until one of the promoters tells him to shut up. When the cries continue, Hawn is silenced with duct-tape that’s wrapped around his head several times. In another part of the room, Jim Crockett has Ben Jordan bent over his desk. Ben’s green trunks have been kicked off in a frenzy and Crockett is ramming his 8-inch dick into the jobber’s ass, while he pulls back on his hair like he’s a good pony. Other deviants wander in and out of the office, whether looking for a blowjob from a jobber or just the chance to slap one around. McMahon sits at his desk holding court, while Gary Jackson, the famous black jobber, sits under the desk, wearing his red trunks, his mouth sucking on Vince’s cock. Vince makes the jobber pull off whenever he’s getting close to cumming and then has him come back for more. On the floor, Watson has come up with the genius idea to have Mike Davis and Mark Star on all fours, their asses separated by a foot or so. He’s found a double-sided dildo and one end is in each jobber’s ass. They sit on all fours obediently unless ordered to shake once in awhile, fucking each other as they do. The horny promoters all take pictures and pose the jobbers in various forms. Davis finally pulls forward and the dildo slides out of his jobber partner’s ass. In another corner, Joey Maggs is roped up and hanging like a hog over a spigot, trussed up while wearing his orange trunks, an apple stuffed into his mouth. He just prays these crazy fucks aren’t actually planning on barbecuing him.
It’s quite the scene. As McMahon finishes his blowjob and shoots all over Jackson’s face, he contemplates whether they should sell some backstage passes to next year’s event. Let the public see what goes on in this room, and let them participate. Maybe charge 500 bucks. It’s a thought.
At mid-afternoon of the final day, hundreds gather near the main ring for a jobber panel, moderated by Jim Ross. The fans sit in the chairs, the first row sitting no more than five feet from the ring apron. A microphone is set up near the front and any fan who wants to ask a question of the jobbers or Ross are asked to walk to the mic so everyone can hear the question.
Once the crowd’s all seated, Ross introduces the panelists:
“Ladies and gentlemen. Our first jobber made a name for himself in the early 1990s with a series of matches on WWF television that earned him the nickname King of the Wedgies. Wearing his red trunks against the Barbarian, he was yanked up while outside the ring, and a few weeks later, in those same trunks – though they had been washed of the cum stains he spilled in them after the Barbarian match – he had them lodged into a thong by The Million Dollar Man Ted Dibiase and his valet, Virgil. Then he switched to red, white and blue trunks, a patriotic sort. He soon suffered wedgies against the Nasty Boys and IRS. But his greatest match, his greatest humiliation, came against Mr. Perfect, in satiny lime green trunks, which were yanked up his ass into a permanent thong, while the crowd, announcers and ref laughed. The announcers even commented on it. He disappeared shortly after. But here he is folks, we tracked him down in Minnesota and brought him to Atlanta in the back of a van, gagged with his old red trunks. Ladies and gentlemen, Red Tyler!”
A curtain from behind the ring opens and Ron Simmons walks out, with Red Tyler draped over his shoulder, ass sticking up in the air. He’s wearing the green trunks for this ceremony and Simmons, the great black heel, has a possessive hand on the jobber’s tight ass. He pats Red’s rump occasionally, as if he owns it or is trying to calm the jobber down. Red is now gagged with duct tape, his hands cuffed behind his bag. As Simmons approaches the mat apron, he deposits Tyler from the outside and rolls him under the bottom rope before climbing back in. Simmons rips the tape off Red’s mouth, bringing out a cry. He pulls a key out from the front of his black tights and unlocks the cuffs, which a Jobber Con lackey scoops up. They’ll be needed later.
As Red, finally freed from the bondage he’s suffered since he was scooped off the street in an unmarked van, crawls on all fours, Simmons delivers a boot to his back.
“Why don’t you put him into the corner,” Ross says into the mic.
Simmons drags Red up by the hair and holds him there for several seconds, pointing a finger at Red while lecturing him about what’s to come. He then reaches under Tyler’s crotch and scoops him up with ease into what looks like a bodyslam. He pulls the silky green trunks down a bit, exposing about two inches of Red’s crack. He holds him there and walks around the ring, making sure people on all sides of the ring get a sight of the jobber’s ass. Sprinting toward a turnbuckle, Simmons rams Red’s back into a corner before hooking his feet, putting him in perfect position for a tree of woe. Two kicks to the stomach, followed by four seconds of his black boot planted on Red’s throat, silences the jobber’s thrashing. Red hangs there, helplessly, like a piece of meat in the butcher shop.
“Our next jobber,” Ross begins again, “was one of the better looking jobbers we ever did see in these parts. He was tall, muscular, built like a greek god. He probably should have been a champ. All-American guy. Unfortunately he’s sort of a big dummy, a dumb jock with a 10-cent brain leading that million dollar body. Thousands – millions – of you jerked off to this guy being dominated each week, often in little blue trunks that left little to the imagination. Ladies and gentlemen, Bob Emory!”
A loud roar goes up from the crowd as Bad News Brown steps out from the curtain, dragging Bob Emory on a leash. Emory, wearing his dark blue trunks that have already been lodged up one side of his ass after Bad News threw him onto the ground behind the curtain, crawls on all fours, a black dog collar attached to his neck. Bad News smokes a cigar as he strolls toward the ring, wearing his classic black trunks, the trunks he always wore when kicking the shit out of white pansies in the ring.
In the front row, a 45-year-old who flew to the event from North Dakota slowly rubs the front of his shorts, trying not to be too obvious about the raging erection or the fact he could cum right now in about 20 seconds. How many times did he watch Bob Emory get dominated and used on those old TBS broadcasts? It was so lonely in North Dakota, how many other jobber fanatics were there in the 1980s who could have shared his love. He drove down to Atlanta hoping to see Emory get used and abused and here he is in the front row, Emory no more than three feet away, ass sticking out, leashed. Emory’s back is all red from the kicks he received in the locker room prior to being collared.
Bad News pulls it tightly as Emory crawls like the jobber dog he is. Bad News would love to have a kennel of jobbers back in his home. Keep them all in cages, in their trunks or naked. Feed them out of dog bowls, feed them dog food right out of the can. Maybe some doggy tail buttplugs. Take them for walks out in the yard, make them do their business there, right in front of the neighbors, hit them with a newspaper, put them back in their cages, muzzle them for the night so he can sleep in peace while they curl up in their prison. The only TV they’d ever watch is old tapes of their jobber matches when they were beaten up or old Bad News matches when he delivered his patented kicks to the back of the head. Brainwash them into being some type of jobber dog slave zombies, whose only sexual pleasure would come when he allows them to suck each other off or breed each other once a month. Take them out once a day for an ass-kicking in his private ring.
Today Bad News just has Emory on his leash and he takes a tour around the entire ring, giving all sides a chance to see Emory up close. He approaches the first row of chairs on one side and asks an overweight woman in the first row if she wants to kick the jobber. Her husband gives her the go-ahead. Bad News yanks the leash so Emory rises to just his knees, his posture straight, his body exposed. The woman winds up and kicks him in the chest and Bob falls backward, which Bad News allows by giving some on the leash. Bad News gives him time – 5 seconds – to recover and then pulls him again. Emory again walks on hands and knees on the concrete convention floor.
“Get his ass in here, Bad News,” Ross finally says.
Bad News drops the leash, reaches down and grasps Emory by the rear of his trunks. He slowly pulls up and now both sides of Bob’s trunks are up his ass as the crowd pops its approval. Bad News shoves him under the ring and Emory reaches back to adjust the wedgie, it’s the only thing he has control over at this point in his life. Bad News steps in, cigar still in his mouth and kicks Emory in the ass to get him moving a bit. He pulls the beleaguered jobber up by his hair and marches him to the ropes, where he twists his arms with the top and middle one until Emory is effectively immobilized, the collar still in place, the leash dangling. Two big boots to the midsection calm him and before he leaves, Bad News touches the jobber’s shoulder with his cigar, bringing a cry from the jobber’s gorgeous mouth. Just a touch, though, he doesn’t want to leave too big of a scar.
Once Emory is secured, Ross bellows again: “Our final jobber on this panel is a good-looking kid who was a good black jobber. Well I think he was black. Ron Cumberledge, folks. Sometimes called Ron Cumberland. All I know for sure is that a lot of people and heels cummed over him. He sometimes wore blue trunks, occasionally purple, but our favorite is pink. Here he is, Ron…Cumbersomething.”
The giant Papa Shango emerges from behind the curtain, with Cumberledge – decked out in his pink trunks – draped over his back in a backbreaker, which was always Shango’s setup to his devastating shoulder breaker. Cumberledge is screaming as they walk to the ring, his back being bent in half. With his crotch up in the air for all to see, Cumberledge’s cock can be clearly seen, outlined against the front of the pink panty-like material. The girls in the audience are especially impressed by the package, although the thought of a jobber being man enough to stick his dick in a girl’s pussy is fairly laughable. Still, they wouldn’t mind seeing what’s under those pink trunks.
Cumberledge waves his arms wildly but the tattooed monster holding him simply cranks a bit more on the backbreaker and the screams increase. As Papa gets to the apron, he realizes he can’t step into the ring with his victim like this so on the concrete, in front of the fans, he drops Cumberledge into the famous shoulderbreaker. Cumberledge’s body spasms as it hits the concrete while Ross helpfully adds over the microphone, “That’s gotta hurt.”
Cumberledge rubs his shoulder and his lower back. Too bad he can’t make his pride feel all better. In the front row a young man in his 20s yells out “Get up you pink pansy,” and his drunk friends laugh and hoot, not knowing their friend is simply hiding the desires he’s had for so long to be in Cumberledge’s position. Call it classic self-loathing, or call it simply someone loving to see a muscleheaded jobber in pink get the shit kicked out of him.
As the jobber lays flat on his stomach in front of him, Shango reaches down and lifts up on the rear of his trunks a good eight inches, exposing his crack to those who can peer down Cumberledge’s trunks. Shango just stands like that for a few seconds, letting everyone get a good look, letting the men and women get their pictures with their iPhones that they will transfer to youtube in a few hours. Cumberledge just wishes Shango would yank him up and get it over with. Yes, he’d get a severe wedgie but at least the top of his ass would no longer be exposed. Shango seems lost in thought – is he doing some voodoo? Actually he’s thinking of how sweet it would be to pull down the jobber’s panties right here, right now and fuck him in front of everyone but now’s not the time. Finally he pulls up hard and Cumberledge is yanked to his feet, the pink trunks rising into his ass, putting him basically in a thong. Shango again holds him there for a few seconds with one powerful hand before he fires him into the ropes. He quickly pounces on the jobber before he can yank the wedgie free.
The only bad thing about Cumberledge is his buzzcut, which makes him look like a wannabe marine. Nothing to grasp onto. Except the trunks. Shango again lifts him by the back and brings the jobber to his feet and eventually his tippy-toes, a jobber ballerina being paraded in the center of the ring in front of the audience, an upside down Red Tyler and a roped Bob Emory. Shango looks for direction from Ross.
“God damn it, where’d that kid go with the cuffs? Damn it. Papa, hold him there.”
Shango does just that, right in the center of the ring, near Ross’s podium, maintaining his grasp. Cumberledge would like to fight but he knows it’s pointless. Instead he stands there, feeling the trunks lodge up his ass and touch his prostate, a jobber’s G-spot. A bit of precum appears on the front of Cumberledge’s trunks, staining them slightly.
Ross now bellows into the mic: “Would the Mountie please report to Main Ring immediately. Mountie to the main ring.” The crowd buzzes and looks around, waiting for Canada’s finest police officer. What do they need him for? Finally he strides up, out from the locker room, in his police outfit. As he climbs in, Ross tells him, “Cuff and shackle this jobber.”
The arrogant Mountie strides over to Cumberledge and Shango and looks the jobber boy up and down and the leaking cock doesn’t go unnoticed. He smacks his lips and pulls out his baton, twirls it like an arrogant cop on the street and jambs it into Cumberledge’s six-pack, doubling him over as Shango finally releases the kid’s trunks. A blow to the back of the knees sends Cumblerdege onto the mat and the Mountie gives a beating that wouldn’t make an LA cop look twice but is still brutal. With Cumberledge on his stomach, the Mountie kneels on his back and cuffs his hands behind his back. Now Cumberledge’s wedgied ass will be on display for as long as the panel lasts, he has no hope of reaching back. But the Mountie’s not done. He pulls out of his large pockets a set of leg shackles that he saves for the most special of jobbers. He locks them over Cumberledge’s white jobber boots and attaches them to the cuffs, effectively hogtying the jobber, hogtying him in chains. Mountie checks the fit, makes sure they’re just right and as a going away present to the jobber gives a yank up on the trunks, accentuating the wedgie just a tad more. He’d like to stick around and use his cow prod on this kid but that can wait.
“Thank you, Mountie,” Ross says. The three heels – Simmons, Bad News and Shango- stand near their jobbers, ready to act if need be, ready to induce them to talk if they get all shy in front of their adoring, sneering, smirking, laughing, giggling, taunting fan base. “All right, let’s take your questions.”
Fans race to the two microphones set up on one side of the ring, a virtual stampede.
First up, an overweight guy in his early 20s with bad acne and ketchup stains on his white T-shirt. His hair is messy and unkempt, and he adjust his glasses and pulls up his sagging pants as he steps to the mic.
“Yeah, um, this question is for Red Tyler. Um, my all-time favorite match of yours was against the Million Dollar Man, Ted DiBiase, when you wore your red trunks. DiBiase had Virgil and Sapphire ringside and you got tossed out to the floor. Virgil pulled you up by your trunks and gave you a huge wedgie. DiBiase gave you a powerslam and then finished you off with his Million Dollar Dream. Then he stuffed a hundred dollar bill into your mouth and the camera zoomed in.”
“I think we all remember that match,” said Ross. “What’s your name son, and what’s your question?”
“Arnold, Mr. Ross. My question, actually I have different questions. The first one is, why didn’t you pick the wedgie when Virgil tossed you inside. The trunks stayed a thong the entire rest of the match, even as DiBiase gave you the slam and his arm cupped your bare ass. The second question is, what was more embarrassing: Having that wedgie in front of 10,000 different people or having that dollar bill stuffed into your mouth? I’ll admit, when I saw that bill dangling out of your jobber mouth, that’s when I came into my underwear, although the wedgie at the hands of the black servant certainly got me going. Thanks.”
Ross walks over to the upside down Tyler and kneels down with the mic. “What do you say, Red.”
Red stays silent, they can’t make him talk, not about his degradations, even as he hangs here, degraded.
“Red?” Ross asks again.
“Ron, can you help with Mr. Tyler.” Simmons strides over and, like Thor himself, delivers a thunderous fist down onto Tyler’s nuts, bringing an agonizing cry from Tyler. Simmons takes the mic and says, “Next time your nuts will be coming out your mouth, boy.”
“All right, Red,” Ross continues. “How about Arnold’s questions. Why didn’t you pick your wedgie and was that more embarrassing than having this cute mouth stuffed with cash?”
Tyler takes a few more seconds but just to catch his breath. He’s never felt pain in his nuts like this and feels like he might black out, although that could also be from hanging upside down.
“I, I, I left the wedgie because before the match Vince McMahon backstage told me I would get 500 bucks instead of 350 if I kept it in. He said research showed the crowd and TV audience liked it when my full ass was on humiliating display. I didn’t think I’d be able to do it but I was desperate for cash. A week earlier I’d given a blowjob in a motel for 15 bucks. So I left it, even though I could hear the laughter throughout the audience when Virgil rolled me back into the ring. That was probably a bit more embarrassing because a bill in my mouth wasn’t as bad as the cock I had in it a few days earlier.”
“All right, who’s got our next question? Young lady.”
A woman in her mid to late 20s stands in front of the mic, wearing tight short white shorts and a short T-shirt, tits bulging out. She first fell in love with wrestling on Saturday mornings and loved watching the little jobber faggots get beat up. It made her pussy tingle.
“Hi. I’m Allison. This is for Bob Emory. If I had gone to high school with a guy like you I would have had the biggest crush. I wouldn’t have stopped until I had you in bed, your cock inside me. Sorry, can I say cock here?”
“I suppose, Allison,” Ross says.
“I mean, you are so fucking handsome and muscular and I’m sure you were the star athlete. But how did you end up…like this? How did you end up being a punching bag for fat ass slobs and old men who take pleasure in humiliating you while you prance around in a pair of wrestling trunks that are smaller than my bikini bottoms I wear to the beach? What happened to your pride? What happened to your manhood? Don’t get me wrong, you still get me all wet but now it’s because I like seeing guys like you dominated. But it’s still so pathetic. Look at yourself, man. You have a fucking dog collar on and are leashed. Leashed! In little blue trunks. What do your parents think? What do your old girlfriends think? I mean, god!”
“Thank you, Allison,” Ross replies. “Well, Bob, how about it. What happened to the guy who I know was a high school all-american football player and had a scholarship to play football at Southern Cal. How did you end up in the ring in your trunks, being slapped around, lifted, yanked, and used?”
Ross sticks the mic into Emory’s mug as the jobber tries to lean back in his roped bondage. Ross yanks him by the hair and keeps him there.
“Don’t make me make Bad News walk over here, son.”
“I was a state champion wrestler in addition to my football abilities,” Emory said. “I fucked all the cheerleaders and was the pride of my school. My freshman year of college, I got pulled over by some douchebag cop who asked to search my car. He planted a bag of coke on me and said I was looking at 15 years. It turned out it was all a set up by a promoter named Watson, who had seen me wrestle in high school and wanted me to be a jobber. My life was over before I knew what happened. He trained me in his private gym, made me wear butt plugs and trunks 24 hours a day. He broke me down, made me write letters to my parents and coaches and girlfriend and any girl I had fucked, telling them I was following my dream of being a pro wrestler. With each letter I had to include a picture Watson took of me being military pressed by Hercules, my trunks above my ass, him holding me by the chin, drool spilling down. None of them ever talked to me again. And that was the start of my career.”
As Allison listened to all of this pathetic tale of woe – seriously, who lets them get taken advantage of that? – she felt her panties moisten and she boldly stepped toward the ring and finally under it.
“Mr. Ross, can I come next to Bob,” she shyly asked.
“Sure young lady.”
From his stomach, chained, Cumberledge glanced up at the gorgeous girl walking past him. Oooh, almost saw up those short shorts.
Allison approaches Emory, who’s still writhing a bit in the ropes, hoping he can maybe break free and run away. He leans back as she leans in, but she grabs him by the back of the head and plants a wet kiss right on his jobber lips. It feels good, there’s no doubt. God it feels good. How long has it been since he kissed a woman? Allison turns her back to Bob and begins a dance, grinding her ass against his blue trunks-encased jobber cock. She rubs her ass seductively against his crotch and it looks like she’s done this type of strip tease before. Bob begins thrusting forward a bit, hoping his now-hardening dick can touch a woman’s ass. Promoters make him wear chastity cages during his waking hours, only releasing him before his matches. Allison can feel Bob’s crotch lusting forward and she steps back and laughs. Now facing him again, she dances with her hands on top of her head, lowering herself, lowering herself until she’s even with his cock, only to rise again.
Cumberledge watches it all while sprawled out. Knowing everyone’s watching Emory and Allison, Cumberledge begins rubbing his dick back and forth in its pink prison, discretely, hoping, praying, he might be able to ejaculate into his trunks. He knows it’d eventually be discovered but it would feel good to finally masturbate to something a woman is doing. Also kept in chastity, he’s only allowed to cum before matches, when his promoter will milk him while Ron sits on his lap in his disgusting back office, jobber matches playing on the TV above. He rubs and rubs and finally finds the spot of his dick where it’s the most sensitive and he’s getting so close. Allison’s ass, her tits, god it’s going to happen…
“YOU LITTLE FUCKER!” he hears Bad News yell, a half second before he feels the black heel’s boot come down onto his head. Two more kicks subdue him while everyone now turns briefly. Cumberledge is dazed as Bad News leans down and says, “You keep rubbing yourself like a fucking dog in heat and I’ll make sure to cut it off backstage.” Ron listens and again lays motionless, but not before tears roll down his face.
Allison continues to torment Bob, finally stopping her gyrations to stare into his eyes. She feels so much power at this moment. Yeah, she love when a man takes control in bed, but sissies like this faggot, like all jobbers, they deserve every humiliation they get, and she’s happy to deliver it.
Allison reaches forward and grasps the front waistband of Bob’s blue spandex trunks. She grins and turns toward the audience, who cheer her on. She puts her other hand up to her mouth, as if she’s a naughty girl. Then she pulls back and peers down. Bob’s cock – completely shorn of pubic hair – stands up a bit; although it was hard before it’s going down a bit now. It’s about 6 inches, bigger than many jobber cocks and she stares down at it for about 10 seconds. She continues to grasp the material – it feels so good in her hands – and again stares brazenly into his face. Finally she yanks up. Hard. Bob screams as his testicles explode in pain from the trunks being pulled up hard. She keeps pulling up, trying to get the trunks to touch those delicious nipples. Finally she lets go and releases the trunks with a theatrical snap. Bob slumps, defeated, still roped. She gives him one more peck on his cheek and then slaps him in the face with her right hand. The crowd cheers as she turns and strides out of the ring.
“We certainly have passionate fans,” Ross says. “Okay, who’s got more questions?”
A middle-aged man, muscular, with a black T-shirt and shaved head stands at a mic. He keeps his sunglasses on as he speaks. “This is for the chained jobber Cumberland or whatever the fuck his name is. The pansy in pink. Just wondering how you ended up wearing those cute little pink panties you’re in now. What’s the story there, tough guy? Why not long tights? Or at least black trunks. Or red. Or anything.”
Ross takes a seat on the mat so he can stick the mic into Cumberledge’s face. Ron sputters before finally gaining his composure: “Well, it was at a card being held in a small high school gymnasium in Mississippi,” he begins. “I was going to be wearing long black tights. I was sitting in the small locker room and had undressed down to the white briefs I was going to wear underneath them. Just then the promoter, this guy named Watson, strolled in. He told me to take a seat. He carried a box. He said he had a present for me.”
Ron goes silent.
“And what was that present,” Ross asks, doing his best Barbara Walters. “What was in the box?”
“Pink trunks,” Cumberledge replies. “He said he’d changed my mind about my character. Said that he decided small town hicks and rednecks did not want to cheer for a light-black-skinned superhero. They’d rather see me beaten up and humiliated and, frankly, so would he. He pulled out the pink trunks and held them in my face. I told him, ‘Fuck you,” and slapped them out of his hands. Watson stared at me and then punched me right in the stomach. Punched me! I doubled over and he gave me a DDT on the locker room concrete. I was still wearing my white briefs but I felt them being pulled off my legs. I laid naked on the floor while he said I was going to wear pink trunks and be a jobber and this was what I was going to do the rest of my life. He said I could put them on myself or he could do it, but if he did it, I’d be the jobber without any teeth. So I picked them up and slid them on. They felt so torturous going up my legs, like girl’s panties or a bikini. I slowly pulled them up and over my cock and stood in front of him. The white boots and white kneepads followed, all while Watson stared and rubbed his crotch. I reached back and adjusted them on my ass, trying to get them from riding up. ‘Good boy,’ Watson told me. I’ll never forget those words, they somehow made me feel instantly submissive.'”
As Cumberledge continues to tell his sad jobber story, Papa Shango comes behind and plants his foot on Ron’s wedgied ass, just a gentle reminder that his ass will be getting a workout soon enough.
“Watson felt all around the trunks. He pulled up on them in the rear and in the front. He gave me a wedgie and then gently pulled it out of my ass before giving me a light slap. He gave me a few bodyslams on the concrete, making sure to grasp the rear of the trunks. He finally walked me over to the mirror, holding my hand, as if I was his little boy. He made me look up and stare at my reflection. Twenty minutes earlier I thought I was going to be starting on a journey that would lead to me being the WWE champ. Now I stood in pink fairy trunks, white boots, muscular but helpless. He made me stare at it forever before finally sending me out for my match against Ken Patera. That was the first night I was dominated in my pink trunks. But not the last.”
“Touching story,” Ross says. “And I think many of our fans will be touching themselves tonight. All right, who’s got more questions…”
GAMES, GAMES, GAMES
Good old carnival barkers. They’re at Jobber Con, too.
Guess the Jobber’s Weight! Win a Prize!
Here’s one of the more popular games you’ll find at Jobber Con. The jobbers rotate in so that at any one time three of them stand in stockades near the display. There’s a big scale, the numbers seen only by the host, so that bystanders don’t see the correct number in case they want to play this game too.
In the stockades right now, brought out from their holding pen? Jim Powers, Joe Cruz and Joe DeFuria. Jim’s in his red trunks, Joe in white, Joe in baby blue. All are bent over, heads and arms out, locked in, their asses sticking out for any passersby to take a whack at. The helpful sign above the stockades: SPANK ME, surely helps.
For 1 dollar you get one lift of the jobber boy, two bucks two and so on. If you guess correctly, you can win corresponding prizes, everything from old jobber videos to a jobber blowup doll. A young black guy approaches, his black gal on his arm.
“Want me to win you something, baby?” he asks and she says yeah. He likes the idea of this game, give him a chance to pump some fleshy iron. The host asks him which jobber he’d want and how many lifts he wants.
“Give me 5 lifts for 5 bucks,” he says.
“All right, which boy do you want?”
“Give me that Powers. He’s supposed to be a tough guy.”
The host goes over and unlocks Powers, before pulling him by the hair toward the black contestant. A small crowd has gathered around. Powers stands in front of his new black master, held in place by his hair, grimacing. The black dude – Jerome, for the record – cranks his neck and cracks his knuckles. His girl rubs his shoulders and coo’s into his ear while the white jobber in his red trunks stands terrified in front of him. Jerome steps forward and takes Powers by the hair, telling the host, “I’ve got it from here.” Five moves to guess the dude’s weight. First Jerome reaches under Jim’s crotch, just like he’s seen so many times on television, and scoops the jobber up for a bodyslam. He takes a hold of the red trunks and holds him in position. He spins around for a bit, trying to gauge the weight. 220? 225? 234? There’s no second place, you have to be exact with the guess. He holds him like that for 30 seconds – while there’s a limit on your lifts, you can hold them for as long as you want – before finally slamming him onto the convention floor. Now Jerome feels his cock harden. Damn, usually only his girlfriend’s tits or pussy make him hard like this. This feels good. Would the host mind if he gave the jobber boy a little kick? He presses his luck and puts a Jordan sneaker into Jim’s lower back.
“That’s one lift,” the host says.
Jerome pulls Jim up by his air and maneuvers a bit behind him. He’s seen this move on TV before and it seems effective in this situation. He reaches under Jim’s crotch from behind, grasps onto his inner thigh – and a bit of ball – and lifts him up in position for a stomach buster, Iron Sheik style. Powers groans outloud and Jerome’s girlfriend cheers. Jerome presses him a bit in this position before dropping the jobber onto his knee.
“That’s two,” the host says.
Jerome’s breathing a bit heavily. He’s in great shape but lifting jobber meat is tougher than it looks. Three more. What to do? Jerome brought Powers to his feet and slapped a full nelson. Powers screamed, this black dude really knew how to put this move on him. Jerome had used during his years as a bouncer, it was a good way to get drunks to quiet down and a good way to inflict some pain on Powers. But to help in this endeavor, he had to get him off the ground. So Jerome put him in a swinging full nelson, lifting Jim off his feet, even while he cinched the move in tighter. He swung Powers around like the jobber rag doll he was, until he felt the body go limp, which aided him in the weight guess. Powers prayed the black contestant would let him go but he shook him back and forth a few more times before finally releasing his prey. Jerome was into it now. Before Powers could recover from the full nelson, Jerome lifted him in to position for an atomic drop. He contemplated just throwing him away like a used dish rag but eventually dropped Powers onto his knee, killing the jobber’s tailbone. He comically grabbed his butt while the onlookers clapped and the host said, “Okay, Jerome, ya got one final lift and then we need your guess.”
What to do? How should Jerome end this? He decided to do something he had seen thousands of times but had never done. And on TV you would sometimes hear announcers telling people to not try this at home, especially youngsters. A vertical suplex. How tough could it be, really? Put your hands on the guy’s trunks, lift him up, hold him and fall backward. It’d be a little dangerous because he’d be falling ot the floor, just like Powers. But he’d be able to lift Powers up and get a better feel of his weight. Plus he’d get to grab those sweet red trunks one more time. Jerome brought Powers up by the hair. Powers, though in pain from all the moves, was happy it was almost over. He wasn’t sure what this big black stud would do for his final lift but it would soon be over. Jerome hooked Powers’ arm over his neck and slapped the side of his red trunks. Oh god, Powers thought, not a suplex. Not on the concrete, not by an amateur! Jerome grasped firmly onto the red material and took a few walks around, giving short tugs on the material to get a better feel for it. “He’s going for a suplex, folks!” the host cried and Jerome’s girlfriend clapped. She loved seeing her man manhandle this jobber man and she wished she could grab the trunks just like Jerome was doing now.
Jerome gathered himself and lifted Powers up into the air. He somehow balanced him – this was easier than it looked on TV – and held him there for about 10 seconds, before he started to feel his arms shake. He held onto the trunks and fell backward, bringing both men to the concrete in a crash. He knocked the wind out of himself but it was thrilling. He stood up while his girlfriend gave him a hug and the host asked for the weight. “236,” Jerome said. “236,” the host repeated. “Let’s find out. The host went over and picked Powers up by the hair again and pulled up on the rear of his trunks to help him along, giving the muscle jobber a nice wedgie for Jerome and his girlfriend to laugh at. Powers put his hands behind his back, trying to maintain some dignity by covering up his exposed cheeks. The host took Powers back to the scale that was blocked off by the contestants. He made Jim step on it and read the report: 239. So close. But not good enough. “Sorry, sir,” the host said, you’re incorrect. Everyone relies on the honor system at Jobber Con so Jerome believed the man. Still, he did win a consolation prize, a min-figurine with Jim Powers in wedgied red trunks. It stood a few feet high but would have a place in Jerome’s bedside table for years to come.
Done with this deed, the host took Jim and put him back in his stockades. With Jim again bent over, the host brought the wedgie out of his trunks, so that the red ass was again sticking out for bystanders to see.
And here’s another of the favorite games, the Wedgie Game. Simple concept. Two people battle at the same time to see how many times they can lift a jobber off the ground by the back of his trunks in one minute. The men stand behind their jobber, grasp the rear of the trunks and lift. The jobber’s feet have to be completely off the ground – judges are standing by – and when they drop them back to the floor they have to release the trunks. At that point the jobber can either pick the wedgie or leave it in and the contestant again grasps and lifts. They have to release because in a wrestling match you don’t just hold the men by the trunks the whole match, you give them wedgies at various times. They like to keep things realistic at Jobber Con. The winner gets 20 pairs of trunks from his favorite jobber. This particular time the jobbers are Trent Knight, wearing aqua trunks, and Kenny Kendall, his blonde hair flowing and wearing his dark blue trunks that are already riding up his ass. The contestants are a 50-year-old construction worker from California and a 35-year-old fatass factory worker from Nebraska.
The construction worker stands behind Kendall while the accountant sizes up Knight. Before it begins, Knight and Kendall give each other a look of compassion, a look only jobber boys can understand. They feel each other’s pain and humiliation and wish they could be anywhere else in life but they know, as jobbers, this is where they are meant to be. The host asks the men if they’re ready, tells them to get set and…GO. The big clock in front of both men starts ticking down as each man grabs the jobber by the rear of the trunks and hoists him up. “AHHHH,” Kendall screams as the construction stud lifts him several inches off the ground. His blue trunks instantly shoot up his ass and it feels like they’re tearing him in half. As the worker puts him down Kendall takes a second to reach back and pick the wedgie but just as he’s doing it the construction worker is again grabbing and lifting. Kendall finally realizes, it’s hopeless to pick at this point. Just let him lift and accept you’ll be wearing a thong in front of everyone in this area. Through 30 seconds the accountant keeps pace, easily lifting Knight time and time again. But he tires too quickly and takes a few more seconds to lift his man.
The construction worker has barely taken a breath. Kendall has started crying from the humiliation but also the pain of the constant wedgies. With 10 seconds to go, the construction worker glances at the scoreboard and sees he has a 5-wedgie lead on the accountant. Might as well enjoy this last one, he thinks. He lifts Kendall up one more time but just holds him up in the air, Kenny’s legs kicking haplessly, praying to be let down. All of the worker’s muscles are straining as he tries to hold his jobber doll in midair until the buzzer. And he does it! As the buzzer sounds, the worker throws Kendall forward so he lands on a heap. Finally he reaches back and adjusts his trunks. Both men are then taken back to their pen, where they can take a quick nap. Until they’re summoned again.
BRING YOUR OWN JOBBER
One of the unique aspects of Jobber Con is that people can bring their own personal jobber to the event and not only get time in the ring with them, but also get points and tips from real wrestling heels on the best way to dismantle a jobber boy. So you’ll find a 65-year-old daddy leading his 20-year-old college jobber around. Or you’ll see a white racist with his black jobber. Or a younger brother finally getting revenge on his older brother, even if they’re in their 30s, for all the times he beat him up as a kid. Moms bring their jobber sons and strangers hook up with each other on Craigslist and come to the convention. When the couple arrives in the center, they’re taken to a processing plant, where the jobber is outfitted. All the jobbers, even visitors, must walk around the floor in just their trunks, no matter how embarrassing.
Take Chad Johnson and Joey Jenkins. Joey was a three-sport high school stud. He’s 18 and a month from graduation. For much of his school years, he tormented poor Chad Johnson. Gave him wedgies in 4th grade, depantsed him in 6th, stuffed him into a locker in 7th, beat him up in 8th, called him a fag in 9th, towel whipped him in 10th and poured beer on his head in 11th after the guys jokingly invited Chad to a party. Finally the school and the court stepped in and as part of the new stringent anti-bullying laws, Chad had a say in Joey’s punishment. He asked the perverted judge if he could take him to Jobber Con and humiliate him there and also have heels beat up his tormentor. The judge agreed and here they are. Joey stands 6-3, 220 pounds while meek Chad is 5-7 and the definition of a geek. But the athletic stud is all his.
In the processing plant Pat Patterson greets Chad and his jobber boy. Two assistants stand nearby. A trunk full of jobber trunks is on the floor, along with boots in Joey’s size. Pat tells the athlete to strip. When he refuses, the two assistants hold Joey by the arms. Patterson approaches. “You like making fun of kids? You like beating up smaller kids? You like being a bully?” “No sir,” Joey says, hoping to save himself. Patterson responds with a knee to the guts and Joey doubles over but the assistants maintain their holds. “Strip him,” Patterson says. The assistants rip Joey’s T-shirt off and take his jeans and finally his boxers. He stands nude in front of everyone, his hands covering his shriveled cock. “For a 6-3 stud, thought you’d have bigger than a three-inch cock, tough guy,” Patterson says. Joey has always been embarrassed by his manhood and maybe that’s why he overcompensated against nerds. Patterson slaps his hands away. “You fucked girls with this?” Joey nods his head and Patterson laughs. “Well, them days are over for awhile son. Not sure how many girls in your school are going to want to be with you once the video of your day ahead is on youtube and sent to all your Facebook friends.” Patterson rifles through some trunks and tosses out black ones, a white pair, a yellow pair, a g-string, white under briefs and finally discovers a floral pair that look just perfect for a high school jobber.
Chad loves it. God, to see this bully be stripped and put into those trunks is awesome. And he can’t wait until they’re out on the convention floor and actually in the ring with real heels who are going to bitch slap this son of a bitch. “Before we get this pretty pair of trunks on you, Joey, we need to get you shaved.” Joey’s heart drops as the assistants drag him over to a long training table, where they strap him down on his chest and legs as Patterson brings over a razor and shaving cream. The perverted old wrestling heel lathers the jobber up and shaves every last hair from his groin, giving Chad the chance to shave the final pube. Joey is crying by the time the men are finished. He’d been so proud when he was the first one in class to grow hair down there now at 18, it’s all gone. He’s lifeless as the assistants stand him up and Patterson slowly, almost lovingly, pulls the spandex floral trunks up his strong legs, over his shorn cock and rest them on his hips. Patterson admires the look and spins him around several times, slapping the jobber in the ass and fondling the tiny cock in the floral bottoms.
“Chad, he’s all yours,” Patterson told the young geek, who took his prey by the elbow and guided the dazed fresh jobber out of the waiting area and into the convention area. People turned when they’d see the weak geek holding the elbow or hand of the athletic stud in the floral bikini trunks. Occasionally Chad would rub Joey’s ass and Joey flinched but he now knew escape was impossible. They found one of the smaller outer rings and Chad saw the heels he’d requested waiting for him. Joey stopped and shook his head when he saw the monsters in front of him. Ron Garvin and the Barbarian stood in the ring, arms on the ropes, staring at the former bully in floral trunks who was theirs for as long as Chad wanted. Chad pushed Joey forward. Right in front of the apron, he hesitated, but the Barbarian leaned down and grabbed him by his blond locks. He lifted up, forcing Joey to stand on the mat, just outside the ropes. The Barbarian never let go and pulled the high school jobber over the top rope while Chad gave out a whoop. The Barbarian went to wait in the corner while Ron took first shot. Garvin wore his traditional yellow trunks, the type he’d worn whenever he beat up jobbers on WCW. With Joey still on the ground, the first thing he did was deliver a series of patented Garvin stomps, all around the kid’s body. Arms, down to the sides, the legs, even the shins, then back up the other side, ending with the head. Joey writhed on the mat while Garvin told Chad to step into the ring so he could get a better view of it all.
Garvin stood Joey up and locked him into a corner, draping his arms under the ropes. He lectured the youngster, spitting in his face with every utterance. Joey shook his head as Garvin went through his sins. Chad walked over and spit in the bully’s face. Joey could do nothing as it dripped slowly down his cheek. Garvin kept slapping the kid with his palm and then backhand. He drew blood from the kid’s lip but kept doing it, ignoring the begging. Garvin ended the lecture by pulling on the front of Joey’s floral trunks and delivering a huge punch into the gut. He unhooked the jobber slut and Joey staggered forward, gripping his stomach, gasping for breath. All the hits he had taken in football, nothing felt like this. Garvin waited for Joey to rise to his feet and then propelled himself off the ropes and drilled the jobber with an elbow that hit him right in the nose. Joey flailed backward like a fish as Garvin gave a high-five to Chad. “Do it again!” the kid yelled and Garvin smirked. Whatever the nerd wanted. When Joey finally rose, unable to see through the tears that drowned his eyes, Garvin threw himself off the other side of the ropes and hammered him with an elbow that connected on the lower jaw.
Now it was time to work on the lower body. After giving a few more stomps to Joey’s legs – which looked so nice with the white boots and kneepads – Garvin slapped a figure four on the youngster and relished in the screams that came from his mouth. As he cinched it in, Garvin told Chad to take off his shoes and make Joey lick his toes. Joey now laid on his back, his legs being tortured by the heel while Chad jammed his toes into his tormentor’s mouth. Joey took them all in, up and down, up and down, while Garvin continued to grind away on his devastating move. The heel finally released the move and asked Chad if he’d like to throw Joey to the outside of the ring. “Oh god, yes,” Chad said. “All right,” Garvin said. “So you’re going to grab him by the waistband like this, pull up to give him that initial wedgie and then run toward the rope and fire him over the top one.” To demonstrate, Garvin grasped Joey by the trunks and pulled up, giving the jobber the type of wedgie he’d inflicted on so many kids in school. He took him by the hair and sprinted toward the rope but at the last second pulled up. He just wanted to show the initial steps, it’d be up to Chad to do the rest. He marched Joey back to Chad, who grabbed the same part of the trunks and yanked up, exposing both cheeks. He ran as fast as his nerd legs would take him and using the momentum, fired the star athlete over the rope and onto the concrete. Some passersby who had stopped to watch cheered while Garvin went to get their victim. He scooped him up and delivered a bodyslam onto the floor before firing him back under the rope. It was time for his work to be done. When he climbed back in, he waited for Joey to pull the wedgie out, which he did, discretely, while laying on his back. When he rose, he looked around the ring for his heel but couldn’t see him, whether it was the tears or the concussion. When he finally turned, Garvin greeted him with his special finishing punch, right to the jaw. It didn’t knock him out but it knocked him over and Joey did black out for a few seconds. When he came to, Garvin was lifting his leg for the one-two, three count. The Barbarian waited for Joey to get some of his senses back. In the meantime, Chad sat on his chest and twisted his nipples, the same way this asshole used to do to him. As he sat on the chest, he slapped the jobber a few times and resisted the urge to plant a kiss on him. God, that would humiliate this fool. Instead he reached down and squeezed Joey’s balls through the spandex until Joey was begging him to stop, just stop. When he stood up he walked back to the corner to watch the monstrous Barbarian take Joey apart next.
As Joey stands to face the tattooed, face-painted Barbarian, the heel greets him with a boot to the stomach and then a forearm to the back of the neck that fells the jobber. Barbarian easily yanks Joey up the hair and hooks his arm over his head for a suplex. He holds the silky material of the floral trunks and lifts his man into the air. Joey is now looking at the world upside down and as he’s held up there for 10, 15, 20 seconds, he starts to feel dizzy. All the blood is rushing to his head while this madman lifts him like a baby. The Barbarian walks around the ring a bit, enjoying looking up to see Joey’s hip from where he’s holding the trunks. Finally he falls straight back and feels the wind knock out of the jobber. Barbarian races to the corner and climbs up to the top rope, showing amazing agility for a man his size. With Joey positioned just right, he dives forward with a flying headbutt that connects with the skull of the high school jobber. Joey flops, his right leg in particular is twitchig in a bizarre way and the Barbarian briefly wonders if he’s caused some type of brain damage. No matter. As he stands up and waits for Joey to get back into this world, the jobber rises to his knees, his lip bloodied from Garvin’s slaps, his tits red from Chad’s tweaks, his nose swollen, and a contusion forming on his head. He feels the Barbarian pulling him up by his trunks and he groans as he’s again wedgied in full view of the nerd who’s standing three feet away.
He’s now too beaten to fix the wedgie as the Barbarian delivers a stunning karate chop to his neck. Barbarian puts his giant arm under the kid’s shaved crotch and scoops him up for a gorilla press. As he watches, Chad can feel his cock grow hard as he watches the bully be lifted high into the air, the Barbarian grasping the bottom of the floral trunks, lifting them a good six inches above his crack. He presses him like a barbell, five times, holding the kid under the chin as the spit falls to the floor. Joey opens his eyes as he’s held aloft, like a toy, a doll in floral bikinis. The few people who have stopped by this outer ring to watch take photos and the people videotaping it to put on Facebook and youtube get shots from all angles. They get a shot of Joey’s face up close to see his baby blue eyes and the red spit dripping from his lips.They see him from the rear and see the trunks rising into his ass with each press from the Barbarian. Joey’s arms flail but it’s pointless.
Barbarian finally brings Joey down into a devastating backbreaker and releases him, allowing him to roll around. He hears Joey call out for his mommy and that sends a special thrill through Chad, who can remember calling for his own mommy one day on the playground when Joey left him with a hanging wedgie on the playground, in front of all the laughing kids. Suddenly enraged, Chad sprints forward and kicks Joey up and down, and finally kicks him in the ass as the jobber tries to crawl away. The heels let him go, this is the kid’s show after all, but finally Barbarian steps in and brings Joey back to his feet. He sends him into the ropes and executes a picture-perfect powerslam on the jobber, who could be counted out to a hundred if the Barbarian really wanted. One more time the big man climbs to the top rope and he waits for Joey to turn before launching himself forward and clotheslining the kid. When he covers the jobber, Barbarian makes sure that his groin covers the kid’s face while Chad himself delivers the three-count. After the ring episode, Chad walks Joey back to the infirmary, where he’ll be checked out and sent back on his way. The two have a long day ahead and Joey’s floral trunks are going to be worked on all day long.
Vendors from across the country flock to Jobber Con to peddle their wares, hoping to make a buck or two on their perversions and the kinks of so many other wrestling fans. Who knew there was a market for DVDs that have every match with Edde Jackie? Who knew selling Tom Zenk’s used white briefs – the ones that were exposed in an infamous match against the Motor City Madman – could fetch three figures? Some dealers sell tapes, others trunks, others classic posters or pictures or old magazines. There’s a market for all of them. Signed goods are especially valuable, though there’s a well-known forger who goes around signing Chaz’s name to old skimpy wrestling trunks.
At Jobber Con you can get all of those things and so much more. But the king of the vendors, the man with the biggest booth and the largest crowds, is the man behind the Wrestling Arsenal website. He’s a legend among collectors and fans of wrestling in general. He spends his year running his website and makes almost all of his income at Jobber Con. At the neighboring hotel, he holds symposiums at night where he gives lectures on the psychology of heels and jobbers, on tag teams and Japanese wrestling and old wrestling magazines. People flock for his autograph. Even after hours he holds court in the hotel bar, talking about heels with big guts and jobbers with long hair. He knows what makes them tick, he’s a Svengali, a wrestling guru. And at his booth you can buy just about anything. Looking for a DVD set that purports to have *every* Arn Anderson squash match between 1984 and 1995? Wrestling Arsenal webmaster has it. Looking for a collection of old wrestling magazines that are devoted solely to showing blood on the cover? He has them.
This year, perhaps his most valuable item is the baby blue trunks Brad Armstrong was wearing in a famous match against Barry Windham, when the big Texan yanked on Armstrong’s trunks time and time again while utterly dismantling him in the WCW studios. It concluded with a pin where Winham hooked both of Armstrong’s legs, literally exposing much of the jobber’s asshole to a national TV audience. Wrestling Arsenal won’t say how he landed the trunks, but he does claim that they’ve never been washed, they still contain the original sweat and precum that Armstrong leaked as he was degraded by the blonde heel. He’ll haggle over prices but ultimately he’s always fair. The customers at Jobber Con are the people who help him pay the bills so he doesn’t want to take advantage of them. But he also knows just how much his collection is worth. The trunks ultimately go for an eye-popping $5,000, bought by a Texas oilman whose wife was obsessed with Armstrong back in the day. And little does the wifey know, but the oilman wouldn’t mind climbing into the trunks himself once he gets them home.
Wrestling Arsenal’s booth has it all. There’s a scissors Brutus the Barber used to cut the hair of jobbers after he put them in the sleeper in WWF squash matches, along with a pamphlet Arsenal wrote explaining the psychology of having one’s head shaved in the ring. He has the hundred dollar bill that DiBaise stuffed into Red Tyler’s mouth during the famous match Red talked about on the panel. Again, don’t ask how Wrstling Arsenal came into possession of it. So if you want to play jobber at home and want to pull your undies up your ass like Virgil did to Red, and then want to lay on your back and pretend the camera is zooming in on you while millions watch and then you want to stuff a bill down your mouth as your chest heaves up and down, well, you could do it with any old pieces of cash, that’s true. But wouldn’t you really get hard if you did it with one of the Million Dollar Man’s hundreds that he lodged into a hot jobber’s mouth? It’s in a tiny glass case on that table. He has the original rope Bunkhouse Buck used to hogtie Kenny Kendall and the handcuffs used by the Big Bossman throughout his run on WWF.
His tapes and DVDs bring in tens of tens of thousands of dollars. He has one DVD devoted entirely to piledrivers, with slow motion replays on each match of twitching legs. You can watch Paul Orndorff scoop up a jobber and plant his head onto the mat or Terry Funk do it to poor son of a bitch on the concrete in front of a bunch of slack-jawed yokels. One tape has nothing but camel clutches, including nearly all of the Iron Sheik’s televised matches in all his various federations. Watch as he sits on a jobber’s back and cranks up under his chin, forcing the screams of mercy from the American jobber sissies. Check out the match on that tape where the Iron Sheik is in Sgt. Slaughter’s corner and at the end of it, they slap a double camel clutch on the two jobbers who took on Slaughter in a handicap match. The jobbers faces are maybe a foot apart, dual pictures of agony.
Wrestling Arsenal has tapes of matches from America, Mexico, Japan, England, and even some from South America that have been banned on these shores. He has big federations and tiny independent matches that look like they take place in redneck bars in towns of 50 people. Some of the videos are extraordinarily specific, but in interviews he explains that he does what his clientele asks for. So if you want tag team squash matches that end with one jobber being tossed out of the ring while the other one is pinned inside of it, there’s a tape for you. Every Greg The Hammer Valentine match that finished with a figure 4 is on a DVD, as is all of Nikolai Volkoff’s military presses, whether they were on jobbers or against Hulk Hogan. All had the big Russian holding the opponent’s trunks well above his ass. Want six hours of sleeper holds? He’s your man? Want matches where the jobber was sleepered and then either restrained, shaved, or had makeup put on him? He has it.
A lot of folks enjoy Jobber Con but very few benefit from it as much as Wrestling Arsenal. Then again, the fans who buy his material are the ones who are the luckiest, horniest people around.
The convention ends with an orgy of squash matches in the main center ring, the seats packed for the final events. First up? A tag team match between Arn Anderson and Tully Blanchard against Chris Hawn and Ross Greenberg. Hawn is still in his green trunks and Greenberg is sporting pink ones. The two jobbers stand nervously in the corner together but they still receive a nice round of applause from the audience, who act like the old WWF and NWA crowds who cheered on the jobber boys, even as they got their asses kicked week after week after week.
Arn and Tully start off with a bang, bullrushing the wide-eyed jobbers and hammering them in the turnbuckle with forearms to the back. Each heel throws his jobber into the ropes and greets his man with a back body drop, the jobbers flying through the air like synchronized divers in the Olympics. Earlier, Arn and Tully had decided to concentrate their rage on Hawn so Arn fires Greenberg out of the ring by the bottom of his pink trunks. Greenberg picks the material out of his ass and lays on the concrete, hurting, but grateful that it’s his handsome boyish partner who is going to suffer the most punishment. In the ring, Arn and Tully continue to double team the jobber in green, blatantly ignoring the ref’s count to get one man out of the ring. Arn hooks Hawn by the left side of his smooth trunks while Tully takes the right. They lift Hawn for a double front suplex, bringing the jobber down onto his stomach and face. They could pin him there, it’d be the merciful thing to do but not the fun thing.
Tully and Arn throw Hawn into the ropes again and as Arn plants his body with a powerslam, Tully sprints off the ropes and delivers a big legdrop to the young jobber’s throat. Hawn grasps at his neck, gasping while Tully hops on him and chokes him for four seconds.
Knowing Jobber Con has a schedule to keep, the Horsemen decide to finish Hawn off. Tully perches himself on the top turnbuckle while Arn slaps Hawn’s side as he prepares him for a suplex. But as he lifts him, he instead plants him on Tully’s shoulder. Blanchard leaps off the top rope with Hawn’s body in front of him, pulverizing the jobber boy for an easy three-count. Arn tosses Hawn out by his trunks and he lands a foot away from Greenberg, the pussy who sat on the floor the entire match, afraid he’d be tossed into the ring against the methodical heels.
The next match is the madman, the Taskmaster, Kevin Sullivan, accompanied by his black mistress and valet Jacqueline. In the holding pen, the jobbers mill around nervously as they wait to hear who will face Sullivan. No one wants to go against this monster, who enjoys punishing and beating jobbers. When he sees them standing in front of him in spandex and boots, something seems to snap in him. Finally the name is called: “Todd Overbow.” Overbow looks up from the floor where he was sitting. He’s wearing his high-waisted purple trunks. He swallows hard and tries to catch his breath. Why him? Why was he even here? Who had he pissed off? He just wanted to be a world champion, maybe even just an intercontinental title. Now he was a jobber in small trunks, with flowing hair that the heels loved to yank on. He slowly rose and walked to the ring, ignoring the taunts from a small fraction of the crowd, some of whom were drunk from spending all day at the convention, downing drinks. Others were just drunk on the power that comes with being in the audience when a sacrificial lamb is paraded in front of them. Overbow adjusted his trunks as he stepped in, waiting for Sullivan to appear.
When the Taskmaster emerged from the heels’ locker room, with Jacqueline rubbing his shoulders, the heel in simple black trunks sprinted into the ring and slid under the bottom rope. He swarmed a frightened Overbow in the corner. Overbow caught himself as he almost pissed his trunks when Sullivan came at him. In the corner Sullivan is all fists and elbows, pounding on the cowering jobber who is slumped in the corner, lifting his arms into a classic defensive position. Sullivan finally pulls the kid up and takes him by the waistband of his delicious purple trunks and fires him over the top rope, landing him at the feet of the front-row crowd. A young guy in his front row kicks Overbow in the tummy as he lays there but there will be no penalty. Sullivan’s on him instantly, scratching the jobber’s back over and over. The claw marks instantly appear on his white back and some blood is drawn.
Sullivan tells one customer to get off his chair and he sets it up a few feet away. He scoops Overbow up and drops him stomach first onto the back of the chair. Overbow flops to the ground as the chair collapses. As he lays there, Overbow thinks back to his first day in wrestling school, how excited he was to finally fulfill a dream. What happened? He thinks he has a reprieve as he sees Sullivan slide his fat ass back into the ring. But as he stands up and turns around, Jacqueline, that bitch, sprints at him like a linebacker and connects with a clothesline. She dusts her hands in front of the crowd, as if destroying jobbers is all in a day’s work. Which it is. She picks Overbow up and delivers a harsh snap suplex, yanking on Overbow’s trunks as she lifts him up. Overbow screams and holds his lower back as Jacqueline fires him back into the ring. Overbow’s trunks are now wedgied on both sides and he manages to pick one before Sullivan has lifted him into position for a bodyslam. God let it be a bodyslam, he thinks to himself. No. It’s the tree of woe. Sullivan puts the jobber in position, hanging upside down, hooks his white boot under a rope and leaves him there for 10 seconds, admiring the view. He could gut the kid if he wanted, instead he’ll just destroy his insides.
From his position, Overbow can see Sullivan is in the opposite corner, preparing to run at him. Please don’t hit me in the nuts, he prays to the jobber god. The prayer goes unanswered. Sullivan runs full speed and drills Overbow in the balls with his raised knee. The pain is excruciating and everyone in the audience can hear Overbow’s cries. Sullivan walks back to his corner and then comes full throttle at the helpless jobber, this time connecting a little lower, in the stomach. By the time he’s done it three more times, Overbow is limp. Sullivan releases him from his bondage and Overbow lays on his stomach in the corner. The madman pulls Overbow by the feet into the center of the ring, the better to display his prize. Casually, Sullivan steps on the back of the jobber’s head and grinds away, a disgraceful act. He finally uses his boot to roll the jobber over. For his finishing move, he delivers his stomp, jumping wit both feet onto Overbow’s exposed stomach. He keeps his boot on the jobber’s face as the ref counts to three. All jobbers must be deposited onto the floor after the matches but Sullivan allows Jacqueline to do the honors. She pulls him up by the front of the trunks, reaching deep down into the waistband, hoping to maybe touch some jobber cock. When she has him standing, she takes him by the seat of his trunks, which remain half-wedgied and fires him between the top and second rope. Overbow is taken back to his pen, as cameras flash.
Next match: Eddie Jackie against the Iron Sheik. The jobber comes out in his light blue trunks, confident in his gameplan. Wouldn’t all these bastards who come to Jobber Con to watch men get beat up get a surprise if he won his match? He could win the crowd over. And he thinks he can beat the Sheik, who has slowed down in recent years. If he can beat him, maybe McMahon will make him a heel and next time he returns to Jobber Con, it will be to beat up and dominate a jobber. Yeah, right now he has to walk to the ring in his small trunks but things could change. He feels good.
He jumps up and down in the ring and makes eye contact with a woman in her 30s in the front row, who’s taping him with her iPhone. He winks at her and she smiles back. Yeah, she came here to see guys like him dominated but by the end of the night, once he’s conquered the Sheik, she’ll want some Eddie action.
The bald Sheik slowly walks toward the ring. He’s not quick like he was in the Iranian army. But he remains as strong as a bull and mean. The crowd, even though they’re there to see jobbers, hates the Iranian. “We’ll nuke your ass” one redneck screams at the Sheik, who sneers back. He carries the Iranian flag with him, waving it nonstop in the faces of these patriotic Americans. They’re like bulls seeing red and some men, all old Vietnam vets, think of rushing him. But they hold back. Damn, maybe that boy up there, Eddie Jackie, can beat up this piece of shit. The crowd is now fully behind the jobber, hoping he’ll show some pride in the USA and win one for his home country. It’d be the greatest upset since the damn Miracle on Ice.
For Jackie, the site of the Sheik with that flag gets his blood boiling. Sure, his dad dodged the draft and Eddie laughed at his friends who signed up for the army, but he loves this country as much as anyone. Christ, not only will he get a real contract after he beats the Sheik, he could be a real American hero. Could be the start of a new gimmick. Goodbye silky blue trunks, hello red, white and blue tights.
When the Sheik enters he gives one more wave and then grabs the mic. “Iran, No. 1. USA, phoeey!”
The two men meet in the center and lock up. The Sheik easily walks Jackie backward up against the ropes, but as he’s about to release, he delivers a forearm shiver to Jackie’s chest. The blow’s power surprises Eddie and he reaches out to grab the Sheik by the front of his tiny red trunks. The Sheik brings his knee up and connects with Jackie square in the face, sending him back. Everyone has a plan until they get punched. Just another sissy American. Another weak jobber. Pathetic. He must teach him, and this wretched country, a lesson in humility.
The crowd is already deflating at seeing their hopes for American pride on his back but cries of “Go Eddie, Go” still reverberate. The Sheik smirks. He picks Eddie up and delivers a belly to back suplex that drops the jobber on his neck. He feels like giving a little bit of a suplex seminar. Next is a belly to belly. He holds him in position for several seconds, enjoying hugging the jobber boy in blue. He cinches in on the jobber’s lower back to add a little bit more pain. Eddie fights but it’s like being trapped by a boa. Their cocks are rubbing against each other as the Sheik finally flips Eddie over with the suplex.
A vertical suplex follows, with the Sheik lifting Eddie up by the front of the trunks. Jackie’s drawstring falls out as he hangs in the air, the Sheik holding the front of the trunks out a few inches and pulling down, putting pressure on the jobber’s balls. When he drops backward, the jobber’s back suffers its third devastating blow in less than two minutes. Sheik scoops Eddie up for a slam but instead bends him over his knee in a backbreaker, Eddie’s trunks-draped crotch sticking up in the air. The Sheik pushes down slightly on Eddie’s stomach, pushing him even further into his knee and savoring the American’s cries. The Sheik could stay in this position all day. Keep Eddie draped like this, maybe toy with his cock a little bit, maybe hit him in the balls, push back down on his neck, ease up a bit to give the boy hope that maybe he’ll be released, push him back, rub the front of Eddie’s panties, pull up on the front of the trunks a bit to jostle the balls, bring an elbow into the kid’s exposed gut. Yeah, he could stay here all day. But finally he just tosses Jackie aside with disdain and stands up to spit on his back.
Now it’s time to finish this loser off. The Sheik spits on his hands, adjusts his hardening cock in his trunks and sits on Eddie’s back. Eddie knows the camel clutch is coming but there’s nothing he can do about it. the Sheik pulls Eddie’s arms up and then takes him under the chin and leeeeaaaans back. Eddie’s top half is being totally bent backward and he screams while the Sheik rocks on his back. “I GIVE UP!” he screams and the ref rings the bell. But a bell doesn’t mean the end for the Sheik. He keeps Edddie in the clutch for another minute and the ref lets him. Finally the ref says, “Hey, come on, let him go.” The Sheik ignores him. Eddie thinks he can feel bones cracking. The tears are rolling down his cheeks. Why will the Sheik not let go? After four minutes, the ref finally signals for someone to get some help. A few security guards come out and half-heartedly try to get the Sheik off Eddie’s back but he doesn’t relent. Eddie eventually borders on passing out as the clutch remains locked in for six minutes. Finally he releases the defeated American, who had so many big dreams before the match. Eddie feels paralyzed and can not move. The mad Iranian gets his flag and for one final insult jabs the bottom of it into Eddie’s back. It takes the paramedics 10 minutes to lift Eddie into a straightback and get him into the ambulance. The crowd boos and spits at the Sheik. Even at Jobber Con, he’s gone too far. Okay, most of them will jack off to the sight of Eddie in that camel clutch but damn it, the Sheik went too far
As the crowd settles down, the next jobber is brought out of his pen. Red Tyler, whose head still feels a little woozy after hanging upside down in the corner for so long during the panel, strides out in his green trunks.
“Hey, Red, ready to get another wedgie,” he hears a fan yell but ignores him.
“And his opponent,” the PA guy begins, “Cowboy Bob Orton.” Those in the crowd who know Cowboy Bob’s work begin to stir. He is a master technician, knows every move but also knows how to deliberately pick a jobber apart, piece by piece. He’ll grab trunks, hair, taunt, bully and dominate and he likes his work. Cowboy Bob strolls in wearing his blue trunks. Both heel and jobber are wearing trunks. Difference? One is spandex and skimpy, the other not. One is worn by a dominant male, the other belongs to the jobber species. One is going to get pulled up someone’s ass very soon, the other isn’t.
Orton removes his hat once he’s in the ring and hands it to a lucky fan who gets to serve as ring girl. He rolls his shoulders and wanders to the middle to meet up with Red, who’s wary of the heel’s cool demeanor. When the men lockup, Red gets the upper hand briefly by rolling him into a headlock. He cranks on it, trying to take his pound of flesh from the tough guy. Orton eventually rises to a standing position and picks Red up with ease, looking like he might drop him with an atomic drop. Instead he gently sets him on the top turnbuckle and tells him, “Don’t worry, boy, you’ll be coming back to this corner later.” Tyler knows Orton must be talking about the dreaded superplex and he shudders. He quickly climbs down as the pair again hook up in the center. This time Red takes the heel down with a single-leg takedown but Orton kicks him off with his boot and quickly rises as Red fires himself off the ropes. Orton greets him with a well-placed knee to the gut and Red somersaults. Now the heel’s going to have some fun. With Red still on his ass, Orton comes from behind with a reverse chinlock that saps the jobber of his pent-up energy. When he finishes, he dusts Red off with an elbow to the forehead.
Wanting to give the fans a bit closer look at the action, Orton yanks Red up by the famous green trunks and fires him over the rope. As Red picks the wedgie out of both sides and the people near him snicker and take their photos, Orton stands on the apron outside the ropes, waiting for red to rise and turn. When the jobber does, Orton leaps down with another elbow to the head and Red falls back to the concrete.
Cowboy Bob grabs Red by his locks and slowly marches him around the ring. They hit all sides as the heel displays his jobber sissy. Red grimaces as everyone on all sides gets a good look at him. Finally, after Orton has returned to where he started, he lifts Red up and bodyslams him onto the convention floor.
“Who wants to help me with this pansy?” he asks the crowd.
Hands shoot up, all wanting to get a shot at Red. Orton picks out a middle-aged man with a gut and beard. After the man waddles out from his seat and stands in front of Bob, Orton tells him to go down on one knee and stick that other knee out good and far. The chubby man does as he’s told and watches, fascinated, as Orton scoops up Red and lifts him above his head in a military press, hosting Red’s green trunks above his crack. From his position, the man can see Tyler’s terror on his face as Orton displays him to the crowd before dropping him without warning stomach-first onto the man’s knee. Tyler manages to land perfectly and is hung up on this fat-ass’s knee. The man is enthralled, with a wedgied jobber ass up over his knee. He reaches out to touch the jobber’s green trunks but pulls back. “Go ahead,” Orton says, and the man rubs Red’s rump softly, savoring the touch of the silky material. His hand inevitably wanders toward Red’s asshole but he stops himself and delivers a quick spank to the jobber’s ass. Red can’t breathe, all the air was sucked out when he landed on the man’s knee, but he still feels the pain and humiliation of being spanked like a naughty schoolboy. The crowd erupts in laughter at the man’s brazen humiliation of the famous jobber and Orton cheers them on. The man continues his assault, paddling the naughty jobber, as Red puts his hands behind his back in a hopeless attempt to stop the blows. When Orton thinks it’s enough – and that’s only when Red’s ass is bright red – he tells the man to stop. He pushes Red off and shakes Orton’s hand while Red reaches back and again undoes a wedgie. He has no pride left, but would still like to cover his cheeks when he has that power.
Orton tosses Red back in by his hair only and Red rolls around on the mat, waiting for the Cowboy’s next move. Orton locks in another reverse chinlock, he loves using it to sap the strength out of any jobber. Red has now been choked, slammed and spanked and the fight is all gone from the lively jobber. Orton holds a handful of hair with both hands and marches over to the corner again. Still holding onto the jobber, he climbs to the top rope, plants a knee on the back of Tyler’s head and falls forward. The impact is devastating, as Red is rammed facefirst into the mat while Orton’s knee stays on the back of his skull. There’s no doubt Red could be pinned now but Orton has a promise to keep. He has to put Red back in his little corner. Orton hooks Red’s arm and lifts him by the side of the trunks. Instead of dropping him back for a suplex, he carries him into the same corner as before and plops the jobber down. The crowd knows what’s coming and rises while Orton subdues his opponent with a vicious punch. Tyler teeters on the top turnbuckle and almost topples over but Orton catches him by the hair and climbs to the second rope. He again hooks Red, manhandles the left side of the green trunks, lifts and falls backward into the devastating superplex. He’s the best in the business at it and Tyler’s’ back erupts in pain. Orton easily covers him and ends it by firing Red out onto the convention floor, where pen personnel collect Red and haul him back.
The only thing better than seeing one jobber beat up is two and a handicap match is on the docket. This one pits Rex King in brown trunks with his skimpy white briefs underneath them, paring up with Joe Cruz in white trunks. The two pussies are going to take on Sid Vicious, who always lives up to his name. The crowd stands in awe as the giant approaches the ring, where the two jobbers jump up and down, nervously, trying to loosen up before they’re torn up. When Sid steps in, the two jobbers both run at him. In their minds – and two jobber brains are a dangerous thing – they think they can topple the big man. Instead Sid barely moves, it’s like a pair of 5-year-old are playing Red Rover with him. He grins with an evil sneer as the jobbers contemplate their next move. King moves behind the big man and leaps on his back, looking like he’s asking for a piggyback. He slaps a sleeper on the big man while Cruz uses his white boots to kick him in the stomach. Neither move has any effect. Is this giant impervious to pain? Well, to jobber-inflicted pain, yeah.
As Cruz stands baffled, Vicious sprints backward with King still attached like a fly. He rams into the turnbuckle and King releases his grip and slides down the turnbuckle slowly, like a piece of salami that’s just been tossed against the wall. With King out of it, Sid slowly walks toward Cruz, who is shaking his head, as if wishing it was all a dream would make that be so. Sid reaches out one hand and grasps him by the throat. He lifts him up for a choke slam and stares down at the jobber after he crashes.
Vicious walks back over to King, who’s still trying to get his breath and lifts him into the same choke slam position. This time he throws him down on his jobber boy fag partner and King now lays on Cruz, with his back on Cruz’s stomach, his ass in brown trunks on Cruz’s cock. Both men flail like fish but don’t have enough strength to get themselves extracted from the humiliating position. Sid takes care of the issue by kicking King off Cruz. He lifts Joe up, throws him into the ropes and brings a size-20 boot into his face. King gets the same treatment, as Sid doesn’t want either jobber feeling left out. After firing Cruz into a turnbuckle, Sid puts King in the same one and then rushes forward with a splash, King Kong Bundy style. He drives his shoulder into King’s midsection, which sends the jobber back into his blonde partner. They’re stacked in the corner just how Sid likes them and when he finally stops, King staggers forward and falls facefirst, not even breaking his fall as he lands on the mat. Cruz stays standing but only until Sid takes him by the hair and marches him to the center of the ring. He bends Joe over into a piledriver position and pulls on the waistband of the white trunks. They fly up Joe’s ass as the crowd pops and take pictures. Sid raises both arms in victory, cinches both hands under Joe’s belly and lifts him up for a powerbomb. King sees his partner being flattened and know the same fate awaits him. When Sid has King in the position, he reaches for the brown trunks and pulls them up, revealing the white briefs underneath. A lady in the crowd screams, “Jesus, he’s wearing panties,” and the people around her agree. Sid holds King in that position for a half-minute. He wants everyone to see the brown trunks lodged up the jobber’s ass, the white briefs on flagrant display. Finally he powerbombs King and again lays the jobbers on top of each other for the pin.
Both jobbers are removed on the stretcher and put in the pen.
Squashapalooza ends a short time later, after a few more matches filled with devastation, degradation and humiliation. At the end of it all, the promoters come out to the ring and take a bow, followed by the heels. Then it’s the jobbers’ turn, they are the main attraction after all. The guards march the jobber boys from the pen, past the blood-thirsty crowd and into the ring. Each jobber is held by his trunks and displayed one more time in the ring, before being put down with a bodyslam and told to lay down. Eventually all 25 jobbers are in the ring, wedgied and on their back, moaning, as the crowd rises as one to cheer the display. The heels stand with their boots on the jobber’s chest, striking poses or spitting on their man.
Jobber Con is done for another year. You’ll visit next year, right?