You Dirty Mexican!

Characters: Ken Kaze & George the Trashcan

SQUEEEAK!

That was the makeshift sound that was supposed to resemble the hinges of a door creaking as it opened. Not so great, huh? Oh well, it was improvised. Anyhow, as the aforementioned door opened, the contents of a locker room appeared before your very eyes. Lockers, wooden tables, and steel chairs alike decorated the interior, with an addition of the illustrious comfortable leather couch. However, this wasn’t just any couch. This was one of those two-in-one couches that could fold out into a bed as well. And following that description, the bed had been folded out, covered in a blanket.

Visible just beneath the aforesaid blanket was a simple round protrusion, with a few sharp edges. As odd as it may have seemed, this round, sharp-edged object seemed to be trembling.

“HEEEEEEEEEEEEERRRRREEEE’S KENNY!” an obnoxious voice bellowed from the doorway. “GEORGE! How dare you! This is no time for quickies! We have a match coming up later.”

Naturally, the source of the obnoxious voice belonged to the Resident Moron of Jolt Wrestling, Ken Kaze. He swiftly approached the bed that contained the vibrating circular item, which he had referred to as “George,” apparently referring to his trashcan companion. His hand grasped around the edge of the blanket before he pulled back, sure enough revealing a quivering, prone George the Trashcan.

However, that wasn’t all that was going on with George. Projecting from his supposed mouth was a cigar – a lit cigar, at that. Kaze seized the rim of George and set him up straight, as the rumbling something within the depths of George could be heard bouncing around, adapting to its new position.

“Jesus H. BeJesus Christ, George! You’ve had wwaaayy too much fun with this thing lately,” Kaze said quirkily. His hand reached into the catacombs of George’s circumference, until he pulled out to reveal the infamous ten-inch long, three-inch wide, neon pink dildo.

Correction. Make that a vibrator (there is a difference, you know).

“Definitely way too much fun for tonight. I thought I told you last week about overusing it! This shit could kill you from over dosage, ya know? Plus, like I said last week: You must really learn to share. It’s Sylo’s turn tonight.”

He switched the vibrator off to cease its pulse and threw it onto the bed, where it landed right next to George. After taking a second glance at his faithful comrade, Ken noticed something else about George.

“AND GEORGE,” the Hero of Hardcore roared, “YOU KNOW NOT TO SMOKIE IN BED! REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED AT THAT HOLIDAY INN IN DENVERADO?” He peered into the poorly sketched eyes of his best friend. “WELL, DO YOU?” He reached out to shake some sense into his associate, but one of its projecting nails pricked his finger, causing him to knock George off of the bed, rolling around on the concrete floor. Emblazoned in gold and scarlet print was the words, “Made in Mecksico.”

“GEORGE! YOU FILTHY FUCKING WETBACK PIECE OF SHITE. YOU NEVER TOLD ME YOU SWAM ACROSS THE FUCKING INDIAN OCEAN TO GET HERE! I should report you to the South Carolina border patrol! And . . . look!” – Ken hastily pointed toward the gold and scarlet print – “Whoever manufactured you couldn’t even spell Canada right. Probably a wetback Canuck fuck himself, the manufacturer was.”

Out of nowhere, a heavily Spanish-influenced voice reverberated off of the walls of the locker room. “’Eeey, I’ll cut’chu up, essa.”

“GEORGE!” Ken responded exasperatedly, sounding just like your appalled mother after she had just witnessed hearing you claim you were going to ram a seventy foot, radiant neon green, cream-filled dildo up her ass just because it gives you that “special feeling” inside you received when you were breastfeeding.