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Topics - Ric Greene

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ROLEPLAY ARCHIVE / Least he didn't no show, well, kind of.
« on: November 27, 2017, 12:15:05 AM »
Welcome to the world of Ric Greene.

Who is Ric Greene? We here at Channel Greene still aren’t quite sure who he is. He’s complicated. I believe he’s best compared to an onion. He has many layers and the deeper you cut into these layers, the more you cry. It would add to this comparison if this onion, once you cut into it, called you a ‘useless faggot’ and then skull fucked you into submission. Is that obscene? Probably.

We’re catching up with our hero, Ric Greene, right now, but before we go into depth on his homicidal brilliance, it begs to be said that Mr. Greene really doesn’t give a fuck. He’s outside of the realm of caring and has been for a time. Be jealous for a moment. While you’re concerned with the outcome of your most recent medical tests, the future of that sack of shit son who just won’t pay attention in college, and whether or not that dog you fucked had doggy AIDS or not, Mr. Greene isn’t giving a fuck about anything.

It’s freeing and gives me, the narrator, a massive erection. Perhaps I need to ponder my own sexuality.

Mr. Greene is walking down a runway and he’s looking pretty amazing. He’s fresh off a dominating win over two complete losers who have already been sold into black market sexual slavery (prediction: constant ass pounding for Cross Recoba) and Mr. Greene is ready for his next big move.

Step, step, step…

“These mother fuckers want me to face Brenna Devlina (he thinks Brennan is a square jawed woman) and this other bitch Angelica Vaughn. Like they just desperate to see some Mandingo shit up in here. It’s that Angelina Altomondo who wants to see this. She gonna sit back and rub one out while I make both of these bitches moan. That’s fine. I know I got Angelina hot like a steam train is emerging from that tunnel she calls a cunt. I get it.”

Step, step, step…

Mr. Greene won’t stop moving and it’s like he’s in the opening of a John Woo movie as his shirt ripples in the wind. Not surprisingly, some doves fly out and flank him before being sucked into the turboprop engine of a nearby airplane.

“I need a goddamn manager. Me out here singing my own praises gonna make me look narcissistic as fuck and we can’t have that.”

With that said, a jewish looking fellow in a really sharp Brooks Brothers suit parachutes down and lands right next to Mr. Greene. He releases his chute and continues walking, right in pace with Mr. Greene.

Step, step, step… (x2)

“Hi my name is Bernie Fleischman and I’m the one the stars come to when they want to be represented. My Client, Mr. Greene, is the finest in the industry. Look at his muscles.”

Mr. Greene flexes as they walk.

“Look at his teeth.”

Mr. Greene smiles.

“They’re whiter than my inner thighs and I’m admittedly, about as white as it gets. Amazing. The simple fact that this specimen, Mr. Greene is being forced to ‘jerk’ the curtain against Angelica Vaughn and Brennan Devlin is proof that Fight Two Win secretly wants to lose. They’re managing their personnel about as well as the Soviets managed their infantry during the second world war. We’re talking a lot of death, waste, and when there was a movie made, finally, not a single Russian starred in the fucking thing.”

Step, step, step…

Mr. Greene stops as Bernie continues to walk.

“I changed my mind, I don’t need this rando fuckin’ manager after all.”

With that said, one of those carts that carries luggage rushes through the scene, running over Bernie Fleischman. He’s dead now. Does this stun our hero Mr. Greene? Not really. He just keeps walking. Just keeps walking.

Step, step, step… (-1, RIP Bernie)

“Look, I’m gonna square up with you. I went on dates with all these ladies before we decided to have this orgy at whatever the fuck Fight Too Dumb calls their show. It’s some masturbatory shit that slipped my mind. Me? I hate first dates.”

Step, step. Step…

Mr. Greene, our brave and bold hero, who may or may not murder, rape, and murder some more, in a glorified way, like a Viking, is somewhat sad. Can you believe that? He doesn’t want to go on anymore. We’re not talking like he’s going to wuss out and kill himself, but he’s definitely not ready to continue on working for a company which simply does not appreciate him.

Step, step, step…

“I met Brenna and the first thing I thought was that she wasn’t really my type. Sure she was white, but sometimes that white bitch isn’t interesting to a black guy, unless she was fat. Right? This bitch.”

Step, step, step…

“All Brenna wanted was a baby daddy. All she could talk about was how she needed to keep her face and needed someone to take care of the string of crack babies she had to support. It was a wash. I was really just there to get my cock sucked, until it became clear, that her lips just wouldn’t get it done for me. Somebody needs to chap stick that bitch.”

Step, step, step…

“Angelica might be a kicker for the...whatever the it is she plays for, but she’s got a tight end. Unfortunately for her, had I gone for it, I would have broken her in half and punctured her uterus in the process. I don’t know if you’ve been keeping track of the news lately, but you think some Bill Cosby love is bad, wait till the next black guy comes out--me--and the world finds out he fucked some dumb little white girl bitch so hard his cock ended up forcing an irregular heart beat,”

Step, step, step…

“Not even that bitch assed House MD could fix that.”

Step, step, step…

“Anyway, I’m getting onto this plane and some dumbbell in black face is going to take my place in the match. I’m done with this vile place.”


ROLEPLAY ARCHIVE / Freedom of Speech / II
« on: October 22, 2017, 11:29:24 PM »

On one side of me I got this pseudo gangster dude who has already decided I’m not worth shit. Yeah. On the other, I got this wanna be hellion dude who hasn’t said jack shit and I’m not even convinced really exists. Either side of this coin says things aren’t going to come up well for either of these dudes.

Like Donald Trump telling the truth, they got no fuckin chance of being believed.

Tick tock.

Time flies by and I still don’t see a reason to give a shit. I could dig down deep and draw up some schematics for my ‘make me care’ machine, but I’d end up with some left over parts like Ikea furniture. Get the fuck out of here with your paint by numbers instructions, I’m not giving a shit.

You gotta earn my shits, bruh(s).

Cross Recoba is a step away from being Bobby DeNiro stepping into a Cadillac Eldorado Biarritz in Casino, just before it goes ‘boom’. Now I know what you’re thinking, will he magically turn into a bad special effects mannequin before the shit explodes? Nah, not if Ric Greene is involved, they’ll be scraping him off the dashboard like Princess Diana.

Only time this Cross Recoba dude gonna become a mannequin is when he’s eye to eye with me and I ain’t no Andrew McCarthy. Feel me? Recoba’s dick and balls gonna crawl up and seek shelter inside him. That’s right. This dude gonna become a lady when he’s in the ring with me, only he’s not safe underneath that rainbow LGBTQ umbrella. Nah. He’s just an imposter bitch about to get fucked up.

You can try, but you’ll never be Ric Mother Fucking Greene. I exhale that CO2 that kills you in an instant and it ain’t cuz of the chili dog with extra onions your mother just made me.

Kid Mega is a flashback like you’re watching VH1 ‘where are they now’ and nobody knows nor cares. He’s crazy, wild, and unpredictable, but does he feel the cold steel of a glock up against his nuts? Doubt it. He’s this vanilla kind of crazy. That shit you make safe for children. Fucker’s that version of ET with walkie talkies instead of hand guns. We got nothing to be afraid here kids, he might be crazy, but you still want to wear that t-shirt.

The fuck?

Kids get kicked out of school for wearing Ric Greene fashions. Mother fuckers aren’t ready for that shit.

Neither of these dudes will even show up. They’ll be a late like a knocked up bitch and twice as moody.

I’ll break them both and then ask for more. I stepped into this joint asking ‘where the fuck is my parade’ and they haven’t delivered on the shit yet, so I’ll tell you what: I’m going to create my own parade and these two punks gonna lead my parade, from the neck up on pikes.

Twenty bucks says these two wish I wasn’t even involved, they want that one on one man on man. Don’t think I don’t notice these little panties they got on as they walk out to the ring ready to sweat all over each other. I got eyes on and I don’t like what I see.

Word of warning: In that gay porn, the two little white twinks are in trouble when the big black pizza man shows up a the door ready to feed ‘em a slice.

Sick visual.

Seriously though, faggotry ain’t my thing. You two ain’t pretty enough.

Fuck, maybe I’ve just never been that horny.

Irregardless, both you little lames bout to get stretched the fuck out.


I do the devil’s work.


Two days ago.

I dig both the first and second amendment. When I got done reading those two, I said ‘good enough’ and wiped my ass with the bill of rights. Rights?

I speak my mind and I get paid to occasionally shoot people. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that shit to be impressive, it’s equal to the little half wit proud of his job working the fry vat at Burger King. Shooting dumb mother fuckers is my job, only I don’t have to wear some dumbass shit and visor looking like Chip Kelly bout ready to fuck up another football team.

Haha Chip Kelly couldn’t teach the Friday Night Tykes how to jack off if he had Angelina Altomonte right in front of ‘em spreading her legs.


Hubba Bubba

Anyway, I’m at the Sands Hotel in Las Vegas and I just got done asking the front desk clerk about Cross Recoba. I think the dude assumed I had a speech impediment cuz the dude didn’t know who or what the fuck I was talking about. Yeah, I explained that this is actually some asshole’s name that was either given or self applied and then said I felt bad for the little twink.

But yeah, bruh, they never heard of the dude. I asked them about his dad and they didn’t know about him either.

Yeah, that reminds me, I visited with Sammy the Bull and asked him who the fuck Recoba was and the dude just raised an eyebrow. Said he never heard about the dude and figured he was some kind of fucky little cocksucker who wasn’t worth the powder it’d take to blow him to hell.

Sammy the Bull doesn’t lie anymore. Snitch.

I’ll leave it up to the fans to decide whether this Cross Recoba dude is real, fiction, or just lame as fuck.

I do my research, boys and girls; I haven’t found shit.

Well, cept for this Ginger Bombshell bitch, can’t remember her name cuz it doesn’t matter, but she looks like this bitch right here:

So I have this bitch out back right beside the trash cans and I’m fucking her up the ass and she’s going with it. Moaning and groaning and telling me to fuck her harder. Yeah, she’s a freak. Got that Mandingo level knowledge of black cock and she’s selling it like Shawn Michaels eating Hulk Hogan’s big boot.

She wants to look at me, but I keep pushing her face forward.

She asks me, “Ric, why to you gotta fuck me from behind?”

I tell her, “Your face doesn’t appeal to me.”

Gingers got no souls, y’all.

This is America. I’m talking about the land of the free, home of the brave, the place I live. Yeah, this proud American soil where I’ve shed blood, sweat, and tears upon. Currently the same soil I’m using as a platform for buttfucking this ginger bitch.

“What if Cross finds out?”

I laugh, “He already knows.”

Yeah, watching this right now, jerking off, and crying.

Cross Recoba: I didn’t know I could be that sad and fucking horny at the same time!


I get bored, pull out, and push the ginger bitch into the trashcan.

“Bitch must be from New Jersey.”


I’m looking for this Kid Mega. I found out I could find him at the ballpit of a McDonald's downtown. It’s one of those twenty four seven joints where you can get breakfast all day long. I figure I might pick up a fuckin sausage sammich before I pick up this Kid Mega.

Nah, I gotta watch my weight, wrestling and all that, you know? I’ll just have a quarter pounder.


I find Kid Mega in the ball pit. He’s pushing around these kids like he’s Ezekiel Elliot with his girlfriends, or to another extent, he’s Dez Bryant’s mama smacking #88 right up. Fuckin’ bitches.

Fuck the cowboys.


I digress.

Kid Mega is abusing these kids like he’s DaddyoFive on Youtube. Seriously. This shit is legal?

I’m gonna eat this quarter pounder first.

Goddamn, since day one these quarter pounders have tasted the same. Never gets old either. Every bite, yum yum yum. Like mom’s home cooking, only ‘mom’ is some giant Pennywise looking mother fucker with a big purple crackhead friend. Oh yeah, they chill out with a big burger headed too. Gives new meaning to ‘gimme head’.

Might ask that dude.

Love these fuckin burgers.

Anyway, Kid Mega is punking out some eight year old. First he breaks his nose, then gives him a wedgie, and now he’s taking whatever money he’s got.


Yeah and he’s in his little panty wrestling tights. Shit’s obscene.

Dude’s just yearning for it. Right?

It’s tough to describe this grown ass man abusing kids cuz they’re literally ankle deep in balls. Soon Miles Blake is going to be ‘booking it’ and Drew Stevenson will be making out with mother fucking Nirvana.

Whatever happened to those bitches?

Pitchforks and torches, y’all. Cept they weren’t black, so nobody actually killed them.


I really should get me another one of these quarter pounders, but the cries of the mothers watching as Kid Mega destroys their kids is too much to bear. Besides, I thought this dude was watered down so the kids would still like him, but it turns out, he’s still watered down, but can only get over when he’s fighting kids.

He’s like Michael Jackson: Abusive stepdad edition.

Begrudgingly, I wolf down the rest of my quarter pounder and get up. I dust the sesame seeds off my shirt and finish my Sprite.


I step into the kid’s play area and I call that mother fucker right the fuck out.

“Hey you little nobody lame, the fuck is your problem? You on these kids like you’re Jared, but this ain’t Subway bitch. This is my house. McFuckinDonalds.”

“I’m doing this because I’m CRAZY! See! I’m Kid MEGA and I’m unpredictable!” he says, backhanding a little asian girl.

Kid Mega sticks a finger up a nostril and pulls out a booger and eats it.

“Didn’t see that coming, did you?! I’m Kid Mega and I’m CRAZY! I was in a padded room and all that other cliche shit you would expect from a CRAZY person such as myself!”

Dude’s got a point.

I kneel down a bit and reason with him, “All I see is a salt deficiency and probably some compensation. I also see a fuckin half man who probably broke that dick last time he tried to fuck a dog, cuz he’s CRAZY. Right?”


“Yeah, well that little poodle didn’t want your load and neither do these kids, Jared.”

Haha, that Jared. Dude was all fat and Subway helped him lose weight. Yeah. Subway was so impressed with his sudden lack of a fat ass that they made the dude their spokesman. Meanwhile, all that fat jiggly-titty-mother-fucker wanted to do was lost weight so he could:

A. Find his dick
B. Chase those kids


“Jared? Who is Jared? I am Kid MEGA! I travelled here from 1999 to be crazy and scary and other things that you would associate with, uh, crazy?”

Two hours later.

“You wanted crazy bruh and you’re getting it.”

So we had a change of scene. I bought two more quarter pounders with cheese to go. Kid MEGA and I headed out to a secluded place to share some together time so that I could show him what crazy really looks and feels like.

We stopped at a dog fight and watched pit bulls tear kittens apart. It was informative for Kid MEGA, I don’t think he had ever seen that shit before.


Yeah, Mike Vick was there too. Love you, #7.

Then we headed on over to the old folks home and watched the nursing staff beat and abuse little old ladies and men who couldn’t feed themselves and were so unclean that they were nearly one big bed sore. Yeah. There was some crying and like, dementia or something.

They weren’t golden girls, unless you count the stains on the sheets.

Then we cruised on over to a Trump voter’s house and just looked through the window.

Yeah, he was jerking off to a picture of Ted Nugent and blew his load into a carved pumpkin with a blonde wig on.

To be specific: The wig was on the pumpkin.


Fuck those bitches.

And fuck you, America.

Cept for the first and second amendments. Love that shit.


Right Now

Ok so now we’re in a factory and I’ve got Kid MEGA hanging upside down by his ankles. He’s squirming and he’s muffled because his mouth is stapled shut.

Look, if you really want to know what he’s saying, it goes something like, “I’m KID MEGA AND I’M CRAZY.”

Just repeat that shit in your head for a little while.

Anyway, he wants to see what crazy really looks like, so I look right into his eyes while I slit his throat.

I finish my fucking Quarter Pounder while the bitch bleeds out.


I’m done with these mother fuckers. I asked for your best and I got the cold leftovers in the back of the fridge. Who do you think I am? Am I this token you’re proud of, but only because it’s politically correct or good public relations? Fuck all that shit and fuck you if you really think it means anything. Nah. You’ve placed me into this match to waste my goddamn time fucking around with two little losers who don’t have the sense to know they’ve already been beaten.

So fuck those guys, they’re just like that Russia investigation, they’re old news. They’ve been beat, so they should go cry and write a book like they’re Hillary and jump on the Times best seller list.

People got some terrible taste, y’all.

Should have gotten that jewish dude to jump in there.

Digressing like it’s a job.

My mission isn’t a parade or a main event anymore. My sights are set on Angelina Altomonte. I’m gonna save her from that dumbassed last name. Soon she’s going to be Mrs. Ric Greene. That’s right.

Speaking directly:

You fucked me with this match, which means, I’m going to fuck you. I’m not talking about something brutal or twisted, I’m saying that once you catch my scent, you’ll want every last inch of it. I don’t gotta Whine-Steen that shit, all I gotta do is give you that look and you’ll come running and leave a slip and slide in your wake.

Don’t be scared baby.

I know this is what you want and this is how you want to get it. Your whole promotion is swirling the fucking toilet bowl and you’re counting on ole Ric to save your day. I will. I’m going to pull your promotion out of the drink and then i’m going to give you something to drink.

Don’t freak out.

It’ll be Sprite.


I won’t tell you to drink it, but I’m gonna ask you if you want one, like I’m Lebron James.

Now get the fuck out of here before I stop being so PC.

Fuck off.

« on: October 03, 2017, 12:19:29 AM »
NOTE: The following was penned before the tragedy in Las Vegas, in no way is this a reference to that event, nor is it intended to glorify it.

Right Now

There’s this lady, right? This old lady. Little old lady. Like wrinkly snake skinned little old lady. One of the lizard people and shit. She’s on her front stoop and she’s talking all-the-shit to this little dude. This tiny little dude. Stubby arms, stubbier legs, and this overall, well, short-as-fuck look. Follow?

I’m going to guess that this little dude let his dog take a shit on her lawn and she’s heated. Not the first time this happened, y’all. I’ll tell you how I know, here in a minute.

This little old lady doesn’t want to have to go pick up this little pile of dog shit. I’m talking microscopic. This little dude, who is either a kid or a midget, is leading this stupid dog along--think it’s a chihuahua.

One of those little yappy shits that trembles whenever you hold it. Gets you saying, ‘shit dog, it’s not cold out here; get your shit together.’

I know you still want me to tell you how I know all of this shit, but just hang in there. I’mma tell you. It’s really simple, but we gotta talk context: I’m watching this little old lizard lady bitch out the this Smurf without the blue dye from a tower nearby.

This guy with me, his name is Lipsy and he won’t shut the fuck up. I’ll explain his nickname in a minute, but first, I gotta take aim.

Lipsy laughs, exhaling that medical grade shit we picked up, “You really gonna do this?”

“Fuck yeah, I am. Been planning this for days and days. Paid good money.” I rest my cheek against the rifle and stare into the optic.

He laughs again and it sounds more like he’s holding a shit in than an actual laugh. This dude. Getting all fucked up on that shit I paid for.

“I gotta concentrate right now, but I swear, if you smoke all that shit up, I’m pushing you off this tower.”

“Damn, dude, violence isn’t the answer.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

I zoom in on this old lady and take the safety off. This shit is hot.

The little old lizard lady is still hollering at the midget looking dude. She’s pointing at what I figure is the microscopic Chihuahua turd and accosting the dude. If I had to get all scientific, I’d guess that the turd is about equal to the size of like a tootsie roll. I’m not talking about one of those big tootsie rolls either, I mean the kind you get when you’re trick or treating. Feel me?

I take a deep breath and it’s game time.

“What she sayin,” Lipsy asks.

“I don’t fuckin know man, look like I got hearing aids? She’s probably talkin bout how she hasn’t had a stiff one in her since Ronald Reagan was still in office.”

“What the fuck is a Ronald Reagan. That that dude from McDonald's?”

Lipsy ain’t that smart.

“No it’s not that mother fucker from McDonalds and would you just shut the fuck up for five seconds? I gotta tag this chick before she goes inside.”

I pull the trigger and there’s this momentary pause while the bullet’s in flight. Seriously, I have time to pull out my phone, update twitter, and answer that hootchie that just can’t take a hint.


The little old lizard lady doesn’t even see it coming. It hits her hard and splatters all over. She slumps over covered in yellow paint. That’s right. Paint ball. Had you all worried, didn’t I? She’s not on the ground for a minute before that Midget dude picks up his dog and makes a run for it. I love how his little legs are so kicky.

Kicky, that’s a word, right?

Behind me, Lipsy is busting out in more of his ‘hold that shit in’ laughter like he didn’t believe I was going to do it.

“Crazy assed mother fucker. Didn’t think you had it in you. She’s, like, one hundred years old. Shame on you.”

“Get the fuck out my face with that, dude. You knew I was going to do it, all along. Don’t get all expositional on me.”

Why did I do it? Why is Ric Greene an asshole for hire?

Sob Story: Mostly because I shit away my future at thirteen when I got charged and convicted with a felony. Mostly because I didn’t take much seriously back when I should have and now I’m dealing with the consequences.

Real Story: That little snack sized dude, with his stupid dog, paid me to do it.

Midgets hate everybody, dude.

“That old lady is hurt as fuck, man,” Lipsy yowls, “Like twitching.”

“No shit she hurt. That’s the whole idea.”

All y’all who already hate me, look, this old lady has been turning folks in for doing ‘this’ and ‘that’ and ‘the other thing’ for years. Been complaining like it’s a salaried position. She’s one of those--the neighborhood watch. I’m told, for almost a year, she had a “Make America Great Again” sign in her front yard too. Means she’s all up in that Trump ass. She can count her ass lucky I’m not a ‘bad hombre’.

This is all according to that Happy Meal of a guy--the one who paid me.

He told me the whole reason he’s been getting his dog to shit in her yard is all because she lets her cats run loose and they shit in his garden and his kid’s sandbox. Suburban problems.

Oh shit, that reminds me, how does this midget dude have full size kids? How does that happen?

I snatch the J out of Lipsy’s grip and take a long rip.

So all y’all who presently hate me, remember, it’s this knee high to a grasshopper dude who put me up to it. I’m just the messenger. He’s the one who premeditated the whole thing.

Besides, this is like one or ten jobs before I go full on legit. See, I’ve signed up with this outfit called “Fight to Win” which is hilarious to me. Like, who doesn’t fight to win? Really? Only person I know who fights to lose is that Hillary Clinton chick. Anyway, It’s this fighting gig and I have this chick to thank, we’ll get into all of that soon, for now I gotta get the fuck off this tower cuz I hear the cops coming.

10-20 Minutes Later

Just realized I forgot to explain Lipsy’s nickname. Here’s the deets: He was born with one of those, what’s the pc way to say it, hair lips? Anyway, he had it all fixed up, but he still got this weird line in his lip. It’s some Joaquin Phoenix shit, right? He used to get dogged on in high school until I told him to ‘embrace the shit’. It took a while, but he finally did. Dude got drunk one night and declared he was ‘Tipsy Lipsy’. Mainly because of the lip thing, but his real name is Sydney. Haha yeah, what kinda name for a nigga is that, right? Sydney. Shit’s all classy, but when you look at Lipsy, you just see a guy who probably trades hamburgers for drugs and might just suck your dick if that shit don’t work neither.

Anyway, we’ve been calling him Lipsy ever since.

So now that we’ve taken out that old lady, we’re lying low at In-N-Out Burger. I’m enjoying a Double-Double and Lipsy’s through his second order of fries. It’s incredible, considering he’s one of those dudes where you have to stop and wonder ‘where all that food go?’ cuz he’s bone assed thin.

“Dude, where all that food go?”

He speaks over the wad of fries in his mouth, “Dude I done told you already, I use every nutrient in this shit, burn it perfect. Don’t even need to shit.”

I laugh and pause between bites (cuz I’m not a gross mother fucker), “That shit in your hands got no nutrients to be had, bruh.”

Over Lipsy’s shoulder, I spot that midget. Surprisingly, he doesn’t order a thing. I figure though, being that small, one Double-Double would probably fill him with enough food for like a week-week and a half. Anyway, this dude comes up to our table and has a really hard time getting up onto the stool. Lipsy tries to laugh, but I punch him in the shoulder and shut him up--that makes Lipsy choke on his mouth full of fries.

“Show some goddamn respect to this height challenged man and chew your goddamn food.”

“You have impeccable aim,” Shorty says, “Here is your payment.”

Dude hands me the money under the table like we’re doing something shady. I have to reach a long way to make contact with the envelope. I try not to laugh. I think Lipsy’s laughing, but he’s still kind of choking. I slap him in the back.

“So tell me, Tyrion, who do you want me to take out next?”

Shorty’s eyes get wide and I notice that his hands are like little blocks.

“No one. I wanted to send the lady a message. Our neighborhood will no longer put up with her cynicism and hatred.”

I stuff the money into my jacket without counting it. This guy doesn’t want to tangle with me, so I trust him, like, automatically. Plus I want to play it cool and see if he’ll let me pick him up just so I can watch him kick his little legs. That shit always makes me laugh, at least when I picture it. Never got to do the shit in real life.

I’m a dreamer.

“Ok then, tell me this, then, Billy Barty, how does her being a cynical hater make it ok for you to do some passive aggressive violence to her?”

Lispy finally gets those fries up and sneaks in, “Plus she probably got that bone-loss homie, shit could crack a skull.”

Shorty sighs, showing his frustration, “I looked to you ne'er do wells because I knew you would get the job done and I could avoid implication. The rest is immaterial”

Lipsy pipes up, “The fuck he just call us?”

I tell him, “He means, like, losers.”

Shorty nods.

“Then just call us losers. Fuck. I’mma go get a Double-Double too. That looks good.”

Lipsy leaves.

“Ok Gary Coleman, look. I get it. You don’t want to take the wrap and I was willing to victimize a senior citizen. We made a happy couple in that moment. Still, I’m detached from it all so I don’t have to see her again and wonder why she had it coming. I mean, sure, her love for Trump made it easier to plant that paintball on her. I won’t lie, but still, violence begets violence, bruh.”

Shorty raises an eyebrow, “Are you threatening me?”

“Nah, Wee Man. I’m not. I’m just saying that I’m not the only dude out there willing to do vile shit for money. What if little old lizard lady wants some vengeance? That’s what I wonder. Pays somebody break your stubby little legs n’ shit.”

“I am not a midget. I’m just shorter than average.”

“Yeah, you keep telling yourself that. You could be seven foot, bruh, you’ll always be tiny to me. Now how about you get the fuck on before I make you wear a dress and be my Bridget the Midget?”

Solid hour after that.

I had to drop off Lipsy at his place cuz he was driving me crazy. He was going on and on about In-N-Out burger like it’s not just empty calories and grease. I mean, there’s a time and a place for both, but really dude? Gotta talk about the shit like you’re a spokesman for unhealthy living? Get the fuck out my face with that shit.

I’m sitting at a table with this Elina Cartel chick and I’m signing on the dotted line. Nah, I didn’t read the fine print, but I did take a look at the salary, and it’s more than I’ve made in a while. Well, at least without knowing the cops were going to seek me out.

I put the pen down and lean back in the chair. Elina stands up and walks around the desk and leans against it, right in front of me. I won’t lie, she’s pretty cute. Smells nice too. Seems too classy for me, though.

Anyway, she tells me, “You’ve already been booked in a match. It’s going to open the show, but I will ensure you get the proper coverage. Trust me.”

I’ll bet she looks pretty good with those clothes off.

“You just point me in the right direction and I’ll fuck everybody up.”

“I want you training with Sonny every other day. I want you focusing on your legs. You spend too much time playing your little Playstation, on your ass.”

“Hold up, wait a minute. You don’t know shit about what I do. I mean, yeah, I rock a Playstation, but I also got an X Box, and plan on getting one of those dumbshit Ataris when it comes out just so I can say I have it. But my legs?”

I lift a leg up and throw it over the table and pull my pant leg back.


“I’m ripped, girl. Go ahead, feel.”

I nod my chin towards it, but she doesn’t want anything to do with it. It’s a shame too. She’d like it if she just gave it a little feel. Especially if she went all the way up, right?

Elina’s eyes just give my leg a quick once over before returning to lock on with mine, “Sonny. Twice a week. Mandatory.”

I blink, “I don’t even know who the fuck this Sonny guy is.”

I catch her glancing at my leg again and probably that tat I got on there of the skull vomiting up a chola. Long story. I’ll tell you all about it, one of these days.

She lets out a soft sigh and says, “He’s the second person you met, Cedric.”

“Don’t call me Cedric.”

Fuck, how does she even know my real name? Really? My name is Ric. Cedric sounds like a fuckin’ Turtle name. Fuck that shit.

“First, my name is Ric. And second, like, second person I met, life time? First person I met was the Doctor and second was Mama. Try again.”

“No. You met Maddox, the driver, and then you met Sonny.”

I’m still drawing a blank. I don’t know why, but I squint my eyes. I’m actually trying to remember when it dawns on me that she’s talking about that kung fu dude.

I snap my fingers, “Oh, so the Asian dude.”

“Yes, the Asian dude.”

“That’s all you had to say, or like, my Yellow friend, if you’re feeling so bold.”

Elina winces, “That seems a little racist.”

“Is it? You probably gush to your basic bitch friends that you have a Black friend. Why can’t he be our Yellow friend?”

“You raise an interesting point, but let’s call him Sonny.”

“Do you think Sonny likes Coldplay?”


“Because it was alllll Yellowwww,” I laugh.

“Wow.” Elina admits.

She’s going to have to get used to this. She’s so serious, like, all the time. Drives me nuts. This life ain’t worth living if it ain’t lived funny. Who doesn’t agree with that?

I nod my chin towards her, “So that Maddox dude. You two a thing, or what?”

“What? No. He’s under my employ.”

“That fancy talk for he’s your bitch?”

“No. He’s my driver. He handles, things, for me.”

“Like,” I mimic grabbing breasts in the air, “Handles things?”

Now she’s just staring at me.

“Wanna sit in my lap?”

To be continued...


The deranged and insane fill these seats. They have to. There’s no way anyone in their right mind would really want to watch all of this shit play out. Maybe that Angelina Alwannahumpme pays these folks to sit in the seats. That’s all I can figure. Fight to Win with the ratings in the toilet. Fight to Win with one foot on a banana peel and the other in a grave. You know the one. One show in and they’re already talking about replacing the shit with infomercials.

One minute you’re wrestling and the next, you’re buying a shamWOW.

Before you get all anal-pained, look at it through my eyes:

One vanilla champion faces Tom Cruise on ecstasy and I see the fans reaching for the remote control. They’re changing the channel, but the only thing saving it, is the fact that there’s commercials on the other channels. They flip back, but just until that horrible General Car Insurance commercial is over. Seriously, they’re hanging on by a thread.

Why? Because there’s no one worth selling. You’ve got as good a chance of pushing Hillary Clinton to the White House than you got, getting this place running. I don’t even think Donald Trump in a dumb red hat could ever make this place Great.

Oops, did I get political? Whatever the case may be, these fans are going to be ready, willing, and able to pull the plug on this shit. That, or close their laptop, or just flick this shit away on their ‘smart’ device. Fight to Win wasn’t built to last.

Nope, it wasn’t built to last until Ric Greene showed up to save the day like Tom Brady in the fourth quarter. Just shut the fuck up and do as you’re told, this dude right here’s got you covered. Tommy Brady and Bill Suckmydick.

That’s what I’m here for. While you got Rhonda Rousey taking on Gene Simmons in a forgettable main event, the fans will look at the front of the card and they’ll see me, this man you call Ric Greene. They’ll see me taking on two bozos complete with bozo faces and bozo names. They’re going to want me to kick these dude’s asses.

Check it:

Kid Mega got me thinking he’s the dust falling out a video game cartridge. This eight bit punk about to run into 4k and he’s about to get out played. On the other side is this dude who willingly took the name ‘Cross Recoba’. Shit look like a word jumble. Which, if you’re interested, when you think about it long enough, you come up with: braceros, cabooses, and crossbar. I suppose his folks thought it would be funny to give him a label like he’s out a Young Adult fiction novel series. Hungry Games and Fifty Shades of Gay.

Let’s focus, shall we?

Kid Mega is certifiable. Yeah, I’ll bet he is. The way he describes himself is that Wile E Coyote type. You know, the funny kind of lunatic. Let’s test this dude though. Kid Mega, are you into true madness? Are you currently driving a car and/or truck into a crowded street, running people over? Kid Mega, are you currently in the running for the largest mass murder on the planet? Are you in the cockpit of the Boeing 767 looking at the surprised expressions of staffers behind skyscraper windows right before you crash into the tower one? Why stop there, punk. Are you looking down at a pregnant Sharon Tate begging you to stop because she’s ‘already dead’?

The answer is: No.

You’re this PG-13 version of crazy because you have to sell t-shirts, action figures, and make the parents want to bring their kids back to the shows. You’re a pussy and you know it. You’re probably already crying.

So, Kid Mega, until you grow the balls it’ll take to prove otherwise, shut the fuck up and go sit down.

Meanwhile, we got this Cross Recoba guy with the insanely unbelievable back story. Not only was his dad’s name ‘Pippi Long Stockings’, but he got to work for Sammy the Bull and John Gotti. Yeah. He got to work for Sammy the Bull for the five minutes it took for Sammy to turn state’s evidence on John Gotti. Google the shit. There’s no ‘Pippi’ to be found. There’s a greater chance, if there were a ‘Pippi’ that the dude is at the bottom of the Hudson river wearing a custom pair of cement shoes.

Yeah, Cross Recoba is a ‘made man’ too? Ha. If you ask me, this is a dude who watched Goodfellas a few times, threw some facts together, and didn’t expect someone to know the actual timelines behind the shit.

For a laugh, we’ll let him have that impossible mobster background, because if he didn’t, he’d be some douchey nothing with a dumbassed face and worse hair.

What I locked into is how perfect this guy is. He played football in high school, was an above average student. The American dream on two legs. Who comes up with this shit? I mean, really.

Now he’s living out his Casino fantasy at his maybe/maybe not legit casino.

Seriously? This is what Fight to Win puts in my path? One guy who’s crazy, but not really crazy, and another who has an absolutely made up background? Is this that catfishing shit I’m always hearing about?

This whole outfit is a joke, but I’m no fuckin’ punch line. Remember that.

So I suppose it’s my turn to go to the drawing board and come up with some ridiculous backstory.

Until you hear from me, get the fuck out my face.

Post Script

I read in the paper a couple weeks later that the little old lizard lady was actually Shorty’s mom. Turns out he didn’t have a family--explains that ‘normal sized people’ question I had earlier. Here’s the kicker, the paintball to the head didn’t kill her, but the overdose of morphine he gave her a few days later, did.

Mini Me wanted the insurance money, but now, nobody gets it.

Ain’t that fucky?

Big smile, y’all.

« on: September 27, 2017, 11:57:23 AM »

REAL NAME: Cedric Greene
RING NAME: Ric Greene
D.O.B.: July 4 1987
HEIGHT: 6’3”
WEIGHT: 230lbs.
TWITTER @: @thericgreene
ENTRANCE MUSIC: Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen
BIRTHPLACE:  Philadelphia, PA
FIGHT VENUE: Broad Street
ALIGNMENT/TENDENCIES: Shade of Grey - Anything goes.

BIOGRAPHY: Born into a religious family, Cedric really ain’t with that. He’s got other things in mind. He wants the world and everything in it.
ATTIRE / APPEARANCE: T-Shirts & Jeans, nothing too fancy


Boxing Combos
Dirty Boxing from Clinch

Jackknife Powerbomb
Tombostone Piledriver


NAME: JJ Young
PICTURE BASE: Dizzy Wright

NAME: Juan
AGE: Old
CONTACT DETAILS: Twitter/Forum Messages

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