mojific

[mojific]

That Old Thing Back

“Oi there, Loh Loh!”

“Why so glum, chum?!”

Peyton Royce and Billie Kaye, collectively known as “The IICONICS”, playfully prodded their friend backstage.

Shiloh Campbell—fellow WWE talent, former model, and part-time lifestyle vlogger—tries to throw them off his sad-sack scent. “What, me? I’m fine.” His lifeless shrug wouldn’t convince a jury of his peers. “Just because I’m not bouncing off the walls like you two doesn’t mean I’m glum?” He throws in a half smile for good measure.

The leggy, beautiful Australians look at one another with skeptical squints.

“What do you reckon, Peyton? Do we believe him?”

Royce sighs dramatically. “I don’t knoooow Billie…Would our Shi-Shi lie to our faces like that?”

“Well you know what he’s like when he’s got to talk about his FWEEL-LINGS…”

“Yeeeeah, he’s no good at that, is he?”

Campbell rolls his at them talking about him as if he isn’t standing there watching their famed double act. They didn’t make girls like them in his native New Orleans, or in his adopted home of Los Angeles, or in the hundreds of towns and cities he’d visited in his years with the company. They were uniquely and unequivocally Aussie. For that and many other reasons, he loved them to death. But they were right, per usual: he had no intention of talking about the tumult he was feeling inside with them or anyone else. “GIRLS, I’m. FINE.”

The IICONICS observe him like two doctors assessing a patient. “What’d ya make of that, B?”

“Well P, I reckon that’s…”

They turn to one another again and then back at him. “BULLSHIT,” they say in tandem.

Shiloh, as stubborn as he is snarky, folds his arms and turns his head away from them defiantly.

“Creasing up your fancy Fashion Nova tank there, Loh Loh,” Royce says while playfully backhanding one of his toned bare arms.

The fashionista in him triggered, Campbell cuts his eyes at her as only a black boy from the American South can. “Excuse you? Fashion Nova? PRA-DA, honey—PRADA. Spring/Summer. Take it in.”

“‘Prada, honey, take it in!’” Billie restates mockingly. “There’s a boy! There’s that fire! Now tell your very best friends in the entire world what’s crawled up your bum.”

“PUH-LEEEEEZE lets have it out already,” Peyton adds.

After another ten or so seconds, Loh drops his arms and lets out a belabored sigh. Together with his youthful visage (he was only twenty-four and still got carded whenever he bought alcohol) and pouting lips, the nervous foot stomp he couldn’t stop himself from doing made him look like the most petulant of teenagers. “FI-NAH! But you two have to—“ He stops mid sentence when he sees Dana Brooke looking at him curiously. “Put it on the ‘Gram, sweetie. It’ll last longer,” he snaps sarcastically at her. Brooke makes a face and stops staring. “You two, let’s go…somewhere.” He grabs each of his girlfriends’ hands and leads them away from prying eyes.

“‘Put it on the ‘Gram’!” Kaye chuckles.

“Hi-lare!” Royce agrees.

Once they’re safely recessed in a corner, Shiloh continues. “You two have to keep this between us. You cannot tell ANYONE.” He holds up a nicely manicured pinky. “SWEAR IT.” He points it at Royce, who meets it with her own, then Kaye, who does the same.

“SPILL,” the Aussies say.

“I…I’ve been feeling some…things. Like…old…things. Things I swore to the gay gods I’d never let myself feel again…”

Peyton gasps. “It’s a booooooy! It’s Ricochet isn’t it?”

“What? No! We look like brothers and I don’t do that gay twin bullshit.”

Billie continues the guessing game. “Okay, okay—you said ‘old thing’, so…” She thumps her fingers together in concentration. “…Sami?! Oh my gosh, I loved you two together and I didn’t even know you then!”

Campbell shakes his head. “Not that old. Not that Sami’s ‘old’, I don’t mean it that way. They’re basically the same age—“

“Oh…well it’s not Randy then,” Royce interjects. “He’s old as dirt.”

“RUDE,” Billie exclaims. “But true.”

Shiloh rolls his eyes again. “Are you two serious? You really don’t know?”

“Weeeee really don’t, Shi Shi,” Peyton says flatly. Billie just blinks at him.

Loh is gobsmacked. “I never told you? You never heard the rumors? How could—“

“Come on, you—out with it,” Kaye says with a “hurry up” hand motion.

Shiloh struggles to allow his mouth to form the word. He’d somehow gone more than a year without speaking the man’s name, even with him being one of the biggest stars in their business. “Rmmnn…” he mumbles imperceptibly.

“‘Ramon’?” Peyton asks incredulously. “From creative? You saucy thing! No wonder you always get the best storylines—“

“ROMAN,” he hisses just loud enough for the three of them to hear.

“Reigns?!”

[mojific]

That Old Thing Back: Chapter Two

“Did you hear something?” Roman asks as he oils his thickly muscled bare arms.

“‘Course I did,” Bray Wyatt, one of his best friends and road dogs replies. “There’s twelve thousand people in this building. You oughta hear somethin’, even at your advanced age.”

“Two years—I’m two years older than your bitch ass. And I look twenty years younger.”

“Twenty years, he says—“

“Twenty-five since you started wearing them ‘Mister Rodgers’ sweaters.” Roman looks Wyatt’s cotton covered torso up and down, a look of mock disgust on his handsome face. “And khakis.”

Bray wags his finger at him. “Un-un-un, don’t shade the khakis now, big fella.”

Reigns cranes his neck backwards and scrunches his face. “‘Shade’? You been watching ‘Housewives’?” he asks sarcastically.

“Nah, c’mon man,” Wyatt shakes his head vigorously, chuckling. “My lady watches ‘Drag Race’ though. I picked up the ‘Queens English’.”

Roman raises an eyebrow at him, wanting badly to poke fun but not having room to talk. Not long ago, he could’ve quoted Housewives across two franchises. Their way of life didn’t offer much downtime but he’d enjoyed kicking back and dropping out with—

“—Shiloh,” his friend appears to finish his thought.

“I told you to stop doing that shit,” Roman says, disturbed that Wyatt might be utilizing his gift for reading minds again.

“Doing what? You asked if I heard something and I said I thought I heard Shiloh outside. What I do?”

Roman, embarrassed by his own reaction, replies with a slightly cowed “Nothing.”

“Hmm.” Wyatt’s suspicions were aroused but he knew better than to tease his friend about Shiloh and the rumors about the two of them. It was a sensitive subject that led to sulking and the silent treatment when breached. “Anyway, you might not like my gimmick but at least I have one. We can’t all play ‘Long-Haired Wrestler In All-Black Gear’ with the same aplomb as yourself. Bet you thought you changed the game switching from a bulletproof vest to a sleeveless hoodie, yeah?” He playfully smacks his buddy on a tatted bicep. The sleeve of his tight-fitting sweater drags across the slick surface, staining the material. “Shit!”

Reigns lets out a huge guffaw. “Instant karma for that ass!”

Wyatt’s eyes dart back and forth between his friend and his stained sweater. “Where’s your sense of humor?” he asks gruffly.

“MY sense of humor? Bitch I’m DYING!”

“Damn it, I gotta go back to wardrobe.”

“Serves you right. Keep yo hands to yo-self, gator.”

“Ha—when’s the last time you said that, huh?” Bray gives him a knowing, mischievous grin.

For Roman, it’s a strangely sobering moment. One could say that he’d kept a busy social calendar in the wake of he and Shiloh’s situation. “Hey, I’m single, I’m young, I don’t got kids or baby mamas—if I wanna spend my time getting to know the people that’s what I’m gonna do.”

Wyatt’s intuition told him that the roots of his friend’s playboy turn ran deep. While Reigns had never been a saint, something had been triggered in him that sent him on a tear. Bray had little doubt he was using promiscuous sex to self medicate. However, he’d learned to choose his battles and kept his diagnosis to himself. “Alright, alright. Play safe, old timer. Have yourself a ball. I’m gettin’ myself a new sweater. If I don’t see you before you get out there, kill it.”

“Bet,” Roman says with a confident nod. Though, after his friend exits and he’s left alone with his memories, he feels significantly less confident.

[mojific]

That Old Thing Back: Chapter Three

“Biiiiiiiiiitch, can you believe this?! Oh my god!” Shiloh’s voice is vivid in Roman’s two-year-old memory.

“Oh, I believe it,” he sees himself say, his long raven hair pulled back in a ponytail and his body melted beyond comfort into his gray cotton sweatsuit. “Everybody knows she’s a lying ass trick. It’s poetic justice that it all came out at the reunion.” The two of them were sitting alone in the bedroom of Shiloh’s hotel room watching some riveting reality television. In their short time as an unlikely double act, Loh had dragged Reigns kicking and screaming into the reality fandom. It had become a post-show ritual to retreat to either of their rooms dive into the popular, trashy pastime. ”What I can’t believe,” the elder of the two continues, “is that you just called me ‘bitch’.” He tries to pull an angry, threatening face but fails to fake offense.

Shiloh, far from threatened by the hulking “Frick” to his “Frack” rolls his eyes dramatically. “You know I don’t mean it LIKE THAT. Hel-lo—it’s a figure of speech!” Despite his tone of voice, he was as annoyed as Reigns was offended. “You need more gay friends, ‘Big Dog’.” He leans back, sliding down the plush pillows stacked against his headboard. The bottom hem of his pink hoodie rises as his body sinks and reveals the caramel-brown flesh of his toned stomach.

From the other side of the bed, Roman works to convince himself that he’s only staring at it because of the shiny gold bellybutton piercing at its center.

Noticing his gaze, Shiloh yanks the hoodie down in a huff.

Panicked at being caught, Reigns sits up from his slouched position. “What?” he asks, feigning innocence this time.

Loh ruches his mouth like the defiant teenager he’d been a short time ago. “Shut up, don’t make fun of me.”

“HUH? Make fun of you.”

“YEAH, make fun of my piercing like you did before.” Shiloh holds his arms out at his side like a bodybuilder. “‘I bet you have a tramp stamp too’,” he mocks Roman with an exaggeratedly deep voice. “‘Turn around and let me see.’ You play too much.”

Reigns can’t stop himself from giggling with relief. “Oh yeah, that shit was funny.”

“I didn’t even know what that was. I know you’re over thirty but fuck your dad jokes.”

“Theeeeere you go with that ‘old’ shit again.”

“I’m not saying you’re old, I’m saying you’re lame.”

“Dads are lame?”

“DUH.”

“That’s funny coming from somebody with so many ‘zaddies’.” Feeling like he landed a zinger, he smiles at him smugly.

Loh meets his grin with a glare. “And what about it? I like older men. Jealous?”

Yes, Roman was actually quite jealous, though he wouldn’t admit it to either of them. “Fuck no. That’s your thing, not mine.”

Shiloh rolls his eyes again. “Why do straight guys always have to tell the world that they’re straight? Do y’all want a fucking parade?”

Reigns scoffs at the question but gives the rhetorical question considerable thought. Unbeknownst to his young partner, it was another in a growing list of ways that he’d forced him to question his sexuality. “I—“

“OOH, it’s back on! Don’t ruin this delicious drama with your bland heteronormativity. Shush!”

[mojific]

Miracle Watts is the face claim for Brejanna Holmes, Taryn’s ex and the mother of his child.

[mojific]

Caliluma: Capitulo Tres

“Bro, thank you SO MUCH for the pic, bro!” After a long ass drive across the city, Liam finally pulls up to my baby mom’s house in Inglewood.

I grab my bag and open the door on my side. “Yeah man. Like I said, tell little bro I said keep it Caliluma, alright. He’ll know what I mean.”

“Of course man! ‘Caliluma’! Fucking right. Hey, would you mind giving me a five star review when you get a chance? Us drivers live and die on that shit.”

“For sure man.” I don’t mean it and I probably won’t remember. But then also I’m too high profile for people to think I don’t treat service people right, so he might get one in a few days. I step on the ground and shut the door. The street is already hot from the sun and I know imma have to ice my balls to stays cool.

“See you at your show bro—“

Somebody in the car behind him honks the horn at him before he can keep talking. “‘Ey! Getcho ass on, Shaggy Doo!”

I laugh and take the chance to jog up the driveway to the front door. I can hear my baby talking somebody’s head off through the doors. He smart, like his mama, with my personality. Hearing his voice makes me smile, I can’t even help it. I go to ring the doorbell but somebody’s voice stops me before I can push it. “Uh...excuse me? Does Brejanna live here?” It’s obviously a dude. I turn around to look at him: he’s a tall light skinned tragon with green eyes and a fade, holding some flowers and wearing some Urban Outfitters shit. Where she find this one?

“Maybe. Whachu want with her, Lawrence?”

Dude looks confused. “Lawrence?”

“Yeah, you look like a ‘Lawrence’...with them skinny jeans and them corny ass flowers.” I said that last part just quiet enough for him to hear it. He ain’t gonna do shit so why not?

“I’m Shad. I work with Brejanna at the bank. You must be—“

“Don’t worry about who I am. I need to know who YOU ARE, ‘Shad’.”

I wanna bust him in his lip for the way he’s looking at me right now. “Taryn.” Now he’s nodding at me all cocky. “Bree mentioned you. I mean, obviously. You don’t live here, right? You’re Yael’s dad or whatever.” OR WHATEVER? ‘Or whatever’?! Who the fuck? Does this motherfucking STRANGER know I’ll snap his fucking neck for talking slick about my family? My son’s name better never come outta his bitchass dick sucking mouth again.

“YO, I’m gonna tell you this ONE TIME: do not EVER speak on my son again.“ I can feel myself about to hulk up.

“Little Mexican boy, if you don’t stop playing on my porch!” MALDITO—it’s Yael’s grandmother standing in the open door looking like Venom: black and evil.

“I’m not Mexican, Roxanne! You know this!” I raise my voice but do it with a smile ‘cause, really, I don’t want them problems. Roxanne is short and skinny but so is a viper. “You should understand your grandson’s heritage, right?”

“He black. I understand.”

“He—yeah he is but he’s also Honduran and Costa Rican—“

“Save me the geography lesson, ‘lil boy.” She puts her hand in my face like I’m not the baddest man on the planet. “How you doin’ baby?!” She waves at the simp with that same hand. “Brejanna almost ready.”

“Hey Mrs. Holmes. You look beautiful.”

“OOP—Thank you baby! I’m trynna age like that fine wine you bought us the other night.” Roxanne cuts her eyes at me like two daggers. She wanted me to feel those words. I do, and she can probably see it on my face. ‘See that? Fine wine? That’s expensive, sophisticated shit you don’t know nothing about?’ That’s what she’s thinking, with her evil ass. “ANYWAY...You wanna come in for some refreshments while you wait?”

“Ey, I don’t need this nobody around while I’m spending time with my son, Roxanne.” I meant that.

“When you have a roof to put over your son’s head you can call the shots. But you don’t, so you won’t.”

“I have a roof—“

“Not one fit for a child, fool.”

“—MIJO!” I shout into the house after my son. “Daddy’s here, mijo! Come to the door.”

Roxanne stabs me in the stomach with one of he acrylic nails. “Whose house you shouting in?! You must be out your goddamn—“

“DADDY!” Yael runs past his grandmother’s leg faster than any three-year-old should be able to. Before Roxanne can finish bitching at me, I scoop him up in my arms and kiss him all over his head. I’m a macho guy, right? But fuck that—my son will never doubt his daddy loves him. That’s my baby.

“You miss me, mijo? Huh?” Yael nods with a smile full of baby teeth. He looks like a darker version of me. My mama shows me the pictures all the time. “Papa missed you too. I been waiting all week to see you.”

“I saw you on TV,” my boy says, flexing his arms like I do all the time.

“Oh yeah? Gramma Roxy let you watch papa wrestle?” I see Roxanne glare at me out the side of my eye. I guess not. Would’a shocked the shit out of me if she did.

Yael shakes his head ‘No’. “Mommy.”

“Mommy? Mommy let you watch?” I ask. This time he shakes his head ‘Yes’.

“Of course I let him see his father. Don’t I always?” I hear Bree’s silky voice from close range before I see her. She steps out of the shadows of the house looking like a model on a runway. I don’t know shit about fashion but I know she looks damn fine in that bright green dress, popping off that chocolate skin and that long, wavy black hair. “Don’t I?”

I don’t even remember what she said, she looks so good. “Huh?”

Bree smiles at me like I’m the slow kid in class. “Nothing, Taryn. You look good.”

My cheeks get warm and I know I’m blushing like the teenager I was when I met her. “And you look...better than good...” I’m usually better with words but no tengo nada—I got nothing.

“Brejanna, how long you think you gonna be gone, baby?” Roxanne asks with pissiness all through the words. “You know I have a date too, now. I might be staying the night at Frank’s tonight and I don’t want El Bullshit in my house when I get back.”

“MAMA...” Bree nods at Yael, who’s too busy running his hand over my hair to pay attention. Roxanne looks at him and softens herself. “I’ll be back in time to put my baby to sleep.” She turns back to me with a sexy smirk. “Don’t feed him a bunch of sugar, Taryn. You know he won’t sleep if you do.”

“Yes mommy.” I wink at her and bite my lip. She rolls her eyes at me but I know she likes it. We can’t fool each other.

Bree kisses her mother on the cheek. “Bye mama.” She puts a hand on our son’s back and gives him a long kiss on his cheek, making him giggle. “'Dame tu azucar!” She taught herself Spanish before we ever met. She thought it’d help her get jobs. She was right, of course. She always is. “Bye T.” Instead of something affectionate like a hug, she daps me up like I’m the homie then clicks away in her fancy heels. I don’t like that she’s walking away with that waffle colored cabron but I’ll see his ass again.

“What you wanna do, mijo?” I ask my son.

“Cartoons!”

“Cartoons it is.” Roxanne finds another excuse to bitch at me but I don’t care. My son is what matters.

[mojific]

Chapter Three of Caliluma on 5/23.

[mojific]

[mojific]

ALL MY BEAUTIFUL MUTALS

Message me your preferred non-tumblr form of communication in case I have to hex this bitch. I don’t want to lose contact.

[mojific]

I know I haven’t bothered to ask but how does the world feel about a sexually ambiguous Roman Reigns?

[mojific]

That Old Thing Back: Chapter Two

“Did you hear something?” Roman asks as he oils his thickly muscled bare arms.

“‘Course I did,” Bray Wyatt, one of his best friends and road dogs replies. “There’s twelve thousand people in this building. You oughta hear somethin’, even at your advanced age.”

“Two years—I’m two years older than your bitch ass. And I look twenty years younger.”

“Twenty years, he says—“

“Twenty-five since you started wearing them ‘Mister Rodgers’ sweaters.” Roman looks Wyatt’s cotton covered torso up and down, a look of mock disgust on his handsome face. “And khakis.”

Bray wags his finger at him. “Un-un-un, don’t shade the khakis now, big fella.”

Reigns cranes his neck backwards and scrunches his face. “‘Shade’? You been watching ‘Housewives’?” he asks sarcastically.

“Nah, c’mon man,” Wyatt shakes his head vigorously, chuckling. “My lady watches ‘Drag Race’ though. I picked up the ‘Queens English’.”

Roman raises an eyebrow at him, wanting badly to poke fun but not having room to talk. Not long ago, he could’ve quoted Housewives across two franchises. Their way of life didn’t offer much downtime but he’d enjoyed kicking back and dropping out with—

“—Shiloh,” his friend appears to finish his thought.

“I told you to stop doing that shit,” Roman says, disturbed that Wyatt might be utilizing his gift for reading minds again.

“Doing what? You asked if I heard something and I said I thought I heard Shiloh outside. What I do?”

Roman, embarrassed by his own reaction, replies with a slightly cowed “Nothing.”

“Hmm.” Wyatt’s suspicions were aroused but he knew better than to tease his friend about Shiloh and the rumors about the two of them. It was a sensitive subject that led to sulking and the silent treatment when breached. “Anyway, you might not like my gimmick but at least I have one. We can’t all play ‘Long-Haired Wrestler In All-Black Gear’ with the same aplomb as yourself. Bet you thought you changed the game switching from a bulletproof vest to a sleeveless hoodie, yeah?” He playfully smacks his buddy on a tatted bicep. The sleeve of his tight-fitting sweater drags across the slick surface, staining the material. “Shit!”

Reigns lets out a huge guffaw. “Instant karma for that ass!”

Wyatt’s eyes dart back and forth between his friend and his stained sweater. “Where’s your sense of humor?” he asks gruffly.

“MY sense of humor? Bitch I’m DYING!”

“Damn it, I gotta go back to wardrobe.”

“Serves you right. Keep yo hands to yo-self, gator.”

“Ha—when’s the last time you said that, huh?” Bray gives him a knowing, mischievous grin.

For Roman, it’s a strangely sobering moment. One could say that he’d kept a busy social calendar in the wake of he and Shiloh’s situation. “Hey, I’m single, I’m young, I don’t got kids or baby mamas—if I wanna spend my time getting to know the people that’s what I’m gonna do.”

Wyatt’s intuition told him that the roots of his friend’s playboy turn ran deep. While Reigns had never been a saint, something had been triggered in him that sent him on a tear. Bray had little doubt he was using promiscuous sex to self medicate. However, he’d learned to choose his battles and kept his diagnosis to himself. “Alright, alright. Play safe, old timer. Have yourself a ball. I’m gettin’ myself a new sweater. If I don’t see you before you get out there, kill it.”

“Bet,” Roman says with a confident nod. Though, after his friend exits and he’s left alone with his memories, he feels significantly less confident.

[mojific]

Thanks to @mondaynightrollynch and her...WAYS...y’all will probably wake up to a new chapter of “That Old Thing Back” featuring this schlub:

[mojific]

HOW TO SPEAK WRITER: 

“my characters have a mind of their own!” - no i’m not mad and yes i know i made them up but i have no idea what’s happening anymore please save me

“i’m going to write today!” - i’d actually rather wash the garden path but the house is already pristine and i’ve run out of excuses

 “this is still a rough draft so go easy on me!” - i have spent what feels like forever pouring my very soul into this but i worry it’s terrible and if you’re mean i may just cry

“i’ll update soon!” - this is utterly killing me, i don’t know how to read anymore, what are words, help 

“i just had this idea and had to share it with you guys!” - this has taken me three weeks and countless hours please love and appreciate it

“feedback appreciated :D” - please, i live for validation! i need comments!! 

[mojific]

I’m going to write a trans character and they’re going to have a very full life.

[mojific]

We love the Jordan Torres/ Taryn Torres content

Thank you so much Adriana! That means 10000000% more coming from an Afro-Latina. There’s much more Caliluma on the way.

[mojific]

Is Taryn Torres a 5-star ride?

[mojific]

Caliluma: Capitulo Dos

I’m about to file for bankruptcy after this Uber ride. The lil’ hoe I just nutted and jutted on lives in Silver Lake and I’m trying to get to Inglewood on the other side of LA. That’s a fifteen-mile drive. It’s the weekend so prices are surging out the ass. I should’a listened to the brain in my head and drove my car to the show. But no, I get in Toro Mode and I need the star treatment. Stars don’t drive themselves to performances, right? They gotta have drivers? Then I let my dick pull me out to bars with thirsty bitches wanting to get star-fucked. If I went straight to Inglewood after the show I wouldn’t be fucked up right now.

Skinny white boys with beards bigger than their rescue dogs keep lookin at me sideways while I’m waiting for my ride on the street. We live in the same city but I know they only see dudes like me on the internet. There ain’t a lot of six-footer Latin hosses walking around Brentwood or Malibu or wherever the fuck they lived before they colonized this neighborhood. In a way it’s fair, though. I guess I do look like a extra in a Fast and Furious movie: body like a god, tight-ass wife beater, Dickies, work boots. I’m too tall to be Vin Diesel but these betas probably think I’m The Rock.

While they stare at everything they’ll never be, I’m gonna check my social. Mira—I hold the “mid-card” belt in Championship Wrestling Without Borders (even though I’m the most over motherfucker in the whole bitchass promotion—BULLSHIT, bro) but I’m the king on Instagram. My follower count is 800K with no agency, no label, no reality show, none’a that. My wrestling, my selfie game, my looks: that’s what these thirst buckets and marks can’t get enough of. CWWB pays me something decent when you add my merch sales but it’s the money I make off social media that keeps me from having to work a lame ass day job. That ad and collab money is longer than you know. The higher my follower count goes the more they throw at me. Twenty-thousand likes, fifty-thousand likes, a hundred-thousand likes...it’s good to be king, baby.

“Hey Bro? Are you Darren?” I look up to see another white boy—a long haired blond surfer looking one—hanging out the driver’s side of a dark blue SUV. “You order a Uber, guy?” I can smell his cheap weed from the sidewalk and see his eyes are squinty as fuck.

I’m heated. Sometimes I wish they made weed illegal again. “My name is Taryn, ‘bro’. Yeah, you my Uber. You better be good to drive, too. No bullshit.” I pick up my gym bag with my gear in it and look at him hard one more time so he knows I’m not fucking around.

“Oh broooo, bro—I’m so good! Like, this is my natural state, I drive like this all the time. Hey, I bet you don’t need help with your bag, huh big fella?” His stoner chuckle don’t do shit to ease my nerves. “Hop in dude!”

If he flips this thing and we both die, I’m coming back from the dead to piss on his bones. I open the back passengers side door and throw my bag in, then climb in the front passengers side. I’m probably supposed to sit in the back but fuck that. The minute some funny shit happens I’m kicking him out the door and taking the wheel.

“Hey uh...no offense, Muscles From Brussels, but you’re kinda supposed to sit in back.”

“Cool. Let’s go.”

He hesitates for a minute, probably deciding if company policy is worth getting his ass beat over. We’re almost the same height but he’s skinny and I could snap him with one hand.

“Homie, I need you to start driving.”

“Okay, bro, okay—but just this once.” He starts doing that stupid stoner giggle again but I don’t give a fuck since he puts the car in drive.

I take my phone out of my pocket and start scrolling again. I got another hundred and fifty followers on Twitter while I was fucking around with that bitch. That’s extra crazy ‘cause I hardly use the fuckin’ thing except for bookings and slides. If I open my DM’S you wouldn’t see nothing but agents, recruiters, and nudes.

“I’m Liam, by the way.” CHINGADO—this boy don’t stop. “Well, William, but I’m not proper like that. I’m not really, like...a Bill either.

“Nice to meet you,” I mumble.

“Pleasure’s mine, bro. Anybody ever tell you you have one of those, like...faces?” I ignore the question but that don’t stop him. “I’ve totally seen you somewhere. You play for the Rams?”

Why every brown boy with some size gotta play football? “No.”

“You on TV?”

“Sometimes.”

“Okay, sometimes—you’re an actor!” Why the fuck is he so excited for?

“In a way.”

“Ooooooh...you do porn?”

“Yeah but not on camera.”

“Dude, that’s what’s up—”

“—I’m a wrestler.”

“No way! You do WWE?! Like The Rock and stuff?!”

See? I told you: all they know is the fuckin’ Rock. “I don’t wrestle for WWE, I wrestle for CWWB.”

“Oh, no, no, dude. I didn’t mean it like that. I say ‘WWE’ when I mean ‘wrestling’. Sorry, it’s what I grew up with. No disrespect.”

Nah, disrespect but I’m not gonna try to explain why. “People do that shit a lot, like when they call MMA ‘UFC’. Brand recognition.”

“Yo but like I’ve heard of CWWB though. It’s Cali based? Big, like, set-up in DTLA?”

“Yeah.”

“And you—you’re like...the bull guy...”

“El Toro, Taryn—“

“TORRES! Torres! I knew it! I know faces, man.” He pushes my arm like we’re friends. We not. “Dude my little brother—well, he’s not so little anymore now that he’s 15—but him and his friends fucking love your stuff! Wait until I tell him—“

The car drifts into the next lane. “HEY, eyes on the road, fool.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry. My bad. So you’re like the champ over there right? You got the belt?”

The most relevant champ with the most relevant title, yeah. “I’m the Interstate Champion. Chad Ventura is the CWWB Champion.”

“That’s the old guy?” Exactly. I respect the man but thirty-five is a hundred and three in wrestler years. He’s three bumps away from a hip replacement.

“He’s been around a long time, yeah. He’s the face of the company.” I hate that “face of the company” shit. That’s that corny media training they make us do.

“Hey man, the respect thing—I get it. Gotta respect your elders, right?”

“I respect his contributions to the business.” Now it’s time for him to go home and play with his kids, permanently.

“You live over in Inglewood, bro? I would’a thought you’d live out west somewhere. You must be good in the hood, huh?”

‘Good in the hood’? The fuck does that mean? Shaking my mother fucking head...“I’m goin’ to see my son.”

“That’s what’s up! How old?”

“He’ll be four this year.”

“You cool with his mom?”

“Yeah.” It’s more complicated than that but that’s none of his business. Traffic is moving decent for LA but we’re not even halfway there. I’m over the free meet-and-greet. “Hey you got the AUX cord? Feels weird being in a car with no music, you know?”

[mojific]

Alessandra Olanow (because)