Patron Saint

By: Tyler Streets

Writing Prompt: Yes

Date: 14th Apr 2022

Ayyyy what’s up Mr. Reeves?

Nah, fuck a lead in. You’re a giant ass, tree ass looking lumberjack bitch. Little Ed Sheeran ass entrance music having, five move ass knowing, technically medically morbidly obese ass bitch. How are you gonna be six foot nine (NICE) and still be looked down on by the wrestling industry? How are you gonna be three hundred fifteen pounds but you still can’t tip the scales in a wrestling match? You’ve been quiet as a mouse since FIGHT put you up on the block against me for Venom 20, but that shouldn’t come as a surprise… all those needles that stacked you sixty five pounds over your ideal BMI probably went full Rick Moranis.

HONEY I SHRUNK DEEZ NUTS. 

Man you got fish lips.

Look at you. Look at those titties. Those gains look about as natural on you as that boomer boy band haircut. What are you, a B cup? C cup? Does Planet Fitness make you wear a sports bra when you’re doing nine thousand pound deep squats? We fucking GET IT, Ben, you lift weights. God damn, your traps connect to your ears, take a day off and watch some fucking Netflix. 

“IS IT CAKE?” fucking slaps

I know you’re sounding out the big words, so get someone smarter than a fifth grader to read this part to you, real slow: At Venom #20, FIGHT NYC gets the debut of Tyler Streets. This isn’t about you. You’re gonna be a footnote on a wiki page, my guy. The answer to a trivia question on a crossword puzzle– seventeen across, nine letters, “Guy who got his ass whooped by Tyler Streets and then cried into a protein shake”. I am the future of professional wrestling, and you’re just some dude one sword tattoo away from looking like an actual dickhead. 

Time’s up, Big Ben.

I’m gonna clean your fucking clock.

 

——————————–

“No fucking way, that guy is HUGE!”

Absolute, abject terror. 

That is the best way to describe the look on the face of the most infamous wrestling influencer ever to debut on Venom #19, as he stares at the roster page of the Fight NYC website. His screen has so far timed out twice– he had to tap it with his finger to get it to wake up, and both times he has again been filled with pants-shitting panic. 

He has seen the face of fear. 

It is Benjamin Reeves. 

“No, bro.” Tyler Streets shakes his head, vehemently. “Nah. No fuckin’ way. This motherfucker is like seven feet tall and looks like he fucks tractors for sport. I’m not fighting this guy. How do you even fight him? He’s a building. A factory. Literally the factory where they make brick shit houses, that’s this guy. Fuck you. No.” 

He pushes his cell phone across the table in front of him, delusionally hoping that if he distances himself from the biography of Benjamin Reeves, it will somehow make him less real. You see, Tyler Adrian Streets is only eighteen years old. The poor bastard only found out about Santa Clause like, ten years ago. He still has hope, and optimism, and a belief that life is good and pure and fair. 

You know, like an idiot. 

He crosses his arms defensively across his chest, looking more like a toddler having a tantrum than a big, tough professional wrestling. Because he isn’t one. Tyler Streets has had approximately eight wrestling matches in his career. Is that right more than most people? Sure. Would you skydive with an instructor who had only ever jumped eight times? 

No. No, you would not. 

Across the apartment sits P$NNY L4NE, her shocking pink hair holding court over an otherwise drag, grey blazer. A “Word From The Streets” t-shirt peeks out from beneath the blazer, because she is far too cool and trendy for anything less than the most casual of formalwear. As both the Public Relations and production side of Tyler’s garbage influencer circus, this sudden act of cowardice is not ideal. 

“You asked for a fight.” P$NNY shrugs, responding flatly. “Pretty aggressively, actually. Seem to remember you calling everyone bitch.”

Tyler doesn’t look back, his eyes wandering out the window to the street below. 

“This is stupid.” he huffs, in a whiny tone. “This isn’t even worth my time anyway. I’m just gonna quit. Who holds a show in Washington and calls themselves Fight NYC? The fans aren’t even gonna know where to go to see the show, it’s confusing. Tell them I quit.”

He watches as the cars pass by, his posture tightly guarded. 

Eighteen years old. It’s really too young to be doing most things, when you think about it. Not even old enough to drink, much less get a discount on car insurance. Tyler Streets is barely out of high school, and now he is somehow just… a pro wrestler. It turns out anyone can do it, you don’t even need a license. Of course, being a pro wrestler and being a pro wrestler are different sides of completely different coins, and this tantrum is just another in a long line of examples as to why there’s nothing professional about Tyler Streets. 

He’s a fucking baby. 

“You aren’t quitting.” P$NNY rolls her eyes. “You are the second runner up to the Illinois state champion wrestler, Tyler. You have a following of like… dozens… of people who are counting on you. So you’re gonna go out there, you’re gonna fight the… tractor fucker… and you’re going to win.” 

The young wannabe influencer looks up at P$NNY, a hint of a smile brightening his lips. 

“You really believe that?” Tyler asks, slightly uncrossing his arms. 

His producer pauses, deciding whether it’s appropriate to lie.

“No” she shakes her head. “I think you’re going to get fucking murdered, Tyler. He’s three hundred pounds and his neck is a rumor. He’s gonna beat the shut out of you, live on television. But I can very carefully edit that footage for your vlog, get the soundtrack hype as fuck, and land you a thousand new subs by the end of the week. Are you willing to get your head kicked in to be famous?”

The dumb as shit eighteen year old’s eyebrows perk up.

“And that’s not all.” P$NNY smiles, reeling him in. “I got you your first sponsor. They wanna sponsor Tyler Streets… pro wrestler Tyler Streets.”

Yep, that did it. 

Since he was a young man of only fourteen years of age, Tyler Streets has wanted to be famous. To rub elbows with celebrities. Shoot a sextape, secretly leak it on the Internet, then pretend to be outraged while all the new follows roll in. To get married in a preposterously short time to someone just as fucked up as him, and then let the court of public opinion decide who gets the house in the divorce. To be sponsored? It wasn’t just a goal, it was THE DREAM. To get free shit and fat stacks for shilling other people’s merchandise. 

THE FUCKING DREAM. 

“Aight, bet.” Tyler rubs his hands together, re-engaged. “What you got for me? Fuck, is it AirPods? I just broke my AirPods. I hope it’s AirPods.” 

The laugh that escapes his public relations manager is short, but cruel. She covers her mouth with one hand, trying to mitigate exactly how obviously mean it was, but there’s only so much that you can do. 

“Tyler.” she deadpans, blinking slowly. “It’s not fucking AirPods. You need subs to get Apple money. You need subs to get any money. But, I’m awesome, and I got you an offer. They’re gonna keep the lights on, toss you some production money for the show, put a little extra in your pocket. And you don’t have to shill anything to get it.”

The WinFluencer eyes her suspiciously, recoiling ever so slightly.

“Yo like.” He furrows his brow. “I don’t wanna suck anybody’s dick or anything. No offense to people who like sucking dicks and stuff but like…” 

“Oh Jesus Christ.” P$NNY snaps, interjecting. “I found you a PATRON, Tyler. Someone interested in seeing you make something out of yourself.”

Tyler looks obviously confused.

“A patron.” she shakes her head. “…it’s like… Patreon… but just one person. It goes way back to artists like Michaelangelo who would– you know what? You for sure think he’s a Ninja Turtle, so forget it. They’re interested in you. You’re the product here.” 

“So… a sugar Daddy.” Tyler glares back at his manager. “I think I made myself pretty clear on the whole sucking dick thing. Like, it’s not that there’s anything wrong with sucking dick, I just myself don’t happen to–”

A sharp, open hand cracks the Legend In Training along the side of his skull, sending his own interrupted sentence reverberating throughout his skull. P$NNY shakes her hand off, wringing it out from the sting. 

“Just wrestle.” she grumbles, her impatience taking over. “All you have to do is wrestle, Tyler. Go out, fight the brick shit house, do whatever you have to do to not die, and you get paid. And if you get paid, we get paid. And I need to get fucking paid, Tyler. Do you understand me?”

Holding the side of his skull, Tyler quietly nods his head, equal parts furious and embarrassed. P$NNY is obviously done here for the day, as she collects her bag and begins heading toward the door of the studio. 

“Oh, Ty Guy.” she looks back, with a smile. “Free up your afternoon tomorrow. They’re getting you some real ring gear… we’re going shopping.”

With a little “fuck you, toodaloo” wave, P$NNY slams the door behind her and leaves her client standing along in the studio. He can still feel the handprint in the side of his head, and that shit hurts. If a small human can leave a handprint, what the fuck is Benjamin Reeves going to do to him? Is it all worth potentially broken bones? Literal death, as a worst case? In truth, Tyler doesn’t even have to think about it for that long. Of course it’s a yes.

It was always a yes.

It’s time to get paid

Tyler Streets was a nobody, and as much as he pretended not to, he knew it. The vlog was never gonna take off without a reason for it to– there were a million other people who looked like him, acted like him, and made stupid videos like him. Even in the wrestling world, there were an unending number of blogs, vlogs, podcasts, you name it. If he wanted to make it in an impossible industry, with impossible odds, the only choice he had was to suck it up and refuse to be a bitch. Because he was a lot of things: A whiny, impulsive child. Kind of an idiot. A nice set of abs on a shitty personality. 

But he wasn’t a bitch. 

He snatches his phone off the table, swiping up and opening his Twitch app. He fires up the record button, aiming the camera at his dumb, handsome face and pressing play. 

“Hey y’all, your boy Tyler here… and this is Word From The Streets.”

The show is about to begin. 

Venom #20.