The Great Deflector

By: Tommy Kain

Writing Prompt: No

Date: 30th Jul 2021

TK: No Pierre, I donít really understand it. I mean the way I see it, booze still costs money most of the time. We live in a capitalist society, so we donít get to trade items for goods and services, so we are still in a spot where not making dollars doesnít make sense, so we have to keep plugging along. But somehow this new place still sends us checks and those checks still cash so sticking around doesnít feel like that bad of an idea.

P: So then you DO understand why it is important for you to get yourself in at least some kind of working condition in order to at least compete with the caliber of athletes that this FIGHT organization will provide?

TK: No, Pierre, No I donít. If this place is gonna pay me, and I spent one night in a damn closet and another night in a New York Drunk tank and the check still cashed, why in the world would I need to get myself in what did you call it, working condition?

P: Thomas, I need you to pay close attention to what I am about to say to you. Now before I say this I want you to know that I truly value our friendship and GOAT and I appreciate you for everything you are.

But Thomas, you areÖ..

TK: Dude, are you getting ready to give me the “Alcoholic” speech. Is this going to be a damned intervention where you and GOAT read letters that you wrote about how good I WAS and how now I am just a shell of that? Maybe you will even play video highlights of my early career in this business and see my smiling face and all the promise I had.

Hell, maybe even run down the list of all the titles I have won and companies that put the pressure of keeping them actually semi entertaining on my back. While the rest of their federation was overrun with emo douche rockets and “Dark” brooding murderers, and slutty girls who tried to trick you into calling them on it so they can scream about how they are so much more than that.

Oh why stop there, maybe you will go back even farther and talk about my piece of plankton Pops and his alcoholic abusive ass or how my moms had to scrape and scrap for everything we had and how disappointed she would be if she were alive and could see her son has carved out a career as a glamorized drunken bar fighter. Never once even thinking about how sad it is that drinking and fighting are the two things that define me and make me even close to what people might call happy and that both of those things will eventually kill me in some knock-off version of the end of Young Guns Two only with more booze and less Emilio Estevez.

Because if that is what you are getting ready to say P-nut, just know I ainít buying what you are selling on this street corner.

P: Wow Thomas, that was definitely quite an oration on your part, quite stirring even though it was awfully presumptuous. I was merely preparing to tell you that you were sitting on the X-Box controller and I really wanted to get some game streaming in on my Twitch channel.

TK: Oh, my bad, here you go.

P: Thomas, did you want to talk aboutÖÖÖ..all that?

TK: Nah, PB and J, I am good.

(Pierre and TK both appeared to be willing to leave that conversation lying right where it was. The diminutive War King of Dubai worked with the X-Box controller and adjusted some of his livestream equipment while Kain continued to sort of just stare off into space while drinking from a reasonably large bottle of Bulleit Bourbon. Neither one could pinpoint where in TKís most recent rambling that things got uncomfortably awkward. But it had already happened and they couldnít go back now. Kainís first instinct was to make a joke or some other kind of deflection, but he caught a glimpse of the look on Pierreís face and somehow it didnít feel like it was going to work.

Pierre remembered a moment like this from long before he was a revered war king. He remembered a time way before he had become what some would call “An evil genius”. A time when he was just a boy telling his mother he was joining the army. Since we donít have any wavy flashback lines I will just tell you that Pierreís mother was not excited about losing her youngest son to a hail of gunfire and IED explosions. But she also knew that she had always taught her son to follow his passions, she just never realized his passion would be finding creative ways to end peopleís existence. But there they were.

This situation felt a lot like that. Pierre decided to employ the same strategy he used that day with his mother. He ducked, he dodged, and he avoided. There would be no closure to TKís existential dilemma on this day.)

P: So, Thomas, do you know anything about this Druscilla person?

(This was it, Kain saw this as the break he needed. A chance to talk about somebody else, anybody else was exactly what he needed. And his opponent this week seemed like she embodied all of the things that could irritate Kain at any given moment. It was perfect.)

TK: Well other than the awful name, Cruella seems to be another in the long line of cookie cutter female fighters. Over the years the majority of ladies who step in between the ropes with various degrees of badassery fall into a few categories.

Cheerleader, positive, cheerful, bubbly, cool to hang out with but only in short bursts.

Super-Model, can go either way, some are sweet and smart and funny and others are stereotypical bitch engines who are always trying to manipulate something and prove that anything you can do they can do better.

Psycho-Barbie, this is a popular one since the 90ís. Hot as an Ethiopian under sack but varying degrees of a Salad Bar of psychosis. For some reason they usually love to pretend they have some Dissociative Disorder or schizoaffective deal, but most of the time it is more like a cry to be one of the cool kids. Which usually bleeds us into our last category.

Any combination of Voodoo Priestess, Witch, Swamp Hag, Augra from the Dark Crystal or the Trash Heap from Fraggle Rock.

And it is in this last cookie jar where it appears our topic for today lives and breathes.

Now honestly, I think she is kind of a combo of a low-grade Psycho Barbie with a touch of super-model, and a heaping teaspoon of Swamp Hag but for the sake of digression I am not going to play with the formula too much.

From what I can gather she is a less than one-hundred and fifty-pound little yarn ball of anger. They say she did a bit of prison time and has some organized crime connections.

P: Donít they all now?

TK: Solid point P-terodactyl. It does seem like an awful lot of wrasslers these days are heavy into criminal activities but never seem to be actively chased by the authorities. Like Mafia dons and heads of cartels I sort of understand but lower-level folks, who you would think would want to maintain a pretty low profile seem to love the wrasslin life.

But there I go digressing all over the place again.

Back to Yolanda

P: Druscilla

TK: Thatís what I said. Anyways, I donít know what this girl is expecting coming into this match. And P-Can Pie, donít get me wrong, I have zero problem fighting a girl. Equal rights and equal fights and all that jazz, but this kid is lollipop Guild little. Like I mean, if a strong wind picks up she may end up in Cleveland, little.

Like she has to wear iron heels and a cannon ball around her neck in order defy gravity and not float away, little.

P: Now Thomas, I have to say, it sounds as if you could be underestimating your opponent. Small or not, she is dangerous and could be a threat. I mean, I stand before you as a man who has gone overlooked in many of a battle to the death and I am still drawing oxygen.

TK: No, no, no, donít misunderstand me, I get it. I mean this girl is clearly at least a little cool. I mean she wears tassles at least some of the time. And not like cheap boobie tassles, she wears them her on her arms like the Gods intended. And I have zero doubt in my mind that she can hold her own in a decent scrap.

I mean I have no doubts she is tough than shoe leather and honey badger mean.

But if I am being straightforward and honest, itís the whole rest of her deal that I have a hard time taking too seriously.

Like she reminds me of a someone who would have a “Donít meddle in the affairs of Dragons” or “my other ride is a broom” bumper stickers and a satchel full of Hot Topic “Freak-quent buyer” cards. Probably tries to sell people Jasmin and Lavender as an Essential oils dealer. Like the kind of person who canít go to a party without trying to read an aura or busting out her stupid tarot cards.

And apparently as a new twist to the bit, she runs her own motorcycle club.

Like I canít even with this lady.

See the way I have it figured is I am going to do her a huge favor on Saturday night. I am gonna punch her in the back of the face so hard that those creepy contacts she probably wears pop out and then she will actually be able to see the rest of the ass whoopin I hand her without cornea irritation. Then after I punch massage her body so much that she is begging me to kick her a few times I am gonna headbutt her nose to the back of her brain. Then maybe she will understand that nobody cares.

That nobody cares how tough other people think you are. Or how much time you did in lockup or how many Mafia Don rings you have kissed over the past decade.

That nobody cares how many times you have rode your big, metal big wheel to Sturgis or how many cool patches you have on your clubhouse vests.

All they are gonna care about is whether or not you can throw and take a punch and how many times you can do it before you look up through bloodshot eyes and busted up mouth and say

Iím done.

Because what Citronella Ö..

Pierre: Druscilla

TK: Gesunheidt, or Salud, or Bless you, you really need to get a few allergy pills for that sneeze of yours.

Anyways, What Salmonella needs to understand is that I have lived my whole life doing two things. Drinking and fighting and in both situations I preach one unchanging, unwavering, universal truth.


So on Saturday The wicked witch of the ring needs sit her ass down or get put down because thatís just the way it is.


(TK took a deep breath and then a long pull from his whiskey bottle. He had done it. Pierre looked more at ease and Kain was no longer caught in the muck and mire of self-actualization. His brain had gotten caught on the ideas of sadness and solitude and a drinking problem that had no clear light at the end of the tunnel that didnít seem connected to an ambulance or a hospital room. But he had beaten the wolves of doubt away from his mindís door yet again and he felt good about it.

Not necessarily healthy or sound, but better and to TK, that was good enough for now.)