Locoplata

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A/N: There's a lot of technical, jargon-y wrestling stuff in this chapter. I've put links to the moves described at the bottom of the page. As always, feel free to ask questions!

Content advisory for reference to mild NC.


"I want you to think real hard. Remember when I explained why I don't do names or gimmicks? It was just a few hours ago." Mitch's voice is steely in spite of his pulse still pounding in his ears.

Snacks barely unclenches his jaw to answer. "Yes. Because eighty billion workers come through your ring and you don't waste brainpower on the ones who don't make it."

"You're right," Mitch replies. "And every one of 'em wants something from me - they want my training on their resume, or they want to use the fed as a stepping stone to national TV, or they want to be the biggest name in the indies. Whatever it is, I'm one of the guys who can get them closer to what they want."

He stops to take a deep breath and continues to stare down Snacks.

"Now here's something that may shock you. I know how to play the game but I don't go out of my way to pretend to be straight. I want you to think real hard again. I know you're not dumb. How many of these fuckstains do you figure come through my ring and think that a blowjob or two is a mildly-distasteful but relatively easy way to get themselves over?"

The irritation is fading from Snacks' expression. "Um. What?"

If Snacks looked defiant, or guilty, or anything other than the mix of disturbed and disbelieving he's currently giving off this conversation and his spot in Mitch's ring would be over. "I said - when greens step into my ring a not-small percentage of them will very eagerly offer to suck my dick if it means they get to expend less effort training, or if it might convince me to get them a push. Totally no homo of course. I hear that a lot. It's fucking gross."

There's the realization. Snacks opens his mouth to speak but Mitch cuts him off.

"Of course they never just come out and say it right away. Once they clock me they're suddenly a lot more friendly and that close contact in the ring becomes a lot more intentional. Then the hints come, and then the outright offers, and I've already invested my time in them which pisses me off more than being treated like a piece of meat. So can a guy just be interested? Yeah. If I meet him at a club or, I dunno, the fucking library or whatever, then yeah, maybe. But if I meet him in the ring I'm sure you can understand why I have serious reservations. That's why I'm an asshole, and that's why every single green gets a nickname and nothing more than training from me." He pauses, then takes a step forward, pointing a finger at Snacks. "Today - this - is why I fucking have rules. This is why. I broke every single one of my rules with you and now look at what happened."

Encroaching in on Snacks' personal space is an intentional dare for him to try and make a move again. Points to him for leaning back and putting his hands behind him as soon as it happens.

He looks stricken. "Look, I promise I'm not trying to use you as some sort of stepping stone," Snacks says, any trace of attitude gone from his voice. "I get it, okay? I understand, and I'm honestly so sorry about...um, everything - those nasty fuckers, me being pushy, everything. I'm actually interested, and I don't know how to prove that."

Mitch knew this guy would work out okay. It's tough to keep up the angry stare but he does his best. "You fucking do the work like everyone else," he says, voice low. "You will either succeed by your own fucking talent and effort or you'll go back to jerking curtains in front of twenty fans with eight brain cells between 'em. That's how you prove it. Show up, do the work, and fucking succeed. Now go home. If you want to continue, I'll see you at the ring Tuesday."

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