#ghbleer

"It's a motherfucking shame that the concupiscent partner of the Father of the Church of the Mirthful Messiahs ain't know shit 'bout wrestlin' or the church," the Highblood lectures as they walk the stage to the wrestling ring, in the middle of an empty auditorium. 

They reach the ring, and the Highblood easily steps a leg over the highest rope, before sitting down on it to lower it down for Horuss to comfortably step over it as well. 

"Thank you, sir," the Executor says as he steps into the ring proper.

"Ain't a thing, ponybitch mine. You mind refreshin' my memory 'bout what a motherfucker already told you?" 

"There are two types of wrestlers," Horuss says, "heels and wrigglerfaces. Heels are the antagonists, and wrigglerfaces the protagonists."

"Excellent! And which motherfucker's the heavyweight champ right now?" 

"The Hangtroll." 

“So,” the Grand Highblood starts. “The middle of the ring is pretty motherfucking soft. It’s just foam. So usually you’d do most of your flippy-flips and slams there.” He says, jumping in the middle of the ring, atop a simplified version of his clown paint which serves as the logo of his premiere wrestling company, apparently, to show the springiness. 

The Executor nods, his stance unsteady, bounced by the Highblood’s enthusiastic demonstration.

“But, if you really ain’t like a motherfucker,” the Highblood walks to the ropes and stomps down on the edge of the ring, which had no give whatsoever. “You slam ‘em down face fuckin’ first on the apron. It’s steel.” 

“But wouldn’t that seriously hurt the performer?” Horuss asks sincerely. “Is that not against the purpose of this type of wrestling?” 

“If I knew who the little bitch what came up with sports entertainment was, I’d cull ‘em,” the Highblood says, leaning against the ropes, his arms spread wide over the top rope. “Special occasions you can seriously hurt a motherfucker. But the audience always loves some fuckin’ blood. 'S why steel chairs and thumbtacks are so fuckin' popular.” 

Horuss makes some little noncommittal noise. He finds the lowblood masses the Highblood has cultivated as an audience distasteful, vastly preferring the refined and dignified nature of muscle theater. There was less pandering of vicarious violence, the wrestlers did not assume characters, and each match was a genuine competition of skill. 

“You ever take a bump?” The Highblood asks. 

“That depends on what type of bump you are referring to, sir.” 

“You’re fucking hilarious, ponybitch.” The Highblood says blandly. "Answer the goddamn question."

“Yes, I have.” 

“Good!” The Highblood says, before moving fast towards Horuss and grabbing his arm with one hand. With the other, he grabs Horuss by the thigh and lifts him up onto his shoulders, rotating him about before falling back and slamming Horuss down on the middle of the ring. 

He yelps, the ring makes a horrific sound and the fabric around the perimeter swooshes up with the impact. But, like the Highblood had demonstrated, the foam padding took most of the impact and left Horuss wholly uninjured. 

“That was a bodyslam,” the Highblood says helpfully, sitting near Horuss. 

Horuss lays there, slightly stunned. His size made it unlikely for most to manhandle him such, and so the Highblood easily slinging him around like he weighs nothing is disarming. And somewhat arousing. But the Executor is dedicated to having this outing be entirely free of sexual activity. 

Not that has happened over often, but Horuss still tries his best. He crumbles against the force of the Highblood's lust like a professionally prepared macaron now, instead of a wet paper bag. 

Progress, however minimal, is worth celebration. 

The Highblood stands and offers his hand to Horuss. He accepts and lets the Highblood haul him standing. 

Only to have the Highblood put his hands around Horuss' waist, hold Horuss' substantial bulk over his back-bowed head, and fall backwards.

They hit the mat at the same time, the ring shuddering at their combined weight. 

"And that was a suplex," the Highblood says. "You take 'em great, ponybitch." 

"Thank you, sir," Horuss says, back flat on the ring. 

"A motherfucker is gonna teach ya a little move now," the Highblood says, standing once more and gesturing to Horuss to stand, too. "It's a whip. You like those, don't ya, damsire?" 

Horuss narrows his eyes and the Highblood smiles at him oh so sweetly. 

"Yes, sir," he grumbles, standing up. 

"Grab my wrist," the Highblood instructs. "And I'll grab yours." 

"You're not going to throw me again, are you?" 

"Naw," the Highblood responds. "I'm gonna let you throw me this time." 

Horuss perks up and grabs the Highblood's wrist, the Highblood grabbing his in turn. 

"Good and motherfuckin' well," the Highblood says, "You don't want to let go too early with this one."