. Clash .

Fury.

It was the best way to describe the intense, in-synch blows that slammed into the side-by-side punching bags. This repetition continued with a focused, machine-like intensity that echoed through the area.

As the view goes around the wide plastered column that was obscuring the view, it’s revealed that once more the setting is a gym.

The location?

Who knows. Who cares.

What matters is that Jamie Hayter and Drake Maverick stand next to each other, dressed in boxing attire, and driving their taped fists into their mutual canvas targets.

Of course, Hayter’s punches are a LOT stronger and more impactful as the bag swings back in a farther arch with each clubbing blow.

 That all ya fuckin’ got? How the hell are ya gonna beat Booka’ T with them limp noodle arms?! That’s how ya lost the whip cream deal!

Drake pauses as he looks at Bea, full of frustration and anger.

 It’s Shiseido Tsubaki Moist Shampoo! Not Cool Whip! Not Cheez Wiz! And especially not bloody Astroglide!

Bea just smirks in pure amusement at her torment of the pint-sized fellow until Jamie gives another hard punch of the bag before staring at her partner.

 Leave the daft sod alone. It’s clearly somethin’ he cares about if he let ‘imself get jizzed all over in Japan.

Drake gasps in horror.

 It was shampoo gel. SHAMPOO GEL! Not sem—

Drake can’t bring himself to even say it as he shudders in horror at the memory of the literal trials and tribulations of his recent trip to Japan.

Of course, Bea isn’t going to let it go and instead brings up her phone, showing a replay of the “incident”. As he emits a piercing shriek that makes Hayter clap her hands over her ears, Drake snatches the phone from Bea’s hands and tosses it down. Immediately he begins stomp on it and in seconds has it completely smashed to bits.

 What the fuck?!

Drake looks at Bea full of rage and spite as his voice trembles…

 We will never speak of that again. Understood?

Bea glares at Drake and raises her fist while he takes a defensive stance.

 I’m a gentleman but I’ll defend me’self if necessary!

 You’re gonna need more than defense ya stub dicked wankah!

Hayter just watches as it’s almost like a cartoon segment as Bea gives chase around the gym. Skittering, dodging, and juking his way around the machines. The circle the area like NASCAR vehicles for three full circuits until on a turn around one corner? Drake strafes to the side and Bea goes flying into and through the plastic door of a vending machine.

Comedically a mountain of soda cans fall atop the woman, burying her underneath them.

 Hah! Serves ya bloody right ya trollop!

Puffing his chest out the smaller man is proud of himself until *WHAP* the hard smack from Hayter bowls him over. Wincing in pain he rises to his feet, rubbing his head.

 What was that for?!

 *mocking voice* What was that for? *resumes her normal voice* Maybe bein’ a fuckin shithead? Now give ‘er ya credit cahd so she can go buy a new one.

 What?!

Another hard *WHAP* sends him back over and splat to the floor.

 Ya fuckin’ heard me. Give ‘er ya credit cahd so she can go buy a new one. Otherwise when the cunt unearths herself, you’re gonna not only be missin’ ya balls, but I’m most likely gonna be sendin’ ya back in a shoebox!

 ‘Ey! I’m gettin’ real tired of ye makin’ fun o’ me size!

Hayter looks at Drake with half disdain, half minor (very minor) admiration… then she shrugs.

 I fuckin’ meant that when she’s done tearin’ ya apaht the only thin’s that’s gonna be left is a fuckin’ eyeball. Maybe an ear or tooth or somethin’. But if ya wanna fuckin’ die? Go for it.

Drake’s eyes widen at the description and turns his head in more horror as Bea rises from the soda pile, absolutely drenched in Coke, Dr. Pepper, and Mountain Dew.

 You mealy mouthed, shrimp dicked, daft fuckin’ wankah. You’re a goddamn dead man!

Frantically, Drake rushes to his gym back, desperately clawing and searching in the bag as Bea stalks closer. With her sticky, soda drenched hair matted against her face, she looks like the girl from The Ring or some other horror movie.

Regardless, just as she comes near, he flings multiple plastic cards at the woman.

 Just take ‘em! I’ll explain ta me wife latah!

Bea pauses as she looks down, kneels, and grabs three credit cards and rises. Checking each, she looks at skeptically at Drake.

 Better not all be at fuckin’ limit!

Drake looks nervous but shakes his head.

 On me honnah luv! I only gave ye the ones with available balances! Even Renee don’t know about these!

Bea still looks skeptical, then at Hayter, who simply rolls her eyes and motions for Bea to get going. With a final look of hate, Bea mutters as she gives him the middle finger and walks off.

 Fuckin’ tossah.

Exhaling a heavy sigh of relief, Drake’s shoulders slump as he whimpers.

 Renee’s gonna bloody kill me.

Hayter just walks past Drake, shrugging.

 Better ya just have ta sleep on the couch than have ya balls ripped off and fed to ya. Though, not like ya actually get laid anyways.

Drake looks immediately flabbergasted and aghast in offense.

 I’ll have you know me and Renee’s sexual affairs are quite aplenty! Not that it’s any of your bloody—

A “Don’t bullshit me” expression from the arms crossed Hayter as she paused to turn around and look at Drake silences him. With his lip quivering, he lowers his head and speaks meekly.

 I’m doin’ the best I can…

Rolling her eyes, Hayter walks over and grabs weights as she begins doing curls. But her gaze stays locked on Drake through the reflection in the mirror in front of her.

 I ain’t one for rah-rah shite and I ain’t ya fuckin’ mum. But I’ll say this only once. If ya want ta get any fuckin’ respect from ya wife and for ya’self as a man? Then fuckin’ get your shite together and smash Booka’ T’s damn face in at Clash.

Otherwise? The last, lingerin’ look anyone will ever remember of ya no matta what ya do is ya covered in that shampoo. Lookin’ like Booka jizzed all over ya face like a cumsock.

Groaning in disgust, Drake powerwalks up to the same weights and grabs a pair of (lighter) weights. A renewed determination on his features.

 There’s no bloody way he’s getting’ away wit’ ‘is crimes!

Hayter gives another eyeroll and focuses on her routine.

 Good. Cuz I don’t got time to babysit your arse while I’m planning to cave Sasha Banks’ fuckin’ skull in. Damn skank calls herself “The Blueprint”? Only if ya want the plans for a stank, sour cunt rat who spends about as much time with her fake ass water works as ya do with your real crybaby ones.

Drake’s eye twitches but he keeps at his routine.

 Can’t let bloody Booka’ get one on me. Who the bloody hell does he think he is? I’m the one that did the marketin’ and negotiatin’! I’m the one that got the deal! Bloody smooth criminal he was!

 That’s a fuckin’ Michael Jackson song ya daft—

Drake just continues in his monlogue.

 We’ll get ‘em Miss Jamie! Him and Sasha! Grab ‘em by their bloody hair and drive their faces into the mat! No! Drag ‘em outside and grind it into the asphalt! No! We’ll find a cement truck and—

 Gettin’ a fuckin bit loony ain’t ya?

Drake blinks and looks at Jamie like she’s the crazy one.

 I mean, this is tame compared to what ya and Bea were plannin’ and have done ta HIkari and Momo?

Hayter’s eye twitches at the mere mentions.

 Fuckin’ point.

With a heavy sigh, Hayter resumes her routine. If anything, going even harder at it from the mention of the two Joshi.

 Alright, fine. You fuck up Booka’s shit, I fuck up Sasha’s shit, then? We fuckin’ see ‘bout that Women’s Title match.

An evil look forms on Hayter’s face.

 Because regardless of who wins? No one said those Joshi cunts were gonna walk out of that ring…

Fade.

003 | 002 | 001