Post by The Delivery Girl on Jun 22, 2024 6:21:16 GMT
Sometime in the past…
Inside his villainous lair, Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos sneers at the delivery guy knelt before him pleading for mercy. With his fingers digging into the plush leather of his chair, Bezos growls and spits at him.
“You were late for three deliveries this month. Stand, you wretched whelp!” Bezos snaps at him, rising from his chair to meet the frightened man.
“One strike.” To the man’s horror, the professionally dressed Jeff Bezos morphs into something ungodly, an entity so terrifying that he feels fainty. Jeff’s fingers sprout claws and he slashes the delivery guy across the chest, cutting his clothes, flesh, and muscles to ribbons.
“Two strikes,” Bezos repeats the claw attack, this time across the delivery guy’s stomach, sending fat and intestines in a spatter across the room.
“Three strikes and you’re out in the old ball gaaaaaame.” Jeff opens his mouth supernaturally wide and six rows of steel razor teeth sink into the delivery guy’s face. Using a single bite, he rips the man’s face off, then finishes the assault with the throat as well.
What’s left of the delivery guy crumbles to the floor in a gorey heap. Jeff Bezos snatches a napkin off a table and delicately daps the blood and bile from his lips like he’s practicing proper etiquette in a fancy restaurant.
“Bring me the Delivery Girl.” From shadows within the room fledglings indistinguishable from humans emerge. One exits to fetch her while the rest converge around the deceased body, aiming to clean it up.
“No. Leave it. I want the Delivery Girl to see it. Time to take a direct approach.”
His minions back away and sit at the table.
In the lobby upstairs Rebecca Osborn tries to contain her nerves through eager gulps of water and wild smacking on chewing gum. Being a simple delivery girl out of Atlanta doesn’t afford you fancy all-expenses-paid trips to Amazon HQ in Seattle to meet with the legendary CEO himself Jeff Bezos. Becka isn’t in trouble, she knows that because such a thing would be handled at the local level. Her reason for being here has been held in the dark though. Has she won an award? A promotion?
A nice young man interrupts her thoughts and after a brief exchange of information, he guides her into the elevator where they travel down, down, down. Becka cocks her head, confused about the unreasonably long descent, but doesn’t complain for fear of ruining whatever good fortune is coming to her.
Finally the elevator dings and she steps out, led by the gentleman who ushers her through the huge steel door that opens into the luxurious office. Her beaming eyes fall upon the men at the table first, then on the slaughtered body, and finally over to the most horrific entity she’s ever seen. It resembles pics of Bezos she’s seen but that’s as far as it goes.
There’s no need to discern if this is a prank. There’s an innate sense in all of us. Something that lets us know when evil lurks. Perhaps it’s the soul? Whatever it is, it springs to life inside the Delivery Girl and she screams so loud her throat explodes with pain. She turns and pulls on the door handle. Nothing. She pulls again, yelling, crying. Nothing. Once more she pulls, so hard she pulls muscles in her arms. It remains shut.
“Dear girl, quiet yourself,” Bezos commands. Poor Becka feels her body relax against her will. Acting against her, Becka’s body turns around. Bezos stands across the room, but in the blink of an eye, he teleports to her, his clawed hands grabbing her around the neck and forcing her silent and obedient against the door.
“Much better. I know this is a lot to take in, but…….. “ Jeff picks up the scent. It’s faint but he notices it. A trace of divinity. He shudders with displeasure.
“Saved and Baptized at one point? I can smell him. It’s faint. Backslidden Christian, yes girl?”He chuckles but doesn’t relent.
“Pray to him only when things are shitty in life, yes girl? Ha. I love your kind. Why even pray to begin with? Have you ever wondered why a third of the angels rebelled against him? How bad was his rulership that it made them cast their lot with Lucifer?”
Bezos scoffs. She can’t answer even if she wants to. Fear has enveloped her as it would anyone in this situation. His depraved eyes follow the tears racing against each other down her cheek, so he runs his serpentine tongue up her face, collecting them. “Mmmmmmm delish! Tastes divine!”
His horrid breath overwhelms her, making it feel like every meal she’s ever eaten is about to spill out with vomit. “Don’t worry, dear girl. I’m not gonna kill you. Your record is spotless. Never late for clock-in. Never tardy to a delivery. I know you’ve used your earnings to train in professional wrestling. This is perfect, dear girl.”
He releases her and she drops to a heap, gasping desperately to capture air. Her arms sear with excruciating pain from yanking on the door so hard earlier and her legs are too gripped with fright to move her.
“No parents. No siblings. No tie downs. Congrats Rebecca Osborn, from Atlanta Georiga. You’ve been promoted to the special operations delivery sector! You’re a Navy Seal of delivery services now.”
The evil bastard claps, his minions following his lead to rowdy applause for the trembling, sobbing delivery girl.
“Soon you’ll be making special deliveries for me globally, on the dime of wrestling promoters who will promote my services through you on TV. Free advertising. I love capitalism! In five minutes or less. Ha.”
Bezos pulls her up by her blonde tresses and produces an artifact more ancient than the Egyptian pyramids, carved with symbols and words not meant for human eyes. He places the dagger-shaped object against her forehead and releases dark utterings in an otherworldly language.
With a blink of his eyes which holds hers hostage, she’s changed.
PRESENT DAY
In a dimly lit alley behind a restaurant the sound of a zippo wheel is heard before a flicker of orange illuminates the cigarette attached to the lips of the Delivery Girl. She plops onto the hood of her throwback Smokey and the Bandit Firebird Trans Am sporting simple jeans, a shirt, and sneakers bereft of a cool namebrand.
“Jeez.” Our little delivery specialist rarely gets a moment to chillax, so naturally her expression is sour for having to get the obligatory vignette out of the way right now. In five minutes or less, just like her matches.
Inhaling deep she lets the cancer agents breach her lungs before expelling smoke in gruffed hufff. Out of all the matches she could’ve gotten booked in, she’s tasked with shitting on a child-brained plastic freak with a Care Bear fetish, a fake tough girl, and a blonde shitheaded bitch who’s more talented in clickbaiting than wrestling.
The Four-Way is supposed to showcase Western Conference rookies, but TDG knows better. It’s a showcase of two hot blondes and a token non-white girl to stave off diversity complaints. TDG though? She’s the fodder. The ugly duckling who fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. A body the brass had to throw in to fill up the sheet.
It’s how TDG sees it anyway.
Another pull on the carcinogen stick, deeper this time. It must be nice to be Aspen, Britney, and Maya.
IT MUST BE FUCKING NICE!
She rips the Marlboro Red 100 from her kissers and points it at the camcorder held stationary by the tripod. Using the NPWA production crew wasn’t feasible given her fast-paced lifestyle.
“Aspen.. IT MUST BE NICE to have tribulations so small they can fit on the tip of your tongue. IT MUST BE NICE that your biggest worry is deciding which outfit to wear or enduring the long lines at Starbucks. IT MUST BE NICE to brag on gossiping about your peers and still be hailed a hero and cheered. IT MUST BE NICE to be named the Rumble MVP despite not finishing in the top ten, not having the most eliminations, and not doing jack FUCKIN’ shit except a moonsault that any flippy motherfucker can do. You sure looked cute doing it though. IT MUST BE NICE to have inexplicable luck that lands you Coast-to-Coast title shots. IT MUST BE NICE having the benefits of a BOT without the required wires, circuits, and metal. IT MUST BE NICE to have Elijah mapping out your life. IT MUST BE NICE to attend any function you want and be the belle of the ball or handed title shots simply by breathing and wearing a super duper cute outfit.”
Discussing the budget Amber Mansley makes her blood heat, causing her skin to prickle enough to change targets.
“Britney Madison.. IT MUST BE NICE to be eighteen and have a thirty-five-year-old dick-faced bodyguard named the Tool. Fuckin’ great. Not only do I have to blast through you three bitches in five minutes or less, but now I gotta worry about the Tool throwing himself on a grenade for you. IT MUST BE NICE to have a manager on top of that, who blows an air horn for fuck sake! Why stop at them? Why not throw an enforcer in there as well? Why not a handmaiden too? How about an assistant to the enforcer or an assistant manager? I’m surprised they don’t roll you to the ring in an impenetrable plastic bubble you cowardly cunt. For fuck sake. Jesus. It really MUST BE NICE to be eighteen and have people serving you everything on a silver platter, to have mindless soup-brained rassling fans watching your YouTube channel for your tits and ass while you yap about boring bullshit. You’re a discount Aspen Sterling. At least that bitch can rassle and isn’t a fuckin’ coward.”
TDG jams the cigarette back into her lips, draining the orange embers HARD before flicking it away with every bit of the disdain she has for her opponents. Yes, she’s too disgusted to finish the cig.
“And you, Misako? IT MUST BE NICE getting rewarded for being a piece of shit. How the fuck you gonna hype your draft stock with that ‘I'm a team player’ horseshit when your life story is a cinema of fuck ups and being the polar-fuckin’-opposite of a team player? MVP? You gotta play the game to be an MVP and when you were hoopin’ you couldn’t last two dribbles down the paint before getting tossed from the game. Good fuckin’ job there, team player. How can you be mentally weak in basketball? It’s a soft game. If someone grazes you with their pinky they get called for a foul. Let me guess…. Didn’t get enough tap-root hugs from Daddy? Not enough ‘I love yous’ from mommy? Is that what your nineteen year long temper tantrum is about? Pfft. You’re not a ‘walking MVP trophy’ in NPWA. You’re not ‘worth investing in’ simply because you signed your contract first. You’re not a hardcore brawler psychopath; you’re a mental midget who was given natural athletic gifts most would sacrifice their firstborn for but you squandered it away, and now you’re rassling because you have no other life skills. You’ve spent a year succeeding in OCW, the hemorrhoidal tendril of wrestling, which I wouldn’t brag about. Frankly, bitch? I think Holmes drafted you because he digs the Misako fashion brand.”
The restaurant doors swing open behind her and seedy men emerge with delivery crates which they stuff into the trunk of her car. While they do this, TDG closes the distance to the camera so only her unattractive features fill it up. Her eyes are rampant with a spreading infection of restless thoughts while an unusual ring of red skirts the emerald greens that decorate her sockets.
“Aspen, when I’m done you won’t wake up shouting into a mirror. You won’t be waking up at all, cunt.”
“Britney, you won’t be shooting YouTube videos from your home. You’ll be shooting them from the fuckin’ grave I put you in.”
“Maya, I’m gonna dribble your head off the canvas and slam dunk it into Aspen's plastic basket of bewbs. I’m shipping you back to basketball, the kind that plays in the Special Olympics.”
“When I hit the ring you three are fucked, Hitler in his bunker type of fucked. I’m gonna be the bull in the china shop and you three are gonna be the fancy dishes I shatter. You bitches are the type to stiff a delivery person on their tip, so at the Target Center, I’m gonna be delivering good ole fashioned passionate ass whoopings and taking a delivery charge out of y’alls plastic asses. In five minutes or less, as Master Bezos wills it!”
She shuts off the camcorder and tosses it in the backseat. Peeling the tires, she smokes the road and steams ahead to Minnesota.
Inside his villainous lair, Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos sneers at the delivery guy knelt before him pleading for mercy. With his fingers digging into the plush leather of his chair, Bezos growls and spits at him.
“You were late for three deliveries this month. Stand, you wretched whelp!” Bezos snaps at him, rising from his chair to meet the frightened man.
“One strike.” To the man’s horror, the professionally dressed Jeff Bezos morphs into something ungodly, an entity so terrifying that he feels fainty. Jeff’s fingers sprout claws and he slashes the delivery guy across the chest, cutting his clothes, flesh, and muscles to ribbons.
“Two strikes,” Bezos repeats the claw attack, this time across the delivery guy’s stomach, sending fat and intestines in a spatter across the room.
“Three strikes and you’re out in the old ball gaaaaaame.” Jeff opens his mouth supernaturally wide and six rows of steel razor teeth sink into the delivery guy’s face. Using a single bite, he rips the man’s face off, then finishes the assault with the throat as well.
What’s left of the delivery guy crumbles to the floor in a gorey heap. Jeff Bezos snatches a napkin off a table and delicately daps the blood and bile from his lips like he’s practicing proper etiquette in a fancy restaurant.
“Bring me the Delivery Girl.” From shadows within the room fledglings indistinguishable from humans emerge. One exits to fetch her while the rest converge around the deceased body, aiming to clean it up.
“No. Leave it. I want the Delivery Girl to see it. Time to take a direct approach.”
His minions back away and sit at the table.
In the lobby upstairs Rebecca Osborn tries to contain her nerves through eager gulps of water and wild smacking on chewing gum. Being a simple delivery girl out of Atlanta doesn’t afford you fancy all-expenses-paid trips to Amazon HQ in Seattle to meet with the legendary CEO himself Jeff Bezos. Becka isn’t in trouble, she knows that because such a thing would be handled at the local level. Her reason for being here has been held in the dark though. Has she won an award? A promotion?
A nice young man interrupts her thoughts and after a brief exchange of information, he guides her into the elevator where they travel down, down, down. Becka cocks her head, confused about the unreasonably long descent, but doesn’t complain for fear of ruining whatever good fortune is coming to her.
Finally the elevator dings and she steps out, led by the gentleman who ushers her through the huge steel door that opens into the luxurious office. Her beaming eyes fall upon the men at the table first, then on the slaughtered body, and finally over to the most horrific entity she’s ever seen. It resembles pics of Bezos she’s seen but that’s as far as it goes.
There’s no need to discern if this is a prank. There’s an innate sense in all of us. Something that lets us know when evil lurks. Perhaps it’s the soul? Whatever it is, it springs to life inside the Delivery Girl and she screams so loud her throat explodes with pain. She turns and pulls on the door handle. Nothing. She pulls again, yelling, crying. Nothing. Once more she pulls, so hard she pulls muscles in her arms. It remains shut.
“Dear girl, quiet yourself,” Bezos commands. Poor Becka feels her body relax against her will. Acting against her, Becka’s body turns around. Bezos stands across the room, but in the blink of an eye, he teleports to her, his clawed hands grabbing her around the neck and forcing her silent and obedient against the door.
“Much better. I know this is a lot to take in, but…….. “ Jeff picks up the scent. It’s faint but he notices it. A trace of divinity. He shudders with displeasure.
“Saved and Baptized at one point? I can smell him. It’s faint. Backslidden Christian, yes girl?”He chuckles but doesn’t relent.
“Pray to him only when things are shitty in life, yes girl? Ha. I love your kind. Why even pray to begin with? Have you ever wondered why a third of the angels rebelled against him? How bad was his rulership that it made them cast their lot with Lucifer?”
Bezos scoffs. She can’t answer even if she wants to. Fear has enveloped her as it would anyone in this situation. His depraved eyes follow the tears racing against each other down her cheek, so he runs his serpentine tongue up her face, collecting them. “Mmmmmmm delish! Tastes divine!”
His horrid breath overwhelms her, making it feel like every meal she’s ever eaten is about to spill out with vomit. “Don’t worry, dear girl. I’m not gonna kill you. Your record is spotless. Never late for clock-in. Never tardy to a delivery. I know you’ve used your earnings to train in professional wrestling. This is perfect, dear girl.”
He releases her and she drops to a heap, gasping desperately to capture air. Her arms sear with excruciating pain from yanking on the door so hard earlier and her legs are too gripped with fright to move her.
“No parents. No siblings. No tie downs. Congrats Rebecca Osborn, from Atlanta Georiga. You’ve been promoted to the special operations delivery sector! You’re a Navy Seal of delivery services now.”
The evil bastard claps, his minions following his lead to rowdy applause for the trembling, sobbing delivery girl.
“Soon you’ll be making special deliveries for me globally, on the dime of wrestling promoters who will promote my services through you on TV. Free advertising. I love capitalism! In five minutes or less. Ha.”
Bezos pulls her up by her blonde tresses and produces an artifact more ancient than the Egyptian pyramids, carved with symbols and words not meant for human eyes. He places the dagger-shaped object against her forehead and releases dark utterings in an otherworldly language.
With a blink of his eyes which holds hers hostage, she’s changed.
PRESENT DAY
In a dimly lit alley behind a restaurant the sound of a zippo wheel is heard before a flicker of orange illuminates the cigarette attached to the lips of the Delivery Girl. She plops onto the hood of her throwback Smokey and the Bandit Firebird Trans Am sporting simple jeans, a shirt, and sneakers bereft of a cool namebrand.
“Jeez.” Our little delivery specialist rarely gets a moment to chillax, so naturally her expression is sour for having to get the obligatory vignette out of the way right now. In five minutes or less, just like her matches.
Inhaling deep she lets the cancer agents breach her lungs before expelling smoke in gruffed hufff. Out of all the matches she could’ve gotten booked in, she’s tasked with shitting on a child-brained plastic freak with a Care Bear fetish, a fake tough girl, and a blonde shitheaded bitch who’s more talented in clickbaiting than wrestling.
The Four-Way is supposed to showcase Western Conference rookies, but TDG knows better. It’s a showcase of two hot blondes and a token non-white girl to stave off diversity complaints. TDG though? She’s the fodder. The ugly duckling who fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. A body the brass had to throw in to fill up the sheet.
It’s how TDG sees it anyway.
Another pull on the carcinogen stick, deeper this time. It must be nice to be Aspen, Britney, and Maya.
IT MUST BE FUCKING NICE!
She rips the Marlboro Red 100 from her kissers and points it at the camcorder held stationary by the tripod. Using the NPWA production crew wasn’t feasible given her fast-paced lifestyle.
“Aspen.. IT MUST BE NICE to have tribulations so small they can fit on the tip of your tongue. IT MUST BE NICE that your biggest worry is deciding which outfit to wear or enduring the long lines at Starbucks. IT MUST BE NICE to brag on gossiping about your peers and still be hailed a hero and cheered. IT MUST BE NICE to be named the Rumble MVP despite not finishing in the top ten, not having the most eliminations, and not doing jack FUCKIN’ shit except a moonsault that any flippy motherfucker can do. You sure looked cute doing it though. IT MUST BE NICE to have inexplicable luck that lands you Coast-to-Coast title shots. IT MUST BE NICE having the benefits of a BOT without the required wires, circuits, and metal. IT MUST BE NICE to have Elijah mapping out your life. IT MUST BE NICE to attend any function you want and be the belle of the ball or handed title shots simply by breathing and wearing a super duper cute outfit.”
Discussing the budget Amber Mansley makes her blood heat, causing her skin to prickle enough to change targets.
“Britney Madison.. IT MUST BE NICE to be eighteen and have a thirty-five-year-old dick-faced bodyguard named the Tool. Fuckin’ great. Not only do I have to blast through you three bitches in five minutes or less, but now I gotta worry about the Tool throwing himself on a grenade for you. IT MUST BE NICE to have a manager on top of that, who blows an air horn for fuck sake! Why stop at them? Why not throw an enforcer in there as well? Why not a handmaiden too? How about an assistant to the enforcer or an assistant manager? I’m surprised they don’t roll you to the ring in an impenetrable plastic bubble you cowardly cunt. For fuck sake. Jesus. It really MUST BE NICE to be eighteen and have people serving you everything on a silver platter, to have mindless soup-brained rassling fans watching your YouTube channel for your tits and ass while you yap about boring bullshit. You’re a discount Aspen Sterling. At least that bitch can rassle and isn’t a fuckin’ coward.”
TDG jams the cigarette back into her lips, draining the orange embers HARD before flicking it away with every bit of the disdain she has for her opponents. Yes, she’s too disgusted to finish the cig.
“And you, Misako? IT MUST BE NICE getting rewarded for being a piece of shit. How the fuck you gonna hype your draft stock with that ‘I'm a team player’ horseshit when your life story is a cinema of fuck ups and being the polar-fuckin’-opposite of a team player? MVP? You gotta play the game to be an MVP and when you were hoopin’ you couldn’t last two dribbles down the paint before getting tossed from the game. Good fuckin’ job there, team player. How can you be mentally weak in basketball? It’s a soft game. If someone grazes you with their pinky they get called for a foul. Let me guess…. Didn’t get enough tap-root hugs from Daddy? Not enough ‘I love yous’ from mommy? Is that what your nineteen year long temper tantrum is about? Pfft. You’re not a ‘walking MVP trophy’ in NPWA. You’re not ‘worth investing in’ simply because you signed your contract first. You’re not a hardcore brawler psychopath; you’re a mental midget who was given natural athletic gifts most would sacrifice their firstborn for but you squandered it away, and now you’re rassling because you have no other life skills. You’ve spent a year succeeding in OCW, the hemorrhoidal tendril of wrestling, which I wouldn’t brag about. Frankly, bitch? I think Holmes drafted you because he digs the Misako fashion brand.”
The restaurant doors swing open behind her and seedy men emerge with delivery crates which they stuff into the trunk of her car. While they do this, TDG closes the distance to the camera so only her unattractive features fill it up. Her eyes are rampant with a spreading infection of restless thoughts while an unusual ring of red skirts the emerald greens that decorate her sockets.
“Aspen, when I’m done you won’t wake up shouting into a mirror. You won’t be waking up at all, cunt.”
“Britney, you won’t be shooting YouTube videos from your home. You’ll be shooting them from the fuckin’ grave I put you in.”
“Maya, I’m gonna dribble your head off the canvas and slam dunk it into Aspen's plastic basket of bewbs. I’m shipping you back to basketball, the kind that plays in the Special Olympics.”
“When I hit the ring you three are fucked, Hitler in his bunker type of fucked. I’m gonna be the bull in the china shop and you three are gonna be the fancy dishes I shatter. You bitches are the type to stiff a delivery person on their tip, so at the Target Center, I’m gonna be delivering good ole fashioned passionate ass whoopings and taking a delivery charge out of y’alls plastic asses. In five minutes or less, as Master Bezos wills it!”
She shuts off the camcorder and tosses it in the backseat. Peeling the tires, she smokes the road and steams ahead to Minnesota.