Chapter Text
Slouched in a front row seat, I pull the bill of my spotted cap down a little lower. The cameramen already know that I'm sitting here, but at least my face is partially hidden. I'm totally in no mood to fake a smirk right now.
The thousands of wrestling fans throughout the arena are restless and ecstatic as the duel of the decade is about to begin. Unlike them, I don't even want to be here, as the key witness to the clusterfuck that’s about to unfurl in the ring, but those two stubbornly insisted that I be present to see the moment when either of them knocks out the other (not to mention that I was supposed to perform an operation this evening but I suspect my patient had been coerced into cancelling our appointment).
When all the spotlights swivel to the ring, I finally look up. Towering in the red corner as ominous as Death itself is Donquixote Doflamingo. People call him lots of monikers. He's commonly known as the ever-smiling Joker. His official title is Twenty-Time Grand Line Wrestling Champion. Older folks who have watched him ascend from the hellish depths of illegal fighting pits since he was a teen refer to him as the King of the Underground.
As for me? I call him Dad.
To be precise, he's my stepdad. It's a long story. Let's just say Dad adopted me when I was in my tween years. He may not have a wife, but his life is spicier than even the most promiscuous celebrities. Gold-digging reporters, ring girls, including beaten wrestlers who want to be pounded in more ways than one throw themselves at his feet. He catches every single swooning one of them with grace, indulges them for a while, before throwing them out the door once they start acting like they're the queen of our penthouse.
Dad's pushed past forty but is still alive and kicking, as in literally kicking the shit out of his contenders. Every inch of tan skin not covered by his cringe-worthy pink spandex capris is rippling with muscles. Age is but a number, as Dad has proven by walloping all his past younger opponents. No sir, ain't no baby-face rookie gonna steal the world champion belt from this veteran's talons just yet.
As for the Herculean goth over there in the blue corner? That's Eustass 'Captain' Kid. In just a few years, he pummeled his way from zero to major player and quickly became a crowd favorite for his savagery. If only he'd don a better-looking pair of pants than those hideous epilepsy-inducing bohos.
Kid's nickname derives from how he likes to make his choking rivals call him 'captain' instead of saying 'uncle'. Self-conceited bastard, indeed. There was one time he had an iron stranglehold on Bellamy the Hyena right in front of my ringside seat. When the poor punk squealed Captain!!, I let out a bark of laughter.
Face still scrunched in a sneer, Kid's menacing eyes slid sideways to look at me as he released the loser's neck. I maintained his stare, not wussing out as he might have expected me to. Something must have clicked between us because after that, we got along so well like a gasoline-doused car on fire.
And mm, the sex is fantastic. Kid's no less of a freak in bed. Nothing too violent, though. It's just that he'd keep going and going, pushing my body to its limit until I'm on the brink of blissful unconsciousness. More than often, I'm reduced to a boneless pile of limbs once he's had his ways with me. The guy sure knows how to put those manhandling techniques of his to good use.
Kid and Dad's first introduction to each other in Uncle Croc’s Alabastan restaurant was, for lack of a better word... catastrophic.
They each have an ego big enough to fill six Olympic swimming pools. From a third-person point of view, I detachedly analyzed the disaster unraveling before our five-course dinner. Dad was becoming protective of his only other family member whereas Kid was the prideful challenger for my affection. Snide remarks were exchanged between them and before I knew it, the table was flipped, sending strips of grilled camels a-flying, though the marinate sauce bowl remained safely in my hand.
Despite the father vs boyfriend disputes, my relationship with Kid has developed to the point of tying the knot. Unsurprisingly, Dad and Kid disagree about the wedding. So far, this is their worst quarrel of all. The ultimate clash between old and new preferences. Dad wants a showy ceremony with its own mini-wrestling matches just for kicks while Kid prefers that we sign the legal papers at the Registrar's then skip to the tropical island honeymoon.
The two couldn't settle the issue civilly so yeah, that's what this match is for. There's no script for this one. Just raw power and real pain. Victor gets to decide how Kid and I are going to get married. Really, how did such a petty argument snowball into a world-stopping face-off? Drama kings, both of them.
Up in the ring, the wrestling world's superstar and rising star seem more than ready to shred each other's jugular. Sensing the murderous aura in the air, tonight’s ring girls Violet and Bonney help take off the two men’s signature feather and fur coats before making their hasty retreat from the arena. Standing between Dad and Kid, Bege the referee looks like that dinosaur trainer in Jurassic World, but instead of svelte raptors, it's like he's trying to tame t-rex and Indominus Rex. Good luck on that, pal. Even I couldn't handle those knuckleheads.
"I'm gonna rip your fucking balls off, brat," Dad hisses. Teeth bared and claw-like hands tensed up, he's all prepared to strangle the ever-loving shit out of his son-in-law-to-be.
"Can't say I'd do the same to you, old coot. Your nuts must be all shriveled up to their roots by now. Nothin' left for me to grip," Kid retorts with a nasty grin, and I roll my twitching eyes as I feel a brain-splitting headache coming. To hell with the ultra-zoom cameras that might catch my weird facial expressions. This squabble is just too fucked up on so many levels for me to stay cool. The spectators love it, though. All this taunting and jeering between the undefeated champion and the promising rookie.
As the announcer Diamante prattles on a few more words before starting the match, the two pro wrestlers circle each other like bloodthirsty predators. The bell goes off. Without preamble, Dad and Kid lunge toward each other with bestial roars and yikes, that clothesline in the neck must hurt like hell. Kid's going to have one heck of a bruise tomorrow.
Beside me, my best friend Bepo offers his box of popcorn. "Want some?" he asks with perfect nonchalance. I eye the salted popcorn for a few seconds before grabbing a handful and popping them into my mouth.
Oh, well. We'll just have to wait and see who wins. I just hope they won't clobber each other up too badly, but then Kid whacks Dad's head with a chair that his buddy Killer threw in and Dad retaliates by plucking a freaking pole out of the stage’s corner and smacking my man right in the gut.
...Who am I kidding? At this rate, even the stage will be obliterated by the time they're done.