[closed] And his name is John Cena

[boneitis]

WHO: Garry Vakran (calibrating) and Hat Asshole (boneitis)
WHERE: Joker's apartment
WHEN: 8/28
WHAT: Wrasslin'
WARNINGS: Contains Joker.

hey craterface hop over to my place ive got something you need to see

keep your afternoon open

its gonna rock your weird freaky turian socks off

Joker has discovered something, and that something's name is John motherfucking Cena.

Now, wrestling is a thing back when Joker comes from, but he doesn't pay all that much attention to it. It's sort of a background thing, something that he knows a little bit about through extranet osmosis and some exceptionally dank memes, but not a pastime that he actively participates in. Wrestling's fake or whatever, so who cares, right?

Wrong. Wrestling's fake, sure, but it doesn't pretend to be real. It's like theater, but with oiled up dudes in spandex with ridiculous themes. It's art-- majestic, grunting, acrobatic, muscle-bound art set to over-the-top rock music. Joker doesn't understand why he never gave this a try before, because it's truly a wonderful thing.

And now, he's going to share it with Vakarian.

His apartment has been set up for a marathon of wrestling, complete with plentiful beer and nachos and he was even so kind as to find a place that serves dextro pizza. Because he's a gracious host like that, and Garrus deserves food that won't make him swell up and die.

And now... it's time for SmackDown.

Comments

[calibrating]

Garrus could've very easily said no to the very... Joker request sent his way. All it would take is a simple click of a button and an optional, but undeniably satisfying, obscene mutter. But he can't deny the soft spot in his shrivelled heart this particular pilot shared with the other members of the Normandy Crew, and instead responded with a terse confirmation before picking up some drinks and making a bee-line towards La Casa de Asshole.

He raps on Joker's door with a self-important claw, cradling a case of (human) beer under his other arm.

"It's me, Moreau."

[boneitis]

His casa es su casa, Vakarian. Casa del Asshole is always open to the craterfaced asshole, as well as to the dual biotic assholes (plus that one guy who isn't an asshole) and the sneaky asshole. They're all assholes, it's pretty much a requirement to be on the Normandy crew, along with being weirdly hot and have some form of daddy issue.

When Joker hears the rapping on his door, he opens it up wide to let Garrus in.

"There you are, Vakarian, shit. Thought I was gonna die before you got your spiky ass over here."

Come in, birdbrain, and don't mind the extremely large dog that has an entire couch to himself. He just... he gave up on sharing furniture with Hugo, it's not worth it, he's bigger than Joker and like twice as heavy as he is and the dog just has his own dog couch, okay. And one of Joker's pillows has been sacrificed to the dog couch, mostly because Hugo took it one day and Joker didn't want to deal with washing out all the slobber.

He takes Garrus' offering of beer and goes to stick it in the fridge to chill.

"Seriously though, you're gonna love this shit. I can't believe I hadn't start watching it sooner, it's pretty magical."

[calibrating]

"Last time you hyped up something this much, I fell asleep half an hour in," Garrus (not so) gently reminds Joker as he steps further into his friend's humble abode. He schleps on over to Hugo and his couch, using the tips of his claws to gently scratch behind the big ol' doggo's ears. He mutters a few compliments to the giant pile of fur, giving more than his fair share of 'good boy's.

Garrus turns to face the human occupant of the room, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. He doesn't mean to give Joker a hard time (okay, he kind of does), but the nature of their friendship pretty much requires it at this point.

"So what's got you all fired up? I wanna know what I'm getting myself into."

[boneitis]

"That's because you have no taste and Star Wars is amazing," Joker replies while Garrus goes and spoils his dog. Stop it, Vakarian, you're supposed to be allergic to those things. Don't swell up and die on him, he's got like one of those epi pen things, but he's not sure if it works on turians. Hugo, on the other hand, greatly enjoys his scritches and makes this known with a noise that sounds sort of like 'whumph'. Happy doggo huff.

"But I'm gonna need you to put your horrible taste on hold while I present to you..." he picks up the remote and dramatically turns on the television, "...Wrestlemania."

The dramatic intro is playing, with a gravel-voiced narrator talking about how this is an event that changed our world to footage of previous wrestling events. There's a lot of spandex. There's a lot of glistening, oiled-up muscles and weird costumes. It's magic.

[calibrating]

Garrus continues to scratch Hugo behind his massive ears, potential allergies be damned, thank you very much. Even when the television starts blaring, and he's forced to bear witness to the oil and the glistening and to the magically weird costumes, Garrus continues to pet that dog. Because the dog is the only thing that makes sense at the moment.

There's a pause. A long, awkward pause devoid of any kind of appreciation for the on-screen antics unfolding before him.

"...Seriously?"

[boneitis]

"Stow the sass, craterface," he says, because, as with Star Wars, Garrus is already completely missing the greatness that is before him. "I have that stupid dextro pizza you like, you're watching this shit with me and you'll like it."

He's holding pizza hostage to get your cooperation, Vakarian. He'll hold the dextro beer hostage next if you don't watch it.

"Look, I know, blah blah wrestling's fake whatever, that's not the point. It's like theater but with dudes in spandex hitting each other with folding chairs. Shit is practically Shakespearean, it takes art and skill to create something this ridiculously amazing."

[calibrating]

"You know I'm fully capable of walking out that door, down the street, and getting some food for myself, right? It's a thing us adults do."

But Garrus sits down on the couch not occupied by a giant canine and throws one leg lazily over the other. He may not get the appeal, and he has absolutely no goddamn clue what the hell Shakespearean even means, but Joker is (genuinely) excited for something for once, so he won't be the giant gaping butthole to ruin that.

"So who do we root for?"