Wrestling Johnson pulled up to the movie awards in a 2017 sports-class Bugatti. He wore a shimmering blue suit with a silk white button-down, and as usual he filled out corners of the suit that normal men wouldn’t even know existed. He walked through a storm of paparazzi wearing a million-dollar smile, his struts long and powerful, eyes twinkling down at the crowd. The golden timepiece on his wrist glimmered in the limelight. His polished brown shoes somehow clicked on the red carpet.
“Mr. Johnson! Mr. Johnson!” cried one eager journalist. “What is the secret to your impressive physique?”
Wrestling Johnson laughed deeply, then said, “Here, I’ll show you.”
He grabbed a box of pizza from a pizza boy who just happened to be strolling by, opened the lid, and upended the box’s contents into his mouth. After tossing the box in one direction and a hundred-dollar bill in the pizza boy’s, he took a bottle of champagne out of a wine cooler held by a passing waitress, popped the cork, and drank it to the bottom. He handed the bottle back to the waitress, halted another waiter rolling a stuffed and roasted turkey to its destination. He grabbed the turkey delicately by each end, then dunked his head into the turkey’s bosom, ravaging half of its torso. He did it all without dirtying a hair on his face—though he did have to wipe his hands with a thousand-dollar napkin after that turkey.
His food consumed, Wrestling Johnson dropped to the floor and began doing furious push-ups, first with both hands, then with one hand, then with his feet pointed in the air. The crowd ooh’d and aah’d and took pictures galore. 100 one-handed push-ups later, Wrestling Johnson stood back up, adjusted his jacket, and gave another charming smile to the cameras. He wasn’t the slightest bit winded.
“Carbs, darling,” he said to the journalist. “You put ‘em on, then you work ‘em out. That simple.” He smiled again, signalling for her to blush or swoon or whatever.
The journalist instead adopted a puzzled look. “You ate an entire pizza just now? Doesn’t that have an effect on your digestive system?”
Wrestling Johnson kept his smile on, looked the journalist in the eye without a hint of disdain. After a long moment of silence, however, he waved to the crowd and walked away, towards the entrance doors and an award show where he would be asked no further questions.
Several hours later, Wrestling Johnson pulled up to his mansion hauling an armful of trophies with his name on them. He walked up grand stairs made of expensive minerals and through a high-ceilinged vestibule illuminated by expensive lights. The mansion was empty; his family wasn’t home for the night. Wrestling Johnson put down his trophies on the massive, cushy sofa, looked around his golden living room suspiciously, then half-walked, half-jogged to the bathroom, a shiny space scented with exotic candles and which was the size of an average person’s condo.
Wrestling Johnson pulled his expensive blue-silk pants down to his polished wood-brown shoes. He plopped muscular butt cheeks down on his marble toilet, braced a manicured hand against the gold-tiled wall. And then—
Then he shat.
He shat and he shat and he shat.
He shat all that pizza that he’d dumped in his mouth. He shat all that turkey that he’d barely chewed before swallowing.
He shat shit and champagne. His shit bubbled and popped.
He shat the full net worth of a third world country.
He shat. And he shat.
He shat and he shat and he shat and he shat.
When Wrestling Johnson was done shitting, he cleaned up after himself the way he’d always done. He wiped his ass with single-ply toilet paper and washed his hands with pipe water and soap. He dried his hands with a three-year-old towel. Though he returned to a living room full of Indian carpets and European furniture, he sat down to watch the same crappy cable network that was in service throughout the tri-state area.
In the privacy of his home, Wrestling Johnson spread a leg over his couch, breathed in oxygen, and picked his nose just like any motherfucker alive.