Sunday, September 25, 2016
Rochelle in the Marigold Speedo
Psycho Capone vs Brad Rochelle, Ulta Heels One (BG East)
Swell guy, swell wrestler, swell body, swell trunks. Orange-yellow was his color, though he wore all colors well. Psycho is seemingly unimpressed. Psycho sees only red. It wasn't Brad's first BGE rodeo, but it's early enough that you can almost see the dew behind the babyface's ears, early enough for you to figure out the boy was doomed. He was still paying his dues, and Capone was fierce about collecting the dues.
To fully appreciate the gear, you have to see the opening shot of Brad's butt as he stretches (both his muscles and the gear), still in his warmup jacket at the side of the ring ... or experience the peeling-off of said jacket inside the ring and the try-and-take-me jiggle of his pecs ... or meditate upon, my absolute favorite, his shadow boxing just before Capone makes his entrance. These would be the GIFs I'd create if I had the time and the tools.
"Well, another victim," Psycho exclaims in his Boston-tinged tenor. "The infamous one," he adds with mock respect. "Ready for another beating?" He demands that Rochelle stay in his corner while he slips off his denim jacket. Brad answers, "C'mon, Grandpa," surely making matters worse for himself. Unruffled, Psycho spit-shines his championship belt and brandishes it before the camera. Once Grandpa enters the ring, things happen fast.
The lockup has all the hot and sloppy frenzy of real wrestling competition. When Rochelle lucks into a dominant position, Psycho cravenly clings to the ropes, ordering Brad to back off and wrongly accusing the kid of pulling hair. Brad is looking confident until the big heel kicks him in the abs and pushes his face to the mat and stretches an arm backwards, oh, and headscissors him.
Psycho is a detail-oriented heel, tweaking Rochelle's nose, delivering a flapjack body slam that bounces Brad off the mat, pulling him up by a fistful of hair, wagging his tongue at the camera while choking the guy, and bracing his wrist with the other hand as he claw-holds Brad's trapezius, his corpulent torso at times smothering the kid in pink grown-up flesh.
My favorite Rochelle is still his triumphant ass-kicking of a snooty Patrick Donovan, but as the squashee in this match, with Capone expertly slicing, dicing, and making julienne fries of the blossoming man-boy, Rochelle is the eye-magnet, already a superstar in trunks the color of an astronaut's breakfast drink.