Heel to Face: The Hellish Big Show Fan Fic No One Asked For

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Heel to Face: The Hellish Big Show Fan Fic No One Asked For

This is a work of fiction. It is satire. It is not real. None of this ever happened or ever will happen. Enjoy.

Fan Fiction: Jamie and the Big Show Meet in the Darkness

TLDR: We all know that this is where this column was heading.

I had another piece written for this week—less than three weeks away until I get to chase the Big Show around the AT&T Stadium for a project that, as many of mine have, was a quest for knowledge that slowly became a fixation on a sweet person whose life I think I could ruin.

Anyways, I keep having sex dreams about the Big Show. So instead of our normal fare, pals, I have today compiled some fan fiction that features me and Show, which (let’s be honest) is all anyone is reading for anymore and that’s okay with me. If this isn’t actually how sex works, please do not tell me.

WARNING: This will absolutely make you cum.

It was hot in the stands at Wrestlemania—absurdly hot. Young intrepid reporter Jamie Loftus was fanning herself in the bleachers of AT&T Stadium as a bevy of sweaty men from Nevada pounded eight dollar hot dog after eight dollar hot dog.

“What match you excited for?” one asked, instantly sweating eight dollar hot dog from his pores. His friend ate three eight-dollar hot dogs in a single bite before answering.

“I’m down for whatever,” he answered, the eight-dollar hot dog oozing from his blackheads as if run through a pasta strainer. “Except for Big Show.” The men laughed and laughed as eight-dollar hot dog spewed from their mouths, drenching everyone within a three-seat radius.

The third friend, cis-trash who was probably named Erik, piped up. “Enough talk about Big Show,” he said. “Let’s go sexually harass people.”

Intrepid reporter Jamie Loftus sat a row behind them, marveling that the WWE refused to recognize her as either intrepid or a reporter. Still, she was here, a woman alone, searching for her true love, as all women are beholden to do at all times until true love is found. The matches that day had been good—the Wyatt Family had worn fedoras so large they could be seen from the bleachers and toppled their balance, the divas had only been spoken down to five times in the space of a match, and rumor had it that Hornswoggle was planted somewhere in the audience to be revealed when the moment was right. The New Day had brought a full brass band. The Rock showed up for a few minutes because of that contract he signed in blood and semen many years ago.

But there was something missing.

As the main event approached, she reflected on the events of the past night. She had been pretty drunk when she crashed through that glass window after thinking she saw the Big Show on the other side of the dirty apartment she was splitting an Airbnb with. The wounds scabbed over pretty quickly, but the emotion smarted.

“Did Big Show get my letter?” she had wept through a thick whiskey fog as her Airbnb roommates laughed hard enough to enjoy themselves, but not so hard that they would feel guilty if she died from blood loss. “Did he?”

Jamie winced as the next match between Roman Reigns and a snack-sized portion of vanilla pudding began. Why had she even written that letter?

“What letter?” asked a woman sitting behind her who happened to be able to read thoughts. “I happen to be able to read thoughts.”

Jamie sighed deeply as the cup of vanilla pudding performed an impressive exploder suplex on the otherwise defenseless Reigns. She pulled her phone out, tapped in the passcode—KNUCKLEHEAD—and scrolled past a few choice nudes to the letter.

Well,

It’s Jamie, Paul. I know you weren’t expecting to hear from me—especially after how we left things after Summerslam—but I’ve been thinking about things, and I want to give us another shot. When we kissed, I wasn’t Jamie Loftus, woman who will not be recognized by the WWE as a reporter, and you were not the Big Show. I was Jamie Loftus, woman who had traveled six hundred miles to catch you on the way out of a nightclub, and you were Paul Wight, seven foot wrestling champion with a sordid arrest record and a heart of gold that’s constantly threatening to explode.

I know it’s been awhile since you heard from me, and I’m sorry I called you a vaping bastard. And I know you’re probably wondering why I’m writing after six months. Because the night we had sex against a Hummer and were almost arrested and then you killed the police officer with your bare hands and then we watched your shitty movie Knucklehead back to back for the better part of a week was the best time in my life.

I don’t care if you have a small wife and big sons. I don’t care if you exposed yourself to a bellhop in 1998. I don’t care that you broke someone’s jaw at a Marriott in 1999. Why do all your legal scraps take place in hotels? Just kidding, I don’t care, Show, because I love you and that was a test but also, I would truly like to know.

I’ll be in the stands at Wrestlemania—not the press area, because the WWE refuses to acknowledge me as a reporter, but you know, I’ll be there. I’ll be the one wearing the Always Pounding Ass Bar & Grill t-shirt. If it’s a Big No, I’ll understand.

But here’s to hoping, as Faulker once wrote, “it’s a Big Show.” I love you, Paul.

xoxo J

“Oh, honey,” said the medium behind me, shaking her head. Reigns was losing to the pudding cup badly; the cup used Reigns’ own spear against him and enlisted Big E’s massive thighs to squeeze Reigns’ soft head until he passed out. Pretty entertaining, but Jamie couldn’t get her attention to rest on anything except—

“WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELL-”

Jamie had never heard the frustrated sigh of an entire stadium full of people at once, but the disappointment at the love of her life’s entrance was palpable as he rushed to the aid of the company’s worst face in history.

“Called the King of Pizza and Vaping to help out, did you?” the pudding cup asked with more personality than Roman Reigns had displayed in years as a high-earning performer.

Paul Wight glistened in the hot sun as if he’d been oiled by a team of very small and diligent interns before bursting into the ring. His black leotard stretched taut over the seven-plus feet of him, spread in a tangle of thick, sinewy limbs covered in tanned skin that was no stranger to the touch of vapes and drunk women. I wondered if he ever thought about me, and whether it would hurt more to know if he didn’t. Either way, babyboy was looking tight and fuckable and Jamie’s Always Pounding Ass Bar & Grill t-shirt, though rare and expensive, was begging to be torn off.

“I came here to do one thing,” Show said in his trademark smoky tenor, if one was being generous. Jamie sighed. He wasn’t going to see her. He probably hadn’t even gotten her letter.

“And that is use my vape pen -”

The night they had made love, he had shotgunned peppermint e-cig juice from her earhole.

“- and shotgun peppermint e-cig juice from the earhole of my woman.”

What? Before Jamie could let the statement in, she felt Paul’s eyes focus on her. He remembered. She knew he would.

“Jamie, why didn’t they give you a seat in the press section?” he asked.

“THAT’S WHAT I SAID,” she answered furiously, and before she could screech an expletive he was pressed to her in front of the thousands of sweaty, hot-dog excreting people in the stadium and the millions stuffing themselves with garbage at home.

“You got my letter!” Jamie said breathlessly, noting that he tasted like cigarettes and a re-heated Denny’s Grand Slam.

“Of course I did,” Paul said, removing his leotard. The medium sitting behind them had her phone out but they didn’t care—they wanted the world to see.

Big Show placed his hands on her. Why were his hands so small? His hands were remarkably small. Like, even for a regular man, they were very small. Extremely. They were so small.

“Why are—“

“I don’t know why my hands are so small, please don’t ruin this,” Big Show said in one big breath, and Jamie decided to concede.

Their lovemaking was logistically complicated and smelled weird, but the world watched as the two achieved reverse cowgirl climax on a dirty, piping hot plastic chair in the AT&T Stadium. In the past month alone, it had been vomited, shat and stood upon by a dog that had since died, but the lovers consummated wildly as Jerry Lawler had no choice but to narrate the action.

Below in the ring, Roman Reigns was furious and half-masturbating. “This was my moment,” he said, stroking his mangled member and taking in the Show’s magnificent ass. “This was my main event. This was my day to get suplexed into oblivion by a Swiss Miss Snack Pack.” He pulled a walkie talkie from the new chained jeans he’d bought from the Hot Topic clearance aisle and called in reinforcements.

“Get him,” Reigns purred in a way that, try as he may, still wasn’t interesting. Somewhere in the audience, a fully erect Hornswoggle’s walkie talkie vibrated.

“Do I have to?” he asked, knowing full well that his father Vince would never let him live down a televised erection. But he knew what Reigns was capable of, which was calling in a favor from The Rock, who could ruin the deal for a cameo in a Judd Apatow movie that Hornswoggle had taken years to procure.

He’d do what he had to.

Jamie and the Big Show had gotten into a frantic rhythm as The King continued to narrate in a series of breathy half-thoughts. “And the Big Show is finally taking Wrestlemania by storm after twenty years of false starts—“

“I’d like to see Andre do that,” Cody Rhodes piped in.

Hornswoggle had successfully snuck to Jamie’s row and concealed himself among the sweaty hot dog men, who had returned from sexually harassing all manner of attendees, including a bounce house and a ketchup dispenser. All he had to do was tackle the Big Show and startle Jamie, and Reigns would be able to take focus once more. He knew what he had to do, but the throbbing enjoyment of watching Paul Wight try to stop himself from climaxing was almost more than he could take.

The moment was now.

Hornswoggle attacked, wrapping his small limbs around Big Show’s massive, veined head. Paul was too focused on the task at hand and likely too big to slip out of the stadium chair without breaking something and ruining the moment. Jamie, in the meantime, was reciting Show’s Wikipedia page to herself as she continued to make love to the Show who she’d dreamt of seeing again since the summer.

“And in comes Hornswoggle to help Jamie fellate the Big Show!” Jerry Lawler gurgled enthusiastically. “Man, we are grasping at straws after losing Bryan, aren’t we!”

“No!” Hornswoggle screeched in defense, clawing at the thrusting Show to no avail. “I’m stopping him from-” Had Lawler said fellate the Big Show? That didn’t sound half bad.

Roman Reigns was fuming as he watched the big screen. “Hornswoggle shouldn’t be fellating the Big Show,” he screamed to no one as the three climaxed shouting “GIVE DIVAS A CHANCE!” in unison to rapturous audience applause. Jamie shoved Hornswoggle aside and gave Big Show a kiss on his hideous bald head.

The men who had mocked the show had returned with forty more eight-dollar hot dogs and beheld the display of public, career-ending lovemaking taking place in the stands. Big Show leaned into Jamie’s face real close and took a long drag from the vape pen he’d stashed in his leotard.

“Mind if I vape?” Hornswoggle asked, and reached for the pen with his sweaty lips. Big Show lifted him and tossed him into the audience handily, where he crowdsurfed back to the ring and the wrath of Reigns.

“See you at the aftershow,” Show whispered, the peppermint e-cig juice still thick on his voice.

With that, Paul Wight leaped from the stands, down forty rows and back into the ring, suplexing Reigns handily and consuming the pudding cup in one bite.

“Pizza’s on me!” he exclaimed as pepperoni slices began to fall from the sky as if by magic. Show’s children were crying in the press area, which they were allowed to sit in even though they were children and not writers who had tried very hard to be there but their work was considered “satirical” and therefore could not be recognized.

Jamie wiped some sweat from her brow and turned her head to the men.

“Got an extra hot dog?”

Thank you, and I am sorry.

DAYS UNTIL WRESTLEMANIA: LESS THAN THREE WEEKS.

State of Union: I am so, so sorry.

Jamie Loftus is a comedian and writer whose baby teeth have been bronzed and loaded into a gun for when the moment is right. You can find her some of the time, most days at @hamburgerphone or jamieloftusisinnocent.com.