Post by Bembe Brightwell on Nov 26, 2020 4:22:13 GMT
With the trails of irrational paranoia that ran through his mind, you’d wonder if Bembe Brightwell ever enjoyed himself. Wound up tighter than a cuckoo clock, one would only imagine that his spare time was spent installing additional layers of rubber on his walls or constructing an underground bunker.
Well, that’s exactly what he did after surviving his third lightning strike. Thankfully, while an arduous process, the therapy sessions seemed to be working.
During their first couple of visits, the counselor had suggested to Bembe that he try to explore several relaxation techniques. To his surprise, a lot of them seemed to be effective. Meditation, visualization, yoga: all were somewhat soothing and most importantly provided a temporary distraction from the horrors of thundershowers. However, his most favorite? Bathtub aromatherapy.
Like a princess, Brightwell drew a hot one every day and lined the tub with candles. He had even splurged on a fancy pillow to fully indulge in the experience.
However, just like his devotion to professional wrestling, Bembe would not just buy one type of candle and one type of bath bomb like a simpleton. He wanted to be a connoisseur. The problem with this was that ordering scent-based items online simply wouldn’t do. In today’s consumer-driven economy, new fragrances were being developed by the day, and the only way to truly pick the best ones was to do so in person.
“You see that place over thuh-thuh-there?”
The Living Lightning Rod motions the cameraman over to a shot of the store across from where they presently stand, revealing the Yankee Candle logo above it’s entrance.
“I used to split my sh-sh-shopping up between here and there, until some SHE-DEVIL manager BANNED me from the store,” Bembe proclaims. He ventures out a few steps more into the mall walkway, cupping his hands over his mouth. “YOU HEAR THAT, MARIA? Just because you wanted more than a quiet night on the couch doesn’t give you the right to post pics on IN-N-N-NSTAGRAM of you grinding on another guy at the club two days after we break up!”
“That’s right, babe,” a voice calls out from behind him. Clad in a gingham blue apron and bright pink shirt, a blond woman places a familiar hand on his shoulder before throwing an affectionate arm around him. However, it’s not quite the pretty picture of romance that one might expect. Her Bath and Body Works name tag revealed that this mystery love interest was Cheryl, and since no one has named their daughter Cheryl since the 1970s, she appeared about thirty years Bembe’s senior.
“Their candles smell bad anyway,” she adds. Bembe winks back at her, sliding a hand down to playfully pinch her bulbous behind.
“You’re right. Say, sexy thang, I’ve got a little business I have to take care of, but I’ll be back in to pay for my week’s supply in a minute. And hey, dar-dar-dar-darlin’...don’t forget the employee discount when you ring it up!”
“Anything for my little wrestling stud,” she replies, making her way back toward the register. Bembe fires a quizzical look at the cameraman who had apparently been raising his brow at the spectacle he’d just witnessed.
“What? Don’t juh-juh-judge me, Eric. I’ve only got this body for so long,” Bembe defends. “Besides, this place ain’t cheap. Until our boss starts paying us in something besides lotto scratchers, I have to do what I can for the suh-suh-suh-suh-sake of my mental well-being.”
Eric responds with some unintelligible mumbling, but it rings through clear as a bell to Brightwell. He nods knowingly.
“I’m sure she’ll have some mean things to say about me,” he mutters. “Where’s she doing her interview, anyway? Probably Zales or Ulta or the Perfume Barn or somewhere high-class like that. She’s a sophisticated lady. I bet she’s got the hookup on one of those fancy French sconces. Heck, she’s probably got a separate bathtub in addition to a shower!”
“Yep, all of Cheap Pops Pro knows by now that I’m nothing like Noelle Laurent or her other half, Satan. I’m a cuh-cuh-cuh-commoner’s wrestler. A Sbarro man with an Auntie Anne’s plan. Puttin’ my Rack Room Shoes on one foot at at time, and whippin’ out my barometer before I walk to my American-made Astro van to make extra sure that there’s no storm on the huh-huh-horizon. You know, normal guy stuff.”
“And unfortunately for you, Noelle, CPPW is where the mediocre shine! And come Black Friday, you’re gonna learn that fuh-fuh-fuh-FIRSThand.”
Well, that’s exactly what he did after surviving his third lightning strike. Thankfully, while an arduous process, the therapy sessions seemed to be working.
During their first couple of visits, the counselor had suggested to Bembe that he try to explore several relaxation techniques. To his surprise, a lot of them seemed to be effective. Meditation, visualization, yoga: all were somewhat soothing and most importantly provided a temporary distraction from the horrors of thundershowers. However, his most favorite? Bathtub aromatherapy.
Like a princess, Brightwell drew a hot one every day and lined the tub with candles. He had even splurged on a fancy pillow to fully indulge in the experience.
However, just like his devotion to professional wrestling, Bembe would not just buy one type of candle and one type of bath bomb like a simpleton. He wanted to be a connoisseur. The problem with this was that ordering scent-based items online simply wouldn’t do. In today’s consumer-driven economy, new fragrances were being developed by the day, and the only way to truly pick the best ones was to do so in person.
“You see that place over thuh-thuh-there?”
The Living Lightning Rod motions the cameraman over to a shot of the store across from where they presently stand, revealing the Yankee Candle logo above it’s entrance.
“I used to split my sh-sh-shopping up between here and there, until some SHE-DEVIL manager BANNED me from the store,” Bembe proclaims. He ventures out a few steps more into the mall walkway, cupping his hands over his mouth. “YOU HEAR THAT, MARIA? Just because you wanted more than a quiet night on the couch doesn’t give you the right to post pics on IN-N-N-NSTAGRAM of you grinding on another guy at the club two days after we break up!”
“That’s right, babe,” a voice calls out from behind him. Clad in a gingham blue apron and bright pink shirt, a blond woman places a familiar hand on his shoulder before throwing an affectionate arm around him. However, it’s not quite the pretty picture of romance that one might expect. Her Bath and Body Works name tag revealed that this mystery love interest was Cheryl, and since no one has named their daughter Cheryl since the 1970s, she appeared about thirty years Bembe’s senior.
“Their candles smell bad anyway,” she adds. Bembe winks back at her, sliding a hand down to playfully pinch her bulbous behind.
“You’re right. Say, sexy thang, I’ve got a little business I have to take care of, but I’ll be back in to pay for my week’s supply in a minute. And hey, dar-dar-dar-darlin’...don’t forget the employee discount when you ring it up!”
“Anything for my little wrestling stud,” she replies, making her way back toward the register. Bembe fires a quizzical look at the cameraman who had apparently been raising his brow at the spectacle he’d just witnessed.
“What? Don’t juh-juh-judge me, Eric. I’ve only got this body for so long,” Bembe defends. “Besides, this place ain’t cheap. Until our boss starts paying us in something besides lotto scratchers, I have to do what I can for the suh-suh-suh-suh-sake of my mental well-being.”
Eric responds with some unintelligible mumbling, but it rings through clear as a bell to Brightwell. He nods knowingly.
“I’m sure she’ll have some mean things to say about me,” he mutters. “Where’s she doing her interview, anyway? Probably Zales or Ulta or the Perfume Barn or somewhere high-class like that. She’s a sophisticated lady. I bet she’s got the hookup on one of those fancy French sconces. Heck, she’s probably got a separate bathtub in addition to a shower!”
“Yep, all of Cheap Pops Pro knows by now that I’m nothing like Noelle Laurent or her other half, Satan. I’m a cuh-cuh-cuh-commoner’s wrestler. A Sbarro man with an Auntie Anne’s plan. Puttin’ my Rack Room Shoes on one foot at at time, and whippin’ out my barometer before I walk to my American-made Astro van to make extra sure that there’s no storm on the huh-huh-horizon. You know, normal guy stuff.”
“And unfortunately for you, Noelle, CPPW is where the mediocre shine! And come Black Friday, you’re gonna learn that fuh-fuh-fuh-FIRSThand.”