Osama Bin Crusher
Disclaimer: All wrestlers are owned by WWF and Vince McMahon. Osama Bin Laden, if he's alive, owns himself. And I really hope this never happens.
Note: This is meant to *humorous*. I don't want it to offend anybody. I was just thinking, what would happen if Osama Bin Laden were a wrestler? And I decided to do a fic about it. But if it really offends you, tell me. I'll respond, I promise.
~~~
"You what? I'm getting tired of all this jihad. I want a vacation," the tall man told his followers. They were sitting in a cave. "I think I'll go get another job. I don't wanna be the leader of a terrorist group anymore."
"But what will you do, Osama?" his second-in-command asked. "You can't leave!"
"Fetch my razor," Osama Bin Laden commanded. "I'm going to the USA to be a professional wrestler."
--*
A month later, a clean-shaven Osama set foot in America, determined to become a pro wrestler. All he had to do was find the World Wrestling Federation headquarters, and convince them that a tall, skinny ex-terrorist could wrestle. After all, he had practiced on all those followers. He had the Rock Bottom down to a tee!
"Excuse me," Osama called to a short woman with blond hair. "Where can I get a taxi?"
"Over there," she replied, pointing. She had a Manhattan accent.
Osama sighed and went in the direction the woman had pointed. There he found a lineup of at least twenty yellow cabs. He had never seen anything like it! Osama smiled. Maybe he should have decided to see the world and not blow it up.
Climbing into a taxi, he told the driver, "WWF headquarters." The driver, a Middle-Eastern man, recognized Osama's accent.
"Where you from?" the driver asked. Osama, ever focused on remaining out of jail, ignored him. It took two hours with the prying cab driver, but Osama finally reached his destination. He threw a handful of American money at the cab driver, at least a hundred dollars too much, and stared wide-eyed at the tall building before him.
It seemed to be made of glass! And large red letters over the door declared the building 'World Wrestling Federation Headquarters'. Excited, Osama raced in.
--*
"Hello. I need to see Vince McMahon," Osama told the secretary at the top floor.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No…"
"Then wait." Osama sat on the red leather couch in the lobby. He waited for a good two hours before Vince McMahon burst out from behind the black double-doors that separated his office from the lobby.
"Mr. McMahon! Mr. McMahon! Can I please see you?" Osama said, standing in the man's face. Because of his height and the urgency of his voice, Vince ushered Osama into his office.
--*
"What can I do for you?" Vince asked, wondering why Osama was wearing sunglasses inside.
"I want to be a wrestler."
"Ookay… can you show me your physique?" Osama willingly took off his shirt. Although slim, he was surprisingly muscular; most likely because he wrestled so many of his soldiers. "Alright, how much can you bench?"
"Twelve goats."
"Um, how many pounds is that?"
"About six-hundred pounds."
"What?! Okay, uh, so, do you have a wrestling name picked out?"
"Yes sir. Osama Bin Crusher."
Disclaimer: All wrestlers are owned by WWF and Vince McMahon. Osama Bin Laden, if he's alive, owns himself. And I really hope this never happens.
Note: This is meant to *humorous*. I don't want it to offend anybody. I was just thinking, what would happen if Osama Bin Laden were a wrestler? And I decided to do a fic about it. But if it really offends you, tell me. I'll respond, I promise.
~~~
"You what? I'm getting tired of all this jihad. I want a vacation," the tall man told his followers. They were sitting in a cave. "I think I'll go get another job. I don't wanna be the leader of a terrorist group anymore."
"But what will you do, Osama?" his second-in-command asked. "You can't leave!"
"Fetch my razor," Osama Bin Laden commanded. "I'm going to the USA to be a professional wrestler."
--*
A month later, a clean-shaven Osama set foot in America, determined to become a pro wrestler. All he had to do was find the World Wrestling Federation headquarters, and convince them that a tall, skinny ex-terrorist could wrestle. After all, he had practiced on all those followers. He had the Rock Bottom down to a tee!
"Excuse me," Osama called to a short woman with blond hair. "Where can I get a taxi?"
"Over there," she replied, pointing. She had a Manhattan accent.
Osama sighed and went in the direction the woman had pointed. There he found a lineup of at least twenty yellow cabs. He had never seen anything like it! Osama smiled. Maybe he should have decided to see the world and not blow it up.
Climbing into a taxi, he told the driver, "WWF headquarters." The driver, a Middle-Eastern man, recognized Osama's accent.
"Where you from?" the driver asked. Osama, ever focused on remaining out of jail, ignored him. It took two hours with the prying cab driver, but Osama finally reached his destination. He threw a handful of American money at the cab driver, at least a hundred dollars too much, and stared wide-eyed at the tall building before him.
It seemed to be made of glass! And large red letters over the door declared the building 'World Wrestling Federation Headquarters'. Excited, Osama raced in.
--*
"Hello. I need to see Vince McMahon," Osama told the secretary at the top floor.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No…"
"Then wait." Osama sat on the red leather couch in the lobby. He waited for a good two hours before Vince McMahon burst out from behind the black double-doors that separated his office from the lobby.
"Mr. McMahon! Mr. McMahon! Can I please see you?" Osama said, standing in the man's face. Because of his height and the urgency of his voice, Vince ushered Osama into his office.
--*
"What can I do for you?" Vince asked, wondering why Osama was wearing sunglasses inside.
"I want to be a wrestler."
"Ookay… can you show me your physique?" Osama willingly took off his shirt. Although slim, he was surprisingly muscular; most likely because he wrestled so many of his soldiers. "Alright, how much can you bench?"
"Twelve goats."
"Um, how many pounds is that?"
"About six-hundred pounds."
"What?! Okay, uh, so, do you have a wrestling name picked out?"
"Yes sir. Osama Bin Crusher."