"'Bout time! Let's do this!" shouted Marshfellow, gleaming with proud eyes.
"I'm gonna destroy anyone who bellows like Marshfellow the marshmallow!" grunted his opponent, Rillo the pillow.
Marshfellow chimed back, "I'd say don't quit your day job as a rapper, but you suck at that too."
"You're about to get bounced 'cause you're barely an ounce!" quipped Rillo.
Hardly anyone heard these unique one-liners due to the crowd roaring in the stands, eagerly awaiting Rillo's obvious victory. An upset like Marshfellow winning could only happen in a story named after him. Rillo recognized that another noob was about to be sent to the clouds at his hands, never to be seen again; his demeanor brimmed with confidence. For veteran colliders, the only reason to continue after 66 wins was obviously launching opponents with sadistic glee so powerfully that even their dreams shatter; shouldn't have even needed to mention that.
The announcer made his way to the center of the arena with microphone in place, bellowing, "Are both colliders TEDDY TO TUMBLE?!"
"Hey! Bellowing's my thing!" shouted Marshfellow.
Rillo cackled, "I warned you, man. Hope you understand."
The announcer was heavily bumped by Rillo's plump cushion so forcefully, he sailed onto the massive cloud in the sky. We probably won't ever see him again, but he wasn't particularly attractive though anyway.
"Arrrre both colliderrrrs RRRREADY TO RRRRUMBLE?!" I yelled (not bellowed, Rillo). Despite that being the first use of that phrase ever, everybody seemed to like it, so feel free to use it as long as you credit me for it, readers.
"Uhh, yeah, I think I been said that! Yaaahhhh!" said Marshfellow while charging toward his opponent.
"I'm real happy I can give you a slappy!" exclaimed Rillo while taking a stance.
Marshfellow collided with Rillo and immediately... got knocked back to his starting position with as loud a thud as possible. Due to being a marshmallow, you coundn't hear it; but trust me, it was there.
Rillo laughed. "You're such a cruiser; and now, a loser!"
"I won't be cruiserweight forever, Rillo. In fact, how 'bout we change that now?" daringly stated Marshfellow.
"You dare? I'm soooo scared..." Rillo said mockingly.
Suddenly, Marshfellow charged up his passion, a fire of emotion welled within him, and he rose like dough being baked despite being a marshmallow. He was massive; at least twelve times the size of Rillo.
"You dare! I'm... soooo scared..." Rillo said depressingly.
Marshfellow spun violently until he built so much centripetal force, that he looked like a top. He then gave Rillo a mere tap that passed along all of the rotation. Rillo became incredibly disheveled instantly; he was down with his down lying down on the ground.
"I... still... haven't lost... yet. Bet..." Rillo mumbled, looking concussed.
The announcer, that is, me, the narrator, said, " This is a fine display of poor sportsmanship, Marshfellow. What a horrible way to start your career."
"What? All I did was rough him up a little. That's what colliders do," whined Marshfellow.
I, the narrator, who is also commentator and referee, narrated and commentated... and refereed (sure, why not), "This bout should have been over already and we're tired of looking at Rillo's ugly face. Just get rid of him already!"
"Heyyyy..." Rillo weakly squealed. "I'm not done... yet..."
"What am I, your feather duster?" facetiously questioned Marshfellow.
I admitted, "Actually, that would be a cool nickname for this victory..."
"Oh. Ok," Marshfellow said matter-of-factly. He then flinged Rillo into the air and shoved him so hard that his pillow was fluffed.
"Ahhh, that's better, bedwetter!" jouyously proclaimed Rillo. "Now I'll just... aww, dang it!"
Rillo looked downward and saw cloud beneath his pillowy feet. Thank goodness; that guy was ugly.
The crowd was half shocked silent; the other half cheering, "New king! New king!"
"Nuking, huh? I like it! That'll be that moves name!" Marshfellow beamed.
I tried to hurriedly tell Marshfellow, "They're saying new king, not nuking. See, if you just read the page here..."
"Yeah! I'm gonna nuke all my opponents!" Marshfellow, VERY ignorantly, exclaimed emphatically.
The crowd cheered in response to the braggadocio.
"This collision's winner is... Marshfelloooow, the featherrrr dus-terrrr!" belted the most handsome character in the story.
"Who's next?! Who's next?! Who wants some of this?!" Marshfellow eagerly baited.
"I do."
Marshfellow quickly inquired, "Who said that?"
Even I, the narrator, somehow didn't know.
"It was me, chump! I'm gonna demolish ya like ya did my husbin'!" screamed Shiraq, the knee sock.
Marshfellow wondered, "Can socks and pillows really be together?"
"What century are you from, you imbecile?" I pondered to myself. Oops, guess I said that outloud. Although, how does that work? A sock and a pillow...
Shiraq quipped back, "Doesn't make a difference since you'll be askin' 'em when I send ya to 'em!"
"You're saying I have to collide with a lady? Aww, man! I'm gonna be in so much trouble," Marshfellow lamented.
"Marshfellow, seriously, grow up! We're in a modern civilization where we don't discriminate. We all hate each other equally. You should know this," I retaliated. But for real, how does a pillow with a sock work together?
Shiraq impatiently wailed, without explaining her relationship annoyingly, "Can we go ta da nex' chapta so I k'n pulverize dat marshmallow menace?"
"Sure!" I exclaimed.
Marshfellow said, "Wait a min-"