Post by Double F C on Apr 30, 2016 15:34:07 GMT
The NJFC Tag-Team-Tropolis press conference table had been reset. The French Mime Assassins sat near the end looking ruefully out at the parade of reporters the here to cover the event, beside them sat Francis Ford Cuppola’s ever-present assistant Rodney P covering his mouth as he spoke to the leaned in Double F C.
Rodney P: Are you sure you want to handle this? I’ve been working with the mimes the most so-
Francis Ford Cuppola: Don’t be silly, Rodney. I’ve interpreted for the late Kim Jong Il, I think I can handle a couple of mimes.
Without further discussion, although Rodney was clearly left with questions after that exchange, Francis stood before the podium with hands at either side, and a calm, easy air about him that demonstrated his years of media experience.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Shall we get started?
James Peterson: Of course. We’ll be taking questions now for the French Mime Assassins and their manager, Francis Ford Cuppola.
The audience applauds.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Thanks, Johnny.
James Peterson: James.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I knew that.
Francis loosens his collar, shaking his head disparagingly at his perception of James Peterson’s insolence. The amiable smile returns nonetheless.
Francis Ford Cuppola: As you all know, I’m the famed director of Barackula, the Rhombus, the Ani-Rhombus and many more classics I’m sure have found a permanent home in your pirated movie library. And, before we really get started, I’d just like to take the time to say the Mimes and myself are very excited to be here in Japan to take part in this prestigious event hosted by New (suavely mumbles the name) Championship this April 30th at the Nippon Bootycall arena.
Rodney P: That’s ‘Budokon’.
Rodney whispers to him.
Francis Ford Cuppola: That's what I said.
Francis tugs at his collar once more, dabbing a handkerchief on his sweat-beaded brow before motioning to one reporter to open the floor.
“Hi, Youki Mizako, Pan-Pacific Free Press, Mr. Cuppola, there’s been some reports that your French Mime Assassins recently got into some sort of street fight altercation against some local wrestlers. How do you respond to concerns the Mimes are too violent for this tournament?”
Francis Ford Cuppola: Look, I understand what you’re saying, I respect that you’re saying it, and I’ll defend to the death your right to say it. But, come on, everyone knows wrestling is a contact sport. Sure the mimes are supremely good at beating people up. In order to be competitive, I had bring in a team capable of competing at a high degree of proficiency against opponents who, frankly, will find themselves sadly outmatched. If you must know, the event in question was a training exercise as per the mimes exhaustive training regimen. We were shooting the Mimes’ promo material, which is currently in post-production and will be released in theaters in time for the summer box office--
Rodney P: Francis--
Rodney trails off, hiding his face. Francis blinks uncertainly at Rodney’s interruption before continuing.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Okay, look, the beat down you’re referring to did get violent, but those were professional stunt wrestlers. We had complete control of the situation the entire time.
“That’s not what the hospital those men were rushed to informed us.”
The reporter has a long-looking list she begins to read from. Francis dabs at the sweat continuously pooling on his forehead.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Is it hot in here? Can someone dim the lights a little?
Francis asks of James Peterson, his hand covers the microphone to block the sound. James Peterson looks estranged from Francis' antics. The reporter reads.
“…including severe lacerations as well as three bruised ribs, four cracked vertebrae—“
Francis Ford Cuppola: Ah, they’re fine. All a misunderstanding. Besides, who are you going to trust, me or some yellow-skinned pseudo-scientific ‘doctor’, am I right?
Francis’ jovial ignorance is met with aghast glares from almost everyone. He realizes his mistake and quickly backpedals.
Francis Ford Cuppola: This interview is over. No more questions.
Francis sits down in a flustered huff and a hail of camera flashes. Rodney looks baffled at him.
Rodney P: Francis, this is a press conference. You have to answer more questions than ‘one’.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I knew that.
Double F C dabs at the sweat on his brow and tugs at his collar and tries to sound agreeable as he stands back up and avoids eye contact with that last reporter.
Francis Ford Cuppola: How about some questions for the Mimes, huh?
Francis dabs at more sweat, looking more and more awkward.
Francis Ford Cuppola: You.
“Hi. Patti Marshall, Associated Press. What is the mimes strategy going into the tournament and how will it differ from the typical French wrestling they’re used to?”
Francis is relieved.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Excellent Question, Pauly.
“Patti.”
Francis Ford Cuppola: I said that.
He dabs his forehead uncomfortably before looking to the mimes.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Well, what do you say to that?
He looks to the mimes. Comme Çi, (or Comme Ça, who knows at this point,) begins miming. Cameras flash as he mimes opening a jar and pretending to guzzle it or something.
“Uh.. what is he trying to say?”
Francis frowns at the gestures a moment before nodding.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Of course!
He smiles to the reporter with newfound understanding.
Francis Ford Cuppola: He’s saying The French Mime Assassins plan to teach their opponents the difference between jam and marmalade at Tag-Team Tropolis.
Whispers and murmurs and confused blinks are the response, before…
“What…IS the difference between marmalade and jam?”
Francis looks back to the mime to mime the answer to the question.
Francis Ford Cuppola: He says you can’t marmalade your cock down a dead opponent’s throat!
The mime mimes a huge belly laugh. Francis’ jaw drops as soon as he says it. Francis surveys the stunned silence from the crowd. He looks to Rodney who looks at him wide-eyed at him with embarrassment, mouthing the words ‘what are you doing?’
Francis Ford Cuppola: Son of a bitch mime, what are you doing to me here?
He mumbles to himself inexplicably glaring at the mime. He tugs at his collar, dabs the sweat from his forehead.
“Mr. Cuppola, don’t try to make this controversial. Can you just let the mime speak for himself, please?”
Francis looks into the audience, shielding his eyes from the lights, which seem far too bright all of a sudden.
Francis Ford Cuppola: He's a mime. He doesn't speak.
“And you’re taking advantage by putting words into his mouth. There’s no way that mime mimed all that.”
Francis is clearly defeated.
Francis Ford Cuppola: You’re right. I apologize.
Francis is annoyed.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Next question, please.
“Hi, Mike Lee, Tokyo Chronicle, what CAN we expect from the Mimes in the ring?”
Francis, still flustered, looks to the mimes. One of them begins to mime something elaborate. Francis begins to nod as he picks up on it and interprets:
Francis Ford Cuppola: He’s saying it’ll be an absolute bloodbath. Every opponent they face will lose one limb in order to be beaten with it. He says everyone they face should consider their lives forfeit when stepping into ‘their ring’ and expect nothing but pain and misery to follow, and if they’re really lucky The French Mime Assassins won’t force their opponents to watch as their wives, girlfriends, or significant others are forced to fellate them before the sold-out crowd and then take a used hose and stick it up their bum, and—
An uproar. Francis is forced to stop his interpretation as the press conference bursts into outrage.
“There’s no way those mimes would even THINK a thing like that!”
Francis innocently shrugs his shoulders and looks to Rodney P, who is clearly eyeing the exit as some very modest aspects of the crowd bring in a police officer and point out Francis.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I… it… uhhh…
Worried, Francis leans down to Rodney for an explanation.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Did you know these mimes had a mouth like that?!
Rodney can only look at his employer with skeptical derision and incredulity before the mimes suddenly flip the press conference table and create an even larger ruckus. Pandemonium.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney!
Rodney executes quick thinking, collecting the Mimes, and Francis and ushering them off the stage before further havoc breaks loose. Francis, ushered off stage, looks at Rodney with ecstatic glee.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney! These mimes are a goldmine! We single-handedly brought controversy to the New Tag Team Tripoli Championship! Do you have any idea how much this will boost our ticket sales?!
Francis’ eyes have lit up with all the possibilities as Rodney rushes his boss and the Mimes to the safety of the green room.
Rodney P: Are you sure you want to handle this? I’ve been working with the mimes the most so-
Francis Ford Cuppola: Don’t be silly, Rodney. I’ve interpreted for the late Kim Jong Il, I think I can handle a couple of mimes.
Without further discussion, although Rodney was clearly left with questions after that exchange, Francis stood before the podium with hands at either side, and a calm, easy air about him that demonstrated his years of media experience.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Shall we get started?
James Peterson: Of course. We’ll be taking questions now for the French Mime Assassins and their manager, Francis Ford Cuppola.
The audience applauds.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Thanks, Johnny.
James Peterson: James.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I knew that.
Francis loosens his collar, shaking his head disparagingly at his perception of James Peterson’s insolence. The amiable smile returns nonetheless.
Francis Ford Cuppola: As you all know, I’m the famed director of Barackula, the Rhombus, the Ani-Rhombus and many more classics I’m sure have found a permanent home in your pirated movie library. And, before we really get started, I’d just like to take the time to say the Mimes and myself are very excited to be here in Japan to take part in this prestigious event hosted by New (suavely mumbles the name) Championship this April 30th at the Nippon Bootycall arena.
Rodney P: That’s ‘Budokon’.
Rodney whispers to him.
Francis Ford Cuppola: That's what I said.
Francis tugs at his collar once more, dabbing a handkerchief on his sweat-beaded brow before motioning to one reporter to open the floor.
“Hi, Youki Mizako, Pan-Pacific Free Press, Mr. Cuppola, there’s been some reports that your French Mime Assassins recently got into some sort of street fight altercation against some local wrestlers. How do you respond to concerns the Mimes are too violent for this tournament?”
Francis Ford Cuppola: Look, I understand what you’re saying, I respect that you’re saying it, and I’ll defend to the death your right to say it. But, come on, everyone knows wrestling is a contact sport. Sure the mimes are supremely good at beating people up. In order to be competitive, I had bring in a team capable of competing at a high degree of proficiency against opponents who, frankly, will find themselves sadly outmatched. If you must know, the event in question was a training exercise as per the mimes exhaustive training regimen. We were shooting the Mimes’ promo material, which is currently in post-production and will be released in theaters in time for the summer box office--
Rodney P: Francis--
Rodney trails off, hiding his face. Francis blinks uncertainly at Rodney’s interruption before continuing.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Okay, look, the beat down you’re referring to did get violent, but those were professional stunt wrestlers. We had complete control of the situation the entire time.
“That’s not what the hospital those men were rushed to informed us.”
The reporter has a long-looking list she begins to read from. Francis dabs at the sweat continuously pooling on his forehead.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Is it hot in here? Can someone dim the lights a little?
Francis asks of James Peterson, his hand covers the microphone to block the sound. James Peterson looks estranged from Francis' antics. The reporter reads.
“…including severe lacerations as well as three bruised ribs, four cracked vertebrae—“
Francis Ford Cuppola: Ah, they’re fine. All a misunderstanding. Besides, who are you going to trust, me or some yellow-skinned pseudo-scientific ‘doctor’, am I right?
Francis’ jovial ignorance is met with aghast glares from almost everyone. He realizes his mistake and quickly backpedals.
Francis Ford Cuppola: This interview is over. No more questions.
Francis sits down in a flustered huff and a hail of camera flashes. Rodney looks baffled at him.
Rodney P: Francis, this is a press conference. You have to answer more questions than ‘one’.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I knew that.
Double F C dabs at the sweat on his brow and tugs at his collar and tries to sound agreeable as he stands back up and avoids eye contact with that last reporter.
Francis Ford Cuppola: How about some questions for the Mimes, huh?
Francis dabs at more sweat, looking more and more awkward.
Francis Ford Cuppola: You.
“Hi. Patti Marshall, Associated Press. What is the mimes strategy going into the tournament and how will it differ from the typical French wrestling they’re used to?”
Francis is relieved.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Excellent Question, Pauly.
“Patti.”
Francis Ford Cuppola: I said that.
He dabs his forehead uncomfortably before looking to the mimes.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Well, what do you say to that?
He looks to the mimes. Comme Çi, (or Comme Ça, who knows at this point,) begins miming. Cameras flash as he mimes opening a jar and pretending to guzzle it or something.
“Uh.. what is he trying to say?”
Francis frowns at the gestures a moment before nodding.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Of course!
He smiles to the reporter with newfound understanding.
Francis Ford Cuppola: He’s saying The French Mime Assassins plan to teach their opponents the difference between jam and marmalade at Tag-Team Tropolis.
Whispers and murmurs and confused blinks are the response, before…
“What…IS the difference between marmalade and jam?”
Francis looks back to the mime to mime the answer to the question.
Francis Ford Cuppola: He says you can’t marmalade your cock down a dead opponent’s throat!
Collective gasp from the crowd.
The mime mimes a huge belly laugh. Francis’ jaw drops as soon as he says it. Francis surveys the stunned silence from the crowd. He looks to Rodney who looks at him wide-eyed at him with embarrassment, mouthing the words ‘what are you doing?’
Francis Ford Cuppola: Son of a bitch mime, what are you doing to me here?
He mumbles to himself inexplicably glaring at the mime. He tugs at his collar, dabs the sweat from his forehead.
“Mr. Cuppola, don’t try to make this controversial. Can you just let the mime speak for himself, please?”
Francis looks into the audience, shielding his eyes from the lights, which seem far too bright all of a sudden.
Francis Ford Cuppola: He's a mime. He doesn't speak.
“And you’re taking advantage by putting words into his mouth. There’s no way that mime mimed all that.”
Francis is clearly defeated.
Francis Ford Cuppola: You’re right. I apologize.
Francis is annoyed.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Next question, please.
“Hi, Mike Lee, Tokyo Chronicle, what CAN we expect from the Mimes in the ring?”
Francis, still flustered, looks to the mimes. One of them begins to mime something elaborate. Francis begins to nod as he picks up on it and interprets:
Francis Ford Cuppola: He’s saying it’ll be an absolute bloodbath. Every opponent they face will lose one limb in order to be beaten with it. He says everyone they face should consider their lives forfeit when stepping into ‘their ring’ and expect nothing but pain and misery to follow, and if they’re really lucky The French Mime Assassins won’t force their opponents to watch as their wives, girlfriends, or significant others are forced to fellate them before the sold-out crowd and then take a used hose and stick it up their bum, and—
An uproar. Francis is forced to stop his interpretation as the press conference bursts into outrage.
“There’s no way those mimes would even THINK a thing like that!”
Francis innocently shrugs his shoulders and looks to Rodney P, who is clearly eyeing the exit as some very modest aspects of the crowd bring in a police officer and point out Francis.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I… it… uhhh…
Worried, Francis leans down to Rodney for an explanation.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Did you know these mimes had a mouth like that?!
Rodney can only look at his employer with skeptical derision and incredulity before the mimes suddenly flip the press conference table and create an even larger ruckus. Pandemonium.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney!
Rodney executes quick thinking, collecting the Mimes, and Francis and ushering them off the stage before further havoc breaks loose. Francis, ushered off stage, looks at Rodney with ecstatic glee.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney! These mimes are a goldmine! We single-handedly brought controversy to the New Tag Team Tripoli Championship! Do you have any idea how much this will boost our ticket sales?!
Francis’ eyes have lit up with all the possibilities as Rodney rushes his boss and the Mimes to the safety of the green room.
