The Lost versus The French Mime Assassins (Tag Qualifier)

“I suppose I should be mad,” Rodney slouched on the bed in the darkened bedroom with no window. This dismal room with no view was designed to be his punishment that would double as Rodney’s new quarters while he stayed in Haus Casa Maison De La Chez Francis, (editorial note: it’s not really called that, but Francis insists that it is). Rodney looked into the back turned camera lens on his iPhone and scrutinized his expression of passive acceptance appearing on the screen before him, then sneered dismissively.

“But I’m not.”


Startled, Rodney P ducked like he were being shelled. Somewhere in the upstairs of the house was the loud explosion that shook every wall. Rodney sighed with a shake of his head then continued.

“This camera right here will be like my video blog. I’ll call it the ‘Unblinking Eye’, or something equally McCollum-esque clever. So, anyway, sure, I could be angry. I probably should be angry. At the very least I have every right to be disappointed following the events of Wicked 15, don’t you think? It’s not every day you get the chance to work with literal living legends like Terry Hero and Kris Angel.” He looked sullen as he scratched the carefully groomed goatee on his chin and stood and paced inside the cramp prison cell of a bedroom with the camera still fixed on him.

“It’s not every day you get to spend months working with the best this industry has to offer in order to take down your boss, is it? If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business, it’s that you should consider yourself blessed when you can spend months learning as much, if not more, than the tag-team you’re managing because they literally ooze experience and wisdom and charisma. That is a once in a lifetime opportunity, friends.

You hear me, Ryan McCollum? Once in a lifetime chance to work with consummate professionals like the Hero Maniac and the Burning Man who, eat, sleep and bleed this business no matter what setback is thrown, or unfavorable position greets them. You should be thanking your lucky stars you‘ve had golden chances in every damn company you’ve ever worked for and promptly quit from the situation takes a turn you don’t like. You have continuously failed to count yourself blessed to wrestle in the same ring as seasoned veterans like Jan Van Der Roost, or Terryl Fexxfield. You’ve even counted yourself as overlooked and ‘Lost’ after getting chances countless talented men and women who have walked your path never have. As long as I am here with Francis, I know that I’m going to have to look at every sidewayas situation and unfavorable opportunity as a golden chance to overcome. The very opposite of what you and your fucktard brother have consistently failed to do. You don’t know humility, boy.”

Rodney shakes his head.

“I had to learn humility at Wicked 15. Seriously. In the most asinine, thumb-up-my-ass way, I’ve had to learn humility. I may not have come readymade with humility before that farce, but let me tell you, I’ve been around a long time, seen a lot, read a lot, even done my own share of wrestling and let me tell you the only thing I’ve learned for certain: I know talent when I see it. I know that The Lost have it but don’t know how to apply it strategically. And I knew precisely what I had the second I heard Terry Hero and Kris Angel were open to the thought of helping me turn the wrestling world on it’s head and to teaming together in Pure Amusement Wrestling. I knew the second they got out onto the ramp and met that capacity crowd roaring already from a simple glimpse of them that the PAW universe would never be the same. This was the kind of impact either of these McCollum assholes will never match in their forgettable careers. I had literally found in the Living Legends the often sought for, but rarely discovered recipe for turning oxygen into gold, friends. And I’d found it. It was mine.”

He shook his head, a residual degree of disappointment seeping out through his sigh as he glared at the camera.

“But I neglected to understand that talent by itself can’t win a match. I failed to realize that, while I certainly had access to premier wrestling talent, I was up against talent of a completely other sort. The kind you can’t underestimate because it will inevitably screw you. Maybe if the McCollums stick around they’ll learn just as I have that there’s one man you don’t fuck with in this business.”


Startled, Rodney ducks once more, his eyes searching the ceiling like he’s being attacked in a warzone. Silence reigns before Francis Ford Cuppola’s muted, reassuring voice resounds through the walls.

Francis Ford Cuppola: I’m okay!

Rodney P shakes his head again and looks dismayed into the camera.

“I should be furious, shouldn’t I? In one fell swoop my best-laid plans have been dashed. I failed at overthrowing a narcissistic man-child hell-bent on driving everyone around him insane. They would have given me a medal had it worked. They would have put my face on Pure Amusement Park Currency for kids and their parents to flash whenever they wanted to gain access to anything around here. And now, to say nothing of my predicament, a man’s historic career has been ended by a Pepto Bismol bottle. And it’s all on account of the outcome of an ill-conceived match designed to defrock an absolute moron. I should be enraged. As I’ve considered all these things, I’ve realized that the flaw with my plan wasn’t the wrestlers I’d chosen, or my method of attack. No, my flaw was actually believing Francis might not accidentally succeed like he always does. Do you really think you’re entering into this match as the teachers, Ryan and Mason? Half the time, as I’ve learned, those who think they have something to say ought to be doing a hell of a lot more listening. So, learn this lesson well, Lost: my efforts against Francis didn’t matter. I could have brought indestructible armies from heaven down to that ring at Wicked 15 to face those mimes, it wouldn’t and couldn’t change the fact that Francis maintains an unstoppable talent for failing upwards. This is one of his skills I didn’t realize was greater than any combined force any human can summon to stand against him.”

Francis’ muted voice bellows once more through the house.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney! Come here and try some Maple Syrup!

Rodney’s expression turns harried and explanatory as he shakes his head once more.

“…Maple Syrup? He’s serious. This is my life now, folks. And what should really chap my as is the fact I chose this. Like it or not, for better or for worse, these are how the cards played and rather than complain, I intend to embrace this disaster with open arms. Learn these lessons well, Lost; when you come down to the ring at Wicked 16, you’re not just standing against the French Mime Assassins, two very dangerous foes, to be sure. No, moreover you’re facing Francis Ford Cuppola: The universe’s personal nemesis machine capable of unwittingly sabotaging anything and everything in his path.”


Francis Ford Cuppola: Hoooo Hoooo, that was a good one!

Annoyed, Rodney inhales deeply and opens his bedroom door. Light from the hallway nearly blinds him as he steps out of his room. The camera promptly cuts and restarts with Rodney in the kitchen still filming himself with the static cell phone stationed on the counter as he butters some bread.


Rodney ducks once more, but clearly he’s gotten used to the peculiar loud exploding noises coming from upstairs. He continues to address the camera while minding his sandwich.

“Yes, I’ve been forced to accept the fact that my team lost via bizarre occurrence that could only happen in a match involving Francis Ford Cuppola and here I find myself once more living in this house with this idiot I must now, once again, call my boss…”

Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney! Get your ass up here for some syrup!

Rodney’s eyes rolled in annoyance at the sound of the bellowing moron’s voice resonating through the hallway. He glares at the camera with a look that explains his inner tumult better than any words can.

“But it’s okay. As ridiculous as all this is, and it is ridiculous, I haven’t entirely lost everything. I have rightfully returned to training the two incredibly talented French Mime Assassins, and I have no intention of shirking the responsibility of ensuring they continue to succeed and improve. And that’s the catch, see?”

Rodney stops buttering his bread and looks squarely into the camera.

“All along my problems have been with Francis, not those he’s chosen to manage in Pure Amusement Wrestling, not the French Mime Assassins. These two are victims of circumstance, kind of like the so-called ‘Lost’. I shouldn’t have made a tag team match against his mimes, I should have just done what that Lione guy did and poisoned Francis, only with cyanide. That’s where my quarrel lies, folks. But, for every derisive statement I have uttered directly at Francis, and watched it trickle down onto the Mimes, I’ve never ceased respecting what these two incredibly bizarre men can do inside of the squared circle when they are focused and adequately prepared. And I never will, because now? Now I’m once again at the wheel, steering two already impressive competitors—“


The doorbell chimes like a loud and localized church bell that hurts Rodney’s ears for being too close to the front door. Rodney looks to the camera with another, lonely, tired shake of his head and brings the recording cell phone with him as he answers the door.

A tall, burly native man stoically greets him on the mansion’s doorstep and hands him a huge jug of maple syrup. Rodney cradles the jug with one hand, eyeing it with sheer confusion, then frowns as the man eyes him steadily and brushes past him into the house and disappears before Rodney can follow him.

Rodney reads the label then wide-eyes the camera.

“A gallon jug of maple syrup?!” Rodney slowly steadies himself with the jug of syrup in one hand, and the camera fixed on him in the other.

“Do you want to know what’s really fucked up?”

Rodney leans into the camera.

“None of what just happened is even remotely strange when you work for Francis Ford Cuppola. A gallon jug of Canadian Maple Syrup may as well be a standard delivery. This is the whole reason I’m not even worried about the Mimes facing Ryan and Mason McCollum in the ring at Wicked 16. At least I’m not worried for the French Mime Assassins. They’re often harassed due to being Mimes, or French, but everyone forgets they’re also Assassins. Trained in-ring professionals who have gone through rigors, and seen horrors most of the PAW roster will never have to endure. These Lost sonsabitches are supposed to be resilient as all hell? It takes the hide of a rhino and the survival instinct of a cockroach not to be phased by the silly, often life-threatening shit you experience while working for Francis.”


Rodney’s head shakes once more and eyes the camera.

“And these mimes have been dealing with this man’s ‘unorthodox’ training routines continuously for the past three months. Who knows what he’s breaking upstairs right now? Or what’s the deal with the syrup delivery guy? I’m about to find out. My curiosity beckons me to do so. And you can be damn sure that whatever the answer is it’s going to be downright ridiculous, or terrifying, perhaps both.”

Rodney starts up the stairs with the camera still filming. He stops and looks with dismay back into the camera.

“I’ll tell you a story. An exemplar, if you will to help you prepare for whatever I’m about to find upstairs.”


Rodney doesn’t duck that time.

“So, before Francis and I had our first falling out, we were in Japan prepping the Mimes for their tag-team-tropolis match, I was out finding them some healthy food when I come home to our hotel room to see Francis on the outside balcony dumping buckets of ice down 3 floors onto the Mimes who were standing underneath him with their heads bowed like they were praying while they soaked in ice water. I ask Francis, ‘is that for the ALS Ice bucket challenge’? He says, ‘what the hell’s an ice bucket?’”

Rodney stares into the camera like he was hoping for his audience to make sense of what he’s just related in his stead. Rodney’s head shakes almost like a nervous twitch. A few blinks later he keeps walking up the stairs.


A few doors down the hallway from where he stands is the room he’s pinpointed as being the source of the loud noises. Rodney approaches, does some careful arranging of the gallon jug of syrup under his arm in order to keep filming with the cell phone, and opens the door.

Francis Ford Cuppola: HEY-HEEEEEY! There he is! And he’s brought the syrup!

The expression on Rodney’s face continues downward into a confused frown as he pans the camera into the room to see Francis Ford Cuppola seated on a stool dressed in an authentic stage pirate costume complete with an eyepatch.

One of Francis’ cuffed boots is propped up on a large, bolted-down catapult-like structure that has evidently been redesigned to act as a giant mace with a karate-chopping action. Several large, pulverized household objects litter the floor in front of the “catapult”. So this is what Francis has been doing.

Francis is holding his own gallon jug of maple syrup, which he swings to and fro full of jollity before tilting his head back and taking a giant chug.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Come in, come in, Rodney! Try the syrup! See my catapult, yarrrr.

Rodney remains locked in disbelief. On the other side of the catapult is Professor Scopes who doesn’t seem as jolly as Francis. Professor Scopes looks ironically to Rodney.

Professor Scopes: He’s been drinking syrup all day, Mister P.

“Rodney,” Rodney corrects, looking back to Francis who greedily gulps down more syrup. “Francis, you can’t be drinking syrup.”

Francis Ford Cuppola: And why not?

“Well, for starters, at your age, you’re going to give yourself an overdose drinking all that sugar.”

Francis Ford Cuppola: Pishawf. I’ve never felt more alive.

“And second, it’s a condiment.”

Francis stares blankly past Rodney, clearly not understanding what the word means.

Francis Ford Cuppola: …So?

“...it goes on things. It’s not a beverage.”

Francis Ford Cuppola: It’s my syrup and in Haus Casa Maison De La Chez Francis it can be anything it wants to be. How do you like my catapult, ya lilied land-lubber?! That scurvy sea dog, Sergio, has a BIG surprise coming when I hit him with this! Fire in the hole!

Seemingly reset, Francis once more unleashes the catapults arm and the arm swings in a spring-mounted hurry. The head of the arm, a metal spike-laden mace head crushes into the floor boards leaving sawdust, splinters and a gaping hole in it’s wake.


Rodney and professor Scopes recoil for protection in the face of the disaster currently happening in this upstairs room. Rodney leans forward to peek down through the hole into the living room.

“Francis, that’s not a catapult.”

Francis Ford Cuppola: There you go again, Rodney, always presenting limitations on my vision. Tell me, Sir Smarty Pants, what is it then?

“Looks more like a giant impossibly destructive mace. Were you planning on killing this man?”

Francis Ford Cuppola: Don’t be silly. I was just going to scare him a little.

Francis uses a pulley to reset the arm of the catapult. Rodney minds his distance.

“By braining him with the end of your giant ‘catapult’?”

Francis Ford Cuppola: …yes.

Rodney eyes the catapult, swinging the camera back around to provide a glimpse into his unsurprised, but terrified expression before glancing back at the giant contraption that has thoroughly demolished every object in the room save for the stools Francis and Professor Scopes sit on.

“Okay, so let me ask you how you were planning on transporting this violent mechanism, let alone actually using it out of doors legally?”

Francis, as though this is the first time he’d considered what Rodney is asking, looks downward with consideration a moment.

Francis Ford Cuppola: …Damn.

Professor Scopes looks relieved at Rodney as Francis is embittered once more leaning back and flipping his eye patch up revealing two healthy-ish eyes.

Francis Ford Cuppola: How the hell am I going to get back at Sergio now, huh? I don't have enough time to cross-breed that giant spider thing and I spent two weeks planning this catapult thing, and now you tell me I can’t do it.

“I guess you’re going to have to think of something else. Perhaps you could focus on ensuring the Mimes are prepared for their match?”

Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney… that’s your job! I didn’t single-handedly win that stupid match of yours so I could spend my time training mimes.

Rodney bites his tongue. Discretion is the better part of valor. Rodney shifts his stance.

“Okay, that answers three of my major questions, aside from why you’re currently dressed as a pirate.”

Francis Ford Cuppola: That’s a long, unnerving story partly to involving being incredibly high on syrup and mishearing something Sergio said, and it is a story which I have no intention of telling to the likes of you. So leave me alone, then. You’re depressing me.

Francis pouts dejectedly, folding his arms.

Francis Ford Cuppola: And leave the syrup when you go.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll do that right after you tell me who the big guy is that dropped off this syrup and is currently somewhere in this house?”

Francis Ford Cuppola: That’s Mister Mississagi.

Not even a blink or missed beat. Professor Scopes eyes Rodney with a kill me/save me expression.

“…okay.”

Francis Ford Cuppola: He’s here to train the mimes.

“What?! That’s the guy?“

Francis Ford Cuppola: Yeah. Rodney, you asked me to find you a karate master. So I did.

“He’s a karate master?”

Francis Ford Cuppola: No. He’s a professional wrestler from one of the Six Nations up in Canada. Helluva a fighter. Makes some good syrup.

“Francis, why can’t you just do what I ask?”

Francis Ford Cuppola: I did something SIMILAR to what you asked. But I’m the boss, applesauce.

“Did you just arrange all this so you could get maple syrup?”

There’s that blank look again as Francis evaluates an answer he never contemplated.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Rodney, why do you have to be so negative? You suggested we find combat masters from around the world to train the mimes, so I did. Is it my fault that the only way I could negotiate the deal just so happened to involve me getting a lifetime supply of Maple Syrup? I don’t know what kind of dealmaker you are, but I get value out of every negotiation I take part in. And, with your debacle last week, or whenever that was with the Living Legos, which, by the way, is just downright stupid.

“—Legends.”

Francis Ford Cuppola: What?

“Living Legends.”

Francis stares blankly at Rodney before getting angry again.

Francis Ford Cuppola: Yes, I know that, you fool. What I’m saying is, you have proven that you can’t be trusted to make sound decisions. So I have done that for you--

“--by hiring Mister…?”

Francis Ford Cuppola: Mississagi.

Francis takes another giant pull from his jug of syrup and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his puffy pirate shirt.

Francis Ford Cuppola: He’s probably outside right now training the mimes, which is where you should be instead of being inside my room ruining my day. And leave the damn jug of syrup.

Rodney eyed his employer with controlled exasperation.

“Okay. All right. Fine.”

Rodney glares at Francis as he turns, giving a sympathetic look to Professor Scopes who has obviously done most of the grunt work in designing the now useless catapult, then sets the gallon jug of syrup down next to the door and exits with a huff.

Francis Ford Cuppola: *from behind the door* FIRE IN THE HOLE!


Rodney cringes but keeps walking with the camera recording him.

Francis Ford Cuppola: *voice trailing off* Sergio’s gonna LOVE this!

Rodney shakes his head. The camera faintly picks up professor Scopes reiterating all of what Rodney just told him about the errors in his plan, with Francis reiterating the same level of frustration identically. Rodney moves down the stairs.

“You see? Ridiculous. Everyone spends so much time knocking everyone associated with Francis Ford Cuppola like all of us are as confused as he is. Like you, McCollum. You honestly think that level of stupidity represents what you’re setting foot in the ring against?”

Rodney looks closer into the camera as he makes it downstairs.

“Do you honestly think you’re all so dissimilar from two French Mime wrestlers shipped out of their familiar federations in France to compete under the banner of a moron? Do you honestly want to judge the tag team I’m responsible for based solely on the views and opinions of their idiotically immature employer? If you want to go there… be prepared to have your words turned around on you, cause I am not having it. I do the speaking, they do the rest.”

Rodney moves through the kitchen towards the back patio door. Rodney slides it open and steps outside, instantly shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun and to get a better view of what’s going on outside. Rodney pans his camera around to get a view of the French Mime Assassins, Comme Çi, and Comme Ça miming painting Francis extensive wooden fence surrounding his hundred acre backyard with nothing in their gloved hands.

Mister Missassagi chants rhythmically to them, seated cross-legged in the middle of the yard.

Mister Mississagi: Mime ON, Mime OFF.

The Mimes mime in unison with their teacher’s words.

Rodney frowns, struggling to process what he’s seeing. Slowly, Mister Mississagi turns and gives Rodney solid, stoic thumbs up. Rodney slowly turns the camera back on himself as he shrugs his acceptance of the state of the mime’s training.

“What can you say? Yeah, it’s damn strange. Dare I say it’s mildly fucked up. But let me tell you something else, Ryan McCollum. You want to talk about adapting to your surroundings? Every single obtusely strange thing the French Mime Assassins have been forced to do under Francis’ care they’ve taken to like fish to water. They don’t ask questions. They don’t complain. They don’t hightail it. Hell no. They meet every challenge head-on.

Sure, you can tell me they’re Mimes. They can’t talk. Every single opponent they’ve ever faced has pointed that out while they bark at Francis like he’s the one they’re fighting. Go ahead, Lost, judge the mimes on the superficial trivialities of men who only think they know what they’re up against. You want to come into THEIR house to spread some ‘message from true believers’, McCollum? Well, let’s hear it. Cause the Mimes have a message of their own, and it’s silent, and it’s deadly, and it doesn’t rely on you, or me, or Francis blathering on about things that don’t matter.

I already told you about what I’ve learned, and how I know talent when I see it. You have talent, McCollum brothers, no doubt about it. But so do the Mimes. And on Wicked 16, no matter what strange training regimens they go through from now till then, you can bet every word in whatever gospel your spreading these Mimes will not allow you to claim the Paw Tag Team Championships they’ve been going through a really absurd hell to earn. These championships are the whole reason they exist, and mark the words you’ll never hear them speak, the French Mime Assassins will not rest till they have them. And that’s all.”

Rodney mugs before shutting off the camera.