Post by Lady Munin on Feb 26, 2016 6:35:13 GMT
Live from the John A. Alario Sr. Event Center at the Bayou Segnette Sports Complex
2000 Segnette Blvd.
Westwego, LA 70094
January 7, 2016 at 10 p.m. CST
Pure Amusement Wrestling presents:
WICKED
The camera hangs on the announce table in what must be the driest, likely most boring minute of anyone’s life. Constance and Philo stare blankly, and expectantly at the camera waiting for it to cut, or something. Then Dallas Richter walks down to the ring unannounced.
Philo B. Pope: “I’m trying to get a smoke break here! What the fuck is this?”
Constance Church: “Not like the camera stopped you from honoring the memory of Bob Marley before. This looks like Luke Knux’ opponent. So good he needs no introduction, ring music… hell… May as well call him Johnny Everyman.”
He does a few warm ups and awaits his match. Suddenly, the lights dim down and the intro of Slash featuring Myles Kennedy and the Conspirators’ "World on Fire" hit the speakers. The fans are in an uproar as the intro plays out. Just then the intro ends and the lyrics pick up and Luke Knux storms out from the back, big old cocky grin spread across his face. He's wearing a black leather jacket along with his band jeans and Converse high tops. He points towards the ring and starts down, cigarette in mouth.
Philo B. Pope: “That’s my motherfucking dude, Luke fucking Knux. Not only did this motherfucker steal the Uncensored belt...and the boss’ motherfucking wife...that song was the motherfucking Uncensored theme. He looted it all!”
Constance Church: “HE’S HERE!!!! Oh my Goodness, Philo, you know him? Can you get me backstage at one of his shows???”
Philo B. Pope: “Knowing Knux like I do...I can maybe get you in line to get backstage. Motherfucker always has bitches lined up!”
Constance squeals fan-girlishly as Luke gets to the ring and tosses the smoke on the ground before stomping it and running and getting a smooth slide into the ring. Knux immediately asks for a microphone from Rhonda Armstrong who relinquishes it without fuss.
Luke Knux: "Tonight is supposed to be a night of celebration and victory. Everyone seemed ramped up and ready for the debuts of their favorite P.A.W. stars. And after all of this you all get to hear the first live performance of the Scumbag Society!! Now I know y'all are ready for that!"
The crowds cheers for the show after the show.
Constance Church: “YEAH!!!!!! Fuck these people. I call the front row!!”
Philo B. Pope: “I’ll be getting that line all lined up for the motherfucking after party. Biggety bang!”
Constance Church: “I wonder if Knuxy’s circumcised?”
That's when Knux hits them with a curveball.
Luke Knux: "I'm supposed to be the hottest commodity to come to P.A.W.! I'm supposed to be the main attraction for this company! Yet, here I stand across the ring from some guy that nobody ever wants to see step foot in a ring in the first place. So let me get one thing perfectly fuckin' clear right now in front of the world... Luke Knux WILL NOT be fighting tonight!"
The crowd boos towards Knux. He simply smudges it off.
Constance Church: “Oh, these people can kiss the ass of the person next to them. Luke Knux don’t gotta do shit!”
Philo B. Pope: “They need to shut the fuck up so I can hear my dude Knuxy speak on this.”
Luke Knux: "See, a superstar of my unlimited potential isn't gonna' waste his talent on a puke stain piece of dog shit like Dallas Richter. Plus, I want to be in tip-top condition for the REAL main event tonight, MY PERFORMANCE! I don't need to be sweating and smelling like this piece of shit!"
The crowd is now totally against the Suicidal Scumbag. He laughs as he turns to Dallas and offers his hand.
Constance Church: “Don’t Shake it, Luke!!! You might get shitsmell on your hand!!”
Luke Knux: "Another time another place kid. Instead of wasting our time here, you could be great as a personal assistant! But don't take it personal kid, it's just all in for the amusement."
Philo B. Pope: “Every motherfucker starts somewhere. And it’s the best deal this kid is getting tonight!”
Constance Church: “I know, right? Can’t you totally see me hanging out backstage in Luke Knux’ dressing room? Totally start there… then back in the tour bus… then to Hawaii… He’ll write a song about me. Constance is the Shit. I can see it all now.”
Knux extends his hand and smiles as Dallas stares at it and contemplates. The crowd shouts “No” as Dallas acknowledges them. He then slowly goes for the shake. Knux shakes his hand and lifts Dallas' hand up. Dallas turns to leave, but Knux drops to his knees and nails him right between the legs! Dallas falls to the ground as Knux laughs out loud.
Philo B. Pope: “BIGGETY BANG!”
He grabs the mic again, laughing menacingly.
Luke Knux:"Can't spell Scumbag without bag!"
Constance Church: “Who gives a shit. I just want Knuxy to autograph my tits and I’m his.”
Philo B. Pope: “You didn’t know about Knuxy? Motherfucker gonna tattoo that shit on for you.”
Constance Church can be heard about to gush like a schoolgirl at her prospects with Luke Knux when "World in Fire" plays as Knux exits the ring and heads to the back to prepare for his version of the real main event.
Main Event
Singles Match
Unreal versus STIFF
2000 Segnette Blvd.
Westwego, LA 70094
January 7, 2016 at 10 p.m. CST
Pure Amusement Wrestling presents:
WICKED
This was it, the big night of the show, and yet even moments from the show, there was still last minute paperwork.
Munin let out a sigh of relief, signing the last of the papers with a flourish. She would rather have finished her monotonous task in her own office, but things being the way they were...
A light tap on the door interrupted her thoughts.
Munin: “The door is open.”
Johnny Raike came through the door with a saunter, his gear bag in tow.
Munin's dark gaze sharpened as the Hellcat made his way towards her desk. A curious smile twisted the corners of her lightly glossed lips.
Munin: “Mr. Raike. What a surprise. Please take a seat. I would offer you more, but this office does not have the same amenities as my own. Oh well, we all make do when we have to.”
A small shrug of her shoulders and pleasant shoulders, accompanied this comment.
Munin: “We haven't exactly had the time to talk since you joined the company, I apologize for that. Most importantly because I have not had the chance to tell you how pleased I am that you decided to join us.”
Johnny lets show an almost embarrassed smirk.
Johnny Raike: “About that...”
The Hedonistic Hellcat fishes into his bag and pulls out the PAW contract, carelessly flicking the corners as he causally eyes Munin down.
Johnny Raike: "It's a very nice contract. Fair terms. Nothing too scary. But there is just the one, tiny, little sticking point."
Johnny pulls out his flask and takes a quick sip.
Johnny Raike: “I don't quite trust you.”
Munin arches an eyebrow, not in the least surprised or insulted.
Munin: “If you like I could pretend to be surprised, but in all honesty a person who trusts everyone is a fool. You have never struck me as a fool."
Relaxing into her chair, Munin crossed her legs, and tilted her head in an inquisitive manner.
Munin: “However, I doubt you would be telling me this without a reason. So please, enlighten me.”
Johnny Raike: "Never fake it. Unless you can fake it with sincerity. Which… well, that's really neither here nor there, and it's a legit question. And in one word, spelled stupidly, it's the Bombtrax. Further, it's how I first came to be working in the same company as them. You hired them to assault a pair of contracted talent after a title match. That you reffed. You reffed a lot of matches there for a while, actually. Interesting what else might have happened. Likely nothing, and yet...you see why I have questions."
Another quick sip for Johnny.
Johnny Raike: "But I wouldn't be here if I wasn't willing to work things out with you. We're adults. Professionals. We can do this the right way. And so, I present to you my counter offer."
Johnny once again reaches into his bag and pulls out a contract.
Johnny Raike: "Kindly ignore the purple paper. It was all I had to print it out on. First three sub-clauses are the real things to take a gander at the rest is boilerplate."
Munin takes the offered contract, and begins to read over it. Silence falls heavy in the room as she does so.
Munin: “This part right here is a very grey area.”
She clears her throat slightly, before reading out the questionable section of the contract.
Munin: “The Party of Lady Munin, hereafter known as Party A, agrees to never hire, employ, solicit, beg of, or otherwise engage outside individuals with the express intent of harming, delaying, or otherwise interfering with the career of Johnny Raike, hereafter known as Party B. Violations on this statute by the part of Party A will result in a fine of no more than $50,000 to be paid to Party B.”
She met Johnny's eyes with her own dark serious gaze.
Munin: “Ignoring the fact that you think I would arrange something like this, the wording here would make me liable for any possible harm you may incur outside of the ring. I think we both know that I won't agree to that, and I doubt that you will find anyone else that owns a federation willing to do so.”
Johnny Raike: "You'd be surprised. Rich and stupid sums up a lot of my bosses."
She pulled opened her laptop, and pulled up a typical contract.
Munin: “I will however make a concession in light of your concerns.”
Munin: “The rest of it I have no issue with.”
Johnny scowls. It's a fair counteroffer, sure, but he probably could have gotten so much more. Still, victory is victory.
Johnny Raike: "All right, I think I can work with that. And it's not that I think you'll repeat yourself. It's that I find it best to be prepared. I was a boy scout after all. Well, until the camping trip. So, now that the unpleasantness is behind us, surely for good and for always, who do you have for me tonight? Hope it's worth the effort of signing that contract."
Munin: "I think you'll find it so. I heard you mention a few times of late that you want the world to respect your wrestling talent. So, I found someone who not only was a pure-style champion, but who you used to work with."
A brief look of confusion crosses Johnny's face before his eyes go wide with comprehension.
Johnny Raike: "Him? He's alive? And free?! Alright, color me interested."
Munin pulls out an electronic signature pad, which is quickly scribbled on by Johnny Raike, and sends the contract off to the company's law office. Johnny gives a cheery-eyed nod to Munin as he scoops his bag back onto his shoulder and exits, shaking his head.
Johnny Raike: "She found the crazy one."
Munin let out a sigh of relief, signing the last of the papers with a flourish. She would rather have finished her monotonous task in her own office, but things being the way they were...
A light tap on the door interrupted her thoughts.
Munin: “The door is open.”
Johnny Raike came through the door with a saunter, his gear bag in tow.
Munin's dark gaze sharpened as the Hellcat made his way towards her desk. A curious smile twisted the corners of her lightly glossed lips.
Munin: “Mr. Raike. What a surprise. Please take a seat. I would offer you more, but this office does not have the same amenities as my own. Oh well, we all make do when we have to.”
A small shrug of her shoulders and pleasant shoulders, accompanied this comment.
Munin: “We haven't exactly had the time to talk since you joined the company, I apologize for that. Most importantly because I have not had the chance to tell you how pleased I am that you decided to join us.”
Johnny lets show an almost embarrassed smirk.
Johnny Raike: “About that...”
The Hedonistic Hellcat fishes into his bag and pulls out the PAW contract, carelessly flicking the corners as he causally eyes Munin down.
Johnny Raike: "It's a very nice contract. Fair terms. Nothing too scary. But there is just the one, tiny, little sticking point."
Johnny pulls out his flask and takes a quick sip.
Johnny Raike: “I don't quite trust you.”
Munin arches an eyebrow, not in the least surprised or insulted.
Munin: “If you like I could pretend to be surprised, but in all honesty a person who trusts everyone is a fool. You have never struck me as a fool."
Relaxing into her chair, Munin crossed her legs, and tilted her head in an inquisitive manner.
Munin: “However, I doubt you would be telling me this without a reason. So please, enlighten me.”
Johnny Raike: "Never fake it. Unless you can fake it with sincerity. Which… well, that's really neither here nor there, and it's a legit question. And in one word, spelled stupidly, it's the Bombtrax. Further, it's how I first came to be working in the same company as them. You hired them to assault a pair of contracted talent after a title match. That you reffed. You reffed a lot of matches there for a while, actually. Interesting what else might have happened. Likely nothing, and yet...you see why I have questions."
Another quick sip for Johnny.
Johnny Raike: "But I wouldn't be here if I wasn't willing to work things out with you. We're adults. Professionals. We can do this the right way. And so, I present to you my counter offer."
Johnny once again reaches into his bag and pulls out a contract.
Johnny Raike: "Kindly ignore the purple paper. It was all I had to print it out on. First three sub-clauses are the real things to take a gander at the rest is boilerplate."
Munin takes the offered contract, and begins to read over it. Silence falls heavy in the room as she does so.
Munin: “This part right here is a very grey area.”
She clears her throat slightly, before reading out the questionable section of the contract.
Munin: “The Party of Lady Munin, hereafter known as Party A, agrees to never hire, employ, solicit, beg of, or otherwise engage outside individuals with the express intent of harming, delaying, or otherwise interfering with the career of Johnny Raike, hereafter known as Party B. Violations on this statute by the part of Party A will result in a fine of no more than $50,000 to be paid to Party B.”
She met Johnny's eyes with her own dark serious gaze.
Munin: “Ignoring the fact that you think I would arrange something like this, the wording here would make me liable for any possible harm you may incur outside of the ring. I think we both know that I won't agree to that, and I doubt that you will find anyone else that owns a federation willing to do so.”
Johnny Raike: "You'd be surprised. Rich and stupid sums up a lot of my bosses."
She pulled opened her laptop, and pulled up a typical contract.
Munin: “I will however make a concession in light of your concerns.”
“The Party of Lady Munin, hereafter known as Party A, agrees to never hire, employ, solicit, beg of, or otherwise engage outside individuals with the express intent of ending the career of Johnny Raike, hereafter known as Party B. Violations on this statute by the part of Party A will result in a fine of no more than $100,000 to be paid to Party B.”
Munin: “The rest of it I have no issue with.”
Johnny scowls. It's a fair counteroffer, sure, but he probably could have gotten so much more. Still, victory is victory.
Johnny Raike: "All right, I think I can work with that. And it's not that I think you'll repeat yourself. It's that I find it best to be prepared. I was a boy scout after all. Well, until the camping trip. So, now that the unpleasantness is behind us, surely for good and for always, who do you have for me tonight? Hope it's worth the effort of signing that contract."
Munin: "I think you'll find it so. I heard you mention a few times of late that you want the world to respect your wrestling talent. So, I found someone who not only was a pure-style champion, but who you used to work with."
A brief look of confusion crosses Johnny's face before his eyes go wide with comprehension.
Johnny Raike: "Him? He's alive? And free?! Alright, color me interested."
Munin pulls out an electronic signature pad, which is quickly scribbled on by Johnny Raike, and sends the contract off to the company's law office. Johnny gives a cheery-eyed nod to Munin as he scoops his bag back onto his shoulder and exits, shaking his head.
Johnny Raike: "She found the crazy one."
Open on the packed John A. Alario Sr. Event Center, and we pan over an obviously over-selling crowd! We cover the entire span of the arena, finally centering on the spotlit ring, and then down in-close to the announce table where Constance Church and Philo B. Pope sit. Constance is wearing something tight, revealing, and artistically provocative while Philo B. Pope is wearing a Scumbag Society t-shirt and smoking a fat blunt, that the untrained eye might mistake for a cigar. The camera settles, and so do our announce team!
Philo B. Pope: “What’s up motherfuckers? You found us!”
Constance Church: “Welcome, welcome.”
Philo B. Pope: “And we live from the Alario Center just outside of New Orleans for our first motherfucking WICKED DVD taping!”
Constance Church: “And immensely enthused, if you couldn’t smell the weed practically leaking out of my ‘announce partner’s’ sweat glands.”
Philo B. Pope: “And she is not impressed by much either folks! But shit, holy fuck, I must be smoking because, I think I see Peter Pan and Rufio in the ring and ready for action.”
Constance Church: “You are smoking. And I am, however, sincerely impressed that statement came out coherent. Yes… Peter Pan, and Rufio. Oh. The fuck am I doing with my life, I need a new gig.”
Constance Church is about to start work on a resume when the lights go dim.
Constance Church: “Fuck sakes. Can't see shit with the lights half off. Guess that’ll have to wait.”
"Strangle Hold" by Ted Nugent begins to blare across the arena.
Red strobe lights flicker all around the building, and finally settle on the entry way. When the song settles into the breakdown, Press strides out from behind the curtain, stopping at the top of the ramp and gazes intently out at the crowd. When the first lines bellow out, Youth appears, flashing around in front of Press, and spins a few times reaching out at the crowd who cheer in adulation. He comes to a teetering stop facing the ring, a coy grin on his face, as he looks back at his massive partner who merely nods his approval. Youth takes off into a sprint for the ring, sliding in under the bottom rope, and popping up with his hands over his head. Press stalks up to the ring, rising up on the ring apron, and then stepping over the top rope with one fist pumped over his head.
Philo B. Pope: “What the fuck? That motherfucker is bigger than a Sasquatch!”
Constance Church: “That’s because that is a Yeti, the Sasquatch’s himalayan counterpart. Not known for it’s immense size, but here in Louisiana, they grow them much bigger in captivity.”
Youth takes a turnbuckle with a single bound, and plays up to the crowd, as Press turns and casually leans against the other corner, eying their opponents. Ring announcer, Rhonda Armstrong, steps to the center of the ring with her mic.
Rhonda Armstrong: “This match is a tag team match, scheduled for one fall, with a thirty minute time limit. In the left corner, weighting in at a combined weight of 418lbs, hailing from………Neverland?........the team of Pan and Rufio, the Lost Boyzzzzzzzz!”
The wrestler known as Pan, wearing a green leotard, hops onto the second turnbuckle of his corner, and pumps his fists in the air. His partner, Rufio, wearing black trunks with a red see-through shirt, bounces around, pointing threateningly across the ring at The BombTrax.
Rhonda Armstrong: “And their opponents, weighing in at a combined weight of 560lbs, hailing from Las Vegas, Nevada, Flaming Youth and Press, The BOMBTRAXXXXX!!!”
Rhonda Armstrong made her way for the ropes, but not before flashing the head of security, 4Loco, a smile that belied her tough exterior. Referee, Andreas Refmovrotiropoulos, ensured that both teams were ready, and then called for the bell.
Philo B. Pope: Alright, motherfuckers, we’re underway. Looks like Rufio and Youth are going to start this match off, as they circle each other looking for an opening. I don’t think there’s going to be a size advantage on this end, but that Press is one big mother fucker!
Constance Church: “Not as big as the fine we’re going to get if you don’t keep your stash hidden."
Philo B. Pope: “Frankie Mendoza said I ain’t got to. So fuck these motherfucking Louisiana pigs.”
Constance Church: “Up their stupid asses, no less!”
In the center of the ring, Rufio and Youth tie up. The two men jockey for position for a few seconds, until finally Rufio takes Youth by the wrist, and twists around into an arm wringer. Youth slaps at his shoulder, as Rufio spins underneath, never letting loose of his opponent’s wrist, and yanks down hard once again. Youth lets out a sharp cry, and then in one fluid motion, rolls forwards into a somersault, putting him down on the mat and taking the pressure off of his shoulder. He then kips up to his feet, and spins around Rufio, reversing the hold on his wrist, and arm wringing Rufio instead. Youth yanks his opponent’s arm a few times for effect, and then turns the arm twist into a standing switch, then into a hammerlock, and then up and over into a side headlock.
Philo B. Pope: “Nice bit of chain wrestling out of that motherfucker Youth there, as he now has total dominating control of Rufio.”
Constance Church: “Seems more like that little guy is aiming to use Rufio as apparatus for some sort of gymnastics routine to me.”
Youth rebounds off the ropes and ducks a clothesline attempt by Rufio, comes back again, and ducks a back elbow attempt. On the third rebound, however, Rufio changes tactics, and nails Youth with a perfect drop kick that takes the man off his feet. Neither man wastes any time getting back to their feet, and Rufio nails Youth with another drop kick. This time, Youth is a bit slower to get to his feet, as Rufio is already on him with stiff forearms to the back and shoulders. He stands him up, and throws him off the ropes, catching him with a tilt-a-whirl back breaker off the rebound.
Philo B. Pope: “Here’s our first cover."
Philo B. Pope: "NO! Way too motherfucking early for that shit!”
Constance Church: “I think fancy boy there is trying to send a message that The FANCY Lost Boyz won’t be overshadowed by these two shit men. I mean hit men.”
As if in response to Constance’s statement, Rufio yanks Youth up to his feet, and sends him crashing back down to the mat with a scoop slam. He steps over to one of the neutral corners, hops up to the second rope, and comes sailing off with a leg drop. He floats over quickly into another pin, which is promptly kicked out of as well. Dragging Youth to his corner by the hair, he reaches out and makes the tag to his partner, Pan.
Philo B. Pope: “Pan in the ring for the first time, and I gotta say, I’m about fucking shocked to see The Lost Boyz this dominant. I think everyone expected this to be an easy payday for The BombTrax.”
Constance Church: “Are you kidding? Who the hell are these ‘Bombtraxx’ anyways? Anyone, who’s anyone, bet on The Lost Boyz to take this. And look at them rewarding the faithful. They’ve done a good job of isolating Youth in their corner. I’m thinking we’re going to be seeing big things from Neverland from now on.”
Pan delivers a stiff boot to Youth’s skull before Rufio releases the man’s hair, and hops out onto his corner. Pan pulls youth up to his feet, and hooks him around the head, and then delivers a snap suplex. Youth grabs at his back, as Pan delivers a few stiff kicks that cause his opponent to flip over onto his stomach. He drops down, burying his knee into Youth’s back, and reaches down beneath Youth’s chin, and yanks back in a modified camel clutch.
Constance Church: “See?”
Philo B. Pope: “Pan is holding on tight to his happy thought!”.
Pan continues to yank back as REF continually asks Youth if he wants to give up. ‘No’ can be heard several time, as he begins to pull himself with his arms towards the ropes. Press can be heard from the corner yelling for his partner, and inch by inch Youth crawls closer and closer. Finally, he reaches out, fingers barely touching, but just enough to snatch the bottom rope. REF immediately tells Pan to release the hold, but he refuses, calling for the ref to start a five count. Just at the count of five, Pan releases the hold, and jeers at Press, throwing him a hand gesture. The Big Man doesn’t hesitate as he enters the ring, ready to bowl his opponent over, but REF is there to stop him. The two argue in The BombTrax corner, until finally Press throws up his hands, and exits the ring.
Philo B. Pope: “Jones having words with REF, and that gives those motherfuckers Pan and Rufio just enough time to make the switch without making a motherfucking tag.”
Constance Church: “Oh well, not like REF can see shit through those shoddy eyeholes in his mask.”
Rufio takes time from the distraction, to grab the top rope, and reign repeated stomps into Youth’s back and shoulders. The crowd begins to boo a bit, as REF finally leaves The BombTrax corner, and begins to admonish Rufio. At the count of five, Rufio steps back, hands in the air as REF threatens to disqualify him. Youth uses the ropes to gingerly pull himself up to his feet, and he looks over to Press, whose hand is extended to make a tag. Before he can even think about heading that way, Rufio is back on him with right hands to the face, using the ropes to keep his opponent upright.
Philo B. Pope: “Fuck, these motherfucking Lost Boyz are relentless! Rufio with Youth now, sends him to the far side, Wait! Youth held onto the fucking ropes! Here comes Rufio with a full head of steam, but Youth ducks, and back body drops him over the top rope, NO!”
Rufio was able to hold onto the top rope, and spun around to land on the apron! Youth turns around, and runs right into a shoulder thrust by Rufio through the middle and top ropes. With Youth doubled over clutching his stomach, Rufio takes hold of the top rope, and springboards up and over to grab hold of Youth by the hips, and roll him up into a sunset flip. Youth, however, much to the surprise of Rufio, continues his roll all the way back up to his feet, and then throws both feet out in front of him for a stiff falling drop kick that sends Rufio’s head snapping back to the mat with authority.
Constance Church: “Oh. So this is actually a wrestling match and not some sort of training bout, then?”
Philo B. Pope: “Both motherfuckers down after that exchange, and REF is starting a double count.
Philo B. Pope: "Youth starting to move!”
Constance Church: “He’s finished. REF call it. Both men are crawling for their waiting partners, and my money’s on Rufio to make it to his first.”
Rufio makes the tag, and Pan hops into the ring quickly to cut off Youth. The high flyer, however, pushes off with his foot, and bounds across the ring slapping Press hand. The big man steps over the top rope and into the ring as Pan rushes him with right hands. Press absorbs the punishment for a second or two, before firing back with rights of his own. Pan is rocked backwards towards the center of the ring, and with one shove Press sends him into the ropes. Pan rebounds, and Press catches him with a high knee lift that sends him sprawling to the mat.
Philo B. Pope: “There went his happy thought! It is GONE!”
Constance Church: “Would you be very happy if you had to fight a Sasquatch’s angry cousin?”
As Pan tries to get back to his feet, Press is already there, clubbing blows into the man’s spine. He reaches into the man’s brown locks, and gets a tight fistful of hair, pulling him over to a neutral corner and driving him face first into the turnbuckle. REF admonishes him, and Press agrees to watch the hair before rearing back and chopping Pan with such force the blow echoes throughout the arena. Pan groans, the fans ‘oooo’, as Press does it again. He takes Pan by the hand, and pulls hard, flinging him into the far turnbuckle with such authority that he damn near moves the ring. Pan stumbles out, gripping at his back, and runs face first into a running big boot that appears to take his head off.
Constance Church: “If I were to check my bio sheet here the event staff so kindly slipped onto my desk, I’d be able to tell you what YetiPress calls that move. But since I’m still doing my nails, I’ll just give it a name of my choosing. How about…. ‘The Sudden Stop!’. Sound good? Good.”
Philo B. Pope: “Mother...FUCK! Big man’s going for a cover!”
Philo B. Pope: “NO! Rufio flew in and dropped a bad ass elbow on the back of Press’ head to stop the count! Wait, here comes Youth! All four motherfuckers in the ring now!”
Youth takes Rufio and shoves him into a corner, right hand after right hand finding their mark. Press pulls Pan up off the canvas, and throws him into the opposite corner as well. After a certified mugging by The BombTrax in their respective corners, the two men nod to each other across the ring, and send their opponents sailing towards each other with irish whips. Pan and Rufio hook arms in the center of the ring, and spin around, stopping their momentum. They both rush out of the spin towards their opponents, who side step, allowing the men to crash back into the turnbuckles chest first.
Philo B. Pope: “You can’t roll a blunt without some practice and this is where The Bombtrax’s experience comes in motherfucking handy.”
As Rufio stumbles out, Youth takes him by the back of the head, and sends him flying over the top rope and crashing down to the concrete floor below. Press spins Pan around, boots him in the midsection, doubling him over, and then places his head between his legs. He looks out at the crowd that is coming unglued, before lifting him up into a powerbomb position onto his chest. Youth with a single leap bounds up to the top rope, and comes soaring off with a spin wheel kick. His heel connects with Pan’s face, adding momentum as Press thunders their opponent down to the mat.
Constance Church: “So… when did the Bombtraxx steal The Lost Boyz’ happy thoughts, huh? Theft? On our first taping?! I bet these assholes know where Toodles lost his marbles, too!”
When Youth lands, he rolls to the outside right in front of Rufio who’s trying to get back to his feet, and nails him with a superkick that lays him back out.
Philo B. Pope: “Rufio just got ROOFIED!!!”
Press hoists his boot up on Pan for the pin.
Constance Church: “So… I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t put any money down on these LOSER BOYZ, huh?”
Rhonda Armstrong: “Here are your winners, Press and Flaming Youth, THE BOMBTRAXXXX!!!!”
Philo B. Pope: “That was a pretty sweet showing out of those two motherfuckers.”
Constance Church: “Do you have to keep calling them that?”
Philo B. Pope: “Shut the fuck up motherfucker. Anyways, what the fuck is good backstage? I need a smoke break after watching the biggety BombTrax take out The Lost Boyz. I know something good must be brewing backstage, so check that out everybody. We’ll be right here at ringside so you fucking better stay tuned for more hot ass Pure motherfucking Amusing action to come!”
Philo B. Pope: “What’s up motherfuckers? You found us!”
Constance Church: “Welcome, welcome.”
Philo B. Pope: “And we live from the Alario Center just outside of New Orleans for our first motherfucking WICKED DVD taping!”
Constance Church: “And immensely enthused, if you couldn’t smell the weed practically leaking out of my ‘announce partner’s’ sweat glands.”
Philo B. Pope: “And she is not impressed by much either folks! But shit, holy fuck, I must be smoking because, I think I see Peter Pan and Rufio in the ring and ready for action.”
Constance Church: “You are smoking. And I am, however, sincerely impressed that statement came out coherent. Yes… Peter Pan, and Rufio. Oh. The fuck am I doing with my life, I need a new gig.”
Constance Church is about to start work on a resume when the lights go dim.
Constance Church: “Fuck sakes. Can't see shit with the lights half off. Guess that’ll have to wait.”
"Strangle Hold" by Ted Nugent begins to blare across the arena.
TAG TEAM MATCH
Bombtraxx versus The Lost Boyz
Bombtraxx versus The Lost Boyz
Red strobe lights flicker all around the building, and finally settle on the entry way. When the song settles into the breakdown, Press strides out from behind the curtain, stopping at the top of the ramp and gazes intently out at the crowd. When the first lines bellow out, Youth appears, flashing around in front of Press, and spins a few times reaching out at the crowd who cheer in adulation. He comes to a teetering stop facing the ring, a coy grin on his face, as he looks back at his massive partner who merely nods his approval. Youth takes off into a sprint for the ring, sliding in under the bottom rope, and popping up with his hands over his head. Press stalks up to the ring, rising up on the ring apron, and then stepping over the top rope with one fist pumped over his head.
Philo B. Pope: “What the fuck? That motherfucker is bigger than a Sasquatch!”
Constance Church: “That’s because that is a Yeti, the Sasquatch’s himalayan counterpart. Not known for it’s immense size, but here in Louisiana, they grow them much bigger in captivity.”
Youth takes a turnbuckle with a single bound, and plays up to the crowd, as Press turns and casually leans against the other corner, eying their opponents. Ring announcer, Rhonda Armstrong, steps to the center of the ring with her mic.
Rhonda Armstrong: “This match is a tag team match, scheduled for one fall, with a thirty minute time limit. In the left corner, weighting in at a combined weight of 418lbs, hailing from………Neverland?........the team of Pan and Rufio, the Lost Boyzzzzzzzz!”
The wrestler known as Pan, wearing a green leotard, hops onto the second turnbuckle of his corner, and pumps his fists in the air. His partner, Rufio, wearing black trunks with a red see-through shirt, bounces around, pointing threateningly across the ring at The BombTrax.
Rhonda Armstrong: “And their opponents, weighing in at a combined weight of 560lbs, hailing from Las Vegas, Nevada, Flaming Youth and Press, The BOMBTRAXXXXX!!!”
Rhonda Armstrong made her way for the ropes, but not before flashing the head of security, 4Loco, a smile that belied her tough exterior. Referee, Andreas Refmovrotiropoulos, ensured that both teams were ready, and then called for the bell.
Philo B. Pope: Alright, motherfuckers, we’re underway. Looks like Rufio and Youth are going to start this match off, as they circle each other looking for an opening. I don’t think there’s going to be a size advantage on this end, but that Press is one big mother fucker!
Constance Church: “Not as big as the fine we’re going to get if you don’t keep your stash hidden."
Philo B. Pope: “Frankie Mendoza said I ain’t got to. So fuck these motherfucking Louisiana pigs.”
Constance Church: “Up their stupid asses, no less!”
In the center of the ring, Rufio and Youth tie up. The two men jockey for position for a few seconds, until finally Rufio takes Youth by the wrist, and twists around into an arm wringer. Youth slaps at his shoulder, as Rufio spins underneath, never letting loose of his opponent’s wrist, and yanks down hard once again. Youth lets out a sharp cry, and then in one fluid motion, rolls forwards into a somersault, putting him down on the mat and taking the pressure off of his shoulder. He then kips up to his feet, and spins around Rufio, reversing the hold on his wrist, and arm wringing Rufio instead. Youth yanks his opponent’s arm a few times for effect, and then turns the arm twist into a standing switch, then into a hammerlock, and then up and over into a side headlock.
Philo B. Pope: “Nice bit of chain wrestling out of that motherfucker Youth there, as he now has total dominating control of Rufio.”
Constance Church: “Seems more like that little guy is aiming to use Rufio as apparatus for some sort of gymnastics routine to me.”
Youth rebounds off the ropes and ducks a clothesline attempt by Rufio, comes back again, and ducks a back elbow attempt. On the third rebound, however, Rufio changes tactics, and nails Youth with a perfect drop kick that takes the man off his feet. Neither man wastes any time getting back to their feet, and Rufio nails Youth with another drop kick. This time, Youth is a bit slower to get to his feet, as Rufio is already on him with stiff forearms to the back and shoulders. He stands him up, and throws him off the ropes, catching him with a tilt-a-whirl back breaker off the rebound.
Philo B. Pope: “Here’s our first cover."
1…
2...
2...
Philo B. Pope: "NO! Way too motherfucking early for that shit!”
Constance Church: “I think fancy boy there is trying to send a message that The FANCY Lost Boyz won’t be overshadowed by these two shit men. I mean hit men.”
As if in response to Constance’s statement, Rufio yanks Youth up to his feet, and sends him crashing back down to the mat with a scoop slam. He steps over to one of the neutral corners, hops up to the second rope, and comes sailing off with a leg drop. He floats over quickly into another pin, which is promptly kicked out of as well. Dragging Youth to his corner by the hair, he reaches out and makes the tag to his partner, Pan.
Philo B. Pope: “Pan in the ring for the first time, and I gotta say, I’m about fucking shocked to see The Lost Boyz this dominant. I think everyone expected this to be an easy payday for The BombTrax.”
Constance Church: “Are you kidding? Who the hell are these ‘Bombtraxx’ anyways? Anyone, who’s anyone, bet on The Lost Boyz to take this. And look at them rewarding the faithful. They’ve done a good job of isolating Youth in their corner. I’m thinking we’re going to be seeing big things from Neverland from now on.”
Pan delivers a stiff boot to Youth’s skull before Rufio releases the man’s hair, and hops out onto his corner. Pan pulls youth up to his feet, and hooks him around the head, and then delivers a snap suplex. Youth grabs at his back, as Pan delivers a few stiff kicks that cause his opponent to flip over onto his stomach. He drops down, burying his knee into Youth’s back, and reaches down beneath Youth’s chin, and yanks back in a modified camel clutch.
Constance Church: “See?”
Philo B. Pope: “Pan is holding on tight to his happy thought!”.
Pan continues to yank back as REF continually asks Youth if he wants to give up. ‘No’ can be heard several time, as he begins to pull himself with his arms towards the ropes. Press can be heard from the corner yelling for his partner, and inch by inch Youth crawls closer and closer. Finally, he reaches out, fingers barely touching, but just enough to snatch the bottom rope. REF immediately tells Pan to release the hold, but he refuses, calling for the ref to start a five count. Just at the count of five, Pan releases the hold, and jeers at Press, throwing him a hand gesture. The Big Man doesn’t hesitate as he enters the ring, ready to bowl his opponent over, but REF is there to stop him. The two argue in The BombTrax corner, until finally Press throws up his hands, and exits the ring.
Philo B. Pope: “Jones having words with REF, and that gives those motherfuckers Pan and Rufio just enough time to make the switch without making a motherfucking tag.”
Constance Church: “Oh well, not like REF can see shit through those shoddy eyeholes in his mask.”
Rufio takes time from the distraction, to grab the top rope, and reign repeated stomps into Youth’s back and shoulders. The crowd begins to boo a bit, as REF finally leaves The BombTrax corner, and begins to admonish Rufio. At the count of five, Rufio steps back, hands in the air as REF threatens to disqualify him. Youth uses the ropes to gingerly pull himself up to his feet, and he looks over to Press, whose hand is extended to make a tag. Before he can even think about heading that way, Rufio is back on him with right hands to the face, using the ropes to keep his opponent upright.
Philo B. Pope: “Fuck, these motherfucking Lost Boyz are relentless! Rufio with Youth now, sends him to the far side, Wait! Youth held onto the fucking ropes! Here comes Rufio with a full head of steam, but Youth ducks, and back body drops him over the top rope, NO!”
Rufio was able to hold onto the top rope, and spun around to land on the apron! Youth turns around, and runs right into a shoulder thrust by Rufio through the middle and top ropes. With Youth doubled over clutching his stomach, Rufio takes hold of the top rope, and springboards up and over to grab hold of Youth by the hips, and roll him up into a sunset flip. Youth, however, much to the surprise of Rufio, continues his roll all the way back up to his feet, and then throws both feet out in front of him for a stiff falling drop kick that sends Rufio’s head snapping back to the mat with authority.
Constance Church: “Oh. So this is actually a wrestling match and not some sort of training bout, then?”
Philo B. Pope: “Both motherfuckers down after that exchange, and REF is starting a double count.
1….
2…..
3……
4…..
2…..
3……
4…..
Philo B. Pope: "Youth starting to move!”
Constance Church: “He’s finished. REF call it. Both men are crawling for their waiting partners, and my money’s on Rufio to make it to his first.”
Rufio makes the tag, and Pan hops into the ring quickly to cut off Youth. The high flyer, however, pushes off with his foot, and bounds across the ring slapping Press hand. The big man steps over the top rope and into the ring as Pan rushes him with right hands. Press absorbs the punishment for a second or two, before firing back with rights of his own. Pan is rocked backwards towards the center of the ring, and with one shove Press sends him into the ropes. Pan rebounds, and Press catches him with a high knee lift that sends him sprawling to the mat.
Philo B. Pope: “There went his happy thought! It is GONE!”
Constance Church: “Would you be very happy if you had to fight a Sasquatch’s angry cousin?”
As Pan tries to get back to his feet, Press is already there, clubbing blows into the man’s spine. He reaches into the man’s brown locks, and gets a tight fistful of hair, pulling him over to a neutral corner and driving him face first into the turnbuckle. REF admonishes him, and Press agrees to watch the hair before rearing back and chopping Pan with such force the blow echoes throughout the arena. Pan groans, the fans ‘oooo’, as Press does it again. He takes Pan by the hand, and pulls hard, flinging him into the far turnbuckle with such authority that he damn near moves the ring. Pan stumbles out, gripping at his back, and runs face first into a running big boot that appears to take his head off.
Constance Church: “If I were to check my bio sheet here the event staff so kindly slipped onto my desk, I’d be able to tell you what YetiPress calls that move. But since I’m still doing my nails, I’ll just give it a name of my choosing. How about…. ‘The Sudden Stop!’. Sound good? Good.”
Philo B. Pope: “Mother...FUCK! Big man’s going for a cover!”
1…
2….
2….
Philo B. Pope: “NO! Rufio flew in and dropped a bad ass elbow on the back of Press’ head to stop the count! Wait, here comes Youth! All four motherfuckers in the ring now!”
Youth takes Rufio and shoves him into a corner, right hand after right hand finding their mark. Press pulls Pan up off the canvas, and throws him into the opposite corner as well. After a certified mugging by The BombTrax in their respective corners, the two men nod to each other across the ring, and send their opponents sailing towards each other with irish whips. Pan and Rufio hook arms in the center of the ring, and spin around, stopping their momentum. They both rush out of the spin towards their opponents, who side step, allowing the men to crash back into the turnbuckles chest first.
Philo B. Pope: “You can’t roll a blunt without some practice and this is where The Bombtrax’s experience comes in motherfucking handy.”
As Rufio stumbles out, Youth takes him by the back of the head, and sends him flying over the top rope and crashing down to the concrete floor below. Press spins Pan around, boots him in the midsection, doubling him over, and then places his head between his legs. He looks out at the crowd that is coming unglued, before lifting him up into a powerbomb position onto his chest. Youth with a single leap bounds up to the top rope, and comes soaring off with a spin wheel kick. His heel connects with Pan’s face, adding momentum as Press thunders their opponent down to the mat.
Constance Church: “So… when did the Bombtraxx steal The Lost Boyz’ happy thoughts, huh? Theft? On our first taping?! I bet these assholes know where Toodles lost his marbles, too!”
When Youth lands, he rolls to the outside right in front of Rufio who’s trying to get back to his feet, and nails him with a superkick that lays him back out.
Philo B. Pope: “Rufio just got ROOFIED!!!”
Press hoists his boot up on Pan for the pin.
Constance Church: “So… I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t put any money down on these LOSER BOYZ, huh?”
1….
2…..
3!
2…..
3!
Rhonda Armstrong: “Here are your winners, Press and Flaming Youth, THE BOMBTRAXXXX!!!!”
Philo B. Pope: “That was a pretty sweet showing out of those two motherfuckers.”
Constance Church: “Do you have to keep calling them that?”
Philo B. Pope: “Shut the fuck up motherfucker. Anyways, what the fuck is good backstage? I need a smoke break after watching the biggety BombTrax take out The Lost Boyz. I know something good must be brewing backstage, so check that out everybody. We’ll be right here at ringside so you fucking better stay tuned for more hot ass Pure motherfucking Amusing action to come!”
Singles Match
Luke Knux versus Dallas Richter
Luke Knux versus Dallas Richter
The camera hangs on the announce table in what must be the driest, likely most boring minute of anyone’s life. Constance and Philo stare blankly, and expectantly at the camera waiting for it to cut, or something. Then Dallas Richter walks down to the ring unannounced.
Philo B. Pope: “I’m trying to get a smoke break here! What the fuck is this?”
Constance Church: “Not like the camera stopped you from honoring the memory of Bob Marley before. This looks like Luke Knux’ opponent. So good he needs no introduction, ring music… hell… May as well call him Johnny Everyman.”
He does a few warm ups and awaits his match. Suddenly, the lights dim down and the intro of Slash featuring Myles Kennedy and the Conspirators’ "World on Fire" hit the speakers. The fans are in an uproar as the intro plays out. Just then the intro ends and the lyrics pick up and Luke Knux storms out from the back, big old cocky grin spread across his face. He's wearing a black leather jacket along with his band jeans and Converse high tops. He points towards the ring and starts down, cigarette in mouth.
Philo B. Pope: “That’s my motherfucking dude, Luke fucking Knux. Not only did this motherfucker steal the Uncensored belt...and the boss’ motherfucking wife...that song was the motherfucking Uncensored theme. He looted it all!”
Constance Church: “HE’S HERE!!!! Oh my Goodness, Philo, you know him? Can you get me backstage at one of his shows???”
Philo B. Pope: “Knowing Knux like I do...I can maybe get you in line to get backstage. Motherfucker always has bitches lined up!”
Constance squeals fan-girlishly as Luke gets to the ring and tosses the smoke on the ground before stomping it and running and getting a smooth slide into the ring. Knux immediately asks for a microphone from Rhonda Armstrong who relinquishes it without fuss.
Luke Knux: "Tonight is supposed to be a night of celebration and victory. Everyone seemed ramped up and ready for the debuts of their favorite P.A.W. stars. And after all of this you all get to hear the first live performance of the Scumbag Society!! Now I know y'all are ready for that!"
The crowds cheers for the show after the show.
Constance Church: “YEAH!!!!!! Fuck these people. I call the front row!!”
Philo B. Pope: “I’ll be getting that line all lined up for the motherfucking after party. Biggety bang!”
Constance Church: “I wonder if Knuxy’s circumcised?”
That's when Knux hits them with a curveball.
Luke Knux: "I'm supposed to be the hottest commodity to come to P.A.W.! I'm supposed to be the main attraction for this company! Yet, here I stand across the ring from some guy that nobody ever wants to see step foot in a ring in the first place. So let me get one thing perfectly fuckin' clear right now in front of the world... Luke Knux WILL NOT be fighting tonight!"
The crowd boos towards Knux. He simply smudges it off.
Constance Church: “Oh, these people can kiss the ass of the person next to them. Luke Knux don’t gotta do shit!”
Philo B. Pope: “They need to shut the fuck up so I can hear my dude Knuxy speak on this.”
Luke Knux: "See, a superstar of my unlimited potential isn't gonna' waste his talent on a puke stain piece of dog shit like Dallas Richter. Plus, I want to be in tip-top condition for the REAL main event tonight, MY PERFORMANCE! I don't need to be sweating and smelling like this piece of shit!"
The crowd is now totally against the Suicidal Scumbag. He laughs as he turns to Dallas and offers his hand.
Constance Church: “Don’t Shake it, Luke!!! You might get shitsmell on your hand!!”
Luke Knux: "Another time another place kid. Instead of wasting our time here, you could be great as a personal assistant! But don't take it personal kid, it's just all in for the amusement."
Philo B. Pope: “Every motherfucker starts somewhere. And it’s the best deal this kid is getting tonight!”
Constance Church: “I know, right? Can’t you totally see me hanging out backstage in Luke Knux’ dressing room? Totally start there… then back in the tour bus… then to Hawaii… He’ll write a song about me. Constance is the Shit. I can see it all now.”
Knux extends his hand and smiles as Dallas stares at it and contemplates. The crowd shouts “No” as Dallas acknowledges them. He then slowly goes for the shake. Knux shakes his hand and lifts Dallas' hand up. Dallas turns to leave, but Knux drops to his knees and nails him right between the legs! Dallas falls to the ground as Knux laughs out loud.
Philo B. Pope: “BIGGETY BANG!”
He grabs the mic again, laughing menacingly.
Luke Knux:"Can't spell Scumbag without bag!"
Constance Church: “Who gives a shit. I just want Knuxy to autograph my tits and I’m his.”
Philo B. Pope: “You didn’t know about Knuxy? Motherfucker gonna tattoo that shit on for you.”
Constance Church can be heard about to gush like a schoolgirl at her prospects with Luke Knux when "World in Fire" plays as Knux exits the ring and heads to the back to prepare for his version of the real main event.
Constance Church: “Good thing Luke was there to save us from that match. How about I’m just not going to bother looking at the playbill for tonight. Philo, what are we watching next?”
Philo B. Pope: “Yeah, I don’t think it’s updated anyway. What the fuck are we watching next?”
Constance Church: “This isn’t in my rider. I don’t call matches I haven’t forgotten to read about in advance and get plopped in my lap without doing the appropriate research necessary for me to do my shitty job.”
Philo B. Pope: “We were supposed to be prepared for this? Oh.”
He cracks up pretty loudly.
Philo B. Pope: “My fucking bad..”
Constance Church: “Right. Well. Back to the resume!”
The lights go dark as “Shut Me Up” by Mindless Self Indulgence blares from the speakers.
Constance Church: “Forget the damn resume then. Thank you, P.A.W. lighting crew. What on earth is this then? I’m so not in the mood for surprises.”
“Wild” Chris Cameron comes stalking out of the back, lit step by step by an accompanying strobe. He is wearing only black fatigues and what appear to be combat boots, he’s shirtless for showing scars of many battles.
Rhonda Armstrong: “Introducing first, from Ithaca, New York, Weighing in tonight at two-hundred and seventeen pounds, “WWWIIIILLLLD!” Chris! Cameron!”
Chris slides under the ropes and makes his way to the far corner, dropping down to a knee to watch the entrance, ignoring the crowd, who are mostly unsure of what to make of him so far.
Philo B. Pope: “I think this is the motherfucker that got mentioned at Raike’s contract signing.”
Constance Church: “Duh. That’s ‘Wild’ Chris Cameron, you stupid dumbass stoner! Only the baddest combat vet this side of anywhere!”
The music cuts off to be replaced by the softer cords of “Pure Morning” ushering in the arrival of Johnny Raike. The Beautiful Nightmare is carrying his HoliCraze Hell Tournament trophy, and wearing his custom semi-reflexive vinyl coat, inviting the world to “See Yourself in Greatness.”
Rhonda Armstrong: “And the challenger, hailing from Astoria, Queens, New York, he weighed in tonight at-”
Johnny grabs the mic and shoots the ring announcer a death glare before letting go. Raike gestures to continue, and spends a moment fixing his hair while introductions continue.
Rhonda Armstrong: “He is the now two time HoliCraze Hell Tournament Champion, The American Wet Dream, JOHHHHHNNNNNNYYYYYY! RAIKE!!!”
A mixed chorus of mostly boos washes over the Thigh High Thriller, Johnny himself reaction as though he can only hear the cheers. One such fan is an attractive young man who Johnny makes a bit of a bee line for, wolfish smile in full force, only to cut off by an older female jumping to her feet and yelling “Sixteen.” Johnny throws his hands up and immediately bails into the ring. Johnny and Chris lock gazes, with Johnny letting out a small laugh of recognition, Chris looking ready to dismantle the slightly smaller man.
Philo B. Pope: “Alright. Let’s see what these two motherfuckers are really all about.”
Constance Church: “I’ll tell you what they’re all about. The skinny guy is getting punched the fuck out by Chris Cameron tonight. That’s about it.”
REF calls for the bell and “Wild” Chris Cameron wastes no time locking horns immediately with Johnny and transitioning it to the side head lock. Johnny shifts backwards and hits the ropes, using the momentum to push Cameron, but the stronger man hangs on and turns the push into a slide, bringing Johnny down hard with a bull dog. Cameron keeps control with a front facelock, and begins throwing knees into Johnny's skull. Johnny reaches up and rakes the eyes of Chris Cameron, forcing the opening he needs to return to his feet. REF admonishes the Hedonistic HellCat, who mostly just nods and says 'gotcha' while keeping his focus on his opponent.
Constance Church: “These two are like caged animals. Without a cage. And no fur…. I need a new agent, I could be working a safari or something right now.”
Philo B. Pope: “Are they family? They’re fighting like brothers or some shit in there!”
Constance Church: “Or like completely not wild animals. Again… where the fuck is my agent. I’m too good for this match.”
Johnny moves to the center, where he and Cameron circle one another. The Wild One goes for another collar and elbow, but Johnny pivots under, grabs the shoulders and rides Cameron down with a jarring back stabber. Johnny rolls back to his feet as Cameron lurches in pain, the Thigh-High Thriller hitting the ropes, ducking a clothesline, rebounding, and delivering a vicious Yakuza kick right to the chin of “Wild” Chris Cameron, sending him tumbling out of the ring to the floor. Johnny gets a cheer as he plays to the crowd, waiting for Cameron to rise before launching out with a tope suicida, only to be stopped dead by the powerful uppercut of a rising Wild Child!
Philo B. Pope: “DAMN!!! Cameron just knocked Raike into next Tuesday! He going to wake up thinking this is the third or fourth DVD taping!”
Constance Church: “Don’t flatter yourself. By the third or fourth taping expect a new color commentator. I’m getting a gig that pays me better to witness ugly animals fight.”
Both men are down on the outside, REF wisely waits for the crowd reaction to die down before trying to administer the count. He hardly gets 4 before Cameron returns to the ring, with Johnny back in just before 6. Chris seems poised to stomp the head of Johnny in, but stops himself, instead letting Raike get back to his feet.
Philo B. Pope: “What the fuck is he doing?”
Constance Church: “Potentially throwing the match in favor of homoerotic love.”
Chris now drops into referee’s position, which gets a skeptical look from Johnny, who asks the crowd if he should do it. Most cheer yes, and Johnny saunters over to take his position behind Chris, using the opportunity to give the Wild Child a quick smack on the ass. This draws a baring of teeth and a hard snarl from Cameron, to which Johnny just giggles, but puts his hands up to show he's backing off. As Chris turns around again to assume referee’s position, Johnny hits the rope, runs off Cameron's own back, and delivers a precise knee drop to the back of the head, pitching Cameron's head hard to the mat.
Philo B. Pope: “Raike with a lateral press!”
Constance Church: “Okaaaaaaaay. So… ah, forget it. Let REF just end this match already. I’m calling my agent.”
Philo B. Pope: “Cameron with a kickout! It’s not over yet motherfuckers!”
Constance Church: “But it’d be a hell of a lot better if it were!.”
Johnny shoots REF a look of a man who is just getting so tired of slow counts, and shakes his head. He gets back to his feet and stares at REF, holding up three fingers, and shrugging. Finally he waves it off and turns back to the match, only to be once more rocked from an uppercut by Cameron, pulled into a tight embrace, and belly to belly suplexed with all of Chris Cameron's authority. Cameron rises to his knees and bellows out his dominance before hooking the leg.
Philo B. Pope: “The Sissyboy Savior kicks out!!!”
Constance Church: “Sissyboy Savior…? And ‘Wild’ Chris Cameron? In Pure Amusement Wrestling…? Next you’ll tell me we got some guy working here named ‘Wolf’ or some shit.”
Johnny’s shoulder shoots straight up, his will to fight still coursing through his veins. Johnny hits a bridge to roll Cameron fully off of himself, then rises to his knees and fires in an angry knife edge chop to the rising Chris Cameron. Cameron roars, and fires one right back. Johnny answers back with a scream and chop of his own, and the wrestlers fight to their feet, crowd joining in with “Wooo's” and screams of their own. When both men are at a vertical base, they hit the ropes, Johnny swinging first with a big superkick, but Cameron reads it, steps behind and locks in a nasty standing sleeper hold. Johnny struggles, trying in vain to scratch and claw Cameron's arms from this throat. Johnny sinks to a knee, feeling the blood flow to his head begin to throb, feeling everything start to get a little dim and fuzzy, but he fights back, delivering elbow blows to the kidney, the pain causing the Wild One's grip to loosen, and Johnny pushes them both back to standing.
Philo B. Pope: “And we are at the intersection of pins and needles...motherfuckers.”
Constance Church: “AKA… this is boring, and my ass is numb from sitting this shit.”
Johnny pulls Cameron's arm from around his throat and ducks under it, firing in a quick pair of stinging kicks to the chest of Chris Cameron, before launching him into the ropes. Johnny turns his back to his opponent and throws his heads out above his head in a very look at me gesture. Keeping his arms up he times his jump perfectly, landing in a wheelbarrow on “Wild” Chris Cameron, then flipping between the Wild man's legs to deliver a body scissors face buster. The Beautiful Nightmare keeps the body scissor and rolls Cameron into a pinning predicament, counting along on his hands as he sits up, not covering.
Philo B. Pope: “Raike with The Pleasure Seeker and a sloppy pin..”
Constance Church: “Yeah… BIG surprise!”
Constance Church: “Oh. Thank Goodness. It’s over. I was about ready to tear my eyes out.”
Johnny is quick to his feet to celebrate, immediately telling the referee to raise his hand, even before the official announcement, rubbing his neck with his left hand.
Philo B. Pope: “I can’t decide if Raike or my motherfucking partner here is the biggest bitch in P.A.W. Time will tell motherfuckers!”
Constance Church: “No. I’d fight Johnny there for that particular title but… I just did my nails, so. How about we declare a winner. LET’S GO ALREADY YOU DUMB BITCH, RHONDA!”
Rhonda gives a momentary glare at the announce table, obviously having heard Constance’s snippy little comment. The look is enough to shut Constance up and look back at her nails like it ain’t no thang.
Rhonda Armstrong: “Ladies and Gentlemen, the time of the fall is seven minutes, sixteen seconds. Your winner, The American Wet Dream, JOHHHHNNNYY! RAIKE!”
Philo B. Pope: “Tell you what Constance..”
Constance looks up from her nails.
Constance Church: “Huh? What?”
Philo B. Pope: “This has been an amazing night of motherfucking wrestling so far. I saw a Sasquatch.
Constance Church: “Yeti.”
Philo B. Pope: “I saw Peter motherfucking Pan and I saw you mark out for my dude Luke fucking Knux.
Constance Church perks up and primps and fixes her hair..
Constance Church: “Is he here???”
Philo B. Pope: “And now, I’ve seen the biggest sissy I’ve ever seen in my life. No wonder Sam got all weirded out by him at the fucking carnival that fucking time.”
Constance Church: “The only thing that could possibly make your night complete is to see a walking sack of shit in a tailored suit then, wouldn’t you say?”
Philo B. Pope: “My motherfucking point was, I’d like to see a smoke break sometime tonight! Is ANYBODY doing ANYTHING backstage?”
Philo B. Pope: “Yeah, I don’t think it’s updated anyway. What the fuck are we watching next?”
Constance Church: “This isn’t in my rider. I don’t call matches I haven’t forgotten to read about in advance and get plopped in my lap without doing the appropriate research necessary for me to do my shitty job.”
Philo B. Pope: “We were supposed to be prepared for this? Oh.”
He cracks up pretty loudly.
Philo B. Pope: “My fucking bad..”
Constance Church: “Right. Well. Back to the resume!”
Singles Match
Johnny Raike versus “Wild” Chris Cameron
Johnny Raike versus “Wild” Chris Cameron
The lights go dark as “Shut Me Up” by Mindless Self Indulgence blares from the speakers.
Constance Church: “Forget the damn resume then. Thank you, P.A.W. lighting crew. What on earth is this then? I’m so not in the mood for surprises.”
“Wild” Chris Cameron comes stalking out of the back, lit step by step by an accompanying strobe. He is wearing only black fatigues and what appear to be combat boots, he’s shirtless for showing scars of many battles.
Rhonda Armstrong: “Introducing first, from Ithaca, New York, Weighing in tonight at two-hundred and seventeen pounds, “WWWIIIILLLLD!” Chris! Cameron!”
Chris slides under the ropes and makes his way to the far corner, dropping down to a knee to watch the entrance, ignoring the crowd, who are mostly unsure of what to make of him so far.
Philo B. Pope: “I think this is the motherfucker that got mentioned at Raike’s contract signing.”
Constance Church: “Duh. That’s ‘Wild’ Chris Cameron, you stupid dumbass stoner! Only the baddest combat vet this side of anywhere!”
The music cuts off to be replaced by the softer cords of “Pure Morning” ushering in the arrival of Johnny Raike. The Beautiful Nightmare is carrying his HoliCraze Hell Tournament trophy, and wearing his custom semi-reflexive vinyl coat, inviting the world to “See Yourself in Greatness.”
Rhonda Armstrong: “And the challenger, hailing from Astoria, Queens, New York, he weighed in tonight at-”
Johnny grabs the mic and shoots the ring announcer a death glare before letting go. Raike gestures to continue, and spends a moment fixing his hair while introductions continue.
Rhonda Armstrong: “He is the now two time HoliCraze Hell Tournament Champion, The American Wet Dream, JOHHHHHNNNNNNYYYYYY! RAIKE!!!”
A mixed chorus of mostly boos washes over the Thigh High Thriller, Johnny himself reaction as though he can only hear the cheers. One such fan is an attractive young man who Johnny makes a bit of a bee line for, wolfish smile in full force, only to cut off by an older female jumping to her feet and yelling “Sixteen.” Johnny throws his hands up and immediately bails into the ring. Johnny and Chris lock gazes, with Johnny letting out a small laugh of recognition, Chris looking ready to dismantle the slightly smaller man.
Philo B. Pope: “Alright. Let’s see what these two motherfuckers are really all about.”
Constance Church: “I’ll tell you what they’re all about. The skinny guy is getting punched the fuck out by Chris Cameron tonight. That’s about it.”
REF calls for the bell and “Wild” Chris Cameron wastes no time locking horns immediately with Johnny and transitioning it to the side head lock. Johnny shifts backwards and hits the ropes, using the momentum to push Cameron, but the stronger man hangs on and turns the push into a slide, bringing Johnny down hard with a bull dog. Cameron keeps control with a front facelock, and begins throwing knees into Johnny's skull. Johnny reaches up and rakes the eyes of Chris Cameron, forcing the opening he needs to return to his feet. REF admonishes the Hedonistic HellCat, who mostly just nods and says 'gotcha' while keeping his focus on his opponent.
Constance Church: “These two are like caged animals. Without a cage. And no fur…. I need a new agent, I could be working a safari or something right now.”
Philo B. Pope: “Are they family? They’re fighting like brothers or some shit in there!”
Constance Church: “Or like completely not wild animals. Again… where the fuck is my agent. I’m too good for this match.”
Johnny moves to the center, where he and Cameron circle one another. The Wild One goes for another collar and elbow, but Johnny pivots under, grabs the shoulders and rides Cameron down with a jarring back stabber. Johnny rolls back to his feet as Cameron lurches in pain, the Thigh-High Thriller hitting the ropes, ducking a clothesline, rebounding, and delivering a vicious Yakuza kick right to the chin of “Wild” Chris Cameron, sending him tumbling out of the ring to the floor. Johnny gets a cheer as he plays to the crowd, waiting for Cameron to rise before launching out with a tope suicida, only to be stopped dead by the powerful uppercut of a rising Wild Child!
Philo B. Pope: “DAMN!!! Cameron just knocked Raike into next Tuesday! He going to wake up thinking this is the third or fourth DVD taping!”
Constance Church: “Don’t flatter yourself. By the third or fourth taping expect a new color commentator. I’m getting a gig that pays me better to witness ugly animals fight.”
Both men are down on the outside, REF wisely waits for the crowd reaction to die down before trying to administer the count. He hardly gets 4 before Cameron returns to the ring, with Johnny back in just before 6. Chris seems poised to stomp the head of Johnny in, but stops himself, instead letting Raike get back to his feet.
Philo B. Pope: “What the fuck is he doing?”
Constance Church: “Potentially throwing the match in favor of homoerotic love.”
Chris now drops into referee’s position, which gets a skeptical look from Johnny, who asks the crowd if he should do it. Most cheer yes, and Johnny saunters over to take his position behind Chris, using the opportunity to give the Wild Child a quick smack on the ass. This draws a baring of teeth and a hard snarl from Cameron, to which Johnny just giggles, but puts his hands up to show he's backing off. As Chris turns around again to assume referee’s position, Johnny hits the rope, runs off Cameron's own back, and delivers a precise knee drop to the back of the head, pitching Cameron's head hard to the mat.
Philo B. Pope: “Raike with a lateral press!”
Constance Church: “Okaaaaaaaay. So… ah, forget it. Let REF just end this match already. I’m calling my agent.”
1...
2….
2….
Philo B. Pope: “Cameron with a kickout! It’s not over yet motherfuckers!”
Constance Church: “But it’d be a hell of a lot better if it were!.”
Johnny shoots REF a look of a man who is just getting so tired of slow counts, and shakes his head. He gets back to his feet and stares at REF, holding up three fingers, and shrugging. Finally he waves it off and turns back to the match, only to be once more rocked from an uppercut by Cameron, pulled into a tight embrace, and belly to belly suplexed with all of Chris Cameron's authority. Cameron rises to his knees and bellows out his dominance before hooking the leg.
1...
2….
2….
Philo B. Pope: “The Sissyboy Savior kicks out!!!”
Constance Church: “Sissyboy Savior…? And ‘Wild’ Chris Cameron? In Pure Amusement Wrestling…? Next you’ll tell me we got some guy working here named ‘Wolf’ or some shit.”
Johnny’s shoulder shoots straight up, his will to fight still coursing through his veins. Johnny hits a bridge to roll Cameron fully off of himself, then rises to his knees and fires in an angry knife edge chop to the rising Chris Cameron. Cameron roars, and fires one right back. Johnny answers back with a scream and chop of his own, and the wrestlers fight to their feet, crowd joining in with “Wooo's” and screams of their own. When both men are at a vertical base, they hit the ropes, Johnny swinging first with a big superkick, but Cameron reads it, steps behind and locks in a nasty standing sleeper hold. Johnny struggles, trying in vain to scratch and claw Cameron's arms from this throat. Johnny sinks to a knee, feeling the blood flow to his head begin to throb, feeling everything start to get a little dim and fuzzy, but he fights back, delivering elbow blows to the kidney, the pain causing the Wild One's grip to loosen, and Johnny pushes them both back to standing.
Philo B. Pope: “And we are at the intersection of pins and needles...motherfuckers.”
Constance Church: “AKA… this is boring, and my ass is numb from sitting this shit.”
Johnny pulls Cameron's arm from around his throat and ducks under it, firing in a quick pair of stinging kicks to the chest of Chris Cameron, before launching him into the ropes. Johnny turns his back to his opponent and throws his heads out above his head in a very look at me gesture. Keeping his arms up he times his jump perfectly, landing in a wheelbarrow on “Wild” Chris Cameron, then flipping between the Wild man's legs to deliver a body scissors face buster. The Beautiful Nightmare keeps the body scissor and rolls Cameron into a pinning predicament, counting along on his hands as he sits up, not covering.
Philo B. Pope: “Raike with The Pleasure Seeker and a sloppy pin..”
Constance Church: “Yeah… BIG surprise!”
1….
2…..
3….
*Ding! Ding! Ding!*
2…..
3….
*Ding! Ding! Ding!*
Constance Church: “Oh. Thank Goodness. It’s over. I was about ready to tear my eyes out.”
Johnny is quick to his feet to celebrate, immediately telling the referee to raise his hand, even before the official announcement, rubbing his neck with his left hand.
Philo B. Pope: “I can’t decide if Raike or my motherfucking partner here is the biggest bitch in P.A.W. Time will tell motherfuckers!”
Constance Church: “No. I’d fight Johnny there for that particular title but… I just did my nails, so. How about we declare a winner. LET’S GO ALREADY YOU DUMB BITCH, RHONDA!”
Rhonda gives a momentary glare at the announce table, obviously having heard Constance’s snippy little comment. The look is enough to shut Constance up and look back at her nails like it ain’t no thang.
Rhonda Armstrong: “Ladies and Gentlemen, the time of the fall is seven minutes, sixteen seconds. Your winner, The American Wet Dream, JOHHHHNNNYY! RAIKE!”
Philo B. Pope: “Tell you what Constance..”
Constance looks up from her nails.
Constance Church: “Huh? What?”
Philo B. Pope: “This has been an amazing night of motherfucking wrestling so far. I saw a Sasquatch.
Constance Church: “Yeti.”
Philo B. Pope: “I saw Peter motherfucking Pan and I saw you mark out for my dude Luke fucking Knux.
Constance Church perks up and primps and fixes her hair..
Constance Church: “Is he here???”
Philo B. Pope: “And now, I’ve seen the biggest sissy I’ve ever seen in my life. No wonder Sam got all weirded out by him at the fucking carnival that fucking time.”
Constance Church: “The only thing that could possibly make your night complete is to see a walking sack of shit in a tailored suit then, wouldn’t you say?”
Philo B. Pope: “My motherfucking point was, I’d like to see a smoke break sometime tonight! Is ANYBODY doing ANYTHING backstage?”
Again, the camera remains settled in and focused on the broadcast duo at ringside.
Philo B. Pope: “Oh come the fuck on!”
Constance Church: “There, there. No one gives a shit.”
Finally, Philo fired up another fat blunt as the distinctive distorted chords that announce the intro to Joe Walsh’s ‘Turn to Stone’ resonate around the Bayou Segnette Sports Complex causing the fans to echo their disapproval, having learnt last week what these chords signal. The object of their contempt appears from the back onto the top of the ramp wearing a Saville Row gray suit and sand brown satchel. He straightens the knot on his ‘Boston University Red’ tie and smiles at the cacophony of boos and jeers that greet him.
Constance Church: “Hot damn, I’m psychic. Please don’t be named Cross. I don’t want to have to start a hotline and listen to pathetic stoners all--”
She looks weirded out over at Philo.
Constance Church: “Where’s my resume… this is like Twilight Zone shit, right here.”
Philo B. Pope: “I sent it to a motherfucker I know in Encino.”
Constance Church: “DAMN IT, Philo!! I need to impress people like that. My resume wasn’t even finished yet.”
He surveys the audience as the camera zooms in on his reaction to the hostility and he seems to be amused by it. He smiles and slowly nods his head as if he is looking at the result of a hard day at the office.
Philo B. Pope: “Is this motherfucker in the right place?”
Constance massages her temple as if receiving messages from beyond.
Constance Church: “UHHHHHHHHM. Yes. BUT….. he thinks this is a football stadium.”
Philo B. Pope: “Are you in the right motherfucking place? You did a whole 180 when I said Encino.”
Constance Church: “Shut up, Philo. Maybe 180s are making a comeback, huh? Maybe 180s are like THE THING, now. Ever thought of that? Maybe I’m just a 180 kind of girl. Maybe I need a man who LOVES 180s.”
Philo B. Pope: “Like I said, I know a motherfucker in Encino.”
Cross Recoba starts to walk down the ramp and spots the camera-man, he leans in and points to his apparel.
Cross Recoba: “Dean Anderson, Crispin’s Tailors!”
Philo B. Pope: “Did he just…did he just plug his motherfucking tailor?”
Constance Church: “Hmmm. That wasn’t in my psychic forecast. Outlook uncertain. Ask again later.”
Recoba walks round to the ring announcer’s table and smiles as he snatches the microphone from Rhonda Armstrong. The former strongwoman starts to get up, clearly affronted by the rudeness of the wrestler but Cross pushes down on her shoulder to park her firmly back on her posterior before walking towards the apron.
Philo B. Pope: “Why everybody picking on Rhonda tonight? Don’t they know she’s blowin’ 4Loco?”
Constance Church: “For real???”
Philo B. Pope: “Everybody knows that. Just like every motherfucker knows Sam netflix and chills with Unreal.”
Constance Church: “WHAAAAAT? So… who the hell do I gotta blow to get a management gig then?”
Philo closes his eyes and seems to concentrate hard. He holds up a finger.
Philo B. Pope: “Outlook uncertain. Ask again later once I finish this motherfucking blunt.”
Cross ascends the ring steps and takes a look at the crowd baying for him to go away. He laughs before stepping between the ropes and into the centre of the ring.
Cross Recoba: “Stop the music!”
The music quickly fades out.
Cross Recoba: “For those of you who can’t afford a basic television package – I’m Cross Recoba! Now, I know you’ve just sat through three ‘matches’ that you wish would have been marked as a ‘Bathroom Break’ so I thought I’d deliver some good news to you all…”
Philo B. Pope: “We’re finally cutting to backstage?”
Constance Church: “Sorry, weed boy. It doesn’t take an 8-ball to know we’re screwed for the long haul.”
Cross Recoba: “My presence is a sign that Pure Amusement Wrestling’s name isn’t a cruel joke! You see while Knux has some parlor tricks, and the Bombtrax are amusing in a ‘oh, look, there’s a bar fight’ kind of way what you’re really dying to see is someone with quality, with charisma…with actual talent…”
Philo B. Pope: “His taste in wrestlers are as bad as his taste in motherfucking suits if you ask me. You gotta love Luke Knux and The BombTrax!”
Constance Church: “Oh hellz bellz I love Luke Knux. But wouldn’t you rather see more of The Lost Boyz???”
The crowd roundly boos Recoba for his show of hubris. The camera shows Recoba feign horror at the reaction.
Cross Recoba: “You’ll find out soon enough. I can bring even more good news your way…at the next taping you’ll get a chance to see myself in action for this very company. Cheap plug, tickets are on sale already; you wouldn’t want to miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime, would you? Something to keep, to savour, or more likely – to sell on eBay to make the next rental payment on your trailer…”
Philo B. Pope: “Who the fuck is he trying to impress? I started to leave and take a piss when I saw him coming out, now I wish I would’ve!”
Recoba walks to the ropes and leans on them, the crowd’s boos have grown in magnitude.
Cross Recoba: “Now, how about we have some fun?”
Constance Church: “Not with him in the ring.”
Recoba reaches into his satchel and pulls out a football, the crowd starts to hesitantly cheer.
Philo B. Pope: “The fuck is this shit here?”
Cross Recoba: “Who here wants to throw the pigskin around for cash? Say…ten thousand dollars?”
Constance Church: “Oi. It’s settled. This here looks like a perfectly good time for a bathroom break.”
Constance Church and Philo B. Pope untether themselves from the announce table and head away from ringside. The crowd pops at this, the camera scans to show hands shoot up in the air to be noticed. Recoba rolls out of the ring and sees a child at ringside with his father, who appears to be the resident strongman of the Pure Amusement Theme Park. He must be about seven. He goes to reach a college kid but decides against it. He stops in front of the child.
Cross Recoba: “Alright, slugger, what’s your name?”
Kid: “Shane”
Cross Recoba: “Want to win some money for your family?”
The kid smiles and nods, his father’s catcher’s mitt of a hand planted firmly on his shoulder.
Cross Recoba: “Pure, do you want to see this?”
The crowd cheers, firmly behind the child. The security guards let the father and his child into the ringside area. Recoba lifts up Shane onto the apron and then puts a foot on the bottom rope to let the child into the ring. Cross sits on the middle rope to let the father in before swinging round into the ring himself.
Cross Recoba: “Everyone, welcome Shane!”
The crowd erupt into a cheer for the young fan.
Cross Recoba: “Are you ready to make a small fortune, Shane?”
Shane looks to his father who stands, arms folded, looking stoic. The father raises his chin in Recoba’s direction to either signal that it’s okay or marking the Cicero native for a later date.
Cross Recoba: “All you have to do is catch the football when I throw it to you. Don’t worry, I was a wide-receiver, not a quarterback, in High School. My arm isn’t really anything to be scared of. Think you can do that?”
Shane nods and smiles.
Cross Recoba: “Go to the far corner and we’ll have a couple of practice throws.”
Shane goes to the furthest corner and stands awaiting the throw. Cross launches the softest pass going that lands easily in the kid’s hands.
Cross Recoba: “Nice, this should be easy for you, one more practice throw just to make sure you’ve got your ‘eye’ in.”
Shane again nods, his father can be heard encouraging him, his own face filling with glee at the thought of the extra cash. Cross launches another pass that a toddler could catch. The ball is returned.
Cross Recoba: “Nice work, Shane. Ready for the big one? Thought about how you might spend all that cash?”
The child has a game-face on. The father can be heard egging on his son to do it for the family. Recoba puts the microphone down and winds up…
Recoba beans the kid as hard as he can in the face. Shane bursts into tears as the crowd’s cheers turn into hatred and jeers.
Cross Recoba: “Aww, bad luck, kiddo. So close too…sorry folks, no winners here tonight!”
Shane’s father starts to move towards Recoba. Cross drops the mic and lets Shane’s father land a punch on him before returning a punch of his own and grabbing him by the head.
Philo B. Pope: “So most motherfuckers I walked back by are still awake. Did we miss anything?”
Constance Church: “I just sat down and Cross Recoba’s beating up a fat dude.”
Philo B. Pope: “He’s picking on Rhonda and the motherfucking Strongman?"
Constance Church: “Oh… That’s who that is. Well. Carry on. We got like a peanut seller around here?”
Philo B. Pope: “I know the guy selling cotton candy.”
Constance Church: “What are we, some kind of traveling carnival? That shit makes no damned sense.”
Recoba lifts the man into Garibaldi’s Guillotine, a standing Boston Crab. The parent screams out in pain as Shane, tears still welling in his eyes, now sees his father in agony. The camera pans to the ramp to see Head Referee, Andreas Refmovrotiropoulos, and 4Loco, the head of security, sprinting to ringside. REF implores Recoba to break the hold, the father clearly in no fit state to fight back anymore.
Philo B. Pope: “I want to see him do that shit to a wrestler though.”
Recoba drops the man to the floor and rolls out the ring.
Philo B. Pope: "Fucking with staff is a bitch move. He comes over here and I bet my partner claws his fucking beady eyes out!"
Constance Church: "Reeeeeerrrr."
Recoba pushes past 4Loco, who glares at Cross as he passes. ‘Turn to Stone’ fills the arena and almost conceals the boos echoing within the arena. The camera cuts to 4Loco at ringside scowling out to the ramp in Recoba’s direction. Medics are rolling into the ring to help the father get medical attention while our REF consoles Shane.
Constance Church: “So… that was... impressive. That guy I totally predicted was coming out to play football just bullied some kid and messed with some guy in the crowd. On second thought? I’m Impressive. That shit’s just sad. I don’t predict good things for that one.”
The cameras show Cross Recoba slowly backing up the aisle laughing.
Philo B. Pope: “That’s dude is a fucking douche. In a bad suit.”
Constance Church: “Not even close to someone I want to use for anything even remotely medicinal or for sanitation.”
Philo B. Pope: “Oh come the fuck on!”
Constance Church: “There, there. No one gives a shit.”
Finally, Philo fired up another fat blunt as the distinctive distorted chords that announce the intro to Joe Walsh’s ‘Turn to Stone’ resonate around the Bayou Segnette Sports Complex causing the fans to echo their disapproval, having learnt last week what these chords signal. The object of their contempt appears from the back onto the top of the ramp wearing a Saville Row gray suit and sand brown satchel. He straightens the knot on his ‘Boston University Red’ tie and smiles at the cacophony of boos and jeers that greet him.
Constance Church: “Hot damn, I’m psychic. Please don’t be named Cross. I don’t want to have to start a hotline and listen to pathetic stoners all--”
She looks weirded out over at Philo.
Constance Church: “Where’s my resume… this is like Twilight Zone shit, right here.”
Philo B. Pope: “I sent it to a motherfucker I know in Encino.”
Constance Church: “DAMN IT, Philo!! I need to impress people like that. My resume wasn’t even finished yet.”
He surveys the audience as the camera zooms in on his reaction to the hostility and he seems to be amused by it. He smiles and slowly nods his head as if he is looking at the result of a hard day at the office.
Philo B. Pope: “Is this motherfucker in the right place?”
Constance massages her temple as if receiving messages from beyond.
Constance Church: “UHHHHHHHHM. Yes. BUT….. he thinks this is a football stadium.”
Philo B. Pope: “Are you in the right motherfucking place? You did a whole 180 when I said Encino.”
Constance Church: “Shut up, Philo. Maybe 180s are making a comeback, huh? Maybe 180s are like THE THING, now. Ever thought of that? Maybe I’m just a 180 kind of girl. Maybe I need a man who LOVES 180s.”
Philo B. Pope: “Like I said, I know a motherfucker in Encino.”
Cross Recoba starts to walk down the ramp and spots the camera-man, he leans in and points to his apparel.
Cross Recoba: “Dean Anderson, Crispin’s Tailors!”
Philo B. Pope: “Did he just…did he just plug his motherfucking tailor?”
Constance Church: “Hmmm. That wasn’t in my psychic forecast. Outlook uncertain. Ask again later.”
Recoba walks round to the ring announcer’s table and smiles as he snatches the microphone from Rhonda Armstrong. The former strongwoman starts to get up, clearly affronted by the rudeness of the wrestler but Cross pushes down on her shoulder to park her firmly back on her posterior before walking towards the apron.
Philo B. Pope: “Why everybody picking on Rhonda tonight? Don’t they know she’s blowin’ 4Loco?”
Constance Church: “For real???”
Philo B. Pope: “Everybody knows that. Just like every motherfucker knows Sam netflix and chills with Unreal.”
Constance Church: “WHAAAAAT? So… who the hell do I gotta blow to get a management gig then?”
Philo closes his eyes and seems to concentrate hard. He holds up a finger.
Philo B. Pope: “Outlook uncertain. Ask again later once I finish this motherfucking blunt.”
Cross ascends the ring steps and takes a look at the crowd baying for him to go away. He laughs before stepping between the ropes and into the centre of the ring.
Cross Recoba: “Stop the music!”
The music quickly fades out.
Cross Recoba: “For those of you who can’t afford a basic television package – I’m Cross Recoba! Now, I know you’ve just sat through three ‘matches’ that you wish would have been marked as a ‘Bathroom Break’ so I thought I’d deliver some good news to you all…”
Philo B. Pope: “We’re finally cutting to backstage?”
Constance Church: “Sorry, weed boy. It doesn’t take an 8-ball to know we’re screwed for the long haul.”
Cross Recoba: “My presence is a sign that Pure Amusement Wrestling’s name isn’t a cruel joke! You see while Knux has some parlor tricks, and the Bombtrax are amusing in a ‘oh, look, there’s a bar fight’ kind of way what you’re really dying to see is someone with quality, with charisma…with actual talent…”
Philo B. Pope: “His taste in wrestlers are as bad as his taste in motherfucking suits if you ask me. You gotta love Luke Knux and The BombTrax!”
Constance Church: “Oh hellz bellz I love Luke Knux. But wouldn’t you rather see more of The Lost Boyz???”
The crowd roundly boos Recoba for his show of hubris. The camera shows Recoba feign horror at the reaction.
Cross Recoba: “You’ll find out soon enough. I can bring even more good news your way…at the next taping you’ll get a chance to see myself in action for this very company. Cheap plug, tickets are on sale already; you wouldn’t want to miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime, would you? Something to keep, to savour, or more likely – to sell on eBay to make the next rental payment on your trailer…”
Philo B. Pope: “Who the fuck is he trying to impress? I started to leave and take a piss when I saw him coming out, now I wish I would’ve!”
Recoba walks to the ropes and leans on them, the crowd’s boos have grown in magnitude.
Cross Recoba: “Now, how about we have some fun?”
Constance Church: “Not with him in the ring.”
Recoba reaches into his satchel and pulls out a football, the crowd starts to hesitantly cheer.
Philo B. Pope: “The fuck is this shit here?”
Cross Recoba: “Who here wants to throw the pigskin around for cash? Say…ten thousand dollars?”
Constance Church: “Oi. It’s settled. This here looks like a perfectly good time for a bathroom break.”
Constance Church and Philo B. Pope untether themselves from the announce table and head away from ringside. The crowd pops at this, the camera scans to show hands shoot up in the air to be noticed. Recoba rolls out of the ring and sees a child at ringside with his father, who appears to be the resident strongman of the Pure Amusement Theme Park. He must be about seven. He goes to reach a college kid but decides against it. He stops in front of the child.
Cross Recoba: “Alright, slugger, what’s your name?”
Kid: “Shane”
Cross Recoba: “Want to win some money for your family?”
The kid smiles and nods, his father’s catcher’s mitt of a hand planted firmly on his shoulder.
Cross Recoba: “Pure, do you want to see this?”
The crowd cheers, firmly behind the child. The security guards let the father and his child into the ringside area. Recoba lifts up Shane onto the apron and then puts a foot on the bottom rope to let the child into the ring. Cross sits on the middle rope to let the father in before swinging round into the ring himself.
Cross Recoba: “Everyone, welcome Shane!”
The crowd erupt into a cheer for the young fan.
Cross Recoba: “Are you ready to make a small fortune, Shane?”
Shane looks to his father who stands, arms folded, looking stoic. The father raises his chin in Recoba’s direction to either signal that it’s okay or marking the Cicero native for a later date.
Cross Recoba: “All you have to do is catch the football when I throw it to you. Don’t worry, I was a wide-receiver, not a quarterback, in High School. My arm isn’t really anything to be scared of. Think you can do that?”
Shane nods and smiles.
Cross Recoba: “Go to the far corner and we’ll have a couple of practice throws.”
Shane goes to the furthest corner and stands awaiting the throw. Cross launches the softest pass going that lands easily in the kid’s hands.
Cross Recoba: “Nice, this should be easy for you, one more practice throw just to make sure you’ve got your ‘eye’ in.”
Shane again nods, his father can be heard encouraging him, his own face filling with glee at the thought of the extra cash. Cross launches another pass that a toddler could catch. The ball is returned.
Cross Recoba: “Nice work, Shane. Ready for the big one? Thought about how you might spend all that cash?”
The child has a game-face on. The father can be heard egging on his son to do it for the family. Recoba puts the microphone down and winds up…
Recoba beans the kid as hard as he can in the face. Shane bursts into tears as the crowd’s cheers turn into hatred and jeers.
Cross Recoba: “Aww, bad luck, kiddo. So close too…sorry folks, no winners here tonight!”
Shane’s father starts to move towards Recoba. Cross drops the mic and lets Shane’s father land a punch on him before returning a punch of his own and grabbing him by the head.
Philo B. Pope: “So most motherfuckers I walked back by are still awake. Did we miss anything?”
Constance Church: “I just sat down and Cross Recoba’s beating up a fat dude.”
Philo B. Pope: “He’s picking on Rhonda and the motherfucking Strongman?"
Constance Church: “Oh… That’s who that is. Well. Carry on. We got like a peanut seller around here?”
Philo B. Pope: “I know the guy selling cotton candy.”
Constance Church: “What are we, some kind of traveling carnival? That shit makes no damned sense.”
Recoba lifts the man into Garibaldi’s Guillotine, a standing Boston Crab. The parent screams out in pain as Shane, tears still welling in his eyes, now sees his father in agony. The camera pans to the ramp to see Head Referee, Andreas Refmovrotiropoulos, and 4Loco, the head of security, sprinting to ringside. REF implores Recoba to break the hold, the father clearly in no fit state to fight back anymore.
Philo B. Pope: “I want to see him do that shit to a wrestler though.”
Recoba drops the man to the floor and rolls out the ring.
Philo B. Pope: "Fucking with staff is a bitch move. He comes over here and I bet my partner claws his fucking beady eyes out!"
Constance Church: "Reeeeeerrrr."
Recoba pushes past 4Loco, who glares at Cross as he passes. ‘Turn to Stone’ fills the arena and almost conceals the boos echoing within the arena. The camera cuts to 4Loco at ringside scowling out to the ramp in Recoba’s direction. Medics are rolling into the ring to help the father get medical attention while our REF consoles Shane.
Constance Church: “So… that was... impressive. That guy I totally predicted was coming out to play football just bullied some kid and messed with some guy in the crowd. On second thought? I’m Impressive. That shit’s just sad. I don’t predict good things for that one.”
The cameras show Cross Recoba slowly backing up the aisle laughing.
Philo B. Pope: “That’s dude is a fucking douche. In a bad suit.”
Constance Church: “Not even close to someone I want to use for anything even remotely medicinal or for sanitation.”
We go backstage as Dirk Gaggler and Jack Sarrow are stretching and making their final preparations for their P.A.W. debuts.
Philo B. Pope: “Finally! We go backstage!”
You can already hear Philo’s lighter flicking away until it catches.
Constance Church: “Good on you, fella. Toke up. Only like a thousand people sitting around us watching. But… THE CAMERA’S CLEAR. You’re safe, shithead. Now what is this shitshow going to be?”
Philo B. Pope: “If you’d shut the fuck up, and let me hit this once, I’ll tell you. These two motherfuckers were stand outs from the independent scene, so Sam Xayachack probably got them cheap.
Constance Church: “I guess the only question I have, at this point, is WHAT Independent scene? The Hobo circuit? Boxcar Willie unavailable for a booking? Gimme a break.”
Philo B. Pope: “Finally! We go backstage!”
You can already hear Philo’s lighter flicking away until it catches.
Constance Church: “Good on you, fella. Toke up. Only like a thousand people sitting around us watching. But… THE CAMERA’S CLEAR. You’re safe, shithead. Now what is this shitshow going to be?”
Philo B. Pope: “If you’d shut the fuck up, and let me hit this once, I’ll tell you. These two motherfuckers were stand outs from the independent scene, so Sam Xayachack probably got them cheap.
Constance Church: “I guess the only question I have, at this point, is WHAT Independent scene? The Hobo circuit? Boxcar Willie unavailable for a booking? Gimme a break.”
Back at Ringside the Camera pans out to the crowd, stopping briefly on a female face. She's wearing what appears to be a cropped off Led Zeppelin t-shirt, short jean jacket and tight black jeans complete with a studded belt. She seems to be watching the ring with interest.
Philo B. Pope: “Hey I heard of that chick. And she follows me on the motherfucking twitter.”
Constance Church: “That's nice. I think that’s Phil Collins’ daughter Genesis Hendrix. Heard we were supposed to get some edgy new chick. Guess that’s her.”
Philo B. Pope: “Damn! Look at the ass on her! No wonder my boy Sam hired her!!!”.
Constance Church: “I thought he was banging Unreal?!”
Philo B. Pope: “Everybody knows they netflix and chill.”
Constance Church: “I wonder if Sam is accepting applications for side chicks then?”
Philo B. Pope: “You already over Luke motherfucking Knux then?
Constance Church: “Of course not. But apparently the only way to get anywhere in this company is by going down on Sam Xayachack or 4Loco. So… whatevs. Otherwise… it’s back to the ol' resume for me.”
Philo B. Pope: “You could always try going down on Munin. I heard she went out with Unreal once too!”
Constance Church: “Ehhh. I’ll try my hand at the resume.”
The arena lights go dark.
Constance Church: “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding. Again?!”
I by Black Sabbath hits the speakers. It builds with intensity, hitting the mark just as Dirk Gaggler springs out from behind the curtain with two arms raised to a polite applause from the audience.
Philo B. Pope: “This ring is going to be worn out after one show!”
He sprints down to the ring, brushing the long hair that’s falling out of his headband out of sight while high fiving as many fans as he can. Dirk climbs the ring steps and leaps over the top rope, triumphantly spinning and posing to the fans who are starting to warm up to him.
Rhonda Armstrong: “Hailing from New Orleans, weighing in at 180 pounds… DIRK GAGGLER!”
Constance Church: “I--… know what? Waaaaay too easy.”
Suddenly, the lights turn a bright yellow and orange. “Gold, Guns, Girls” by Metric kicks into gear. Dressed in leather pants, an open leather jacket and a pair of dark aviators, Jack Sarrow saunters out past the curtain. His $12 ‘Style Cut’ from SuperCuts looking fresh and on point. Jack blows some kisses out to some of the ladies in attendance, making sure to skip the ugos. He climbs into the ring and begins to remove his glasses and jacket.
Rhonda Armstrong: “And his opponent. Hailing from Miami, Florida, weighing in at 180 pounds…”
Jack leans over to the announcer and whispers something, grinning like a madman.
Rhonda Armstrong: “I’m sorry, let me start over. Annnnd his opponent. Hailing from Miami, Florida. Weighing in at a monstrous 181 pounds… Jack Sarrow!”
Philo B. Pope: “Why the fuck everybody picking on Rhonda tonight?”
Constance Church: “Aside from the crazy list of reasons we’ve already covered? How about this one: Be. Cause. Sound fair to you?”
Philo B. Pope: “Don’t worry, big girl. I’m gonna smoke you and 4Loco the fuck out later at the Scumbag Society show!
Constance Church: “AFTER you get me backstage, fucker.”
Sarrow begins showing his muscles off to the crowd. He turns his attention to Dirk, throws the guns up and steps closer to get in his face. Gaggler’s having none of it and steps into him, talking trash right back at him. They’re going nose to nose when the bell rings to officially start this match. The two young stars start throwing fists. No one’s getting the upper hand so Sarrow lands a kick to his opponent’s knee. Sarrow runs the ropes and when he returns for the clothesline, Gaggler ducks under, executing a split in the process. Jack keeps running and hits the ropes, returning with a missile dropkick to Gaggler as he’s getting back up. Gaggler rolls forward from the impact, lands two feet on the middle ropes and leaps back, connecting with a leaping DDT.
Philo B. Pope: “Oh shit, check these two live motherfuckers out!”
Constance Church: “Yeah… maybe. When these P.A.W. bastards pay me more than they pay your ass.”
Philo B. Pope: “I wouldn’t hold my breath on that.
Constance Church: “Well… shit. Fuck this glass ceiling.”
Gaggler drags Sarrow to his feet but it’s for nothing as Sarrow starts with vicious slaps to his face. Dirk fires back with one of his own but Sarrow backflips out of the way. Gaggler steps in and connects with a slap anyway. It shocks Sarrow, who stumbles backwards into the corner. Dirk sees the opportunity present and runs in, placing one foot on the middle rope and bringing the opposite knee crashing into Jack’s face. He throws Sarrow forward to the ground and begins climbing the turnbuckle.
Philo B. Pope: “Fly motherfucker! Fly!!!”
Constance Church: “Any chance that particular ‘motherfucker’ misspelled his own last name, and it’s really SPARROW? Huh? Get it? Oh, forget it. I’m ordering pizza, you want some?”
Philo B. Pope: “Uhmmm. It’s pizza. Who the FUCK doesn’t want pizza?”
Constance Church: “Oh, good. I was beginning to wonder if you were one of them skinny bitches watching their weight.”
As Constance gets out her cellphone and dials her favorite pizza place, in the ring, Gaggler leaps forward, perfectly executing a 450 splash on his opponent. He hooks a leg as the crowd goes wild.
Philo B. Pope: “Biggety Bang motherfuckers!”
Constance Church: “---NO! NO ANCHOVIES, YOU DUMB SHIT!!! Did you hear me say Anchovies? I said NO ANCHOVIES”
Philo B. Pope: “Why’s it smell like somebody behind us sharted themselves?”
Constance places a finger over the cell phone speaker and looks to Philo.
Constance Church: “Maybe it’s that Genesis Hendrix bitch? She’s still in the crowd, right? Or, perhaps I should be asking whether you, by any chance, have put on deodorant today?”
Pope pulled his t-shirt up over his nose and continued.
Philo B. Pope: “That is motherfucking disgusting. The fuck is that?”
Constance Church: “I guess not everyon--ooooo… *into the cell phone* Ewww. I’m sorry gotta call you back. It smells like the arena I’m in just shat itself.”
A man has jumped over the railing and grabbed a hold of Jack Sarrows leg. He dragged him out of the ring to break up the count. The referee calls for the bell but bails on the ring the second this man climbs in. Dirk Gaggler’s holding his ribs but wants an explanation from this man.
Philo B. Pope: “That’s that motherfucker Sam told me about! Shartpants Stevie Harris!
Constance Church: “Well. Thanks for warning me, Sam. Shit I do for this company. Order the pizza and-- Damn. I gotta order the pizza still.”
Philo B. Pope: “I done lost my motherfucking appetite.”
Constance Church: “I knew it. You ARE one of them skinny weight loss bitches.”
Harris stares down Dirk Gaggler, watching as the anger turns to confusion, then back to anger. Gaggler shoves the taller man, yelling something at him. Within a matter of seconds, Stevie Harris has pounced on him pounding his chest with elbows to batter him down. The New Orleans local shoves Harris off in an attempt to create some distance but Harris comes right back. He pounces but Dirk rolls back onto his feet and meets him with a hard right. Stevie breaks into a grin as he receives more lefts and rights. He stumbles back as Dirk looks to be taking control of the situation. One more hard right and Stevie’s forced to fall against the ropes, so Dirk runs to the other side of the ring to hit the ropes. On his way back, Jack Sarrow intercepts with a vicious clothesline, nearly decapitating the high flier.
Philo B. Pope: “He’s gonna tear his motherfucking head off and shart down his neck!”
Constance Church: “Son of a bitch… I lost reception. This Steve Shartasshead responsible for that too, Philo?”
Sarrow picks Gaggler up and holds his arms behind his back, presenting the defenceless man like a trophy. Dirk struggles but it’s no good as Harris heads over and kicks him in the stomach, then pulls him in for his feared Piledriver known as the Feast of Crows. “Get my noose boy” Harris yells at Sarrow, pointing to outside of the ring. Near the barrier that Stevie Harris jumped to enter he’d left a rope with a noose attached, which Sarrow retrieves and at Harris’s behest He places around the neck of Dirk and the two sit him up on the turnbuckle.
Constance Church: “So… now it’s tie-up games? What sort of deranged ‘wrestling’ federation have I gotten myself mixed up with?!”
Philo B. Pope: “This is one deranged motherfucking deviant with an all too obvious fecal fucking fetish.”
Constance Church: “You’re saying he fucks feces? Oh… Oh wow, I’m gonna be sick.”
Philo B. Pope: “I didn’t say that fucking shit! I fucking said he’s said he’s got a fucking fecal fetish! Fucking get it?”
Constance Church: “NO! And I don’t want to get it. Next commercial break, I’m going home for a mental health day. Wait… we don’t get commercials, do we?”
Philo B. Pope: “No, but the next motherfucker who wants to talk backstage...I’m smoking this whole motherfucker out! Having it smelling good again in no fucking time!”
Gaggler is perched on the turnbuckle, both legs outside the ring. Sarrow turns to Harris and holds a hand up for a high five and Stevie grants him one but he holds on. He’s taller, stronger and has a superior grip and refuses to let go of Sarrow’s hand, looking down on him as he begins to worry. The nervous feelings swell up as he can’t free his arm. Stevie Harris pulls and twists him in, releasing his grip and applying a sleeper hold. Jack tries to fight it so Harris grabs the free end of the rope around Gaggler and wraps it around Sarrow’s neck twice to apply more pressure.
Philo B. Pope: “Nasty...stank motherfucker…”
Constance Church: “Dirty. Dirty. Stinky. Remember Son of Sam? This bastard’s Son of Stank.”
He begins to fade so Harris lets him go, quickly forming a loose noose and slipping it over the neck of the Miami native. He dumps him over the ropes and quickly shoves Dirk off as well, both men fall either side of the turnbuckle and their weight begins to apply pressure to the other’s noose. They fight to get footing on the ring steps between them. The more they struggle for a better position, the more the other gets pulled off. Stevie leaves the ring and heads to the time keepers area, grabbing a chair as well as a mic. He saunters over to the carnage at the corner, setting the chair up so he has VIP seating to witness what he’s done.
Philo B. Pope: “The fuck? Did somebody tell Stevie here that’s we’re making a motherfucking snuff film?
Constance Church: “Well.. I’ll say this about P.A.W. At least the so-called ‘entertainment’ is varied. It’s a variety show. And if you still have the stomach for it, you can ride one of our four star roller coasters after the show. There. Can I get paid and get the fuck out of here now?”
Harris gets up and moves over to the broadcast table where Philo and Constance sit. He takes a microphone and turns back to Gaggler and Sarrow.
Constance Church: “Uh… okay… just take our shit you… shit-collecting piece of stinky shit.”
Stevie Harris: “Now now boys, settle. The more you fight it, the more it’s just going to hurt you. One of you can be free of this if the other is willing the sacrifice, the ground is mere feet away and if you’re willing to give up your perch there the other might dangle to the ground as your soul is choked out of your worthless body. But you both jumped at the chance to come here to night, prove that you are the best fit for… Pure Entertainment Wrestling.”
The crowd is largely silent. A few jeers come but mostly a look of shock comes.
Philo B. Pope: “Yo Shartpants! It’s Pure...AMUSEMENT Wrestling! What the fuck, did he hit my blunt or some shit?”
Constance Church: “Quiet, fool. I wanna see if these guys are qualified to wrestle in whatever federation Shartstick thinks he’s wrestling in.”
Stevie Harris: “Well come on now, this is just sad boys.”
They’re both still struggling, hands gripping the rope tight. Both of them are trying to pull hard against it, attempting to get the extra length needed to get their feet on solid footing. Harris stands and pulls a pocket knife from his vert pocket. He throws it towards Jack Sarrow, who releases his grip momentarily, embracing the pain to grab the knife. Unflicking it, Sarrow begins to frantically work it against the thick rope.
Stevie Harris: FASTER. Come on, I don’t have all day.
Constance Church: “Guess they just can’t measure up to the other P.E.W. combatants. Pity. YOU TELL ‘UM, STEVIE!”
From over the guardrail springs Genesis Hendrix.
Philo B. Pope: “Oh shit! Now we’ve got some Pure ENTERTAINMENT!”
Constance Church: “Hey, Philo. Check this out.”
Constance points her fingers at him pretending she’s got a gun.
Constance Church: “PEW! PEW! PEW, PEW, PEW!”
Philo B. Pope: “Pure Entertainment Wrestling. It’s hot. Like a motherfucking cap gun. PEW!”
Constance Church: “Wait… are we bonding?”
Constance puts her pretend gun to her own head and with a look of disgust fires it. She slumps lifelessly and dramatically across the broadcast table. Back in the ring, Genesis is quickly sawing through the rope with a blade of her own. The rope eventually snaps. Both men crash to the ground with a thud. Dirk holds his neck in pain while Sarrow pulls himself up on the ring apron. Stevie’s up-till-now proud grin is met with a sudden boot to the gut from Genesis, then she nails him with a Stunner, which she calls the Foxhole!!!
Philo B. Pope: “Biggety motherfucking bang!”
Constance is still slumped across the announce table.
Constance Church: “Can’t. Call. Match. I’ve been PEWed.”
Philo B. Pope: “That hot ass on Genesis is a bad ass I must say!
Constance is back up in a huff.
Philo B. Pope: “And I’m just the motherfucker to spank it!”
Constance Church: “Oh, PEW her, PEW you, and PEW Stevie Shartypants.”
Stevie Harris is DOWN and Genesis Hendrix stands over him before getting a whiff and sailing her hand across her nose to rid herself of the smell. From her back pocket she pulls out a flask, looks down egregiously at Steve, then takes a mean pull of the flask before she douses the rest of the obvious alcoholic beverage all over Steve Harris.
Constance Church: “Well, ‘fraid to say it, Philo. But your girl there might not be so much about the ganja as she is for Johnny Walker.”
Philo B. Pope: “I bet I motherfucking find out at the Scumbag Society show tonight.
Constance Church: “Yeah, maybe. But not before you get me backstage with Luke, you pervert!”
Philo B. Pope: “Look whose talkin’.”
Constance Church: “Pffft. It’s okay when I do it. I’m a Color Commentator.”
Genesis Hendrix whisks her hair back in a huff and steps over Steve Harris on her way out of the ring much to the delight of the crowd!. Dirk and Sarrow have already filtered themselves out of the ring and made their way up to the ring entrance.
Philo B. Pope: “So… what the fuck happens to the match?”
With no legal competitors in the ring, the ring bell sounds and is ruled a double disqualification as Steve Harris himself rolls out from under the ropes and drags himself up to the entrance way and officials begin cleaning up.
Philo B. Pope: “Biggety Bam that’s how we do it right motherfucking here.”
Constance Church: “What, hold unscheduled matches that don’t even have a proper finish then leave the rapidly dwindling fan base hanging while we clean up after a mess that shouldn’t even have happened?”
Philo B. Pope: “That’s what I’m motherfucking talking about, what happens next. I’m stoked!”
Philo B. Pope: “Hey I heard of that chick. And she follows me on the motherfucking twitter.”
Constance Church: “That's nice. I think that’s Phil Collins’ daughter Genesis Hendrix. Heard we were supposed to get some edgy new chick. Guess that’s her.”
Philo B. Pope: “Damn! Look at the ass on her! No wonder my boy Sam hired her!!!”.
Constance Church: “I thought he was banging Unreal?!”
Philo B. Pope: “Everybody knows they netflix and chill.”
Constance Church: “I wonder if Sam is accepting applications for side chicks then?”
Philo B. Pope: “You already over Luke motherfucking Knux then?
Constance Church: “Of course not. But apparently the only way to get anywhere in this company is by going down on Sam Xayachack or 4Loco. So… whatevs. Otherwise… it’s back to the ol' resume for me.”
Philo B. Pope: “You could always try going down on Munin. I heard she went out with Unreal once too!”
Constance Church: “Ehhh. I’ll try my hand at the resume.”
The arena lights go dark.
Constance Church: “Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding. Again?!”
I by Black Sabbath hits the speakers. It builds with intensity, hitting the mark just as Dirk Gaggler springs out from behind the curtain with two arms raised to a polite applause from the audience.
Philo B. Pope: “This ring is going to be worn out after one show!”
He sprints down to the ring, brushing the long hair that’s falling out of his headband out of sight while high fiving as many fans as he can. Dirk climbs the ring steps and leaps over the top rope, triumphantly spinning and posing to the fans who are starting to warm up to him.
Rhonda Armstrong: “Hailing from New Orleans, weighing in at 180 pounds… DIRK GAGGLER!”
Constance Church: “I--… know what? Waaaaay too easy.”
Suddenly, the lights turn a bright yellow and orange. “Gold, Guns, Girls” by Metric kicks into gear. Dressed in leather pants, an open leather jacket and a pair of dark aviators, Jack Sarrow saunters out past the curtain. His $12 ‘Style Cut’ from SuperCuts looking fresh and on point. Jack blows some kisses out to some of the ladies in attendance, making sure to skip the ugos. He climbs into the ring and begins to remove his glasses and jacket.
Rhonda Armstrong: “And his opponent. Hailing from Miami, Florida, weighing in at 180 pounds…”
Jack leans over to the announcer and whispers something, grinning like a madman.
Rhonda Armstrong: “I’m sorry, let me start over. Annnnd his opponent. Hailing from Miami, Florida. Weighing in at a monstrous 181 pounds… Jack Sarrow!”
Philo B. Pope: “Why the fuck everybody picking on Rhonda tonight?”
Constance Church: “Aside from the crazy list of reasons we’ve already covered? How about this one: Be. Cause. Sound fair to you?”
Philo B. Pope: “Don’t worry, big girl. I’m gonna smoke you and 4Loco the fuck out later at the Scumbag Society show!
Constance Church: “AFTER you get me backstage, fucker.”
Sarrow begins showing his muscles off to the crowd. He turns his attention to Dirk, throws the guns up and steps closer to get in his face. Gaggler’s having none of it and steps into him, talking trash right back at him. They’re going nose to nose when the bell rings to officially start this match. The two young stars start throwing fists. No one’s getting the upper hand so Sarrow lands a kick to his opponent’s knee. Sarrow runs the ropes and when he returns for the clothesline, Gaggler ducks under, executing a split in the process. Jack keeps running and hits the ropes, returning with a missile dropkick to Gaggler as he’s getting back up. Gaggler rolls forward from the impact, lands two feet on the middle ropes and leaps back, connecting with a leaping DDT.
Philo B. Pope: “Oh shit, check these two live motherfuckers out!”
Constance Church: “Yeah… maybe. When these P.A.W. bastards pay me more than they pay your ass.”
Philo B. Pope: “I wouldn’t hold my breath on that.
Constance Church: “Well… shit. Fuck this glass ceiling.”
Gaggler drags Sarrow to his feet but it’s for nothing as Sarrow starts with vicious slaps to his face. Dirk fires back with one of his own but Sarrow backflips out of the way. Gaggler steps in and connects with a slap anyway. It shocks Sarrow, who stumbles backwards into the corner. Dirk sees the opportunity present and runs in, placing one foot on the middle rope and bringing the opposite knee crashing into Jack’s face. He throws Sarrow forward to the ground and begins climbing the turnbuckle.
Philo B. Pope: “Fly motherfucker! Fly!!!”
Constance Church: “Any chance that particular ‘motherfucker’ misspelled his own last name, and it’s really SPARROW? Huh? Get it? Oh, forget it. I’m ordering pizza, you want some?”
Philo B. Pope: “Uhmmm. It’s pizza. Who the FUCK doesn’t want pizza?”
Constance Church: “Oh, good. I was beginning to wonder if you were one of them skinny bitches watching their weight.”
As Constance gets out her cellphone and dials her favorite pizza place, in the ring, Gaggler leaps forward, perfectly executing a 450 splash on his opponent. He hooks a leg as the crowd goes wild.
Philo B. Pope: “Biggety Bang motherfuckers!”
1…
2….
2….
Constance Church: “---NO! NO ANCHOVIES, YOU DUMB SHIT!!! Did you hear me say Anchovies? I said NO ANCHOVIES”
Philo B. Pope: “Why’s it smell like somebody behind us sharted themselves?”
Constance places a finger over the cell phone speaker and looks to Philo.
Constance Church: “Maybe it’s that Genesis Hendrix bitch? She’s still in the crowd, right? Or, perhaps I should be asking whether you, by any chance, have put on deodorant today?”
Pope pulled his t-shirt up over his nose and continued.
Philo B. Pope: “That is motherfucking disgusting. The fuck is that?”
Constance Church: “I guess not everyon--ooooo… *into the cell phone* Ewww. I’m sorry gotta call you back. It smells like the arena I’m in just shat itself.”
A man has jumped over the railing and grabbed a hold of Jack Sarrows leg. He dragged him out of the ring to break up the count. The referee calls for the bell but bails on the ring the second this man climbs in. Dirk Gaggler’s holding his ribs but wants an explanation from this man.
Philo B. Pope: “That’s that motherfucker Sam told me about! Shartpants Stevie Harris!
Constance Church: “Well. Thanks for warning me, Sam. Shit I do for this company. Order the pizza and-- Damn. I gotta order the pizza still.”
Philo B. Pope: “I done lost my motherfucking appetite.”
Constance Church: “I knew it. You ARE one of them skinny weight loss bitches.”
Harris stares down Dirk Gaggler, watching as the anger turns to confusion, then back to anger. Gaggler shoves the taller man, yelling something at him. Within a matter of seconds, Stevie Harris has pounced on him pounding his chest with elbows to batter him down. The New Orleans local shoves Harris off in an attempt to create some distance but Harris comes right back. He pounces but Dirk rolls back onto his feet and meets him with a hard right. Stevie breaks into a grin as he receives more lefts and rights. He stumbles back as Dirk looks to be taking control of the situation. One more hard right and Stevie’s forced to fall against the ropes, so Dirk runs to the other side of the ring to hit the ropes. On his way back, Jack Sarrow intercepts with a vicious clothesline, nearly decapitating the high flier.
Philo B. Pope: “He’s gonna tear his motherfucking head off and shart down his neck!”
Constance Church: “Son of a bitch… I lost reception. This Steve Shartasshead responsible for that too, Philo?”
Sarrow picks Gaggler up and holds his arms behind his back, presenting the defenceless man like a trophy. Dirk struggles but it’s no good as Harris heads over and kicks him in the stomach, then pulls him in for his feared Piledriver known as the Feast of Crows. “Get my noose boy” Harris yells at Sarrow, pointing to outside of the ring. Near the barrier that Stevie Harris jumped to enter he’d left a rope with a noose attached, which Sarrow retrieves and at Harris’s behest He places around the neck of Dirk and the two sit him up on the turnbuckle.
Constance Church: “So… now it’s tie-up games? What sort of deranged ‘wrestling’ federation have I gotten myself mixed up with?!”
Philo B. Pope: “This is one deranged motherfucking deviant with an all too obvious fecal fucking fetish.”
Constance Church: “You’re saying he fucks feces? Oh… Oh wow, I’m gonna be sick.”
Philo B. Pope: “I didn’t say that fucking shit! I fucking said he’s said he’s got a fucking fecal fetish! Fucking get it?”
Constance Church: “NO! And I don’t want to get it. Next commercial break, I’m going home for a mental health day. Wait… we don’t get commercials, do we?”
Philo B. Pope: “No, but the next motherfucker who wants to talk backstage...I’m smoking this whole motherfucker out! Having it smelling good again in no fucking time!”
Gaggler is perched on the turnbuckle, both legs outside the ring. Sarrow turns to Harris and holds a hand up for a high five and Stevie grants him one but he holds on. He’s taller, stronger and has a superior grip and refuses to let go of Sarrow’s hand, looking down on him as he begins to worry. The nervous feelings swell up as he can’t free his arm. Stevie Harris pulls and twists him in, releasing his grip and applying a sleeper hold. Jack tries to fight it so Harris grabs the free end of the rope around Gaggler and wraps it around Sarrow’s neck twice to apply more pressure.
Philo B. Pope: “Nasty...stank motherfucker…”
Constance Church: “Dirty. Dirty. Stinky. Remember Son of Sam? This bastard’s Son of Stank.”
He begins to fade so Harris lets him go, quickly forming a loose noose and slipping it over the neck of the Miami native. He dumps him over the ropes and quickly shoves Dirk off as well, both men fall either side of the turnbuckle and their weight begins to apply pressure to the other’s noose. They fight to get footing on the ring steps between them. The more they struggle for a better position, the more the other gets pulled off. Stevie leaves the ring and heads to the time keepers area, grabbing a chair as well as a mic. He saunters over to the carnage at the corner, setting the chair up so he has VIP seating to witness what he’s done.
Philo B. Pope: “The fuck? Did somebody tell Stevie here that’s we’re making a motherfucking snuff film?
Constance Church: “Well.. I’ll say this about P.A.W. At least the so-called ‘entertainment’ is varied. It’s a variety show. And if you still have the stomach for it, you can ride one of our four star roller coasters after the show. There. Can I get paid and get the fuck out of here now?”
Harris gets up and moves over to the broadcast table where Philo and Constance sit. He takes a microphone and turns back to Gaggler and Sarrow.
Constance Church: “Uh… okay… just take our shit you… shit-collecting piece of stinky shit.”
Stevie Harris: “Now now boys, settle. The more you fight it, the more it’s just going to hurt you. One of you can be free of this if the other is willing the sacrifice, the ground is mere feet away and if you’re willing to give up your perch there the other might dangle to the ground as your soul is choked out of your worthless body. But you both jumped at the chance to come here to night, prove that you are the best fit for… Pure Entertainment Wrestling.”
The crowd is largely silent. A few jeers come but mostly a look of shock comes.
Philo B. Pope: “Yo Shartpants! It’s Pure...AMUSEMENT Wrestling! What the fuck, did he hit my blunt or some shit?”
Constance Church: “Quiet, fool. I wanna see if these guys are qualified to wrestle in whatever federation Shartstick thinks he’s wrestling in.”
Stevie Harris: “Well come on now, this is just sad boys.”
They’re both still struggling, hands gripping the rope tight. Both of them are trying to pull hard against it, attempting to get the extra length needed to get their feet on solid footing. Harris stands and pulls a pocket knife from his vert pocket. He throws it towards Jack Sarrow, who releases his grip momentarily, embracing the pain to grab the knife. Unflicking it, Sarrow begins to frantically work it against the thick rope.
Stevie Harris: FASTER. Come on, I don’t have all day.
Constance Church: “Guess they just can’t measure up to the other P.E.W. combatants. Pity. YOU TELL ‘UM, STEVIE!”
From over the guardrail springs Genesis Hendrix.
Philo B. Pope: “Oh shit! Now we’ve got some Pure ENTERTAINMENT!”
Constance Church: “Hey, Philo. Check this out.”
Constance points her fingers at him pretending she’s got a gun.
Constance Church: “PEW! PEW! PEW, PEW, PEW!”
Philo B. Pope: “Pure Entertainment Wrestling. It’s hot. Like a motherfucking cap gun. PEW!”
Constance Church: “Wait… are we bonding?”
Constance puts her pretend gun to her own head and with a look of disgust fires it. She slumps lifelessly and dramatically across the broadcast table. Back in the ring, Genesis is quickly sawing through the rope with a blade of her own. The rope eventually snaps. Both men crash to the ground with a thud. Dirk holds his neck in pain while Sarrow pulls himself up on the ring apron. Stevie’s up-till-now proud grin is met with a sudden boot to the gut from Genesis, then she nails him with a Stunner, which she calls the Foxhole!!!
Philo B. Pope: “Biggety motherfucking bang!”
Constance is still slumped across the announce table.
Constance Church: “Can’t. Call. Match. I’ve been PEWed.”
Philo B. Pope: “That hot ass on Genesis is a bad ass I must say!
Constance is back up in a huff.
Philo B. Pope: “And I’m just the motherfucker to spank it!”
Constance Church: “Oh, PEW her, PEW you, and PEW Stevie Shartypants.”
Stevie Harris is DOWN and Genesis Hendrix stands over him before getting a whiff and sailing her hand across her nose to rid herself of the smell. From her back pocket she pulls out a flask, looks down egregiously at Steve, then takes a mean pull of the flask before she douses the rest of the obvious alcoholic beverage all over Steve Harris.
Constance Church: “Well, ‘fraid to say it, Philo. But your girl there might not be so much about the ganja as she is for Johnny Walker.”
Philo B. Pope: “I bet I motherfucking find out at the Scumbag Society show tonight.
Constance Church: “Yeah, maybe. But not before you get me backstage with Luke, you pervert!”
Philo B. Pope: “Look whose talkin’.”
Constance Church: “Pffft. It’s okay when I do it. I’m a Color Commentator.”
Genesis Hendrix whisks her hair back in a huff and steps over Steve Harris on her way out of the ring much to the delight of the crowd!. Dirk and Sarrow have already filtered themselves out of the ring and made their way up to the ring entrance.
Philo B. Pope: “So… what the fuck happens to the match?”
With no legal competitors in the ring, the ring bell sounds and is ruled a double disqualification as Steve Harris himself rolls out from under the ropes and drags himself up to the entrance way and officials begin cleaning up.
Philo B. Pope: “Biggety Bam that’s how we do it right motherfucking here.”
Constance Church: “What, hold unscheduled matches that don’t even have a proper finish then leave the rapidly dwindling fan base hanging while we clean up after a mess that shouldn’t even have happened?”
Philo B. Pope: “That’s what I’m motherfucking talking about, what happens next. I’m stoked!”
Constance Church: “Well. You get MORE high than you were before. I can FINALLY take this down time to get back to working on my resume.”
The lights dim.
Constance Church: “What. The. Fuck.”
P.A.W. ring announcer Rhonda Armstrong takes to the center of the ring, mic in hand.
Rhonda Armstrong: “Ladies and gentlemen, at this time, we welcome to the ring, the Calhouns!”
The opening Synths of Europe's "Final Countdown" fill the arena. At the top of runway appears Hoss Calhoun, Kip Calhoun, and their lackeys, "Oregon" Dave and Chazz Landry. Kip is rocking his head slightly, his bad boy scowl on his face, trying to look tough. Hoss swats him in the back of the head, and begins yelling at him for having lame music, and the four begin their walk to ringside.
Once in the ring, Hoss starts them off.
Hoss Calhoun: “Now, we've come here for one reason and one reason only, and that reason was not to entertain you folks. No sir, you see, you people, you are not my kind of people.”
Boos.
Constance Church: “Well. Maybe if he got to know some of these people? I’m sure they’re not ALL trash. Well.. nah. He’s right. This crowd sucks.”
Philo B. Pope: “These motherfuckers are cool as fuck. Cross Recoba is the only douchebag here so far.”
Constance looks to Philo about ready to open her mouth but then smiles.
Constance Church: “Riiiiiiiiiight. Take ‘er away, Hoss. Don’t let them Duke Boys get away, now!”
Hoss Calhoun: “No, we've come out here to deal with one man... actually, he's less than a man-- to deal with one boy, who goes by the name of Jamie Christopher Wheeler. Now what he's done doesn't concern you folks. All you need to know is that you ain't getting rid of us until I have made him suffer, and suffer, and suffer again. I am not leaving until I've gotten my pound of flesh.”
Boos.
Philo B. Pope: “If he knew what was good, he’d be trying to hit me up for a pound.”
Constance Church: “That’s some Shakespearean shit right there…. Good one, Philo.”
Philo B. Pope: “Shakespeare? Nah, dawg I got some Monty Python, some Bill Gates and just a little bit of that real Brett Favre strain. It’s mostly green with a little purple on the ends of the buds.
Constance Church: “I don’t think Hoss is too concerned with straining himself tonight. Though… you know Brett Favre???”
Philo B. Pope: “I know Brett Favre...is Luke Knux’ favorite motherfucking strain.
Constance discreetly slides a few bills across the announce table up.
Constance Church: “No questions.”
Hoss Calhoun: “And standing behind me are the instruments by which I will take my pound of flesh. Standing behind me are what wrestling is all about. So while I intend to make our stay here short and sweet, and we'll be gone as soon as we break this little vermin into resignation, you may as well open your eyes while we are around and you just might learning something about real wrestling. This right here represents some of the finest wrestlers to wrestle, at one time or another, under my tutelage. This is my Varsity Club.”
Hoss points to Chazz Landry and "Oregon" Dave Doyle.
Hoss Calhoun: “Their Names? Fuck you-- you learn their names on your own time. You will care enough to know all about them by the time we leave.”
Constance Church: “HA! I bet all these idiots in the crowd wanna know their names. Well, to that I say … Exactly what Hoss just said. HAHAHAHAHA.”
Philo B. Pope: “I’m glad that mean motherfucker isn’t my Dad.”
Hoss sides up next to Kip, puts his arm around him, pats him on his back.
Hoss Calhoun: “Now this here is my boy…”
Philo B. Pope: “Take that motherfucking silver spoon out of his mouth before you bring him out here Hoss!”
Hoss cups Kip's chin, squeezes it. Kip doesn't mind.
Constance Church: “Uhhhh. Where is this family from again? Philo...Have you ever seen Deliverance? Is Hoss gonna make his own son… I can’t finish.”
Philo B. Pope: “Where they from? Aw shit, more shit we should’ve prepared for.”
Constance Church: “Nah. Hoss promised us we’d know everyone’s deets by the time they all left. So we’re covered.”
Hoss Calhoun: “My pride and joy. And you will respect him. Whether you want to or not, you will respect him.” (turning to Kip). “You got anything you wanna say, son?”
Kip grabs the mic from his father. He looks pissed off. He is pacing in circles.
Philo B. Pope: “Look at him! Did he get his Ritalin today? Obviously fucking not.”
Kip Calhoun: “I am the best wrestler on this roster.”
Here come the boos. Kip keeps circling.
Constance Church: “Has he FORGOTTEN the genius of the LOST BOYZ?! DIRK GAGGLER?! PHILO B. POPE?! Kip Calhoun just hasn’t been looking hard enough.”
Philo B. Pope: “I got my money on Genesis right now. Her and her sweet motherfucking ass.”
Kip Calhoun: “Now that we've gotten that out of the way, Jamie Wheeler-- Jamie Wheeler, Jamie Wheeler, Jamie Wheeler. Just like my daddy, I intend to get my pound of flesh, and I--”
Suddenly, Kip is cut off my the opening sounds of John Reuben's "Do Not, " and newly signed P.A.W. prospect Jamie Wheeler struts onto the runway, wearing a "Scumbag Society" t-shirt, mic in hand.
Constance Church: “DAAAAAAMN. Take off your shirt. man-candy!”
Jamie Wheeler: “Oh, will you shut the fuck up already!”
Constance Church: “Awwww. Anything for you, baby.”
Philo B. Pope: “Will you just pick one already and go get a fucking room with them?”
The fans don't know Wheeler, but he has already won them over.
Constance Church: “I want them all, Philo. Like a collect all four type of thing. But right now… check out my boy in the ring and imagine the possibilities of him…. and I… naked.”
Philo B. Pope: “Only if me and Genesis are butt naked too.”
Jamie Wheeler: “Yap, yap yap, yap yap yap-- you know what, you both talk about wanting a pound of my flesh-- well, one Calhoun has already gotten a pound of my flesh...ain't that right boys.”
The fans, unfamiliar with Jamie and Kip's backstory, don't know how to take the comment, but the scowls of pure anger on the Calhoun clan says it all.
Jamie Wheeler: “Oh, that's right, these fine folks ain't privy to our inside jokes, are they? Well, what do you say we let these folks in on our secret?”
Constance Church: “Does this secret, in any way, involve Jamie Wheeler taking off his pants???”
Philo B. Pope: “Wait. What the fuck is this shit?”
With that, static overtakes the large screen hanging high in various locations throughout the arena. The static is replaced by video footage, taken with a home video camera, of a younger Jamie Wheeler wearing a wrestling single, the straps down, clearly sporting an erection, emerging from behind the bleachers of a crowded, massive gymnasium, the sounds of referee whistles, cheers, and instruction in the background. Emerging from behind the bleachers with him, is a woman in her early fifties, her hair tousled, her lipstick smeared.
Constance Church: “Ewww. That’s the type of slovenly harlot he goes for? I dunno about this kid anymore. And he had so much potential too.”
Philo B. Pope: “You have got to be motherfucking shitting me!”
A younger KIP CALHOUN, also in a singlet, still wearing his headgear and holding a large trophy, runs into them. He is horrified.
Young Kip Calhoun: “Mom!?!”
Constance Church: “Okay… that’s pretty funny.”
Philo B. Pope: “This. Is the greatest thing I have ever seen!”
What follows is a montage of clippings of local newspaper headline clippings, interspersed with the home footage, a very hard rocking version of Fountains of Wayne's "Stacy's Mom" playing over it, only "Stacy" has been changed to "Kippy's Mom." The screen splits and the crowd goes wild to see The Scumbag Society practicing backstage, and Luke Knux singing the song!
Philo B. Pope: “NO!!! This. Is the greatest thing I have ever seen!”
Constance Church: “LUKE!!!!!”
Then fans get a huge kick out of the parody, and cheer louder and louder as the furious Calhoun clan spew epithets at a grinning Jamie Wheeler.
Constance Church: “Well… guess that settles that feud, eh, Philo? There’s absolutely no way that could possibly go any further. It’s done. Finished.”
Philo B. Pope: “Fuck a blunt. I need a motherfucking cigarette after that hot ass mess. Can we please go backstage? Or do we not have one?”
Constance Church: “Wait. Philo. Can you sense it? A disturbance in the electrical current of the video feed. I think… IT IS! The camera light is going--
The lights dim.
Constance Church: “What. The. Fuck.”
P.A.W. ring announcer Rhonda Armstrong takes to the center of the ring, mic in hand.
Rhonda Armstrong: “Ladies and gentlemen, at this time, we welcome to the ring, the Calhouns!”
The opening Synths of Europe's "Final Countdown" fill the arena. At the top of runway appears Hoss Calhoun, Kip Calhoun, and their lackeys, "Oregon" Dave and Chazz Landry. Kip is rocking his head slightly, his bad boy scowl on his face, trying to look tough. Hoss swats him in the back of the head, and begins yelling at him for having lame music, and the four begin their walk to ringside.
Once in the ring, Hoss starts them off.
Hoss Calhoun: “Now, we've come here for one reason and one reason only, and that reason was not to entertain you folks. No sir, you see, you people, you are not my kind of people.”
Boos.
Constance Church: “Well. Maybe if he got to know some of these people? I’m sure they’re not ALL trash. Well.. nah. He’s right. This crowd sucks.”
Philo B. Pope: “These motherfuckers are cool as fuck. Cross Recoba is the only douchebag here so far.”
Constance looks to Philo about ready to open her mouth but then smiles.
Constance Church: “Riiiiiiiiiight. Take ‘er away, Hoss. Don’t let them Duke Boys get away, now!”
Hoss Calhoun: “No, we've come out here to deal with one man... actually, he's less than a man-- to deal with one boy, who goes by the name of Jamie Christopher Wheeler. Now what he's done doesn't concern you folks. All you need to know is that you ain't getting rid of us until I have made him suffer, and suffer, and suffer again. I am not leaving until I've gotten my pound of flesh.”
Boos.
Philo B. Pope: “If he knew what was good, he’d be trying to hit me up for a pound.”
Constance Church: “That’s some Shakespearean shit right there…. Good one, Philo.”
Philo B. Pope: “Shakespeare? Nah, dawg I got some Monty Python, some Bill Gates and just a little bit of that real Brett Favre strain. It’s mostly green with a little purple on the ends of the buds.
Constance Church: “I don’t think Hoss is too concerned with straining himself tonight. Though… you know Brett Favre???”
Philo B. Pope: “I know Brett Favre...is Luke Knux’ favorite motherfucking strain.
Constance discreetly slides a few bills across the announce table up.
Constance Church: “No questions.”
Hoss Calhoun: “And standing behind me are the instruments by which I will take my pound of flesh. Standing behind me are what wrestling is all about. So while I intend to make our stay here short and sweet, and we'll be gone as soon as we break this little vermin into resignation, you may as well open your eyes while we are around and you just might learning something about real wrestling. This right here represents some of the finest wrestlers to wrestle, at one time or another, under my tutelage. This is my Varsity Club.”
Hoss points to Chazz Landry and "Oregon" Dave Doyle.
Hoss Calhoun: “Their Names? Fuck you-- you learn their names on your own time. You will care enough to know all about them by the time we leave.”
Constance Church: “HA! I bet all these idiots in the crowd wanna know their names. Well, to that I say … Exactly what Hoss just said. HAHAHAHAHA.”
Philo B. Pope: “I’m glad that mean motherfucker isn’t my Dad.”
Hoss sides up next to Kip, puts his arm around him, pats him on his back.
Hoss Calhoun: “Now this here is my boy…”
Philo B. Pope: “Take that motherfucking silver spoon out of his mouth before you bring him out here Hoss!”
Hoss cups Kip's chin, squeezes it. Kip doesn't mind.
Constance Church: “Uhhhh. Where is this family from again? Philo...Have you ever seen Deliverance? Is Hoss gonna make his own son… I can’t finish.”
Philo B. Pope: “Where they from? Aw shit, more shit we should’ve prepared for.”
Constance Church: “Nah. Hoss promised us we’d know everyone’s deets by the time they all left. So we’re covered.”
Hoss Calhoun: “My pride and joy. And you will respect him. Whether you want to or not, you will respect him.” (turning to Kip). “You got anything you wanna say, son?”
Kip grabs the mic from his father. He looks pissed off. He is pacing in circles.
Philo B. Pope: “Look at him! Did he get his Ritalin today? Obviously fucking not.”
Kip Calhoun: “I am the best wrestler on this roster.”
Here come the boos. Kip keeps circling.
Constance Church: “Has he FORGOTTEN the genius of the LOST BOYZ?! DIRK GAGGLER?! PHILO B. POPE?! Kip Calhoun just hasn’t been looking hard enough.”
Philo B. Pope: “I got my money on Genesis right now. Her and her sweet motherfucking ass.”
Kip Calhoun: “Now that we've gotten that out of the way, Jamie Wheeler-- Jamie Wheeler, Jamie Wheeler, Jamie Wheeler. Just like my daddy, I intend to get my pound of flesh, and I--”
Suddenly, Kip is cut off my the opening sounds of John Reuben's "Do Not, " and newly signed P.A.W. prospect Jamie Wheeler struts onto the runway, wearing a "Scumbag Society" t-shirt, mic in hand.
Constance Church: “DAAAAAAMN. Take off your shirt. man-candy!”
Jamie Wheeler: “Oh, will you shut the fuck up already!”
Constance Church: “Awwww. Anything for you, baby.”
Philo B. Pope: “Will you just pick one already and go get a fucking room with them?”
The fans don't know Wheeler, but he has already won them over.
Constance Church: “I want them all, Philo. Like a collect all four type of thing. But right now… check out my boy in the ring and imagine the possibilities of him…. and I… naked.”
Philo B. Pope: “Only if me and Genesis are butt naked too.”
Jamie Wheeler: “Yap, yap yap, yap yap yap-- you know what, you both talk about wanting a pound of my flesh-- well, one Calhoun has already gotten a pound of my flesh...ain't that right boys.”
The fans, unfamiliar with Jamie and Kip's backstory, don't know how to take the comment, but the scowls of pure anger on the Calhoun clan says it all.
Jamie Wheeler: “Oh, that's right, these fine folks ain't privy to our inside jokes, are they? Well, what do you say we let these folks in on our secret?”
Constance Church: “Does this secret, in any way, involve Jamie Wheeler taking off his pants???”
Philo B. Pope: “Wait. What the fuck is this shit?”
With that, static overtakes the large screen hanging high in various locations throughout the arena. The static is replaced by video footage, taken with a home video camera, of a younger Jamie Wheeler wearing a wrestling single, the straps down, clearly sporting an erection, emerging from behind the bleachers of a crowded, massive gymnasium, the sounds of referee whistles, cheers, and instruction in the background. Emerging from behind the bleachers with him, is a woman in her early fifties, her hair tousled, her lipstick smeared.
Constance Church: “Ewww. That’s the type of slovenly harlot he goes for? I dunno about this kid anymore. And he had so much potential too.”
Philo B. Pope: “You have got to be motherfucking shitting me!”
A younger KIP CALHOUN, also in a singlet, still wearing his headgear and holding a large trophy, runs into them. He is horrified.
Young Kip Calhoun: “Mom!?!”
Constance Church: “Okay… that’s pretty funny.”
Philo B. Pope: “This. Is the greatest thing I have ever seen!”
What follows is a montage of clippings of local newspaper headline clippings, interspersed with the home footage, a very hard rocking version of Fountains of Wayne's "Stacy's Mom" playing over it, only "Stacy" has been changed to "Kippy's Mom." The screen splits and the crowd goes wild to see The Scumbag Society practicing backstage, and Luke Knux singing the song!
Philo B. Pope: “NO!!! This. Is the greatest thing I have ever seen!”
Constance Church: “LUKE!!!!!”
Then fans get a huge kick out of the parody, and cheer louder and louder as the furious Calhoun clan spew epithets at a grinning Jamie Wheeler.
Constance Church: “Well… guess that settles that feud, eh, Philo? There’s absolutely no way that could possibly go any further. It’s done. Finished.”
Philo B. Pope: “Fuck a blunt. I need a motherfucking cigarette after that hot ass mess. Can we please go backstage? Or do we not have one?”
Constance Church: “Wait. Philo. Can you sense it? A disturbance in the electrical current of the video feed. I think… IT IS! The camera light is going--
Alex Cross wrapped a towel around his lower half as he made his way out of the shower. This facility was an actual arena built around wrestling, and came with perks that the ‘carnival’ simply couldn’t accommodate. Like talent dressing rooms, and private bathrooms. He had just gotten out of his street clothes and cleaned up so he could get ready to debut against Djimon Sanders.
He briefly checked himself in the mirror, and then stepped through the doorway that led to the locker room. When he rounded the corner, he stopped dead in his tracks.There, sitting casually across one of the long benches, was Flaming Youth, a coy grin on his face.
He perked up at the sight of Alex, whose facial expression had already undergone the change from surprised to pissed. Just as he was about to say something, a large hand clamped duct tape over his mouth, and he could feel his right arm being wrenched behind his back. Something cold and metallic wrapped around his wrist, and he twisted and writhed to turn, but the powerful grip held him in place. The other arm was pulled back against his will, and he heard a click, realizing now that his hands had been handcuffed behind his back.
A firm grip took him by the shoulders, and he let out a muffled protest through the duct tape as he was unceremoniously forced to sit across from Youth. His unseen jailor was obvious to him even before Press stepped around from behind him, and took a seat next to his partner.
The big man held out his hand in a placating gesture, and waved off the futile attempts that Alex Cross made to escape.
Press: “Hold your horses, sweet heart. We aren’t here for that.”
Press crossed his arms over his chest, while Youth stood up, and began to pace the room.
Press: “Listen, Alex. Can I call you Alex? Are we on a first name basis?”
Alex gave a wide eyed muffled response, but Youth didn’t seem to pay him any attention, continuing his pace around the room and nodding to himself.
Press: “Yeah, Alex will do. Listen, Alex, we didn’t come here for a repeat of our last encounter. No, we just wanted to touch base with you. Give you the skinny. Throw you a bone. Let you in on the haps, if you will. But let’s face it, between us, you’re a bit of a talker. Like to get all animated and shit, might not give us a chance to say what we came here to say, and so we figured the easiest way to get a conversation out of you was to do this.”
Youth used his hand to gesture for the camera at the bound and gagged mass that was Alex Cross. Press grinned, and leaned forward from his seat.
Press: “You understand, don’t you big guy. Kind of hard to have a ‘civil’ conversation considering the last couple of weeks. You know, with that beat down we gave you at that other place. Thank God, that’s over, right?”
Press laughed, and made a non-genuine wave of his hand followed by a fake smile.
Press: “That place was never really the right fit for any of us, and luckily, you and I know the right people to get us into a more stable environment.”
Youth snickered, and shook his head.
Flaming Youth: “More stable….yeah, right.”
Press ignored his partner, and continued his fake smile.
Press: “What we really came here to say, is that we’re sorry. That was never our plan, Alex, you’ve gotta believe us. We would never come out at the end of a hard fought match like you had with their former creampuff champion, well…”
Press allowed a chuckle,
Press: “their creampuff champion’s valet.”
He backs the statement up with a point of his finger, as if a light bulb went off in his head.
Press: “And then proceed to stomp the shit out of you in a two on one assault the likes of which hasn’t been seen since Rodney King. I mean, that’s not our style.”
Flaming Youth: “Well,”
Youth adds, shrugging in mock disappointment.
Flaming Youth: “It kind of is.”
Press nodded, shrugging his shoulders in agreement, and then turning back to Alex with his mask of non-sincerity.
Press: “Yeah, but….we’d never do that to you!”
He exclaimed, twinkles dancing in his eyes from fake tears.
Press: “Alfred Candy came to us, at the last minute, and handed us this crappy script that basically said that we had to come out at the end and make the creampuff look even better than he did, by allowing him to slip through the cracks and giving you the beat down of your life. We didn’t have any intentions of tangling with you, Alex. You gotta believe us.”
Press wiped at his eyes to remove the fake tears, and then looked back to Cross with mock sincerity, nodding in his direction.
Press: “I’m so glad you understand, Alex. Business is business. We all have mouths to feed.”
Youth stepped up beside Cross, and slapped him good naturedly on the shoulder. Alex recoiled, having forgotten he was even in the room after Press’ dramatic performance.
Flaming Youth: “So there it is, Alex.”
Youth stated rather matter-of-factly.
Flaming Youth: “Now we can all be pals again. Friends. Amigos. Compadres. Besties. BFF’s! As you see, we’re not bad guys. Hell, we’re all a lot alike. We even run in some of the same circles. Just think of the possibilities, bucko. This has to be a huge relief, man. Lord knows, I feel better. Now you don’t have to worry about seeing us stalking down the ramp way looking for trouble.”
Youth starts for the door, but turns back to watch as Press stands up, the mask of fake remorse melting into one of malice and disdain. He reaches into his pocket and produces a small metallic key, presumably for the cuffs around Cross’ wrists, and leans down to look Alex Cross directly in the eyes.
Press: “Nah, you don’t have to worry about seeing us stalking down the ramp way looking for trouble…….until you do. And when that day comes, son, there ain’t a circle in this world big enough to protect you from us.”
With that, he drops the keys directly in front of Cross, and starts for the door. Cross watches him pass through the portal with baleful eyes, and Youth just holds his hands out to his sides.
Flaming Youth: “What can I say, dude. Sometimes being pals is tough.” Youth throws Alex a boyish grin, and then dashes out the door.
Cross breathes a breath of relief, then reaches down for the keys that Press left behind. As he did a shadow darkened over him, and a white pointed toe stepped into his view and tapped gingerly on the locker room tile.
He briefly checked himself in the mirror, and then stepped through the doorway that led to the locker room. When he rounded the corner, he stopped dead in his tracks.There, sitting casually across one of the long benches, was Flaming Youth, a coy grin on his face.
He perked up at the sight of Alex, whose facial expression had already undergone the change from surprised to pissed. Just as he was about to say something, a large hand clamped duct tape over his mouth, and he could feel his right arm being wrenched behind his back. Something cold and metallic wrapped around his wrist, and he twisted and writhed to turn, but the powerful grip held him in place. The other arm was pulled back against his will, and he heard a click, realizing now that his hands had been handcuffed behind his back.
A firm grip took him by the shoulders, and he let out a muffled protest through the duct tape as he was unceremoniously forced to sit across from Youth. His unseen jailor was obvious to him even before Press stepped around from behind him, and took a seat next to his partner.
The big man held out his hand in a placating gesture, and waved off the futile attempts that Alex Cross made to escape.
Press: “Hold your horses, sweet heart. We aren’t here for that.”
Press crossed his arms over his chest, while Youth stood up, and began to pace the room.
Press: “Listen, Alex. Can I call you Alex? Are we on a first name basis?”
Alex gave a wide eyed muffled response, but Youth didn’t seem to pay him any attention, continuing his pace around the room and nodding to himself.
Press: “Yeah, Alex will do. Listen, Alex, we didn’t come here for a repeat of our last encounter. No, we just wanted to touch base with you. Give you the skinny. Throw you a bone. Let you in on the haps, if you will. But let’s face it, between us, you’re a bit of a talker. Like to get all animated and shit, might not give us a chance to say what we came here to say, and so we figured the easiest way to get a conversation out of you was to do this.”
Youth used his hand to gesture for the camera at the bound and gagged mass that was Alex Cross. Press grinned, and leaned forward from his seat.
Press: “You understand, don’t you big guy. Kind of hard to have a ‘civil’ conversation considering the last couple of weeks. You know, with that beat down we gave you at that other place. Thank God, that’s over, right?”
Press laughed, and made a non-genuine wave of his hand followed by a fake smile.
Press: “That place was never really the right fit for any of us, and luckily, you and I know the right people to get us into a more stable environment.”
Youth snickered, and shook his head.
Flaming Youth: “More stable….yeah, right.”
Press ignored his partner, and continued his fake smile.
Press: “What we really came here to say, is that we’re sorry. That was never our plan, Alex, you’ve gotta believe us. We would never come out at the end of a hard fought match like you had with their former creampuff champion, well…”
Press allowed a chuckle,
Press: “their creampuff champion’s valet.”
He backs the statement up with a point of his finger, as if a light bulb went off in his head.
Press: “And then proceed to stomp the shit out of you in a two on one assault the likes of which hasn’t been seen since Rodney King. I mean, that’s not our style.”
Flaming Youth: “Well,”
Youth adds, shrugging in mock disappointment.
Flaming Youth: “It kind of is.”
Press nodded, shrugging his shoulders in agreement, and then turning back to Alex with his mask of non-sincerity.
Press: “Yeah, but….we’d never do that to you!”
He exclaimed, twinkles dancing in his eyes from fake tears.
Press: “Alfred Candy came to us, at the last minute, and handed us this crappy script that basically said that we had to come out at the end and make the creampuff look even better than he did, by allowing him to slip through the cracks and giving you the beat down of your life. We didn’t have any intentions of tangling with you, Alex. You gotta believe us.”
Press wiped at his eyes to remove the fake tears, and then looked back to Cross with mock sincerity, nodding in his direction.
Press: “I’m so glad you understand, Alex. Business is business. We all have mouths to feed.”
Youth stepped up beside Cross, and slapped him good naturedly on the shoulder. Alex recoiled, having forgotten he was even in the room after Press’ dramatic performance.
Flaming Youth: “So there it is, Alex.”
Youth stated rather matter-of-factly.
Flaming Youth: “Now we can all be pals again. Friends. Amigos. Compadres. Besties. BFF’s! As you see, we’re not bad guys. Hell, we’re all a lot alike. We even run in some of the same circles. Just think of the possibilities, bucko. This has to be a huge relief, man. Lord knows, I feel better. Now you don’t have to worry about seeing us stalking down the ramp way looking for trouble.”
Youth starts for the door, but turns back to watch as Press stands up, the mask of fake remorse melting into one of malice and disdain. He reaches into his pocket and produces a small metallic key, presumably for the cuffs around Cross’ wrists, and leans down to look Alex Cross directly in the eyes.
Press: “Nah, you don’t have to worry about seeing us stalking down the ramp way looking for trouble…….until you do. And when that day comes, son, there ain’t a circle in this world big enough to protect you from us.”
With that, he drops the keys directly in front of Cross, and starts for the door. Cross watches him pass through the portal with baleful eyes, and Youth just holds his hands out to his sides.
Flaming Youth: “What can I say, dude. Sometimes being pals is tough.” Youth throws Alex a boyish grin, and then dashes out the door.
Cross breathes a breath of relief, then reaches down for the keys that Press left behind. As he did a shadow darkened over him, and a white pointed toe stepped into his view and tapped gingerly on the locker room tile.
Brandy Irving is walking and talking with 4Loco down the arena hallway.
Brandy Irving: “So, I know that Sam said things were over, but I just don’t understand why he’s gotta keep me at arm’s distance, right? I mean, it’s not like I’m asking him to hold hands with me! I am the Backstage Interviewer for his stupid federation! That means we got to WORK together. He needs to talk to me! You know?!“
4Loco is incredibly uninterested in the entire thing. This walk, for him, is more about finding an appropriate place to ditch Brandy Irving than listen to her whine about her failed relationship with Sam Xayachack. 4Loco spots it, from around the corner the Bombtrax walk in the opposite direction.
4Loco: “Yeah, that’s great, Britney. I’ve got to catch up with my boys here. You take ‘er easy, all right?”
4Loco joins in walking with Bombtrax. Brandy Irving can hear him snicker to them.
4loco: “Thank you, my saviors! Now… let me talk to you two about this thing I’m planning for next show. Just came to me, you might say. You two interested?”
And they’re out of earshot. Brandy Irving rolls her eyes and rounds the corner. Surely there’s someone who’ll listen to her whine? Just then, a towel-clad Alex Cross is kicked out of a locker room looking completely startled to find himself in the hallway in front of Brandy.
Brandy Irving: “Oh my God…”
Alex Cross: “Uhh.
Unreal: "There's the bastard!"
It's out of the blue. Unreal wields a baseball bat like she means it. Alex Cross barely gets to turn around, Brandy Irving winces right before Unreal swings that bat for the fence. Alex Cross takes one right to the back of the head with an ugly sounding CRACK and lurches forward into an incredibly surprised Brandy Irving.
Unreal's teeth are grit, her face is pure malice as she presses her advantage over the suddenly stunned Alex Cross. The bat is brought back and SMASHED right into Cross' back which drops him down to his knees all while Brandy Irving watches in complete and utter dismay. It may as well be in slow motion. Unreal squares her shoulders, plants her feet and swings a home run. It must look like a gangland execution as the bat cracks off Alex Cross's skull, after which he topples to the floor in an unconscious heap.
Unreal relaxes the bat, giving it an expert little spin in her hands and catching it and grinning with a wink at Brandy before she surveys the prone body before her with a sudden pop of chewing gum from her smirking lips. She gives an unceremonious nudge with the toe of her boot to make sure Cross is down. Countless, untold seconds unfold before Brandy Irving shakily musters the gumption to respond.
Brandy Irving: "W-WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ALEX CROSS?!"
The question brings a confused expression to Unreal's previously sadistically malicious face. She pops another bubble, this one with the hint of confusion merged in the playful sound.
Unreal: "Alex Cross? Who the fuggle is Alex Cross? I thought this was STIFF? You know, my opponent for tonight?"
Brandy Irving is speechless, and makes a sound properly illustrating that fact. Unreal is bewildered. Unreal processes the information, pops another bubble, and looks down at Alex Cross’ unconscious form.
Unreal: “Huh. Thought he was someone else. This isn't going to make it onto T.V. is it?"
Unreal drops the bat like she just, innocently and accidentally, picked up a murder weapon and doesn't want her own prints on it. What do you say to the embarrassed woman standing over a brutally beaten man? Brandy Irving is speechless, and wordlessly points over at the camera which has captured the whole tragicomic event for posterity. Unreal pops another nonchalant bubble, still processing what news she’s just gathered.
Unreal: "Oh. Well, shit. Where the hell was security to stop me? Damn. And now look, I’m going to be late for a match with the guy I was supposed to have just crippled. Thanks a lot to numb nuts here for being in the wrong place at the wrong time."
She looks down with well-feigned grief at Alex, who’s leg twitches. It can’t be good. Unreal pops another bubble of gum.
Unreal: "Shit. Sorry ‘bout your luck, Alice.”
Brandy Irving shakily interjects.
Brandy Irving: “It’s Alex, you psycho.”
Unreal gets an even more awkward expression.
Unreal: “Really?”
She glances back down apologetically at Alex.
Unreal: “Well, guess that makes me two-for-two today. Seriously. Not my day at all.”
She blows another disinterested bubble then looks at Brandy Irving with a bored glance.
Unreal: “If he wakes up tell him it was an accident. Nah, tell him the BombTrax did it, yeah. You seen ‘em walk by. I'll send him flowers or something. Maybe a card. You know? Something that screams: ‘GET WELL, BITCH’. Something classy. I’ll leave that shit up to you, though. I wasn’t even here."
She giggles, obviously over it. Maybe the video itself doesn't catch it, but the lens sure picks up that wry, snide and devilish little grin on Unreal’s red lips as she steals past Brandy Irving, leaning in with a callous whisper into Brandy’s ear.
Unreal: “Word from the wise: you so much as wink at my Sammy and the next bat’s coming for your head, going straight down your damn throat, and you’ll be shitting splinters till the day I let you stop. You just better hope you see me coming, bitch.”
She moves past the stunned Brandy, and saunters confidently off, popping another bubble.
Unreal: “Toodles.”
Unreal brushes past the camera, leaving Brandy Irving wide-eyed and threatened, shuddering as she looks around for 4Loco, or someone to help!
Brandy Irving: “So, I know that Sam said things were over, but I just don’t understand why he’s gotta keep me at arm’s distance, right? I mean, it’s not like I’m asking him to hold hands with me! I am the Backstage Interviewer for his stupid federation! That means we got to WORK together. He needs to talk to me! You know?!“
4Loco is incredibly uninterested in the entire thing. This walk, for him, is more about finding an appropriate place to ditch Brandy Irving than listen to her whine about her failed relationship with Sam Xayachack. 4Loco spots it, from around the corner the Bombtrax walk in the opposite direction.
4Loco: “Yeah, that’s great, Britney. I’ve got to catch up with my boys here. You take ‘er easy, all right?”
4Loco joins in walking with Bombtrax. Brandy Irving can hear him snicker to them.
4loco: “Thank you, my saviors! Now… let me talk to you two about this thing I’m planning for next show. Just came to me, you might say. You two interested?”
And they’re out of earshot. Brandy Irving rolls her eyes and rounds the corner. Surely there’s someone who’ll listen to her whine? Just then, a towel-clad Alex Cross is kicked out of a locker room looking completely startled to find himself in the hallway in front of Brandy.
Brandy Irving: “Oh my God…”
Alex Cross: “Uhh.
Unreal: "There's the bastard!"
It's out of the blue. Unreal wields a baseball bat like she means it. Alex Cross barely gets to turn around, Brandy Irving winces right before Unreal swings that bat for the fence. Alex Cross takes one right to the back of the head with an ugly sounding CRACK and lurches forward into an incredibly surprised Brandy Irving.
Unreal's teeth are grit, her face is pure malice as she presses her advantage over the suddenly stunned Alex Cross. The bat is brought back and SMASHED right into Cross' back which drops him down to his knees all while Brandy Irving watches in complete and utter dismay. It may as well be in slow motion. Unreal squares her shoulders, plants her feet and swings a home run. It must look like a gangland execution as the bat cracks off Alex Cross's skull, after which he topples to the floor in an unconscious heap.
Unreal relaxes the bat, giving it an expert little spin in her hands and catching it and grinning with a wink at Brandy before she surveys the prone body before her with a sudden pop of chewing gum from her smirking lips. She gives an unceremonious nudge with the toe of her boot to make sure Cross is down. Countless, untold seconds unfold before Brandy Irving shakily musters the gumption to respond.
Brandy Irving: "W-WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ALEX CROSS?!"
The question brings a confused expression to Unreal's previously sadistically malicious face. She pops another bubble, this one with the hint of confusion merged in the playful sound.
Unreal: "Alex Cross? Who the fuggle is Alex Cross? I thought this was STIFF? You know, my opponent for tonight?"
Brandy Irving is speechless, and makes a sound properly illustrating that fact. Unreal is bewildered. Unreal processes the information, pops another bubble, and looks down at Alex Cross’ unconscious form.
Unreal: “Huh. Thought he was someone else. This isn't going to make it onto T.V. is it?"
Unreal drops the bat like she just, innocently and accidentally, picked up a murder weapon and doesn't want her own prints on it. What do you say to the embarrassed woman standing over a brutally beaten man? Brandy Irving is speechless, and wordlessly points over at the camera which has captured the whole tragicomic event for posterity. Unreal pops another nonchalant bubble, still processing what news she’s just gathered.
Unreal: "Oh. Well, shit. Where the hell was security to stop me? Damn. And now look, I’m going to be late for a match with the guy I was supposed to have just crippled. Thanks a lot to numb nuts here for being in the wrong place at the wrong time."
She looks down with well-feigned grief at Alex, who’s leg twitches. It can’t be good. Unreal pops another bubble of gum.
Unreal: "Shit. Sorry ‘bout your luck, Alice.”
Brandy Irving shakily interjects.
Brandy Irving: “It’s Alex, you psycho.”
Unreal gets an even more awkward expression.
Unreal: “Really?”
She glances back down apologetically at Alex.
Unreal: “Well, guess that makes me two-for-two today. Seriously. Not my day at all.”
She blows another disinterested bubble then looks at Brandy Irving with a bored glance.
Unreal: “If he wakes up tell him it was an accident. Nah, tell him the BombTrax did it, yeah. You seen ‘em walk by. I'll send him flowers or something. Maybe a card. You know? Something that screams: ‘GET WELL, BITCH’. Something classy. I’ll leave that shit up to you, though. I wasn’t even here."
She giggles, obviously over it. Maybe the video itself doesn't catch it, but the lens sure picks up that wry, snide and devilish little grin on Unreal’s red lips as she steals past Brandy Irving, leaning in with a callous whisper into Brandy’s ear.
Unreal: “Word from the wise: you so much as wink at my Sammy and the next bat’s coming for your head, going straight down your damn throat, and you’ll be shitting splinters till the day I let you stop. You just better hope you see me coming, bitch.”
She moves past the stunned Brandy, and saunters confidently off, popping another bubble.
Unreal: “Toodles.”
Unreal brushes past the camera, leaving Brandy Irving wide-eyed and threatened, shuddering as she looks around for 4Loco, or someone to help!
Main Event
Singles Match
Unreal versus STIFF
The house lights fall and a hush falls over the crowd. The soft piano intro of “Roses” by Outkast hits the speakers as a masked man pushes through the black curtain at the gorilla position. He is barefoot and wears a tuxedo jacket over his wrestling trunks. Around his neck is a bow tie. And he is holding a very large bouquet of red roses.
Rhonda Armstrong: “Introducing first… by way of Romance, Arkansas weighing in at 220 lbs… STIFF!!!!!!”
He makes his way to the ring passing them out to the ladies in the crowd. With two left, he gives one to Constance Church at ringside, then slides into the ring with his final rose.
Philo B. Pope: “Look at this smooth motherfucker right here. And suddenly, Constance Church is in love for the fifty third time tonight.”
Constance Church: “So… am I expected to hold this for the whole match?”
Constance Church, with pure distaste, plops the rose on the floor behind the announce table like it were diseased. And then the lights begin to flash in rhythm to Bjork's Army of Me. Unreal comes out with a wide celebratory smile and plays the fans from the top of the ramp.
Rhonda Armstrong: “And coming to the ring next straight from Moosejaw, Saskatchewan, Canada tipping the scales at 125 lbs…. UN…. REAAAAAAAAAAAALLLL!!!”
Unreal comes to the ring like it were a royal procession. Slow and methodical, looking at just about everyone's face in the audience. She blows a cute little kiss to just about everyone. Then a fan reaches out to touch her and she gets angry. A glare and gritted teeth and it's a lucky thing she doesn't punch the pervert's lights out then and there. Thankfully there's a ring security official nearby to make sure that doesn't happen, he ushers her back on course to the ring. Then it's all smiles again, and she hops up onto a knee on the ring apron and playfully dangles her other leg down before throwing it up and poses gleefully, aiming her hand as though it were a pretend gun at Stiff in the ring, who feigns being shot in the heart. Then she sashays across the ring apron, sliding her hand along the rope and licking her lips like a hungry cat before she slips through the ropes into the ring with a quick wiggle of her firm behind.
Constance Church: “So… the craziest bitch on the planet who happens to be dating your boss versus a lovesick luchadore is our main event? *sarcastic* Wonder how this is going to go?”
Philo B. Pope: “This motherfucker STIFF is hoping to do better with Unreal than that motherfucker Alex Cross did. Shit. Motherfuck I would not want to be Alex Cross tonight.”
Constance Church: “You mean Alice Cross.”
Constance snickers as she pulls out a nail file and starts distractedly doing her nails.
Philo B. Pope: “Well, the Bombtrax did take his balls.”
Constance Church: “I thought Unreal did a better job of hitting ‘um out of the park, to tell the truth.”
The bell sounds to start off the match and STIFF offers his final rose to Unreal. Stiff’s hand is outstretched, and Unreal steps forward giddily to take the rose before planting one foot behind her and slamming the toe of her boot up into his hand, kicking at the rose, but getting more hand than anything else.
Constance Church: “Wish I’d thought of that.”
STIFF did not appreciate that unprecedented kick to the hand and lets loose a charging, sudden stiff-armed lariat that practically takes Unreal’s head off.
Constance Church: “And the bitch is down, haha!”
Philo B. Pope: “That motherfucker works STIFF.”
Constance Church: “Stiffer than Luke Knux???”
STIFF wastes no time leaning down, gripping Unreal’s hair and dragging her up to a seat and proceeds to blatantly and flagrantly rub his groin area into her face with a taunting display of machismo before he flattens her again with a knee right to her jaw! He rebounds off the ropes and makes a particular show of dancing over the fallen Unreal as he leaps over her and bounces off the other rope then drops down with an arrogant knuckle punch right between Unreal’s eyes!
Philo B. Pope: “STIFF with some motherfucking skull fuckery!”
Constance Church: “This Unreal bitch must love that shit, eh?”
Philo B. Pope: “She looks like she can take it..”
Constance Church: “HA!”
STIFF isn’t finished either. He gets Unreal up to her feet only to plant her back down with a quick release snap suplex that quakes the ring from the impact. But STIFF doesn’t let go! He gets her up for another, only this time a long-hold vertical suplex that has the crowd first counting it off, then wincing from that impact. And STIFF isn’t done there, either! He gets Unreal back up, leaves her standing as he readjusts and gets behind her, locking on a full nelson and flaunting another exaggerated hip grind to mimic a crude act between the two before he PLANTS her with a belly-to-back suplex that folds and crumples Unreal into a heap across the ring.
Philo B. Pope: “If it wasn’t for date rape STIFF would never get laid!”
Constance Church: “Well. Unreal’s gotta earn a living somehow. ‘Sides. She earned this shit from that beatdown on Alice Cross.”
Unreal is moving, dazed, but stirring. STIFF is doing a saucy little dance in center-ring before he sees his opponent starting to crawl to use the ropes to brace herself up when he charges at her, aiming a knee for her head that could likely split the atom, but Unreal drops out of the way and STIFF ousts himself through the ropes and tips onto the ring apron!
Constance Church: “Aw, Come on, STIFFY. Don’t let Sam’s piece of ass push you around like that!”
Philo B. Pope: “Fuck! STIFF even lands STIFF!”
Unreal is climbing to her feet slowly, using the ropes for leverage, but STIFF is already up on the apron gripping her suddenly and quickly, and SNAPPING her out onto the hard outside concrete with a vicious suplex!
Philo B. Pope: “And there went Sam’s motherfucking plans to Netflix and chill later!
Constance Church: “Way I see it… STIFF’s making a case to steal Sam’s girl.. OR kill her. I’m trying to keep it light for the kiddies. Nah. Fuck that. KILL THAT BITCH, STIFFY. I WANT MY DAMN BACKSTAGE LUKE KNUX PASS!”
STIFF, still on the ring apron flaunts to the crowd about his supremacy as he stalks the ring apron and soaks up a bizarre mixture of BOOOS and CHEERS indicative of a fanbase not entirely sure WHAT to make of this masked marauder. Unreal starts to stir again, awkwardly lifting herself to her feet in time to look up to see STIFF double-axe-handling his way down at her. She’s fast, spinning out of the way and unleashing a wicked spinning heel kick into the back of STIFF’s head that absolutely plants him face first into the hard concrete floor.
Philo B. Pope: “Fuck your face til your nose breaks!”
Constance Church: “So.. uhhh… Sam’s bitch can fight? Guess I’m not jumping her after the show.”
And Unreal isn’t done. She unleashes a series of hard kicks into STIFF’s side that look like they must hurt, then she doesn’t waste any time driving him up to his feet and steers him towards the ring post which she stands him in front of, and in a blink of an eye unleashes a serious roundhouse kick that knocks STIFF into the post.
Constance Church: “K, seriously. Is there anything this STIFF guy WON’T screw???”
Philo B. Pope: “So far, he’s the only motherfucker you haven’t offered to screw!”
Constance Church: “Do I look like I’m one step up from a ring post to you? DON’T ANSWER THAT!”
STIFF isn’t folded across the post for long, even in spite of Unreal following up with a flurry of kidney punches, she spins him around by the literal seat of his pants and rolls him back into the ring. She is certified pissed as she moves over to the guardrail, threatens a few of the onlookers with a scowl enough to grant her some room to reach over and grab one of the folding chairs from them, and moves back with it in her grasp to the ring. Inside the ring, before she can even enter, REF admonishes her with a ‘get that out of here’ scolding.
Constance Church: “Now, REF, on the other hand. There’s a nice piece of masked tail. I wonder if he might be Luke Knux under that mask?”
Philo B. Pope: “No chance. REF got no tattoos. Knuxy is fucking covered in ink.”
Constance Church: “Mmmmm. He’s gonna be covered in something else soon enough.”
Unreal’s angry glare is forced to concede to REF’s authority, at least for now. She drops the chair and climbs up onto the ring apron only to catch STIFF charging at her with the stiffest hip check you’ll ever see that sends her soaring off the ring apron and colliding painfully with the guardrail she was just antagonizing at.
Philo B. Pope: “Biggety fucking bang. I bet that shit felt real to Unreal!”
Constance Church: “What? They gave you pre orchestrated lines to use? I am so out of here after I get Luke Knux’ phone number. Maybe Jamie Wheeler’s, too.”
Philo B. Pope: “Orchestra? No. But I got some fine ass Beethoven’s 5th and a little Gorilla Glue #4. Hell motherfucking yeah.”
The frame of the guardrail has bent awkwardly around Unreal’s crumpled form, and STIFF is definitely pleased to survey his carnage from the ring. The crowd around the guardrail is making sure everyone’s all right as Unreal may well be completely unconscious, or worse.
Constance Church: “I hope she’s dead.”
Philo B. Pope: “I think you just fucking passed Johnny Raike as the biggest bitch in Pure Amusement..”
Constance Church: “Really? You mean it? I’ve never had to do absolutely nothing to win something in my life.”
STIFF climbs out of the ring, taking his time with a ginger little stroll around ringside, arms splayed outward, soaking the praise, adulation, and undying hatred the fans are throwing onto this unexpected match, and unlikely villainous hero named STIFF, who is now dragging Unreal up to her feet and making a show of letting her try and stand on her own only to crumple painfully to her knees like she can’t stand under her own power. STIFF makes a show of hamming it up to the crowd, pointing and laughing at his drained opponent.
Philo B. Pope: “Unreal is down on her knees in front of one STIFF motherfucker!”
Constance Church: “Why am I not surprised? This bitch is blowing everyone. Wonder how far away SHE is from making it to a management gig here?”
STIFF has had enough of his showboating and makes a show of pawing at Unreal’s ass as he slings her back into the ring and climbs in after her. STIFF makes a deliberate show of delaying the match, strutting around to the corners of the ring and taunting to the crowd. Unreal lays in a heap in the center ring breathing heavily. STIFF moves over to her, stands her up and plays to the crowd while he stands behind her giving her ass a deliberate, arrogant and taunting little smack before her grips her in close and hits a…
Philo B. Pope: “OSAKA STREET CUTTER! STIFF DID IT!”
Constance Church: “More like he did Unreal!”
STIFF rolls Unreal over and goes for a lewd, taunting pin.
Unreal lifts the shoulder and STIFF is beyond stunned. He glares at REF who holds the hands up defensively. STIFF scowls and drags himself and UNREAL back up to a stand. He sets it up once again, the Osaka street cutter!
Constance Church: “Well, now that this is all but over, what about those Luke Knux tickets?”
Philo B. Pope: “Those tickets been sold out for a month, but I know a guy..”
Constance Church: “LISTEN, asshole. You said you’d get me backstage. You renege on that and I will CUT YOU, you got me?”
Philo B. Pope: “I said I could get you in line. In a long motherfucking line.”
Constance Church: “That is some serious bullshit right there. Well, back to the action where Sam’s bitch is getting SPANKED. At least something’s going my way tonight.”
This time STIFF wastes no time going in for the quick roll up pin, nothing fancy.
Philo B. Pope: “NO?!”
Unreal kicks up with a lot more spunk than she had before and STIFF, and the crowd is stunned. STIFF glares at REF as he clings to Unreal’s hair, readying to drag her back up to her feet. When he does, he’s equally surprised to find her standing on her own.
Philo B. Pope: “She’s up and still able to Netfllix and chill!”
Constance Church: “This sucks. Just die already. Or lose… or… fuck this. Where’s my knife.”
STIFF slams into her with an intended stiff lariat, but Unreal, instead, twists around it like a snake, locking up STIFF’s arms and suddenly and unexpectedly trapping STIFF into a crucifix armbar!
Philo B. Pope: “Sam’s got some fucked up friends. Limber though.”
Constance Church: “No wonder he likes her. Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t order that pizza….”
Philo B. Pope: “She is the only chick around with an ass hotter than Genesis’.”
Constance Church: “Oi. Where’d I put that finger gun I had…”
STIFF grunts and tries to roll his shoulders before slamming Unreal down with an impromptu samoan drop that shudders the ring. You can see the frustration piling onto STIFF as he sits up, gets to his feet and again, dragging Unreal with him and hammer tosses her with extreme force into the ropes. But when she hits the ropes she uses them to reverse momentum and spin back into the ring of her own volition, standing back in the ring and rolling her neck to get some kinks out. STIFF is angry at the no-sell and he lunges at her only to find himself on the receiving end of a step-up enziguri that staggers him backward.
Constance Church: “Okay, bitch. We get it. You’re like Bruce Lee or some shit. Doesn’t change the fact you’re banging the boss. I’M OVER IT!”
Philo B. Pope: “He didn’t go down, but STIFF is doing some funny shit staggering around.”
Unreal looks almost energized and the crowd is stirring as she turns towards the ropes, steps up and springboards back at an unsuspecting STIFF with an impressive spinning Tope! And STIFF is down!
Philo B. Pope: “The shit just got Unreal!!!”
Constance Church: “Shut the fuck up, you stoner-ass mother fucker. Get me backstage to see Luke Knux, already!”
Philo B. Pope: “Hey. How many motherfucking times are you gonna ask me out to Knuxy’s concert?
Constance Church: “About infinity times 10 times the times you’re going to say no. So just get me backstage!”
Unreal is on her feet and shooting some hard, stiff kicks into STIFF’s side before she gets him back to his feet. But the larger man isn’t done. He fires a right, then a left, then another hard right haymaker that sends Unreal staggering back towards a corner. STIFF follows her in with a frightful lunge but she turns and runs up the turnbuckles and flips over him to end up behind him. It’s fast. She boots to his ass repeatedly to pin him into the corner. STIFF fires an elbow backward which Unreal hooks with her arm, then the other and shocks the crowd by locking in her Gory Submission finisher the Unreality!!!
Constance Church: “How the fuck does she have him up!?”
Philo B. Pope: “She can’t hold him. The STIFF motherfucker’s too big!”
STIFF is in pain, but the much larger, heavier man is causing Unreal’s legs to shudder and buckle under his weight far too quickly and she drops him down with as much force as she can muster with a gory bomb! Unreal’s definitely winded after this marathon of a match. And STIFF is down. Unreal is sluggish as she rises to her feet, turns, glares down at STIFF before she seizes at his legs, folds them up like a pretzel in the center of the ring and locks him into her gorilla clutch submission, The Unreality!
Philo B. Pope: “This motherfucker is done. Right there in the middle of the motherfucking ring with nowhere to go.”
Constance Church: “Whaaaat? That Unreal bitch REALLY cheated and everyone knows it. She’s curried the favor of the management. This match was rigged, dammit!”
Philo B. Pope: “That dude is the STIFFEST worker on the card. If anything Sam gave her someone double tough to shut everyone the fuck up.”
Constance Church: “Oh yeah? Well…”
Constance considers every possible comeback then crosses her arms stiffly.
Constance Church: “Shut up.”
STIFF is holding on for dear life in the ring as REF has slid in to check on the pained main. He’s got nowhere to go, and Unreal is torquing the pressure on this much easier submission hold to keep locked in. STIFF is in pain, but holding on. He’s waving REF off. Unreal’s getting angry, you can hear her shouting from the ring.
Unreal: “TAP OUT YOU STUPID SHIT, OR I’LL BREAK YOUR DAMN LEGS!”
Constance Church: “Y’ouch. Guess I’m REALLY not jumping her after the show.”
Philo B. Pope: “That’s only because Xayachack is probably right behind the curtain ready to pounce on her as soon as he can. The motherfucker.”
She’s torquing STIFF’s legs so hard she just might separate them from his body. She even wedges a knee forcefully into his groin to extend the pain that must be radiating down STIFF’s spine. The knee does the trick. STIFF reluctantly and grudgingly taps his palm on the mat. REF calls for the ring bell.
Philo B. Pope: “Crazy motherfucking bitch did it!”
Constance Church: “Uhm… yeah, about all that shit I was talking, Unreal? Uh… Philo, she won’t watch this, right?”
Unreal isn’t letting go though. REF urges her, but she keeps the submission locked on and angles STIFF’s back even worse to apply pressure to his spine.
Philo B. Pope: “Her and Sam have sure sat through worse wrestling shows when they Netflix and chill!”
Constance Church: “Oh. Shit. Well… Heh, HEY UNREAL! LOVE YOUR WORK… If STIFF dies does that mean his roses might be valuable, heh heh heh?”
While Constance Church is collecting her rose off the floor behind the announce table, the ring official is sounding the bell repeatedly to stop. REF is at Unreal, and finally forces her to relinquish her agonizing grip on STIFF and drop his ready-to-pass out form to the canvas.
Philo B. Pope: “STIFF is...STIFF.”
Constance Church: “Clever. But seriously. Someone might want to stop this….”
Philo B. Pope: “Yeah. One. Two. Three. NOT IT!”
REF is ready to let bygones be bygones, Rhonda Armstrong is entering the ring ready to call the match but Unreal grabs the mic from her hands and shoves her off the ring apron before she can enter.
Unreal: “Get the fuck out of my ring.”
Rhonda lands hard on the outside and security is quick to respond. Those two at the announce table are cringing in the background. REF moves in to act as an intervening force but finds himself getting superkicked the FUCK out by UNREAL. And security surrounds the ring, a medical examiner checks on Rhonda.
Philo B. Pope: “DAMN! They are fucking up Rhonda tonight!”
Constance Church: “Yeah. And for the first time in like... the last 3 minutes I feel really, really… No. Fuck it. I’m not sorry for her. Kick that bitch’s ass, Unreal!”
Unreal flashes a cheshire cat grin out at the fans as she circles the prone bodies of REF and STIFF.
Unreal: “See this? All this? And I barely broke a sweat. Just the beginning.”
4Loco is present and he’s climbing the ring steps but stops as Unreal points him out.
Unreal: “Get the fuck out of here, you think you’re going to stop me?”
It’s a stare down. Unreal holding the ring hostage with security just waiting to get in… 4Loco holds up.
Unreal: “That’s what I thought. I didn’t want to have to pull rank like this tonight. But you know who I am. You know who’s kissing my ass. Rumors spread like wildfire around here. What are you going to do? APPREHEND me?! And you really think it’ll stick with your boss wrapped so tight right around my finger like--”
"What you Need" by Galactic kicks in over the speaker and cuts Unreal off. The fans are on their feet, curious to see who’s coming out of the entranceway. It’s Sam Xayachack, DEFINITELY not wanting to be out here in front of the fans. He looks around red-faced, and red-eyed before he looks down at the ring, and Unreal. He lifts his own microphone.
Sam Xayachack: “Okay, baby, you’ve had your fun. Come on. Get the fuck out of there.”
From the ring Unreal’s snarl has turned to a classy little smile.
Unreal: “Hey, Sammy. See what I did?”
Sam Xayachack: “Yeah, I see it. Now come on..”
Unreal: “Ain’t I great? You love watching my ass kick other asses around, don’tcha, Sammy boy? And I can do so much more next event. When we’re back on P.A.W. turf.”
Sam’s head is shaking from the ramp. It spoils Unreal’s shift in mood.
Sam Xayachack: “I ain’t playin’ with you.”
Unreal: “Excuse me?”
Sam Xayachack is embarrassed. He looks out at the crowd and you can read the ‘I don’t want to air dirty laundry in front of these people’ expression on his face from a mile away.
Sam Xayachack: “There’s not going to be a next event for you.”
Unreal: “WHAT?!”
Sam Xayachack is reluctant, but he moves forward, closer to the ring.
Sam Xayachack: “You heard me..”
Sam drops the mic and locks eyes with Unreal. He lifts his chin, slightly, encouraging her to come with him.
Unreal: “But… Sammy? I--”
With a sigh, and an innocent-looking pout Unreal drops her microphone and steps towards the ring ropes. She climbs out and stomps her way up the entrance dejectedly to take her place at Sam’s side.
Philo B. Pope: “What the fuck? It’s over? Just like that? No blood, or crying, or baby mommas? This show motherfucking sucks!”
Constance Church: “Guess we know who wears the pants in that relationship. HAHA. Fuck what I said. I’m NOT Sorry. Unreal’s a little bitch. HAHAHAHAHA.”
As Sam and Unreal begin to leave, she grabs him suddenly, right by his balls, with an angry glare into his eyes, and leads him the rest of the way out.
Constance Church: *gulps* “Oh…. Uh… QUIT SCREWING WITH MY MICROPHONE, PHILO!”
Ring crew and officials gather into the ring to clean STIFF and everything else out.
Philo B. Pope: “So, NOW it’s motherfucking done?!”
Constance Church: “No fucking way it’s not done! Look up at the ramp. It’s the Suicidal Scumbag, Luke Knux, and his new band the Scumbag Society.”
Philo B. Pope: “Awwww yeah. I forgot about the main motherfucking event!”
Luke Knux opens with an insane amount of guitar riffage and virtuosity to blow the crowd away before the band even starts in. Then the band kicks in and the lights pound along in time with the opening riffs of the Scumbag Society’s own version of Fountains of Wayne’s ‘Stacey’s Mom.”
Philo B. Pope: “What? I didn't know this was a motherfucking pop band?!”
Charlotte Church is staring dreamily up at the stage.
Charlotte Church: “No… no wait. Listen. We’ve heard this before.”
The band is tight, and when the verse kicks in, it’s obvious this isn’t just any old cover of Fountains of Wayne made all the more apparent at the chorus.
Luke Knux: “... Kippy’s mom… has got it goinnnn on! Kippy’s mom… has got it goin on!”
Philo B. Pope: “Awwwww yeah. Motherfcukin’ tight, Constance!”
Philo B. Pope lights a joint, sits back and enjoys. Constance Church is in love with Luke Knux. The show fades on The Scumbag Society rocking the John A. Alario Sr. Event Center!
[/div]Rhonda Armstrong: “Introducing first… by way of Romance, Arkansas weighing in at 220 lbs… STIFF!!!!!!”
He makes his way to the ring passing them out to the ladies in the crowd. With two left, he gives one to Constance Church at ringside, then slides into the ring with his final rose.
Philo B. Pope: “Look at this smooth motherfucker right here. And suddenly, Constance Church is in love for the fifty third time tonight.”
Constance Church: “So… am I expected to hold this for the whole match?”
Constance Church, with pure distaste, plops the rose on the floor behind the announce table like it were diseased. And then the lights begin to flash in rhythm to Bjork's Army of Me. Unreal comes out with a wide celebratory smile and plays the fans from the top of the ramp.
Rhonda Armstrong: “And coming to the ring next straight from Moosejaw, Saskatchewan, Canada tipping the scales at 125 lbs…. UN…. REAAAAAAAAAAAALLLL!!!”
Unreal comes to the ring like it were a royal procession. Slow and methodical, looking at just about everyone's face in the audience. She blows a cute little kiss to just about everyone. Then a fan reaches out to touch her and she gets angry. A glare and gritted teeth and it's a lucky thing she doesn't punch the pervert's lights out then and there. Thankfully there's a ring security official nearby to make sure that doesn't happen, he ushers her back on course to the ring. Then it's all smiles again, and she hops up onto a knee on the ring apron and playfully dangles her other leg down before throwing it up and poses gleefully, aiming her hand as though it were a pretend gun at Stiff in the ring, who feigns being shot in the heart. Then she sashays across the ring apron, sliding her hand along the rope and licking her lips like a hungry cat before she slips through the ropes into the ring with a quick wiggle of her firm behind.
Constance Church: “So… the craziest bitch on the planet who happens to be dating your boss versus a lovesick luchadore is our main event? *sarcastic* Wonder how this is going to go?”
Philo B. Pope: “This motherfucker STIFF is hoping to do better with Unreal than that motherfucker Alex Cross did. Shit. Motherfuck I would not want to be Alex Cross tonight.”
Constance Church: “You mean Alice Cross.”
Constance snickers as she pulls out a nail file and starts distractedly doing her nails.
Philo B. Pope: “Well, the Bombtrax did take his balls.”
Constance Church: “I thought Unreal did a better job of hitting ‘um out of the park, to tell the truth.”
The bell sounds to start off the match and STIFF offers his final rose to Unreal. Stiff’s hand is outstretched, and Unreal steps forward giddily to take the rose before planting one foot behind her and slamming the toe of her boot up into his hand, kicking at the rose, but getting more hand than anything else.
Constance Church: “Wish I’d thought of that.”
STIFF did not appreciate that unprecedented kick to the hand and lets loose a charging, sudden stiff-armed lariat that practically takes Unreal’s head off.
Constance Church: “And the bitch is down, haha!”
Philo B. Pope: “That motherfucker works STIFF.”
Constance Church: “Stiffer than Luke Knux???”
STIFF wastes no time leaning down, gripping Unreal’s hair and dragging her up to a seat and proceeds to blatantly and flagrantly rub his groin area into her face with a taunting display of machismo before he flattens her again with a knee right to her jaw! He rebounds off the ropes and makes a particular show of dancing over the fallen Unreal as he leaps over her and bounces off the other rope then drops down with an arrogant knuckle punch right between Unreal’s eyes!
Philo B. Pope: “STIFF with some motherfucking skull fuckery!”
Constance Church: “This Unreal bitch must love that shit, eh?”
Philo B. Pope: “She looks like she can take it..”
Constance Church: “HA!”
STIFF isn’t finished either. He gets Unreal up to her feet only to plant her back down with a quick release snap suplex that quakes the ring from the impact. But STIFF doesn’t let go! He gets her up for another, only this time a long-hold vertical suplex that has the crowd first counting it off, then wincing from that impact. And STIFF isn’t done there, either! He gets Unreal back up, leaves her standing as he readjusts and gets behind her, locking on a full nelson and flaunting another exaggerated hip grind to mimic a crude act between the two before he PLANTS her with a belly-to-back suplex that folds and crumples Unreal into a heap across the ring.
Philo B. Pope: “If it wasn’t for date rape STIFF would never get laid!”
Constance Church: “Well. Unreal’s gotta earn a living somehow. ‘Sides. She earned this shit from that beatdown on Alice Cross.”
Unreal is moving, dazed, but stirring. STIFF is doing a saucy little dance in center-ring before he sees his opponent starting to crawl to use the ropes to brace herself up when he charges at her, aiming a knee for her head that could likely split the atom, but Unreal drops out of the way and STIFF ousts himself through the ropes and tips onto the ring apron!
Constance Church: “Aw, Come on, STIFFY. Don’t let Sam’s piece of ass push you around like that!”
Philo B. Pope: “Fuck! STIFF even lands STIFF!”
Unreal is climbing to her feet slowly, using the ropes for leverage, but STIFF is already up on the apron gripping her suddenly and quickly, and SNAPPING her out onto the hard outside concrete with a vicious suplex!
Philo B. Pope: “And there went Sam’s motherfucking plans to Netflix and chill later!
Constance Church: “Way I see it… STIFF’s making a case to steal Sam’s girl.. OR kill her. I’m trying to keep it light for the kiddies. Nah. Fuck that. KILL THAT BITCH, STIFFY. I WANT MY DAMN BACKSTAGE LUKE KNUX PASS!”
STIFF, still on the ring apron flaunts to the crowd about his supremacy as he stalks the ring apron and soaks up a bizarre mixture of BOOOS and CHEERS indicative of a fanbase not entirely sure WHAT to make of this masked marauder. Unreal starts to stir again, awkwardly lifting herself to her feet in time to look up to see STIFF double-axe-handling his way down at her. She’s fast, spinning out of the way and unleashing a wicked spinning heel kick into the back of STIFF’s head that absolutely plants him face first into the hard concrete floor.
Philo B. Pope: “Fuck your face til your nose breaks!”
Constance Church: “So.. uhhh… Sam’s bitch can fight? Guess I’m not jumping her after the show.”
And Unreal isn’t done. She unleashes a series of hard kicks into STIFF’s side that look like they must hurt, then she doesn’t waste any time driving him up to his feet and steers him towards the ring post which she stands him in front of, and in a blink of an eye unleashes a serious roundhouse kick that knocks STIFF into the post.
Constance Church: “K, seriously. Is there anything this STIFF guy WON’T screw???”
Philo B. Pope: “So far, he’s the only motherfucker you haven’t offered to screw!”
Constance Church: “Do I look like I’m one step up from a ring post to you? DON’T ANSWER THAT!”
STIFF isn’t folded across the post for long, even in spite of Unreal following up with a flurry of kidney punches, she spins him around by the literal seat of his pants and rolls him back into the ring. She is certified pissed as she moves over to the guardrail, threatens a few of the onlookers with a scowl enough to grant her some room to reach over and grab one of the folding chairs from them, and moves back with it in her grasp to the ring. Inside the ring, before she can even enter, REF admonishes her with a ‘get that out of here’ scolding.
Constance Church: “Now, REF, on the other hand. There’s a nice piece of masked tail. I wonder if he might be Luke Knux under that mask?”
Philo B. Pope: “No chance. REF got no tattoos. Knuxy is fucking covered in ink.”
Constance Church: “Mmmmm. He’s gonna be covered in something else soon enough.”
Unreal’s angry glare is forced to concede to REF’s authority, at least for now. She drops the chair and climbs up onto the ring apron only to catch STIFF charging at her with the stiffest hip check you’ll ever see that sends her soaring off the ring apron and colliding painfully with the guardrail she was just antagonizing at.
Philo B. Pope: “Biggety fucking bang. I bet that shit felt real to Unreal!”
Constance Church: “What? They gave you pre orchestrated lines to use? I am so out of here after I get Luke Knux’ phone number. Maybe Jamie Wheeler’s, too.”
Philo B. Pope: “Orchestra? No. But I got some fine ass Beethoven’s 5th and a little Gorilla Glue #4. Hell motherfucking yeah.”
The frame of the guardrail has bent awkwardly around Unreal’s crumpled form, and STIFF is definitely pleased to survey his carnage from the ring. The crowd around the guardrail is making sure everyone’s all right as Unreal may well be completely unconscious, or worse.
Constance Church: “I hope she’s dead.”
Philo B. Pope: “I think you just fucking passed Johnny Raike as the biggest bitch in Pure Amusement..”
Constance Church: “Really? You mean it? I’ve never had to do absolutely nothing to win something in my life.”
STIFF climbs out of the ring, taking his time with a ginger little stroll around ringside, arms splayed outward, soaking the praise, adulation, and undying hatred the fans are throwing onto this unexpected match, and unlikely villainous hero named STIFF, who is now dragging Unreal up to her feet and making a show of letting her try and stand on her own only to crumple painfully to her knees like she can’t stand under her own power. STIFF makes a show of hamming it up to the crowd, pointing and laughing at his drained opponent.
Philo B. Pope: “Unreal is down on her knees in front of one STIFF motherfucker!”
Constance Church: “Why am I not surprised? This bitch is blowing everyone. Wonder how far away SHE is from making it to a management gig here?”
STIFF has had enough of his showboating and makes a show of pawing at Unreal’s ass as he slings her back into the ring and climbs in after her. STIFF makes a deliberate show of delaying the match, strutting around to the corners of the ring and taunting to the crowd. Unreal lays in a heap in the center ring breathing heavily. STIFF moves over to her, stands her up and plays to the crowd while he stands behind her giving her ass a deliberate, arrogant and taunting little smack before her grips her in close and hits a…
Philo B. Pope: “OSAKA STREET CUTTER! STIFF DID IT!”
Constance Church: “More like he did Unreal!”
STIFF rolls Unreal over and goes for a lewd, taunting pin.
1…..
2….
---
2….
---
Unreal lifts the shoulder and STIFF is beyond stunned. He glares at REF who holds the hands up defensively. STIFF scowls and drags himself and UNREAL back up to a stand. He sets it up once again, the Osaka street cutter!
Constance Church: “Well, now that this is all but over, what about those Luke Knux tickets?”
Philo B. Pope: “Those tickets been sold out for a month, but I know a guy..”
Constance Church: “LISTEN, asshole. You said you’d get me backstage. You renege on that and I will CUT YOU, you got me?”
Philo B. Pope: “I said I could get you in line. In a long motherfucking line.”
Constance Church: “That is some serious bullshit right there. Well, back to the action where Sam’s bitch is getting SPANKED. At least something’s going my way tonight.”
This time STIFF wastes no time going in for the quick roll up pin, nothing fancy.
1……..
2……….
3----
2……….
3----
Philo B. Pope: “NO?!”
Unreal kicks up with a lot more spunk than she had before and STIFF, and the crowd is stunned. STIFF glares at REF as he clings to Unreal’s hair, readying to drag her back up to her feet. When he does, he’s equally surprised to find her standing on her own.
Philo B. Pope: “She’s up and still able to Netfllix and chill!”
Constance Church: “This sucks. Just die already. Or lose… or… fuck this. Where’s my knife.”
STIFF slams into her with an intended stiff lariat, but Unreal, instead, twists around it like a snake, locking up STIFF’s arms and suddenly and unexpectedly trapping STIFF into a crucifix armbar!
Philo B. Pope: “Sam’s got some fucked up friends. Limber though.”
Constance Church: “No wonder he likes her. Guess it’s a good thing I didn’t order that pizza….”
Philo B. Pope: “She is the only chick around with an ass hotter than Genesis’.”
Constance Church: “Oi. Where’d I put that finger gun I had…”
STIFF grunts and tries to roll his shoulders before slamming Unreal down with an impromptu samoan drop that shudders the ring. You can see the frustration piling onto STIFF as he sits up, gets to his feet and again, dragging Unreal with him and hammer tosses her with extreme force into the ropes. But when she hits the ropes she uses them to reverse momentum and spin back into the ring of her own volition, standing back in the ring and rolling her neck to get some kinks out. STIFF is angry at the no-sell and he lunges at her only to find himself on the receiving end of a step-up enziguri that staggers him backward.
Constance Church: “Okay, bitch. We get it. You’re like Bruce Lee or some shit. Doesn’t change the fact you’re banging the boss. I’M OVER IT!”
Philo B. Pope: “He didn’t go down, but STIFF is doing some funny shit staggering around.”
Unreal looks almost energized and the crowd is stirring as she turns towards the ropes, steps up and springboards back at an unsuspecting STIFF with an impressive spinning Tope! And STIFF is down!
Philo B. Pope: “The shit just got Unreal!!!”
Constance Church: “Shut the fuck up, you stoner-ass mother fucker. Get me backstage to see Luke Knux, already!”
Philo B. Pope: “Hey. How many motherfucking times are you gonna ask me out to Knuxy’s concert?
Constance Church: “About infinity times 10 times the times you’re going to say no. So just get me backstage!”
Unreal is on her feet and shooting some hard, stiff kicks into STIFF’s side before she gets him back to his feet. But the larger man isn’t done. He fires a right, then a left, then another hard right haymaker that sends Unreal staggering back towards a corner. STIFF follows her in with a frightful lunge but she turns and runs up the turnbuckles and flips over him to end up behind him. It’s fast. She boots to his ass repeatedly to pin him into the corner. STIFF fires an elbow backward which Unreal hooks with her arm, then the other and shocks the crowd by locking in her Gory Submission finisher the Unreality!!!
Constance Church: “How the fuck does she have him up!?”
Philo B. Pope: “She can’t hold him. The STIFF motherfucker’s too big!”
STIFF is in pain, but the much larger, heavier man is causing Unreal’s legs to shudder and buckle under his weight far too quickly and she drops him down with as much force as she can muster with a gory bomb! Unreal’s definitely winded after this marathon of a match. And STIFF is down. Unreal is sluggish as she rises to her feet, turns, glares down at STIFF before she seizes at his legs, folds them up like a pretzel in the center of the ring and locks him into her gorilla clutch submission, The Unreality!
Philo B. Pope: “This motherfucker is done. Right there in the middle of the motherfucking ring with nowhere to go.”
Constance Church: “Whaaaat? That Unreal bitch REALLY cheated and everyone knows it. She’s curried the favor of the management. This match was rigged, dammit!”
Philo B. Pope: “That dude is the STIFFEST worker on the card. If anything Sam gave her someone double tough to shut everyone the fuck up.”
Constance Church: “Oh yeah? Well…”
Constance considers every possible comeback then crosses her arms stiffly.
Constance Church: “Shut up.”
STIFF is holding on for dear life in the ring as REF has slid in to check on the pained main. He’s got nowhere to go, and Unreal is torquing the pressure on this much easier submission hold to keep locked in. STIFF is in pain, but holding on. He’s waving REF off. Unreal’s getting angry, you can hear her shouting from the ring.
Unreal: “TAP OUT YOU STUPID SHIT, OR I’LL BREAK YOUR DAMN LEGS!”
Constance Church: “Y’ouch. Guess I’m REALLY not jumping her after the show.”
Philo B. Pope: “That’s only because Xayachack is probably right behind the curtain ready to pounce on her as soon as he can. The motherfucker.”
She’s torquing STIFF’s legs so hard she just might separate them from his body. She even wedges a knee forcefully into his groin to extend the pain that must be radiating down STIFF’s spine. The knee does the trick. STIFF reluctantly and grudgingly taps his palm on the mat. REF calls for the ring bell.
DING! DING! DING!
Philo B. Pope: “Crazy motherfucking bitch did it!”
Constance Church: “Uhm… yeah, about all that shit I was talking, Unreal? Uh… Philo, she won’t watch this, right?”
Unreal isn’t letting go though. REF urges her, but she keeps the submission locked on and angles STIFF’s back even worse to apply pressure to his spine.
Philo B. Pope: “Her and Sam have sure sat through worse wrestling shows when they Netflix and chill!”
Constance Church: “Oh. Shit. Well… Heh, HEY UNREAL! LOVE YOUR WORK… If STIFF dies does that mean his roses might be valuable, heh heh heh?”
While Constance Church is collecting her rose off the floor behind the announce table, the ring official is sounding the bell repeatedly to stop. REF is at Unreal, and finally forces her to relinquish her agonizing grip on STIFF and drop his ready-to-pass out form to the canvas.
Philo B. Pope: “STIFF is...STIFF.”
Constance Church: “Clever. But seriously. Someone might want to stop this….”
Philo B. Pope: “Yeah. One. Two. Three. NOT IT!”
REF is ready to let bygones be bygones, Rhonda Armstrong is entering the ring ready to call the match but Unreal grabs the mic from her hands and shoves her off the ring apron before she can enter.
Unreal: “Get the fuck out of my ring.”
Rhonda lands hard on the outside and security is quick to respond. Those two at the announce table are cringing in the background. REF moves in to act as an intervening force but finds himself getting superkicked the FUCK out by UNREAL. And security surrounds the ring, a medical examiner checks on Rhonda.
Philo B. Pope: “DAMN! They are fucking up Rhonda tonight!”
Constance Church: “Yeah. And for the first time in like... the last 3 minutes I feel really, really… No. Fuck it. I’m not sorry for her. Kick that bitch’s ass, Unreal!”
Unreal flashes a cheshire cat grin out at the fans as she circles the prone bodies of REF and STIFF.
Unreal: “See this? All this? And I barely broke a sweat. Just the beginning.”
4Loco is present and he’s climbing the ring steps but stops as Unreal points him out.
Unreal: “Get the fuck out of here, you think you’re going to stop me?”
It’s a stare down. Unreal holding the ring hostage with security just waiting to get in… 4Loco holds up.
Unreal: “That’s what I thought. I didn’t want to have to pull rank like this tonight. But you know who I am. You know who’s kissing my ass. Rumors spread like wildfire around here. What are you going to do? APPREHEND me?! And you really think it’ll stick with your boss wrapped so tight right around my finger like--”
"What you Need" by Galactic kicks in over the speaker and cuts Unreal off. The fans are on their feet, curious to see who’s coming out of the entranceway. It’s Sam Xayachack, DEFINITELY not wanting to be out here in front of the fans. He looks around red-faced, and red-eyed before he looks down at the ring, and Unreal. He lifts his own microphone.
Sam Xayachack: “Okay, baby, you’ve had your fun. Come on. Get the fuck out of there.”
From the ring Unreal’s snarl has turned to a classy little smile.
Unreal: “Hey, Sammy. See what I did?”
Sam Xayachack: “Yeah, I see it. Now come on..”
Unreal: “Ain’t I great? You love watching my ass kick other asses around, don’tcha, Sammy boy? And I can do so much more next event. When we’re back on P.A.W. turf.”
Sam’s head is shaking from the ramp. It spoils Unreal’s shift in mood.
Sam Xayachack: “I ain’t playin’ with you.”
Unreal: “Excuse me?”
Sam Xayachack is embarrassed. He looks out at the crowd and you can read the ‘I don’t want to air dirty laundry in front of these people’ expression on his face from a mile away.
Sam Xayachack: “There’s not going to be a next event for you.”
Unreal: “WHAT?!”
Sam Xayachack is reluctant, but he moves forward, closer to the ring.
Sam Xayachack: “You heard me..”
Sam drops the mic and locks eyes with Unreal. He lifts his chin, slightly, encouraging her to come with him.
Unreal: “But… Sammy? I--”
With a sigh, and an innocent-looking pout Unreal drops her microphone and steps towards the ring ropes. She climbs out and stomps her way up the entrance dejectedly to take her place at Sam’s side.
Philo B. Pope: “What the fuck? It’s over? Just like that? No blood, or crying, or baby mommas? This show motherfucking sucks!”
Constance Church: “Guess we know who wears the pants in that relationship. HAHA. Fuck what I said. I’m NOT Sorry. Unreal’s a little bitch. HAHAHAHAHA.”
As Sam and Unreal begin to leave, she grabs him suddenly, right by his balls, with an angry glare into his eyes, and leads him the rest of the way out.
Constance Church: *gulps* “Oh…. Uh… QUIT SCREWING WITH MY MICROPHONE, PHILO!”
Ring crew and officials gather into the ring to clean STIFF and everything else out.
Philo B. Pope: “So, NOW it’s motherfucking done?!”
Constance Church: “No fucking way it’s not done! Look up at the ramp. It’s the Suicidal Scumbag, Luke Knux, and his new band the Scumbag Society.”
Philo B. Pope: “Awwww yeah. I forgot about the main motherfucking event!”
Luke Knux opens with an insane amount of guitar riffage and virtuosity to blow the crowd away before the band even starts in. Then the band kicks in and the lights pound along in time with the opening riffs of the Scumbag Society’s own version of Fountains of Wayne’s ‘Stacey’s Mom.”
Philo B. Pope: “What? I didn't know this was a motherfucking pop band?!”
Charlotte Church is staring dreamily up at the stage.
Charlotte Church: “No… no wait. Listen. We’ve heard this before.”
The band is tight, and when the verse kicks in, it’s obvious this isn’t just any old cover of Fountains of Wayne made all the more apparent at the chorus.
Luke Knux: “... Kippy’s mom… has got it goinnnn on! Kippy’s mom… has got it goin on!”
Philo B. Pope: “Awwwww yeah. Motherfcukin’ tight, Constance!”
Philo B. Pope lights a joint, sits back and enjoys. Constance Church is in love with Luke Knux. The show fades on The Scumbag Society rocking the John A. Alario Sr. Event Center!