Post by Double F C on Apr 29, 2016 16:58:49 GMT
Francis Ford Cuppola strode through Haneda airport on a mission. Behind him in lockstep with the beret-wearing, scarf-bearing avant-garde D-List director, and wrestling promoter walked his assistant, Rodney P, who had organized the entire venture based off his boss’ desire to promote the greatest wrestling Tag Team he could find from France, (he’s avant-garde, don’t ask).
Francis Ford Cuppola: What the hell does NJFC stand for again?
Francis remarked over his shoulder to Rodney P who dragged Francis’ luggage on his shoulders as well as his own and struggled to keep up.
Rodney P: New—
Francis Ford Cuppola: Whatever. There they are.
Francis stopped, forcing Rodney P to stop dead as well. They both eyed the two individuals Francis had blindly entered into New Japan Fighting Championship’s upcoming Tag Team tournament.
They stood facing Francis and his assistant silently and ominously in front of the baggage carousel dressed in horizontal striped black and white shirts, black pants with suspenders, black berets and white face paint, complete with blackened eyes and lips.
The French Mime Assassins.
It was hard to gauge their reaction. With confusion, Francis spoke hushed and confusedly over his shoulder to Rodney, his eyes never leaving the French Mimes.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Why are they dressed like clowns?
Rodney P: …Because they’re… Mimes..?
Francis blinked with uncertainty, then shrugged it off.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Okay. If that’s what the kids are doing these days, I can work with it.
He strolled to greet them with arms wide open and his best, most welcoming face forward.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Comme Çi!
Francis hugged and kissed one of the mimes on the cheek who looked bashful, shook his head and pointed to the other mime. Francis shrugged ignorantly and moved to hug the other mime.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Comme Ça!
The mime gave a similar shake of his head, pointing to his counterpart. Francis pulled back to stand next to Rodney P, again whispering to him over his shoulder.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Which one is which?
Rodney P: Not sure. I think they’re the same.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Neat.
He spoke to the mimes now with a big smile.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Great strategy.
He gave a gaudy thumbs up and a huge grin before leaning back and again whispering through his grinned teeth to his assistant, Rodney P.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Why aren’t they saying anything?
Rodney P: Because they’re mimes.
Francis Ford Cuppola: What the hell’s a mime?
Rodney P hid his tightened eyes and cringing expression from his boss who maintained eye contact with the two stoic mimes who had yet to move. Rodney spoke with emphasis.
Rodney P: The tag team you had me scour all of France for in order to dominate the New Japan Fighting Championship tag tournament, remember? The ‘Best in all of France’, you said. This is them. Apparently.
Francis had a way of forgetting his own “fantastic” ideas. Rodney P scratched a persistent itch above his eyebrow with his free shoulder. Francis nodded like he just clued in.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Exactly. That’s good thinking, mimes. Keep it Key Fob!
Rodney P: You mean Kayfabe.
Francis Ford Cuppola: That’s what I said.
Francis shook his head in disappointment at his assistant and moved to meet the Mimes.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Come on. Grab their bags, would you Rodney? Let’s get my boys here to the limo.
Francis drew each mime under either arm like a proud parent and moved off to the receiving doors, leaving Rodney P to collect still more luggage.
Francis Ford Cuppola: And get my camera out. I wanna get this on film.
Francis called back to Rodney who sighed loudly, alone in the terminal.
Once in the limo, the two French Mime Assassins sat side-by-side, white-gloved hands folded neatly on their laps staring blankly and ghostly from the back seat of the limo at Rodney P who held a Panasonic full-framed digital camera on them, and Francis Ford Cuppola who hunched forward to address them.
Francis Ford Cuppola: So, uh… Mimes, you boys ready to conquer all comers in the tag tournament?
Silence. The mimes stared creepily back at Francis and Rodney P. Francis blinked at the response, scratched his bearded chin and leaned to Rodney.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Do they understand what I’m saying?
Rodney P: Look, you asked me to find you world class tag wrestlers. These were the two I found. You didn’t state specifics.
Francis Ford Cuppola: But these two don’t speak.
Rodney P: (annoyed) Because they’re Mimes!
Francis Ford Cuppola: All the time?
Rodney P: I guess.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Well, how the hell am I supposed to communicate with them? How will I mold them into my personal deadly fighting force?
Rodney shrugged while holding the camera steady.
Rodney P: They should already be one.
Francis ran his fingers through his beard in contemplation.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Yeah, but how come they don’t look like it?
Francis cupped his hands around his mouth like a loudspeaker.
Francis Ford Cuppola: DO YOU TWO KNOW HOW TO WRESTLE?!
The mimes maintained the dead stare at Francis and the camera. Rodney P shut his eyes tight.
Rodney P: They’re not deaf. They’re mimes.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I knew that.
Francis hid his embarrassment and clasped his hands together feigning excitement.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I guess we should get them to the gym then, that's what wrestlers do, right? Train?
Rodney shrugged, shutting off the camera with disinterest.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I sure hope you boys can deliver like Rodney here says you can. I’ve got money riding on this tournament.
Rodney P: You bet on the tournament?
Francis Ford Cuppola: Of course.
He smiled to Rodney confidently, before they both looked to the silent mimes with a cautiously optimistic look of hope that this gamble would pay off.
Francis Ford Cuppola: What the hell does NJFC stand for again?
Francis remarked over his shoulder to Rodney P who dragged Francis’ luggage on his shoulders as well as his own and struggled to keep up.
Rodney P: New—
Francis Ford Cuppola: Whatever. There they are.
Francis stopped, forcing Rodney P to stop dead as well. They both eyed the two individuals Francis had blindly entered into New Japan Fighting Championship’s upcoming Tag Team tournament.
They stood facing Francis and his assistant silently and ominously in front of the baggage carousel dressed in horizontal striped black and white shirts, black pants with suspenders, black berets and white face paint, complete with blackened eyes and lips.
The French Mime Assassins.
It was hard to gauge their reaction. With confusion, Francis spoke hushed and confusedly over his shoulder to Rodney, his eyes never leaving the French Mimes.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Why are they dressed like clowns?
Rodney P: …Because they’re… Mimes..?
Francis blinked with uncertainty, then shrugged it off.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Okay. If that’s what the kids are doing these days, I can work with it.
He strolled to greet them with arms wide open and his best, most welcoming face forward.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Comme Çi!
Francis hugged and kissed one of the mimes on the cheek who looked bashful, shook his head and pointed to the other mime. Francis shrugged ignorantly and moved to hug the other mime.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Comme Ça!
The mime gave a similar shake of his head, pointing to his counterpart. Francis pulled back to stand next to Rodney P, again whispering to him over his shoulder.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Which one is which?
Rodney P: Not sure. I think they’re the same.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Neat.
He spoke to the mimes now with a big smile.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Great strategy.
He gave a gaudy thumbs up and a huge grin before leaning back and again whispering through his grinned teeth to his assistant, Rodney P.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Why aren’t they saying anything?
Rodney P: Because they’re mimes.
Francis Ford Cuppola: What the hell’s a mime?
Rodney P hid his tightened eyes and cringing expression from his boss who maintained eye contact with the two stoic mimes who had yet to move. Rodney spoke with emphasis.
Rodney P: The tag team you had me scour all of France for in order to dominate the New Japan Fighting Championship tag tournament, remember? The ‘Best in all of France’, you said. This is them. Apparently.
Francis had a way of forgetting his own “fantastic” ideas. Rodney P scratched a persistent itch above his eyebrow with his free shoulder. Francis nodded like he just clued in.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Exactly. That’s good thinking, mimes. Keep it Key Fob!
Rodney P: You mean Kayfabe.
Francis Ford Cuppola: That’s what I said.
Francis shook his head in disappointment at his assistant and moved to meet the Mimes.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Come on. Grab their bags, would you Rodney? Let’s get my boys here to the limo.
Francis drew each mime under either arm like a proud parent and moved off to the receiving doors, leaving Rodney P to collect still more luggage.
Francis Ford Cuppola: And get my camera out. I wanna get this on film.
Francis called back to Rodney who sighed loudly, alone in the terminal.
Once in the limo, the two French Mime Assassins sat side-by-side, white-gloved hands folded neatly on their laps staring blankly and ghostly from the back seat of the limo at Rodney P who held a Panasonic full-framed digital camera on them, and Francis Ford Cuppola who hunched forward to address them.
Francis Ford Cuppola: So, uh… Mimes, you boys ready to conquer all comers in the tag tournament?
Silence. The mimes stared creepily back at Francis and Rodney P. Francis blinked at the response, scratched his bearded chin and leaned to Rodney.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Do they understand what I’m saying?
Rodney P: Look, you asked me to find you world class tag wrestlers. These were the two I found. You didn’t state specifics.
Francis Ford Cuppola: But these two don’t speak.
Rodney P: (annoyed) Because they’re Mimes!
Francis Ford Cuppola: All the time?
Rodney P: I guess.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Well, how the hell am I supposed to communicate with them? How will I mold them into my personal deadly fighting force?
Rodney shrugged while holding the camera steady.
Rodney P: They should already be one.
Francis ran his fingers through his beard in contemplation.
Francis Ford Cuppola: Yeah, but how come they don’t look like it?
Francis cupped his hands around his mouth like a loudspeaker.
Francis Ford Cuppola: DO YOU TWO KNOW HOW TO WRESTLE?!
The mimes maintained the dead stare at Francis and the camera. Rodney P shut his eyes tight.
Rodney P: They’re not deaf. They’re mimes.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I knew that.
Francis hid his embarrassment and clasped his hands together feigning excitement.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I guess we should get them to the gym then, that's what wrestlers do, right? Train?
Rodney shrugged, shutting off the camera with disinterest.
Francis Ford Cuppola: I sure hope you boys can deliver like Rodney here says you can. I’ve got money riding on this tournament.
Rodney P: You bet on the tournament?
Francis Ford Cuppola: Of course.
He smiled to Rodney confidently, before they both looked to the silent mimes with a cautiously optimistic look of hope that this gamble would pay off.
