#1 Contender Match: Scott Douglas vs. Perfection
- Thread starter Stalker
- Start date
John Doe
The Anorexic Ethiopian
You Screwed Me.
FADE IN...
[We enter what seems to be Perfection's personal home gym, way too many mirrors for him to check his body in. Perfection with a towel around his neck and gym shorts is sitting on a row bench. He has finished his work out and is walking to exit the gym. He snatches a water bottle with much anger and is walking very fast paced]
PERFECTION: I feel like my house has been broken into and my prized possessions taking from me by a low class peasant! My belt, that's right MY BELT has been taken from me because you couldn't keep your shoulders off the damn canvas, Douglas.
It's not even the fact that Vizier came out the winner with my belt, it's the matter that if you just raised your scrawny shoulder it wouldn't have happened. I would be the champion of this company.
[He passes the threshold of the door taking a sip of water and walking to an adjacent kitchen]
PERFECTION: Hell, I even came in to save you, I was a late Superman with Perfect intentions. And still you didn't have the fortitude to raise your shoulder!
And people will say I screwed myself, I should have got up faster, I should have magically regained all my stamina to race in.
Well sorry, this is the real world and as Perfect as my stamina is it doesn't work that way. Lance Armstrong in all his great, but not Perfect conditioning, would have been more fatigued than me and the man doesn't even have the BALLS that I do.
[He grabs his crotch with two tugs then lets go opening the fridge to grab a pre-made protein shake]
PERFECTION: The Perfect balls to stand and fight for what is yours.
So, I didn't screw me, hell, I did whatever I could do to stop the pin count but you....you weak, pitiful man, you couldn't just squirm like the worm you are a little longer.
Now look where we are, a fool...thirteen years in this business washed up fool, with my belt on his mantle!
[His hand slams onto the counter top]
PERFECTION: Because of you, Scott! You ruined what was going to be a Perfect night, a night that was Perfectly planned and in all its greatness crown me, the Perfect champion.
It's fine because even though you screwed me out of the biggest night of my career I still get redemption. I still get my chance to wrestle for the belt again.
I go out, I wrestle you, I put your shoulders to the canvas that you seemingly can't get off of and I get to face Vizier.
And this time without a useless distraction such as yourself in that ring. I was unprepared for this match, I wasn't giving a heads up about it and at the caliber I am at I need 48 hours advanced notice that I am going to be in a triple threat.
[He shakes his head and chugs the shake in quick fashion tossing the empty bottle in the sink]
PERFECTION: If I want to perform at ultimate Perfection then I need that window of opportunity and it was not extended. All that crap about rising to the occasion, it's exactly that...it's crap.
I rise to no occasion, I rise to no opportunity. I don't have to.
I worked too hard to be the best creature in the animal kingdom to have to work at anything else. This is why I get the win over you, Scott.
You aren't at this...(he points to himself repeatedly)...caliber, Vizier isn't at this caliber.
That's why he didn't pin me, that's why he couldn't pin me.
He pinned you, he beat you. I stay just how I came in that night wanting my title and never having my shoulders pinned.
[He leans in closer to the camera his Perfectly clean shaven face in full view and voice lowered]
PERFECTION: You interfered with my plans, Scott, by your existence in this company you interfered in my victory, my championship reign is delayed because you exist.
And what does Vizier get for pinning an interfering waste like you, Scott?
A popcorn match with a former lousy champion by the name of Rocko Daymon. The man is a grandfather in the industry and Vizier gets to walk into The Experience and be pretty much handed a win.
While the rest of you work for yours, that's not a champion. That's a placeholder, a placeholder for me.
And I, what do I get? I get you, Scott. That's a real champion, I wouldn't go out giving title shots to people who aren't even contracted to MY company.
Selling our title out like a whore.
I would be giving that title shot to a person in IWF who deserves it when they deserve it. Even if they can't compete with this Perfection.
After you Scott, after I beat you in a Perfectly executed fashion, after I show Vizier exactly what he is dealing with in a not gimmicked up match, I am only one step away from taking what is mine.
Rightfully mine.
It's just too Perfect.
FADE OUT
FADE IN...
[We enter what seems to be Perfection's personal home gym, way too many mirrors for him to check his body in. Perfection with a towel around his neck and gym shorts is sitting on a row bench. He has finished his work out and is walking to exit the gym. He snatches a water bottle with much anger and is walking very fast paced]
PERFECTION: I feel like my house has been broken into and my prized possessions taking from me by a low class peasant! My belt, that's right MY BELT has been taken from me because you couldn't keep your shoulders off the damn canvas, Douglas.
It's not even the fact that Vizier came out the winner with my belt, it's the matter that if you just raised your scrawny shoulder it wouldn't have happened. I would be the champion of this company.
[He passes the threshold of the door taking a sip of water and walking to an adjacent kitchen]
PERFECTION: Hell, I even came in to save you, I was a late Superman with Perfect intentions. And still you didn't have the fortitude to raise your shoulder!
And people will say I screwed myself, I should have got up faster, I should have magically regained all my stamina to race in.
Well sorry, this is the real world and as Perfect as my stamina is it doesn't work that way. Lance Armstrong in all his great, but not Perfect conditioning, would have been more fatigued than me and the man doesn't even have the BALLS that I do.
[He grabs his crotch with two tugs then lets go opening the fridge to grab a pre-made protein shake]
PERFECTION: The Perfect balls to stand and fight for what is yours.
So, I didn't screw me, hell, I did whatever I could do to stop the pin count but you....you weak, pitiful man, you couldn't just squirm like the worm you are a little longer.
Now look where we are, a fool...thirteen years in this business washed up fool, with my belt on his mantle!
[His hand slams onto the counter top]
PERFECTION: Because of you, Scott! You ruined what was going to be a Perfect night, a night that was Perfectly planned and in all its greatness crown me, the Perfect champion.
It's fine because even though you screwed me out of the biggest night of my career I still get redemption. I still get my chance to wrestle for the belt again.
I go out, I wrestle you, I put your shoulders to the canvas that you seemingly can't get off of and I get to face Vizier.
And this time without a useless distraction such as yourself in that ring. I was unprepared for this match, I wasn't giving a heads up about it and at the caliber I am at I need 48 hours advanced notice that I am going to be in a triple threat.
[He shakes his head and chugs the shake in quick fashion tossing the empty bottle in the sink]
PERFECTION: If I want to perform at ultimate Perfection then I need that window of opportunity and it was not extended. All that crap about rising to the occasion, it's exactly that...it's crap.
I rise to no occasion, I rise to no opportunity. I don't have to.
I worked too hard to be the best creature in the animal kingdom to have to work at anything else. This is why I get the win over you, Scott.
You aren't at this...(he points to himself repeatedly)...caliber, Vizier isn't at this caliber.
That's why he didn't pin me, that's why he couldn't pin me.
He pinned you, he beat you. I stay just how I came in that night wanting my title and never having my shoulders pinned.
[He leans in closer to the camera his Perfectly clean shaven face in full view and voice lowered]
PERFECTION: You interfered with my plans, Scott, by your existence in this company you interfered in my victory, my championship reign is delayed because you exist.
And what does Vizier get for pinning an interfering waste like you, Scott?
A popcorn match with a former lousy champion by the name of Rocko Daymon. The man is a grandfather in the industry and Vizier gets to walk into The Experience and be pretty much handed a win.
While the rest of you work for yours, that's not a champion. That's a placeholder, a placeholder for me.
And I, what do I get? I get you, Scott. That's a real champion, I wouldn't go out giving title shots to people who aren't even contracted to MY company.
Selling our title out like a whore.
I would be giving that title shot to a person in IWF who deserves it when they deserve it. Even if they can't compete with this Perfection.
After you Scott, after I beat you in a Perfectly executed fashion, after I show Vizier exactly what he is dealing with in a not gimmicked up match, I am only one step away from taking what is mine.
Rightfully mine.
It's just too Perfect.
FADE OUT
Last edited:
BWade
Grandma Took Me Home
No Place Like Home, Part X (Mr. Perfect)
“You just going to sit on that couch all day?” Courtney prods at Scott.
“Maybe.” Scott replies.
Scott took last week’s loss pretty hard and had retreated to the couch of his girlfriend’s apartment with a bottle of liquor and a carton of smokes.
“Well, I suggest you get up the camera crew will be here any minute to shoot the promo piece for the pay per view.” Courtney snaps snottily at Scott.
Scott twists to look over the back of the couch into the kitchen, “What the hell you mean?” he questions.
“Exactly what I said.” She answers with a bit of an attitude.
Scott twists back around and focuses back on the television. “I didn’t call them and I doubt you did so … you’re bluffing. Where the hell would we even shoot?” Scott laughs to himself. “On the roof?”
Courtney stops in route to the adjacent bedroom, “I hadn’t thought of that. That’s actually a great idea.”
The familiar sound of knuckles rapping against the old apartment’s thick oak door rings threw the apartment; causing Scott to snap his head to glare at Courtney is astonishment.
“Are you ****ting me, Court?” Scott asks.
Courtney smirks and enters the bedroom and suggests smugly; “Better get that.”
Scott pulls himself up from the couch slowly and lumbers over to the door. He pulls the stubborn door ajar, calling upon the worn and squealing hinges. Visually confirming, the somewhat unsolicited, visitor’s identity to be just as expected … he barks; “Roof, ten minutes” and slams the door back in place with a thud and a click of the tarnished brass knob. Scott turns to walk away from the door only to be drawn back by yet another series of knocks. He slings the heavy door open again. “What?” he questions with an aggravated tone.
The growingly familiar camera operator tells Scott, “Well, son … there is a matter of thirty two dollars and zero cents to be settled before we can get this show on the road.”
Scott thinks for a moment and it hits him. ‘No problem.” Scott digs into his pockets realizing he had spent the last of his funds on liquor and cigarettes. “I … don’t have it on me right just now, but meet me up on the roof in ten minutes. We’ll shoot this new thing and I’ll have your money. Scotts honor.”
The camera operator didn’t find the humor in Scott’s turn of words but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and motioned to his sound man to head to the roof.
“Ten minutes.” Scott calls out as he shuts the door.
[SUB](The late afternoon gloom hangs over the heads of Scott Douglas and his girlfriend/valet Courtney Allen as they stand atop the roof of their modest tenant building slung low amongst the downtown Seattle skyline. Scott dawning nothing more than the same tattered jeans that act as his in ring gear and a black hooded zip up sweat shirt. The lack of an undershirt baring his lean and well defined chest and abdomen littered with a barrage of random tattoos. Courtney’s tight leather pants hug her hips and eventuate he already curvy physique and fail to come to a compromise with her long knit sweater to cover the bare inch between each. She stands just to the side of Scott glaring into the camera as he begins.)
Scott: I don’t think there is any reason to pull any punches here…
(Scott lifts his hand to his face and brushes the hair from his face.)
Scott: I’ve become the underdog’s underdog here in the IWF. Short of Stephen Waltz, I likely have the worst record here. Then again…
(Scott pull a pack of cigarettes from his left sweat shirt pocket, and cups a lighter in his right hand from the other pocket.)
I haven’t had the ‘perfect…’ opportunity to battle the immortal DOL-Fan or chase the legend of Andy Kaufman and his Inter-Gender Championship in a one on one with Mary Lynn.
No, instead I ran ruck shot on Stephen Waltz, slipped up against everyone’s favorite Asian American, and barley made it through a hap hazard battle royal.
I was in, then out, then in, and now after last week I took the loss that was undoubtedly destined for the perfect narcissist James Wither-what the **** ever.
(Scott places the cigarette between his lips and cuffs the lighter with both hands in an attempt to shield the forthcoming flame from the wind whipping across the roof top. He flicks the lighter and inhales. He exhales and the smoke bellows out of his lungs and he continues.)
Scott: It doesn’t take expert analysis to figure out if I hadn’t been interjected into the main event … Mr. Perfect … would have certainly taken the fall. But … why split hairs. That didn’t happen and now, here we are.
(Scott pulls from his cigarette, exhales and continues.)
Scott: Ol’ Art and the IWF present … The Experience! Where we show the WORLD … that we can’t carry a pay per view on our own merits without shipping in the legend, the myth … the man. But again … why split hairs. My beef isn’t with the man, the myth, or the legend.
Currently my focus falls on none other than Mr. Perfection himself.
(Scott again takes a drag, and a momentary pause.)
Scott: I hear I got in the way. I interfered in your plans. I cost you … your title.
Is that how we’re going play it Curt? Honestly?
***** about preparation time all you like … the record bares that if NOTHING else; Seti and yourself both had advanced notice in comparison to Seattle’s favorite son.
I have no hard feelings to be honest. At the end of the day it seems Seti … had perfect timing.
(Scott pulls the last drag from his dwindling cigarette and drops it to the roof top and smolders it under his boot.)
Scott: Curt, on the other hand, had what I believe would be called; less than perfect timing. He dove for the save, which I’ve heard has been laughably classified as being a “late Superman with Perfect intentions.”
I say laughable because even the most casual fan of the classic Superman character could point out that; A. Superman is never late, B. Superman can; in fact, fly so fast he can turn back time, and C. James Witherbone is no Clark Kent.
Jamie, look … rattle on and on about how you couldn’t regain your perfect stamina in time. Tell everyone that I, who assumingly by your measure would be considered ‘less-than-perfect’ … SHOULD have done what Mr. Perfect, could not do.
Scream from the roof tops about how Scott Douglas screwed you…
Whatever helps you lay your ‘perfect’ little head down and take a ‘perfect’ little nap after a ‘perfect’ afternoon of ‘perfectly’ partaking in a Hennig home video marathon; Do it.
But realize… it changes nothing Curt. You still have to go through Seattle’s finest to get back to that title shot you so ‘perfectly’ deserve. And thus far, you’ve proven only three things in the IWF … You slap around fans of losing football teams, can’t decide who to mark out to the hardest: Hennig or Kaufman, and less I forget … running like a ***** with a case full money.
(Scott brushes his hair from his face again.)
Scott: I may have taken some losses here but … Not a damn one of them was to you.
Don’t’ forget that. Get ready to Experience ... a loss. Hell, instead of the Sup Pop, I may even end the match with a good old fashioned Fisherman Suplex and bridge for the pin.
(Scott turns to Courntey smirking.)
Scott: You know what that was called in the nineties, Court’?
Courntey: The Perfect-Plex?
Scott: Yes, indeed.
(Scott and Courtney share a laugh.)
Scott: I am Scott Douglas. And I ain’t perfect… But I’m the hero Seattle deserves! And just in case the reference escaped your ‘perfect’ intellect Curt, I’m Batman *****. I trained, I learned … and I have skill; as opposed to a muscle bound, over tanned, slick haired, pretty boy who likes to prance around in tights.
(Courtney giggles)
Scott: Tell Art, Jimmy is going need a new gimmick… because I’m getting ready to ruin the fan perception. Seattle, stand up.
(Scott motions for the cameras to cut as he exits the frame. Courtney critiques the performance as the step away but isn’t picked up well enough on the mic. Fade)[/SUB]
The camera operator turns to his sound man, “He gave you the money right?”
“I thought he gave it to you.” The sound man responds.
The camera operator pulls the hat form his head and starts slapping the sound man over the back as he places the full force of the blame on him.
“You just going to sit on that couch all day?” Courtney prods at Scott.
“Maybe.” Scott replies.
Scott took last week’s loss pretty hard and had retreated to the couch of his girlfriend’s apartment with a bottle of liquor and a carton of smokes.
“Well, I suggest you get up the camera crew will be here any minute to shoot the promo piece for the pay per view.” Courtney snaps snottily at Scott.
Scott twists to look over the back of the couch into the kitchen, “What the hell you mean?” he questions.
“Exactly what I said.” She answers with a bit of an attitude.
Scott twists back around and focuses back on the television. “I didn’t call them and I doubt you did so … you’re bluffing. Where the hell would we even shoot?” Scott laughs to himself. “On the roof?”
Courtney stops in route to the adjacent bedroom, “I hadn’t thought of that. That’s actually a great idea.”
The familiar sound of knuckles rapping against the old apartment’s thick oak door rings threw the apartment; causing Scott to snap his head to glare at Courtney is astonishment.
“Are you ****ting me, Court?” Scott asks.
Courtney smirks and enters the bedroom and suggests smugly; “Better get that.”
Scott pulls himself up from the couch slowly and lumbers over to the door. He pulls the stubborn door ajar, calling upon the worn and squealing hinges. Visually confirming, the somewhat unsolicited, visitor’s identity to be just as expected … he barks; “Roof, ten minutes” and slams the door back in place with a thud and a click of the tarnished brass knob. Scott turns to walk away from the door only to be drawn back by yet another series of knocks. He slings the heavy door open again. “What?” he questions with an aggravated tone.
The growingly familiar camera operator tells Scott, “Well, son … there is a matter of thirty two dollars and zero cents to be settled before we can get this show on the road.”
Scott thinks for a moment and it hits him. ‘No problem.” Scott digs into his pockets realizing he had spent the last of his funds on liquor and cigarettes. “I … don’t have it on me right just now, but meet me up on the roof in ten minutes. We’ll shoot this new thing and I’ll have your money. Scotts honor.”
The camera operator didn’t find the humor in Scott’s turn of words but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and motioned to his sound man to head to the roof.
“Ten minutes.” Scott calls out as he shuts the door.
[SUB](The late afternoon gloom hangs over the heads of Scott Douglas and his girlfriend/valet Courtney Allen as they stand atop the roof of their modest tenant building slung low amongst the downtown Seattle skyline. Scott dawning nothing more than the same tattered jeans that act as his in ring gear and a black hooded zip up sweat shirt. The lack of an undershirt baring his lean and well defined chest and abdomen littered with a barrage of random tattoos. Courtney’s tight leather pants hug her hips and eventuate he already curvy physique and fail to come to a compromise with her long knit sweater to cover the bare inch between each. She stands just to the side of Scott glaring into the camera as he begins.)
Scott: I don’t think there is any reason to pull any punches here…
(Scott lifts his hand to his face and brushes the hair from his face.)
Scott: I’ve become the underdog’s underdog here in the IWF. Short of Stephen Waltz, I likely have the worst record here. Then again…
(Scott pull a pack of cigarettes from his left sweat shirt pocket, and cups a lighter in his right hand from the other pocket.)
I haven’t had the ‘perfect…’ opportunity to battle the immortal DOL-Fan or chase the legend of Andy Kaufman and his Inter-Gender Championship in a one on one with Mary Lynn.
No, instead I ran ruck shot on Stephen Waltz, slipped up against everyone’s favorite Asian American, and barley made it through a hap hazard battle royal.
I was in, then out, then in, and now after last week I took the loss that was undoubtedly destined for the perfect narcissist James Wither-what the **** ever.
(Scott places the cigarette between his lips and cuffs the lighter with both hands in an attempt to shield the forthcoming flame from the wind whipping across the roof top. He flicks the lighter and inhales. He exhales and the smoke bellows out of his lungs and he continues.)
Scott: It doesn’t take expert analysis to figure out if I hadn’t been interjected into the main event … Mr. Perfect … would have certainly taken the fall. But … why split hairs. That didn’t happen and now, here we are.
(Scott pulls from his cigarette, exhales and continues.)
Scott: Ol’ Art and the IWF present … The Experience! Where we show the WORLD … that we can’t carry a pay per view on our own merits without shipping in the legend, the myth … the man. But again … why split hairs. My beef isn’t with the man, the myth, or the legend.
Currently my focus falls on none other than Mr. Perfection himself.
(Scott again takes a drag, and a momentary pause.)
Scott: I hear I got in the way. I interfered in your plans. I cost you … your title.
Is that how we’re going play it Curt? Honestly?
***** about preparation time all you like … the record bares that if NOTHING else; Seti and yourself both had advanced notice in comparison to Seattle’s favorite son.
I have no hard feelings to be honest. At the end of the day it seems Seti … had perfect timing.
(Scott pulls the last drag from his dwindling cigarette and drops it to the roof top and smolders it under his boot.)
Scott: Curt, on the other hand, had what I believe would be called; less than perfect timing. He dove for the save, which I’ve heard has been laughably classified as being a “late Superman with Perfect intentions.”
I say laughable because even the most casual fan of the classic Superman character could point out that; A. Superman is never late, B. Superman can; in fact, fly so fast he can turn back time, and C. James Witherbone is no Clark Kent.
Jamie, look … rattle on and on about how you couldn’t regain your perfect stamina in time. Tell everyone that I, who assumingly by your measure would be considered ‘less-than-perfect’ … SHOULD have done what Mr. Perfect, could not do.
Scream from the roof tops about how Scott Douglas screwed you…
Whatever helps you lay your ‘perfect’ little head down and take a ‘perfect’ little nap after a ‘perfect’ afternoon of ‘perfectly’ partaking in a Hennig home video marathon; Do it.
But realize… it changes nothing Curt. You still have to go through Seattle’s finest to get back to that title shot you so ‘perfectly’ deserve. And thus far, you’ve proven only three things in the IWF … You slap around fans of losing football teams, can’t decide who to mark out to the hardest: Hennig or Kaufman, and less I forget … running like a ***** with a case full money.
(Scott brushes his hair from his face again.)
Scott: I may have taken some losses here but … Not a damn one of them was to you.
Don’t’ forget that. Get ready to Experience ... a loss. Hell, instead of the Sup Pop, I may even end the match with a good old fashioned Fisherman Suplex and bridge for the pin.
(Scott turns to Courntey smirking.)
Scott: You know what that was called in the nineties, Court’?
Courntey: The Perfect-Plex?
Scott: Yes, indeed.
(Scott and Courtney share a laugh.)
Scott: I am Scott Douglas. And I ain’t perfect… But I’m the hero Seattle deserves! And just in case the reference escaped your ‘perfect’ intellect Curt, I’m Batman *****. I trained, I learned … and I have skill; as opposed to a muscle bound, over tanned, slick haired, pretty boy who likes to prance around in tights.
(Courtney giggles)
Scott: Tell Art, Jimmy is going need a new gimmick… because I’m getting ready to ruin the fan perception. Seattle, stand up.
(Scott motions for the cameras to cut as he exits the frame. Courtney critiques the performance as the step away but isn’t picked up well enough on the mic. Fade)[/SUB]
The camera operator turns to his sound man, “He gave you the money right?”
“I thought he gave it to you.” The sound man responds.
The camera operator pulls the hat form his head and starts slapping the sound man over the back as he places the full force of the blame on him.
John Doe
The Anorexic Ethiopian
Who is Mr. Perfect? Never hear of 'em.
FADE IN...
[Perfection is at nice upscale bar in downtown Seattle. He sits an a opened jacket suit, hair tied in a pony tail as he has a drink put in front of him. Perfection takes a small sip of it then spits it back into the glass glaring at the bartender who is still slightly in front of of him. He pushes the drink towards her. Camera on his right.]
PERFECTION: Listen honey, when I say I want a Jack and Coke, I mean a Jack and Coke. Not Jack and Pepsi, not Jack and R-C. Jack and Coke. Are we clear on that? What am I meant to do with this imperfect drink? Did you think my Perfect taste buds wouldn't be able to tell the difference between Coke and whatever crap you put in this?
BARTENDER: No sir we just didn't have Coke.
PERFECTION: And when were you planning on telling me that, after I tainted my tongue with this slop?!
BARTENDER: I'm sorry sir. Can I make you a different drink?
PERFECTION: Gin and tonic with a splash of lemon...that's lemon not lime and make sure it's Bombay Blue Sapphire!
[He turns to the camera jaw a little dropped in disbelief]
PERFECTION: People these days just don't know how to do things the right way. Scott, look at me. Look into these dashing eyes that make women faint and melt their hearts. Look at this perfectly moisturized face that has no blemishes.
This is the face of your next opponent and your next loss. Keep telling us you are an underdog and misunderstood. But you are not just the underdog, you are the example.
My example that is, to the false champion of this company. An example that I will break Perfectly, wrestle to Perfection, and pin in a Perfectly counted three seconds.
Although, Vizier has my title that isn't on my mind right now. It's the bastard that let him put them out for a three count, it's you the man that indeed allowed that sandy prick to get my belt.
[The bartender sets the Gin and Tonic down in front of Perfection gently and takes a step back as he takes a sip and nods full of enjoyment.]
PERFECTION: Perfect, thank you.
Let me set the record straight for you, Scott. My name is not James Witherhold. My name is not Curt or Mr. Perfect.
My name is clearly written all over the posters, all over your contract, all over the breasts of women at the Moss Bay Arena in black Sharpie. Its P-E-R-F-E-C-T-I-O-N.
Who is Curt, Scott? Who is Mr. Perfect? I have never heard of these people in my life.
I have heard of a man named Perfection and how angels come from the sky with a beam of light on him and play harps when he walks in a room.
And what the hell is a Hennig marathon, Scott? Tell me exactly what you are getting at? Because as perfect as my brain logically works, I don't have a damn clue what you are talking about.
Most importantly, mark out to Hennig or Kaufman? The hell are these people? Are you delusional, Scott? Are you making up names?
I don't mark out to people I don't fan boy. Who would I fan boy to, myself? As awesome as that would be to idolize the only Perfect human on this imperfect planet it's not possible. I can't clone myself, not yet anyways.
[Perfection smirks then winks at the camera]
PERFECTION: I know it's hard to be one of the worst wrestlers in this company, one that can't compete at the amazing level I set in place.
Trust me, when I achieved utter Perfection, in nine months of development, the world rejoiced. The nurses cried tears of joy from the beauty they witnessed.
Women still cry from the beauty they witness when I appear.
So to compare yourself to me, is like comparing a penny to a million dollars. I am just the larger, better, more stable sum of cash.
Hell look what I have done so far, Scott. I have won ten thousand dollars being the best damn wrestler in this company, I have women flocking over me, even your girlfriend Courtney spit at me because she wanted me to have a taste of her that badly.
Next time, she will swallow...Perfectly.
Regardless on the fact that you are going to face this hunk of styling and sexy man and it intimidates you. Just know that you are helping out with a cause, Scott.
A cause that allows me to get back what is rightfully mine. A stepping stone to having my title in my hands.
I couldn't ask for a more perfect and easy opponent to get a win on.
FADEOUT
FADE IN...
[Perfection is at nice upscale bar in downtown Seattle. He sits an a opened jacket suit, hair tied in a pony tail as he has a drink put in front of him. Perfection takes a small sip of it then spits it back into the glass glaring at the bartender who is still slightly in front of of him. He pushes the drink towards her. Camera on his right.]
PERFECTION: Listen honey, when I say I want a Jack and Coke, I mean a Jack and Coke. Not Jack and Pepsi, not Jack and R-C. Jack and Coke. Are we clear on that? What am I meant to do with this imperfect drink? Did you think my Perfect taste buds wouldn't be able to tell the difference between Coke and whatever crap you put in this?
BARTENDER: No sir we just didn't have Coke.
PERFECTION: And when were you planning on telling me that, after I tainted my tongue with this slop?!
BARTENDER: I'm sorry sir. Can I make you a different drink?
PERFECTION: Gin and tonic with a splash of lemon...that's lemon not lime and make sure it's Bombay Blue Sapphire!
[He turns to the camera jaw a little dropped in disbelief]
PERFECTION: People these days just don't know how to do things the right way. Scott, look at me. Look into these dashing eyes that make women faint and melt their hearts. Look at this perfectly moisturized face that has no blemishes.
This is the face of your next opponent and your next loss. Keep telling us you are an underdog and misunderstood. But you are not just the underdog, you are the example.
My example that is, to the false champion of this company. An example that I will break Perfectly, wrestle to Perfection, and pin in a Perfectly counted three seconds.
Although, Vizier has my title that isn't on my mind right now. It's the bastard that let him put them out for a three count, it's you the man that indeed allowed that sandy prick to get my belt.
[The bartender sets the Gin and Tonic down in front of Perfection gently and takes a step back as he takes a sip and nods full of enjoyment.]
PERFECTION: Perfect, thank you.
Let me set the record straight for you, Scott. My name is not James Witherhold. My name is not Curt or Mr. Perfect.
My name is clearly written all over the posters, all over your contract, all over the breasts of women at the Moss Bay Arena in black Sharpie. Its P-E-R-F-E-C-T-I-O-N.
Who is Curt, Scott? Who is Mr. Perfect? I have never heard of these people in my life.
I have heard of a man named Perfection and how angels come from the sky with a beam of light on him and play harps when he walks in a room.
And what the hell is a Hennig marathon, Scott? Tell me exactly what you are getting at? Because as perfect as my brain logically works, I don't have a damn clue what you are talking about.
Most importantly, mark out to Hennig or Kaufman? The hell are these people? Are you delusional, Scott? Are you making up names?
I don't mark out to people I don't fan boy. Who would I fan boy to, myself? As awesome as that would be to idolize the only Perfect human on this imperfect planet it's not possible. I can't clone myself, not yet anyways.
[Perfection smirks then winks at the camera]
PERFECTION: I know it's hard to be one of the worst wrestlers in this company, one that can't compete at the amazing level I set in place.
Trust me, when I achieved utter Perfection, in nine months of development, the world rejoiced. The nurses cried tears of joy from the beauty they witnessed.
Women still cry from the beauty they witness when I appear.
So to compare yourself to me, is like comparing a penny to a million dollars. I am just the larger, better, more stable sum of cash.
Hell look what I have done so far, Scott. I have won ten thousand dollars being the best damn wrestler in this company, I have women flocking over me, even your girlfriend Courtney spit at me because she wanted me to have a taste of her that badly.
Next time, she will swallow...Perfectly.
Regardless on the fact that you are going to face this hunk of styling and sexy man and it intimidates you. Just know that you are helping out with a cause, Scott.
A cause that allows me to get back what is rightfully mine. A stepping stone to having my title in my hands.
I couldn't ask for a more perfect and easy opponent to get a win on.
FADEOUT
Last edited:
BWade
Grandma Took Me Home
No Place Like Home, Part X (Mr. Perfect, Part II[No Country For Old Souls])
“Is this really what it has come to Court’?” Scott asks his lovely girlfriend/valet, Courtney Allen, as he shuts his laptop computer. “I mean really … cold open, talk, talk, talk … thought for thought rebuttal? Is this what professional wrestling has become?”
Courtney, perched on the far left of the couch attempting to watch television, replies; “Well, from what I’ve seen … pretty much.”
Scott leans forward and sets his laptop down on the coffee table.
“This is not what I want to be involved in. Do you know how many ‘spots’ I did in Texas?” Scott asks.
Knowing the answer; Courtney humors him, “How many?”
“Two. Two in six months Court’ … Two! Hell, in Mexico City I may have down three. Back in the states I thought I’d excel off sheer wrestling skill and my third last chance is against this oiled up jobber; who has cut at least twenty spots in the span of four … almost five shows.” Scott pauses for empathy from Courtney. Courtney’s blank stare tells the tale of no response.
“…And he hasn’t done anything! He claims he won ten grand and we ALL see this Curt Hennig mini-me run down the aisle with the brief case at the OPEN of every Chain Reaction! And don’t get me started on this …”
Scott conjures up his best Perfection imitation with a less than intelligent sounding twist and continues, “Curt? Hennig? Who is that? Who is Mr. Perfect?”
Scott reaches passed the laptop for his cigarettes and retrieves the lone ‘square’ from the pack. He holds it up to his lips to light it but his oral habits are broken by his own thought. He snatches the cigarette from his clinched lips to launch into another irritated diatribe.
“I can’t stand these oiled up, roided up, non-workers who populate this business today. They step in with ‘the look’ and a few hand fed moves; thinking they can dominate the business. No passion, no love, no heart! I mean who the hell in this business today DOESN’T know who the hell Curt mother****ing Hennig is? For **** sake: Hennig versus Hart? What self-respecting wrestler doesn’t know who Mr. god damn Perfect was?”
Scott raises the cigarette back to his lips again, only to snatch it away to continue on.
“…this business has gone to hell. It isn’t about skill, talent ... There is no love anymore. It’s these ignorant ass clowns like Jimmy Dean here ruining it. I never even attempted a shot at the big time for that SOLE REASON. I had no idea it had sunk down to what’s left of the territories as well.”
Courtney, coming to the realization she won’t be finishing her television program in peace, eggs Scott on. “Well, Scotty … I think that’s why you’re here. Bring back that old school vibe with a new school edge. You’re …”
Scott interrupts, “Your damn right … I don’t have Seti’s power. I don’t have Kerry’s expensive training, or Mateo’s … speech impediment. I certainly don’t have Mary Lynn’s tits or Jimmy Jam’s arrogance.”
Courtney interrupts, “Excuse me? What was that last one?”
“Jimmy Jam, I don’t have his pompous, unproven, astronomical illusions of grandeur. Jimmy Eat World. Jimmy Johns. James Dean … You know, are friend According to Jim.” Scott responds comically with a grin.
“No, the one before that smart ass.” Courtney snaps back.
Scott plays it up as if he now understands, “Ohh, Toe … or I mean, Erik Mateo. The retard; that talks like that comedian with the cut off sleeves and what not. Honestly I don’t know WHAT he is saying but it is CLASSIC comedy to say the least. I’m talking Pyor/Live, Eddie/Raw … I mean…”
Courtney, losing her patience, clarifies “No, between Mateo and The Adventures of Jimmy Neutron, asshole.”
“Oh damn, my mistake. Well, let me just start by saying yours are exponentially better and...” Scott responds quickly on the defensive playfully pretending to just now have caught on.
Courtney interrupts again, “Agreed… continue.”
Scott laughs, “I barely even noticed she had tits honestly. I actually believe whole heartedly that Jimmy Jazz should’ve stole that ten grand from YOU!”
“Alright, alright … if you were a Native American, you name would be ‘Dances Around Point’ … back to the issue at hand.” Courtney interjects.
Scott snaps to, “Yeah, that’s right. I have technical SKILL! And, need I say, the streets of Seattle taught a young Scott Douglas a thing or two!” He lifts the cigarette to his lips yet again.
“Don’t’ talk about yourself in third person babe. It makes you sound like Jim Beau Weather-vain. Very unattractive” Courtney interjected.
Snatching the cigarette from his lips yet again to retort, Scott agrees. “Noted. I don’t know if I really belong here anymore though, Court’. I came home to hang it up and get a regular gig… all this IWF stuff nearly fell into my lap. There is no country for old men … and I’m beginning to feel like there is no place here for old souls.”
Courtney is surprised by this talk from Scott and doesn’t respond right away. She contemplates her response tactically and attempts to come up with most appropriate, yet positive, remark possible. After considerable deliberation she responds, just as Scott finally lifts the lighter toward his face to ignite the long awaited cigarette. “Shut up!” Courtney laughs.
Scott drops the lighter and allows the cigarette to hang limp from his bottom lip and blankly stares at Courtney in amazement of her caviler response. A smirk slowly draws up across his bearded face and he remarks: “You right. **** ‘em all. Feed ‘em fish. This is my year! Twenty Twelve. The Sup Pop Era!”
Courtney’s face lights up with utter elation. She leans in toward Scott; seductively. The cigarette, dangling from his mouth, is finally ready for inhalation as Scott raises the lighter up once again. The flame flickers as it ascends towards Scott’s patient nicotine deliver system.
“Pop … pop … pop” states Courtney.
She snatches Scott’s cigarette and places it between her own lips and instantly lights it with her own lighter and smirks as she inhales the first thick drag.
Scott astounded but nearly amused barks, “That’s the last one …”
Courtney giggles and enjoys the only cigarette left between the pair.
“Can I at least get a short?” Scott asks.
Courtney leans forward and flicks her ashes in the green glass ash tray on the coffee table.
“I’ll wrestle ya’ for it.”
“Is this really what it has come to Court’?” Scott asks his lovely girlfriend/valet, Courtney Allen, as he shuts his laptop computer. “I mean really … cold open, talk, talk, talk … thought for thought rebuttal? Is this what professional wrestling has become?”
Courtney, perched on the far left of the couch attempting to watch television, replies; “Well, from what I’ve seen … pretty much.”
Scott leans forward and sets his laptop down on the coffee table.
“This is not what I want to be involved in. Do you know how many ‘spots’ I did in Texas?” Scott asks.
Knowing the answer; Courtney humors him, “How many?”
“Two. Two in six months Court’ … Two! Hell, in Mexico City I may have down three. Back in the states I thought I’d excel off sheer wrestling skill and my third last chance is against this oiled up jobber; who has cut at least twenty spots in the span of four … almost five shows.” Scott pauses for empathy from Courtney. Courtney’s blank stare tells the tale of no response.
“…And he hasn’t done anything! He claims he won ten grand and we ALL see this Curt Hennig mini-me run down the aisle with the brief case at the OPEN of every Chain Reaction! And don’t get me started on this …”
Scott conjures up his best Perfection imitation with a less than intelligent sounding twist and continues, “Curt? Hennig? Who is that? Who is Mr. Perfect?”
Scott reaches passed the laptop for his cigarettes and retrieves the lone ‘square’ from the pack. He holds it up to his lips to light it but his oral habits are broken by his own thought. He snatches the cigarette from his clinched lips to launch into another irritated diatribe.
“I can’t stand these oiled up, roided up, non-workers who populate this business today. They step in with ‘the look’ and a few hand fed moves; thinking they can dominate the business. No passion, no love, no heart! I mean who the hell in this business today DOESN’T know who the hell Curt mother****ing Hennig is? For **** sake: Hennig versus Hart? What self-respecting wrestler doesn’t know who Mr. god damn Perfect was?”
Scott raises the cigarette back to his lips again, only to snatch it away to continue on.
“…this business has gone to hell. It isn’t about skill, talent ... There is no love anymore. It’s these ignorant ass clowns like Jimmy Dean here ruining it. I never even attempted a shot at the big time for that SOLE REASON. I had no idea it had sunk down to what’s left of the territories as well.”
Courtney, coming to the realization she won’t be finishing her television program in peace, eggs Scott on. “Well, Scotty … I think that’s why you’re here. Bring back that old school vibe with a new school edge. You’re …”
Scott interrupts, “Your damn right … I don’t have Seti’s power. I don’t have Kerry’s expensive training, or Mateo’s … speech impediment. I certainly don’t have Mary Lynn’s tits or Jimmy Jam’s arrogance.”
Courtney interrupts, “Excuse me? What was that last one?”
“Jimmy Jam, I don’t have his pompous, unproven, astronomical illusions of grandeur. Jimmy Eat World. Jimmy Johns. James Dean … You know, are friend According to Jim.” Scott responds comically with a grin.
“No, the one before that smart ass.” Courtney snaps back.
Scott plays it up as if he now understands, “Ohh, Toe … or I mean, Erik Mateo. The retard; that talks like that comedian with the cut off sleeves and what not. Honestly I don’t know WHAT he is saying but it is CLASSIC comedy to say the least. I’m talking Pyor/Live, Eddie/Raw … I mean…”
Courtney, losing her patience, clarifies “No, between Mateo and The Adventures of Jimmy Neutron, asshole.”
“Oh damn, my mistake. Well, let me just start by saying yours are exponentially better and...” Scott responds quickly on the defensive playfully pretending to just now have caught on.
Courtney interrupts again, “Agreed… continue.”
Scott laughs, “I barely even noticed she had tits honestly. I actually believe whole heartedly that Jimmy Jazz should’ve stole that ten grand from YOU!”
“Alright, alright … if you were a Native American, you name would be ‘Dances Around Point’ … back to the issue at hand.” Courtney interjects.
Scott snaps to, “Yeah, that’s right. I have technical SKILL! And, need I say, the streets of Seattle taught a young Scott Douglas a thing or two!” He lifts the cigarette to his lips yet again.
“Don’t’ talk about yourself in third person babe. It makes you sound like Jim Beau Weather-vain. Very unattractive” Courtney interjected.
Snatching the cigarette from his lips yet again to retort, Scott agrees. “Noted. I don’t know if I really belong here anymore though, Court’. I came home to hang it up and get a regular gig… all this IWF stuff nearly fell into my lap. There is no country for old men … and I’m beginning to feel like there is no place here for old souls.”
Courtney is surprised by this talk from Scott and doesn’t respond right away. She contemplates her response tactically and attempts to come up with most appropriate, yet positive, remark possible. After considerable deliberation she responds, just as Scott finally lifts the lighter toward his face to ignite the long awaited cigarette. “Shut up!” Courtney laughs.
Scott drops the lighter and allows the cigarette to hang limp from his bottom lip and blankly stares at Courtney in amazement of her caviler response. A smirk slowly draws up across his bearded face and he remarks: “You right. **** ‘em all. Feed ‘em fish. This is my year! Twenty Twelve. The Sup Pop Era!”
Courtney’s face lights up with utter elation. She leans in toward Scott; seductively. The cigarette, dangling from his mouth, is finally ready for inhalation as Scott raises the lighter up once again. The flame flickers as it ascends towards Scott’s patient nicotine deliver system.
“Pop … pop … pop” states Courtney.
She snatches Scott’s cigarette and places it between her own lips and instantly lights it with her own lighter and smirks as she inhales the first thick drag.
Scott astounded but nearly amused barks, “That’s the last one …”
Courtney giggles and enjoys the only cigarette left between the pair.
“Can I at least get a short?” Scott asks.
Courtney leans forward and flicks her ashes in the green glass ash tray on the coffee table.
“I’ll wrestle ya’ for it.”
TSiegel
I spoil things.
(CUTTO: Mateo's Pub. A large "linebacker-like" man behind the bar stands with his head stuck in the middle of a newspaper as the bar owner sits on the other side of the bar, a pint-glass half-full in front of him, a beer bottle to the left of that and a vodka shot glass next to that, as a bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka stands up next to it. The owner raises his cowboy hat, downs the half-pint, takes the shot and chases it with a swig of the beer. Finally, after setting the bottle down, the "bartender" snaps his fingers without skipping a beat and gets his patrons' attention, and points toward the camera.)
EM: Whut off et?? 'Member amigo...s'tahms youse ate tha bahr...an' s'tahms tha bahr...et ates youse......hayngaon ah menut-o....jest whut tha fack thayt mayne an'ways??
(The Bartender shrugs his shoulders and goes back to his newspaper.)
EM: Lessen' ahp hoook'r!!! Cour'knee Cocks-waaaannna-beee....
Fers' ahf....whut tha FACK...ahrs youse tahk'n 'bowt wich youse tell'n ol' Pop-ah-squat-ahn-tha-Pot..."Br'ng bayck thayt ol' skoo' vahb en ah noo-skoo' aytch??
Tha fack, youse sum-kona pr'moter fer ah wreck'rd com'nee??
Ahs' thank youse jes' nee' sheddup, thayts whut ah thank.
Oh...an' Pop-ah-squat??
Thank twace 'bowt ahp'nin yer mahth....
Thes' her'?? (gestures to himself) Thes' jen'wine cowntree roit her'.
Thes her'?? (gestures again, but this time points to both of his fists and biceps) wail mayk youse thank twace bowt tahk'n' traysh.
Thes her'?? (floats the double finger), wail mayk youse thank twace bowt wich off ahs es tha ra-tard.
Ra-tard.
Es' noot mah fout thayt youse jes' naht es ken'vencin' es ah cayne beh en thayt rang, jes' lahk wayne ah whooped ahp ahn thayt Tango 'n' Cash feller...
(stops a second)
Ahs jes' nose thayt ain't hes nayme bet...et jes' ain't thayt 'port'nt tah meh.
Bah tha why...thayt feller weth tha kit-oof slaves??
Ahs BEACH-SLAYP thayt mudderfocker bay-fer ahs fahk hes wahf!!!
Domb-ace...
Youse won' ah cahm'deyen??
Ro'neh Car'en-tahn.
Nah THAYT es a fonee sum-beach....
(The man behind the bar shoots Mateo a look before going back to his paper)
Wail...HAY ES!!!
(The camera starts to fade back to the original shot.)
An' ah don' ivan nose whut "Ex-poe-nan-chol" maynes...
FADEOUT
EM: Whut off et?? 'Member amigo...s'tahms youse ate tha bahr...an' s'tahms tha bahr...et ates youse......hayngaon ah menut-o....jest whut tha fack thayt mayne an'ways??
(The Bartender shrugs his shoulders and goes back to his newspaper.)
EM: Lessen' ahp hoook'r!!! Cour'knee Cocks-waaaannna-beee....
Fers' ahf....whut tha FACK...ahrs youse tahk'n 'bowt wich youse tell'n ol' Pop-ah-squat-ahn-tha-Pot..."Br'ng bayck thayt ol' skoo' vahb en ah noo-skoo' aytch??
Tha fack, youse sum-kona pr'moter fer ah wreck'rd com'nee??
Ahs' thank youse jes' nee' sheddup, thayts whut ah thank.
Oh...an' Pop-ah-squat??
Thank twace 'bowt ahp'nin yer mahth....
Thes' her'?? (gestures to himself) Thes' jen'wine cowntree roit her'.
Thes her'?? (gestures again, but this time points to both of his fists and biceps) wail mayk youse thank twace bowt tahk'n' traysh.
Thes her'?? (floats the double finger), wail mayk youse thank twace bowt wich off ahs es tha ra-tard.
Ra-tard.
Es' noot mah fout thayt youse jes' naht es ken'vencin' es ah cayne beh en thayt rang, jes' lahk wayne ah whooped ahp ahn thayt Tango 'n' Cash feller...
(stops a second)
Ahs jes' nose thayt ain't hes nayme bet...et jes' ain't thayt 'port'nt tah meh.
Bah tha why...thayt feller weth tha kit-oof slaves??
Ahs BEACH-SLAYP thayt mudderfocker bay-fer ahs fahk hes wahf!!!
Domb-ace...
Youse won' ah cahm'deyen??
Ro'neh Car'en-tahn.
Nah THAYT es a fonee sum-beach....
(The man behind the bar shoots Mateo a look before going back to his paper)
Wail...HAY ES!!!
(The camera starts to fade back to the original shot.)
An' ah don' ivan nose whut "Ex-poe-nan-chol" maynes...
FADEOUT
John Doe
The Anorexic Ethiopian
Perfect Reunion
FADE IN...
[Perfection is sitting in a study room as he pulls a needle out of the top of his buttocks, or we are uncertain if he injected or not. He places the needle on the desk next to a small bottle with clear liquid in it. A shadow is casts over the desk opposite of Perfection.]
MAN: James, James, James. Looks like one of us has changed...drastically. The door was open, hope you don't mind that I came in. Saw you on the internet the other day, quite impressive.
PERFECTION: First, I don' go by that name any more. Second, you don't knock? You just walk into a persons house? Third, what are you doing here, Tom?
TOM: That's what I get? No, hello? You don't call your family, your father is on his death bed, your mother aiding him. Your brother comes to see you and that's what you respond with?
PERFECTION: I cut ties for a reason, Tom.
[Tom reaches down and grabs the bottle as Perfection lets him not caring and sitting in the chair behind the desk.]
TOM: Still trying to be the best by any means it seems, huh James?
PERFECTION: I told you....I don't call me James.
TOM: This sh-t is going to kill you, you realize that right? Ha, remember when we were kids the Feyrn boys use to call you Stick? You got bigger since then...now I know how.
PERFECTION: Everyone has their ways of improving, mine are exactly that, they are mine. What is it you want? You fly to Seattle to give me a health speech? Reminiscence? Spit it out.
[Perfection hand moves in a signal to hurry up]
TOM: Well, the reason I came is because the doctors say dad has around eight months left James. Mom, myself, the rest of the family back home were hoping you'd see him before he...
PERFECTION: You got the be kidding me. You think I want to go back to a swamp-hole, see a decaying, withered old man rot because it makes you and everyone else feel good?
TOM: That's not...
[Perfection immediately cuts him off]
PERFECTION: You're right, that's not...happening. I came too far, I have made a Perfect life and made myself into something you all are just jealous of!
TOM: Jealous of what? Drugs? Steroids? The fact that you bailed on your house, cars, and bills and dumped them on your family when it got to tough for you?
[He waves off the notion practically ignoring the entire point]
PERFECTION: However you see it is your perception, Tom. The fact is I am doing my thing now, I have been. My sweet smell of success is attracting home grown flies like you. What you want me to pay for the old mans coffin?
TOM: I never said that, James.
PEREFECTION: Its PERFECTION! Here...
[He throws a twenty dollar bill onto the other side of the desk.]
PERFECTION: Hope that buys him what he deserves. Now get out of my house.
[Tom shakes his head leaving the money where it is and walks out of the study as we hear a farther door shut closed. The camera turns back around to Perfection who interlaces his hands together camera zooms out slowly...]
FADE OUT
FADE IN...
[Perfection is sitting in a study room as he pulls a needle out of the top of his buttocks, or we are uncertain if he injected or not. He places the needle on the desk next to a small bottle with clear liquid in it. A shadow is casts over the desk opposite of Perfection.]
MAN: James, James, James. Looks like one of us has changed...drastically. The door was open, hope you don't mind that I came in. Saw you on the internet the other day, quite impressive.
PERFECTION: First, I don' go by that name any more. Second, you don't knock? You just walk into a persons house? Third, what are you doing here, Tom?
TOM: That's what I get? No, hello? You don't call your family, your father is on his death bed, your mother aiding him. Your brother comes to see you and that's what you respond with?
PERFECTION: I cut ties for a reason, Tom.
[Tom reaches down and grabs the bottle as Perfection lets him not caring and sitting in the chair behind the desk.]
TOM: Still trying to be the best by any means it seems, huh James?
PERFECTION: I told you....I don't call me James.
TOM: This sh-t is going to kill you, you realize that right? Ha, remember when we were kids the Feyrn boys use to call you Stick? You got bigger since then...now I know how.
PERFECTION: Everyone has their ways of improving, mine are exactly that, they are mine. What is it you want? You fly to Seattle to give me a health speech? Reminiscence? Spit it out.
[Perfection hand moves in a signal to hurry up]
TOM: Well, the reason I came is because the doctors say dad has around eight months left James. Mom, myself, the rest of the family back home were hoping you'd see him before he...
PERFECTION: You got the be kidding me. You think I want to go back to a swamp-hole, see a decaying, withered old man rot because it makes you and everyone else feel good?
TOM: That's not...
[Perfection immediately cuts him off]
PERFECTION: You're right, that's not...happening. I came too far, I have made a Perfect life and made myself into something you all are just jealous of!
TOM: Jealous of what? Drugs? Steroids? The fact that you bailed on your house, cars, and bills and dumped them on your family when it got to tough for you?
[He waves off the notion practically ignoring the entire point]
PERFECTION: However you see it is your perception, Tom. The fact is I am doing my thing now, I have been. My sweet smell of success is attracting home grown flies like you. What you want me to pay for the old mans coffin?
TOM: I never said that, James.
PEREFECTION: Its PERFECTION! Here...
[He throws a twenty dollar bill onto the other side of the desk.]
PERFECTION: Hope that buys him what he deserves. Now get out of my house.
[Tom shakes his head leaving the money where it is and walks out of the study as we hear a farther door shut closed. The camera turns back around to Perfection who interlaces his hands together camera zooms out slowly...]
FADE OUT