BRAWL: Sydney

[jediPREZ]

RP DEADLINE: 12/17 (11:59:59PM Astral Standard Time)
IN-STORY DATE: Show 1 - 12/16, Show 2 - 12/23
RP NOTES: THREE RP LIMIT!

NEW FRONTIER WRESTLING PRESENTS:
THE DOWN UNDER BARELY EVEN KNEW HER TOUR!
NFW FAN AUSTRALIAN EXPO @ THE SYDNEY SUPERDOME


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NFW TAKES ON THE WORLD!
Open Invitation to all wrestlers!

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Card Subject to Change...​

'PREZ' NOTES:

EVERYONE IN NFW: You know the drill -- FIGHT FOR YOUR HONOR! This will be a 2-SHOW run at the SYDNEY SUPERDOME w/ a fun little fan exposition planned for the Aussies in particular.

ANYONE OUTSIDE NFW: The overall theme is that NFW has put out an 'OPEN CHALLENGE' to the world wanting an opportunity to compete in New Frontier Wrestling. Anyone and everyone is invited. If it's just to hang out for this tour, that's cool. If this might be a place for you in 2013, that's cool too. ALL FUN -- NO COMMITMENTS.

ALL 235 POUND & UNDER WRESTLERS: Whether a wrestler is signed to NFW or an international free-agent-for-hire, if you weigh 235 pounds or less... you have the right to put your name into the 2nd leg of the NFW Grand Prix Qualifiers. The NFW FRONT OFFICE has also upped the stakes and wants everyone to know that now ANY FREE-AGENT that wins the Grand Prix will earn a WORLD TITLE SHOT, which will conclude in January 2013.

HOLLA!: Depending on the RP thread's development, I will add matches to the main note. If there's any questions, shoot me a PM or IM.

 

[brusch]

“So…the mid-boss has revealed himself.”

(The camera opens to Leyenda de Ocho, battered and bloodied, in the NFW locker room after the Halloween episode of BRAWL. He holds a towel to his head, small patches of red interspersed with the white. Bite marks surround a hole in his mask around the scalp, revealing a small tuft of dirty blonde hair. His voice, a bit raw, tips off his physical exhaustion.)

Ocho: “I thought it would be Spooky Doom when I started with NFW. I thought he was my target, my end game. I went after him, and I went after him hard. And now, it turns out…

It wasn’t him.”

(Ocho picks up a bottle of water from the ground and takes a swing. He then splashes a bit of water onto his face and into the chewed opening on the top of his mask.)

Ocho: “I took on Plain Brown Rapper in my first one-on-one action in the company…a goomba, a red slime, a moblin. Nothing against the man, but it wasn’t him either.

Then, things really picked up for me…three way dances. A battlefield of speed and energy that I thrive on, that I live for. I threw myself into those battles with Peter Windham, with Lane Cash. Legion two times. And though they pushed me and they made me realize the kind of hard-hitting, competitive, phenomenal environment I now find myself calling home – they are formidable foes whom I love doing battle with, but they aren’t my mid-boss.

Rook Black…Rook Black, that amazing champion, that titan of wrestling who holds possibly the greatest title belt in all the world…the Triforce Championship I so dearly covet…he, he is the final boss. The end goal of this game, the man I must quest towards.

Though, that time is not now…”

(Ocho tries standing up, grimaces, and sits back down. A small grunt as he places his hand on the spot where he was struck with the Busaiku Knee Kick. His eyes close as he continues.)

Ocho: “That’s not how the game works. When the game starts, the valiant hero destined to save the day starts out low and humble, discovering the world around him. He fights his way through the Ikan Jobtayoos and the Plain Brown Rappers, growing his powers and gaining new...'revelations' about himself. About his mission, about his goals. About the REAL endgame.

The endgame for me has become crystal clear: I must make the Triforce Belt my own.

But the game doesn’t put you right in front of the Big Bad in the beginning. No, there are hurdles. Challenges. Obstacles one must overcome to prove their worth. The mid-boss I mentioned before is a classic trope; the powerful enemy put in place to put you in a trial by fire, to show you the challenges you still have yet to face, to allow you the opportunity to prove to yourself and to the world that you, in fact, are the hero you so desperately hope to be.

Freddie Sagawa…you are my mid-boss.”

(Ocho’s eyes open, glittering emeralds in a mask of grime and sweat.)

Ocho: “You have your own motivations for blindsiding a victory away from me. Whether it’s a problem you have with me, or a general havoc you cannot control – it is of no consequence. You are my Magus. My Dark Link. The game halts if I cannot pass you.

So be it.

You may not be capable of it, but you should really try to understand something about me...about what makes a man like me...tick. That Triforce Belt…it is the ultimate symbol to me. It is more packed with lore and ideology in my world than even the NFW World Championship. The lore goes so far as to say that the man who sets his hands upon the Triforce will have his heart reflected upon the world, his wishes granted.

Do you understand what that MEANS??”

(Ocho attempts to collect himself from his minor outburst. Coughing, he continues in a more subdued tone.)

Ocho: “You are a fearsome beast, Sagawa. A man who has taken no prisoners in the ring, and a man whose talent I have no choice but to respect.

But the fact remains…I need need NEED to defeat you. A man doesn’t get to face the final boss and claim the ultimate goal if he cannot first defeat the mid-boss.

Others may come, too. Others may take part in this open challenge, others may try to fight their way into NFW and tell their own story. We all have stories, after all.

But anyone else who wants to try to get in my way should take heed…”

(The camera zooms up to Ocho’s glistening eyes for a moment before the screen goes completely dark.)

Ocho: “It will be Game Over for you.”

 

[Rook Black]

(FADE IN: ROOK BLACK sitting at a desk with a stern, concentrating expression on his face. He rubs one temple with his index finger. He's wearing white button down shirt, no bolo, no tie. A laptop is open in front of him.)

ROOK: "Okay."

(ROOK reaches to the side of his desk, and lowers a microphone with a custom pop filter near his head. He hits some keys, and the classic sounds of a skype call are heard.)

ROOK: "We have an urgent update to my promotional materials. Going forward, we're replacing `Rook Black' with `The Final Boss, Rook Black'. Pull up some art referencing classic console gaming, and roll it out. No need for approval, just go forward with it, and fast."

(ROOK ends the call and moves the microphone aside.)

ROOK (quietly): "I am ready, Player One. Are you?"

(FTB.)

 

[Legion]

(We fade in on a custom made NFW vs the World banner background as Legion enters the picture - wearing a shirt that says C.R.E.A.M on the front and Chaos Rules Everything Around Me on the back - no doubt soon to be sold at the NFW online store. The grin on his face is interesting to see as similar to the dark circles under his eyes getting darker the smile starts getting that little bit wider and more manic.)

So we finally get to take a trip Down Under and we have an open challenge to get through first but I'd like to begin Leyenda De Ocho by congratulating on your first few 'levels' so to speak in NFW, any man that can overcome Spooky Doom in his first match deserves an achievement unlocked (he winks at the camera) and maybe the next battle we have will be more an one on one battle - cannibals be dammed.

Now to this Open Challenge: as the previous winner of the Grand Prix I'd also like to welcome anyone from elsewhere that is stepping into the New Frontier for this, you're going to see and hear things you more than likely won't get anywhere else - I mean we're the place that has an Oxonian quoting Crowley and reminding people about the former every time he speaks - imagine him at the boat race against Cambridge, perfect position is the guy barking the orders at the team due to his mouth am I right? We were also the place has had a plumber as champion for a period of time and at the same time a man that fought an intergalactic battle against worshippers of dildos or dildo shaped aliens - so 50 shades taken to the extreme - ah the days of the NFW East.

Last but not least you'll be at some point going up against ME and if you've done your research I am a man you do NOT want to upset (the grin returns) because those that upset me are just biding their time before the true madness begins. As the shirt says: Chaos Rules Everything Around Me and in order to survive you have to let THAT be your main goal: embrace it, don't fight against it.

 

[fugginVOSS]

[FADE IN: on TEDDY ALEXANDER sitting in his hotel room in Sydney, Australia. You can hear the CBD beneath the room as TEDDY stares into his laptop’s camera. He isn’t wearing his neck brace but he is wearing a Phil Atken “Intergalactic Champion” t-shirt with the sleeves crudely cut off.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“Sydney. People told me runnin’ in da big leagues with da New Frontier I’d get to see da world. Now I’m visitin’ da Land Down Under.”

[Whistles an impressed whistle.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“You mightn’t see it in me sometimes but I’m certainly grateful. I’m grateful for where my wrestlin’ career is headin’, too. These last few weeks have been like a roller coaster ride. Peakin’ and troughin’. Ebbin’ and flowin’. Da highs and da lows but seriously... it’s mostly been highs.”

[Nods reflectively.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“A few weeks back da Powers Dat Be penned my name beside Phil Atken’s. I thought it was gonna be a once off deal but it turns out me and dat feller got a chemistry. Turns out we compliment each other’s strengths and weaknesses.

“My power is complimented by his finesse.

“My brutality is matched with his speed.

“My flippin’ my lid is met with his composure and my machismo met with his humility.”

“Together, we’ve achieved da feat of becomin’ da number one contender’s to da Everette Memorials and it’s only a matter of time before we walk away with them. Dat clock just keeps tickin’ on dat moment.

“We’ve proved them all wrong. I’VE proved them all wrong.”

[Scratches the stubble on his chin.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“Now surely by now ALL of you are lookin’ at me and believin’ what I told you about me. Dat when I tell you I’m goin’ to forge a legacy through broken bodies in dis industry dat I meant it.

“Dat I can RUN with da big guns.

“Sure, I’ve come up short a few times. But my heart has always beat louder than anybody else’s.

“I WILL break you.

“I WILL have my moment.

“I WILL destroy you... ALL.”

[Snicker.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“As those sands keep fillin’ da hour glass my experience grows. And with experience comes knowledge. I am shakin’ my rookie status and becomin’ a threat to everythin’ in dis company JUST. LIKE. I said I would.

“Ask Jack Bryant. You ask Jack Bryant how many guys pushed him dat far before. Off their own back. Without their lackeys throwin’ down for them.

“Yeah, I see you Stratton.

“Ask Nova and Jack Harmen. Da Superfly Express. Ask them how long they think they can escape me and Phil snatchin’ those belts from them. ASK THEM!”

[Bursts to his feet, mule kicking the chair behind him away and throwing his arms out by his sides.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“ASK THEM ALL! ASK ANYONE!

“I’m legit! If you don’t know dat by now... if you haven’t SEEN what I’m capable of... if you DON’T BELIEVE what I’m tellin’ you...”

[Sadistic grin.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“Then just get inside da ring with me at Sydney.

“I DARE ya.

“I DOUBLE dare ya.”

[Crouches right into the camera, filling the frame with his face.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“Let da bodies hit da floor.”

[He reaches out, slamming the lid down.]

[CUT to BLACK!]

 

[Jesse Ramey]

The scene opens inside of a locker room; a gruff aged man sits in a steel fold out chair. His long stringy dirty blonde hair scattered across his face and his full beard unkempt. The laces of his black wrestling boots resting on the cold concrete below him, and with a slight sigh he outstretches an arm to rub the palm of his hand across a golden belt across from him. A belt that holds no meaning in what he is about to announce, but it’s an obligation to him none the less. The man lets out a sigh and raises his eyes to look in the direction of the camera.

“New Frontier Wrestling,” he pauses for a brief moment as the name rolls off of his tongue, “you’re not a promotion that has escaped my eyes over the years. I’ve even graced the same rings over the years that some of your other mainstays called home.”

“Rook Black…”

“Jack Harmen…”

“Phil Atken…”

The names rolled off of his tongue, each coming with a distinct pause, and then a longer silence before he continued. “You may not remember me, and why would you? I wasn’t even a blip on your radars at the time. If I would have approached you, no doubt you would have just passed me off as another fan trying to get an autograph.”

“My career may not be as illustrious as the ones that you have etched into the history books.” He continued, “My story has only begun though, and soon my name will be on the tips of all of your tongues.”

The man stood from his seated position, grabbed hold of the gold strap that rested next to him, and he glared into the camera one more time before exiting the room. “NFW takes on the world.”

“You’ve opened your doors,” he paused, “now prepare to truly be entertained like you’ve never been before. You’ve been subjected to mediocre wrestling and the standard theatrical performances of the under talented. Ready yourself NFW fans to truly see something amazing, my name is Jesse Ramey, and I will be your saving grace.”

The scene fades out, with the sounds of a packed arena cheering in the background as Ramey’s entrance theme “Heroes” by Shinedown is heard cuing up.

 

[Biron]

(CUTTO: A pristine MCI E4500 Coach Bus - the side is an airbrushed image of Lane Cash, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, dressed in an extravagant, Pharoah-esque robe, standing on a large pyramid built of gold bricks. Scantly clad or nude servant girls surround the stoic Cash - one holds a tray of fresh fruit, another kneels in front of him, yet another holds a silver platter with only an open pack of Pall Malls on it - cruising down I-95. CUTTO: Inside the decked out coach, where LANE CASH, unlit cigarette hanging from his pursed lips, wearing only black Nike sweatpants, sitting, feet propped on an ottoman, in a mahogany-colored leather recliner. An episode of Street Fighter plays on a wall-mounted, 50” Sony LED TV. Both of the BEAUTIFUL BLONDES mill about the bus. LANE lets out an irritated sigh, grabs the remote resting on the recliner’s arm, and mutes the TV just as Ryu and Ken training flashbacks begin.)

CASH: (grinning, cigarette still dangling) “Like the digs? Used to be Willie Nelson’s … it’s no big deal. (shrugs) I take the ol’ MILE LONG CLUB COACH everywhere. Seriously, everywhere. Loadin’ this bad boy onto a Royal Caribbean and headin’ for Australia by sea. Trust me when I tell you that panties will drop when we pull up to port and I drive this beast onto shore. GUAR-AN-TEED. I don’t even need to lace up my boots … check that, the Blondes don’t need to lace up my boots … and I’m already a CASH COW. And, if I do decide to lift a finger, somebody’s gonna end up preggo! Rumor has it that the Aussies are already in full-blown HIGH ALERT - boardin’ up their doors and windows, buildin’ sandbag walls around their huts - all ‘cause Hurricane Lane is rollin’ into town. (nods) While the parents are quakin’ in their boots, tremblin’ in fear, their daughters are missing their one pill-a-day and quiverin’ for other reasons altogether! (wide grin) That’s not the only reason that the Land Down Under is hoppin’ like a Louisville 7-11 afterbar. They’re gonna come out in droves to see me, the Charming Prince of the Cash Wrestling Family, perched on the turnbuckle, my golden mantle. I’m like a goddamn’d trained ATTACK FALCON, all majestic and shit, (holds arms out, tilting shoulders like a soaring bird) dive bombing another helpless field mouse. I put asses in the seats. PERIOD.”

(LANE fishes a lighter from his pocket and sparks his Pall Mall Long.)

CASH: “I mean, c’mon, they’re not out for any of the other slobs tryin’ to backdoor into winnin’ my Grand Prix prize. They held up BRAWL-O-WEEN for LANE CASH .. not for Legion, or the Artist Formerly Known as Tsunami, or de Ocho, or anybody else. They held it up for ME (thumbs chest). Everybody and their Grandmama has seen the chaos that unstable bastard Legion creates. They’ve seen de Ocho flip from here to there. But, they’ll pack the Sydney Dome to the rafters to see little ol’ me ‘cause I can do things nobody else can. (takes a drag, exhales) I flip the switch and all the eyeballs turn to me (shrugs) or maybe I slink around and pull the rug out from under some schmuck. (sharky smirk) No matter how it shakes out, you’ll be back. The kids hop up on their seats, eyes wide with wonder. Your girlfriends’ blouses go down a button and she starts fannin’ herself. The best part is that you Average Joes don’t even care … you don’t give a sh(bleep!) if she’s callin’ my name out between the sheets! (chuckles) There’s no teachin’ that. You can’t pick up a book and learn it. It’s not on eHow either, so don’t bother. You either got it, or you don’t. (sits up) Me? I’m bustin’ outta my shorts with it.”

(The taller BEAUTIFUL BLONDE, a smirk across her candy apple lips, glances over at LANE, who ashes his cigarette.)

CASH: “Then you have the HAVE NOTS. Yanno, like a floundering tuna who can barely keep his head above water saying that he’s the Saving Grace of your poor, poor souls! (exaggerated laugh) Ha! Jesse Ramey, you are a HAVE NOT. Been around what, ten-plus years? I bet I couldn’t even fit this rig into your West Virginey shanty. Hey, but it’s not all about the money. (exhales a smoke ring) Yanno what, Jess, I’m gonna do you a solid … NO CHARGE. I know time’s are tough … this economy’s a cold-hearted whore. (chuckles) If anybody can put your name back on the map, it’s me, Ramey. I’m a million-dollar RED ROCKETSHIP blastin' into space … lightin’ up venues like a goddamn’d X-Mas Tree. So, here’s what I’m gonna do, sport. I’m gonna let you hook your craptastic career to a BONA-FIDE Money Train. I’ll tow your flabby caboose all over Australia, make the idiots chant your name a few times, and then I’m gonna drop you on your head like only a crackwhore mother would. You’ll see me pullin’ out the Sydney Dome, head out the window, yellin’ “Thanks for the memories, jag-off!”. I’ll make you relevant long enough to make it worth makin’ you irrelevant all over, again. Why? (leans forward, whispering as if telling a super secret) Just for kicks. (leans back, outstretched arms draped on the recliner) My, oh my … it is good to be King and, yeah, Cash IS King!”

(FTB as LANE snuffs his cigarette out.)

 

[Kahrytes]

[The scene is the darkest, dankest, scummiest basement in the world. Cement floor, grime piled up in the corners, rusty pipes exposed, the works. Mold is growing in many different places on the walls, and the only natural light filters through the leaves of the ivy growing over the dinky little window high in one wall.]

[1945-era handcrafted wooden stairs, nails half-fallen-out of the shitty old hardwood lead down into this basement. A set of cement stairs on the other side of the room go up to a pair of Bilco doors. A cot in one corner. And most importantly, a computer in the other.]

fapfapfapfapfapfap

[The only electric light in the room at the moment was the light of the computer monitor, and simply horrendous things were being pictured on the screen. Poop and Asians and dickgirls and vomit and goats and stuff. Weird stuff. Butt stuff.]

IT'S RAININ' MEN
HALLELUJAH IT'S RAININ' MEN
AMEN
I'M GONNA GO OUT TO RUN AND LET MYSELF GET
ABSOLUTELY SOAKING WE-Click

”What. I'm trying to masturbate.”

”You're always trying to masturbate. A really prestigious company has an open call for any wrestling talent in the world. You were a former tag team champion. Get your ass to Australia.”

“...Okay. How do I afford the ticket?”

“Hell if I know. We were a tag team representing the worst the Internet has to offer. Travel by wi-fi or something, goddamn.”

“...Valid point. Besides, we're fictional. I could fly there on the back of a girafficorn, if I wanted.”

“That's a giraffe-unicorn hybrid?”

“Probably, I dunno.”

“Good luck.”

“Can I go back to violently masturbating now?”

“Absolutely.”

Click.

fapfapfapfapfap

[Twenty minutes later, Fappity takes his mandatory tolerance break, pulls his drawstring shorts back up and sets up his webcam. He found the NFW channel within moments. Of course he knew about the open challenge. Fappity “THE MASTER” Baytor did two things on the internet. Look at the most depraved pornography he could find and masturbate to it, and follow wrestling.]

[He would later come back and cut in his own personal entrance music. “Treat Me Mean, I Need the Reputation” by Xploding Plastix. Off their album “Amateur Girlfriends Go Proskirt Agents”.]

[Because that song ruled.]

[Fappity has no muscle definition. He has a sunken chest and nonexistent pectorals. He has literally no upper body strength. What he has is speed and hand-based offense. So, upon fading in, Fappity would be holding one hand out toward the camera, his free hand holding onto that arm's forearm, just below the elbow. Fappity didn't dare let his left hand come too close to his right hand. He'd forever taint Leftie if he brought it near The Claw.]

“I am Fappity “The Master” Baytor. I am an out-of-work professional wrestler who is currently living off of three fake identities that have Social Security checks coming in every month. I am a former tag team champion in a wrestling company that you have never heard of. And I jerk it a lot.”

[A lot. You have no idea.]

“Let me introduce you to the concept of my right hand.”

[Fappity leans the Claw closer to the camera. His hand... Imagine Mahatma Ghandi's ass. Dark brown, tanned from layin' out in the sun, baggy from hunger strikes. That's the skin on The Claw. Darkly stained from constant bombardment with little swimmers and unwashed sweat. Fingernails gone yellow and crusty from their horrific treatment. His right forearm looked literally decades older than the rest of his body.]

“I stole the Iron Claw from that Baron Von Monkeyspank dude from the 80s. And that's my finisher.”

[And his main piece of offense. And his restbreak hold. And his opening match gambit.]

“My hand smells like my dick because I masturbate so much. And when I get in the ring, I inflict that stink on anyone. Everyone. I use the Claw on my opponent. On the referee. Fans in the front row. The promoter. The promoter's kid. If the promoter's kid is a teenaged girl, I probably file her ass away in the Spank Bank.”

[He clenched the fingers of his Claw. The skin around his knuckles crackles and does gross things. Flakes of skin slough off, raining away from his tortured appendage like snowflakes. His body desperately tries to repair the horrendous damage to his skin from his copious dolphin-flogging at all times, but he's five steps ahead.]

“I'm faster than you at masturbating. I can get a handful of stuff within a few seconds if I put my mind to it. And then I throw that in people's eyes to blind them. And then I try to win my matches. And usually, I end up getting my ass thrown around the ring and spiked on my head, if I even get booked.”

[He didn't get booked much. After all, Fappity's signature spot is to magically make the lights go out with Pro Wrestling Gimmickry. When they come back on, his opponent is drenched head to toe in... White Fluid. Just like that friggin' cross was a SYMBOL of the 'Taker, and not a friggin' cross. Come the hell on, dude. That was obviously a crucifixion. Bah gawd.]

“So. I'm gonna ride my Girafficorn to Australia. And I'm gonna sneak into the NFW building. I'm probably gonna end up punching a security guard in the nuts to try and get all the way to the ring. And once I'm in the ring, I'm gonna put on a five star wrestling match that entirely revolves around penis jokes and my right hand.”

[Yeah. Five star match. WHHHHOOOOOAAAAAAAAA. JUST BLEW YOUR MIND.]

“And then I'm gonna get paid and eat food that has vitamins and minerals and stuff in it. Getting to not eat ramen noodles for a week or two would be awesome. Maybe I'll just blow the whole paycheck on Subway sandwiches and try to make my stomach burst so I can take advantage of Australian healthcare, get a morphine drip, override it so I can commit suicide by injecting morphine directly into my balls.”

[RIGHT INTO THE BALLS. That's how suicide works, right?]

“Seriously, I'm gonna put my gross jerkin' hand on someone's face. Like that Lane Cash guy. Lane Cash, I'm gonna touch my balls and then touch your face. You're gonna want to puke from the smell, and maybe I'll even be able to win by rollup.”

[That would be so awesome.]

“That would be so awesome.”

[Fappity's Claw-hand sinks down, below the camera's bottom line. And yes, his waistline is below the camera's view.]

“I'm... I said UNGH, BABY.”

[SPANK THE MONKEY AND WIN AN XBOX.]

“I'm Fappity “The Master” Baytor. I'm the King of Self-Abuse. And when I punch you in the mouth, that's called “foreplay”.”

[He's coming to Australia.]

“I'm coming in Australia. And it's gonna be messy. I hope I don't get stopped by customs for smuggling biological warfare materials into the country.”

[Because by biological, he's insinuating... Ah, you get it.]

“Um. I don't know how to end this. So I'm just gonna make another masturbation joke and then be done.”

[Okay. Shoot.]

“What do you call the sex life of a man with a broken hand?”

[Beat.]

“All right.”

[AWRIGHT.]

[Fappity reaches for the camera with his left hand. As he adjusts the camera, trying to turn it off, the camera pans past his waist, where he was wiping his Claw on the right hip of his drawstring shorts.]

[CUT.]

[Brilliant. Next NFW World Champion.]

 

[Jesse Ramey]

The scene opens in a very well lit room, empty, white walls on two sides and a pristine black backdrop against the other. Standing in front of the backdrop was none other than Jesse Ramey; this time not dressed in wrestling attire, his hair pulled back in a ponytail, and his beard actually combed. In his hands he held a very neatly wrapped Christmas present.

“What I hold before you is a present to all of the fans of New Frontier Wrestling,” he moved the box back and forth a bit. “Should I open it so you can see what is behind the bow?”

Ramey takes a brief moment, smiles, and proceeds to unwrap the gift. The paper and streamer slowly falling to the floor revealing a plain brown box, with a lid that Ramey slowly opens; holding the box in one hand and the lid in the other he tilts it over to show what is inside.

Nothing.

“Now,” Ramey continues, “don’t be sad. This has more of a symbolic message than anything. You see this box represents the talent you’ve been forced to watch over the years. It’s plain, nothing special about it in the least little bit. The contracts that they are held to, have trapped them inside of this box. You are only allowed to see what the management of this company thinks you deserve to see.”

“When I told you that your saving grace had arrived, I wasn’t trying to come off as the bad guy.” Ramey smiled, “You’ve all known me longer than my own family. I’m not the bad guy, I’m the good guy. I have been entertaining you for nearly twenty-two years now; but even I have been trapped within a box for the majority of that time.”

“What you’re ‘so called heroes’ want you to believe is that they are what they are,” Ramey paused, “but in actuality they are what they are told to be. If they go against the grain then they are out on the street living in a box, and without a fat paycheck rolling in every week. When NFW opened the door for any wrestler to step foot inside of their ring, they weren’t expecting anything like this.”

Ramey chuckled, “You see, I’m not trapped within this box here. I have no obligations to a contract here. I’m here to wrestle, and I’m here to finally tell you the truth. NFW isn’t paying me to appear on their Australian tour, I’m doing it because I want to and because I love to entertain the fans. I’m not here to masturbate in front of you like some people, and I’m definitely not here to show you some luxurious mobile trailer on wheels hauled in all the way from the boondock, backwoods, Podunk town that Lane Cash is from.”

“If you want your monies worth, then you continue to tune in to NFW shows as long as I’m allowed to appear on them. If you think Impulse is going to shoot straight from the hip and give you the cold hard truth about anything and everything, then you’re going to love the heat I’m bringing to the table.”

“Cash,” Ramey paused, “you think you know Jesse Ramey, but you don’t know jack squat. If you want to step inside of that ring with me, then we’re going to have a hell of a time. I just want you to get your facts straight for just one moment; I’m a tough son of a gun. I’ve swum the Arctic Ocean just so I could climb onto the continent of Antarctica and wrestle a polar bear; and I won.”

Ramey paused for a moment to let his words sink in, “I’ve traveled to the North Pole and I beat Santa Claus in an arm wrestling contest. Why? Because the good guy doesn’t beat Santa Claus up my friend, you have a good old fashioned arm wrestling contest with him and then you shake his hand afterwards!”

“I’m the reason the Empire didn’t win the Star Wars,” Ramey said with enthusiasm, “not Luke Skywalker! George Lucas got that story all wrong; Luke was hiding in a corner while I took care of that fool Vader and his Senator friend.”

“The most interesting man in the world drew his inspiration from me!” Ramey paused once again for a brief moment, and then smiled into the camera again. “Now, if any of you truly think you can compete with that then I welcome you to step inside of that ring and show me what you’ve got. Just remember, I’m not trapped inside of the box you are. There are no contracts or obligations keeping me from doing what I do best; wrestle.”

The scene fades to black.

 

[fugginVOSS]

[FADE-IN: on TEDDY ALEXANDER walking down the street. Before him, a couple walks before him hand-in-hand. He studies them.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“Look at them. I couldn’t tell you how long they’ve been together but it’s long enough to care. See da way he holds her hand?

“Nothin’ can tear them apart. There’s a bond between them dat can only be broken by one of two things...

“Each other.

“Or fate.”

[Snickers. The couple stop outside a shop as the female stares into a window. The man looks down the street and locks eyes on TEDDY staring at him. He begins to feel uncomfortable.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“Sometimes, your instincts tell you dat your partnership is in danger. Sometimes your gut just screams at you to pick up da one you care about and run for da hills. Run like da wind. Just get da fuck outta town.

“Sometimes... instinct’s ALL you got.”

[As TEDDY’s stare lingers the man’s comfort level dwindles and he prods his female partner to get a move on. Motioning toward TEDDY with his eyes like there’s a threat and he wants to keep moving. She turns and looks, spying the Spinal Smash Monger with her very own eyes and is taken aback herself.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“Together, you can work against da odds.

“Together, you can fight against dat which threatens your partnership.

“Together.”

[Their pass quickens as they begin to head down the street. ALEXANDER stalks them, his intrigue as to their reaction to him peaks as the man looks over his shoulder, one arm protectively sweeping around her lower back as if it would deflect a bullet.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“Together.

“Sometimes, dat’s all you got. But sometimes, separation can become part of da togetherness’ undoin’.”

[The hustle and bustle of the street separates the couple. The man almost becoming frantic as TEDDY quickens his pace, walking toward them. The man’s gaze shifts, like a gazelle eyeballing the lion that’s about to chase, from TEDDY to his partner.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“Sometimes, separation is just enough to BREAK dat bond which you have.

“Dat’s where fate comes to play.”

[The man, finally getting back to his partner, pushes her into a shop off the street. TEDDY chuckles sadistically to himself as they disappear from his view before turning to address the camera.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“Seems nobody wants to pick up my challenge. Seems nobody wants to step in da path of da Brutalitarian himself.

“Fuck waitin’. I don’t wait. I come. I come and I take what I want.

“What do I want?

“Seperation. To break dat bond. To play fate’s hand myself.”

[Snicker. Sadistic grin.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“Jack Harmen.

(points down the camera barrel) “I – WANT – YOU!

“You’ve got somethin’ I want. You and Nova. You’ve BOTH got somethin’ I want. And I will take them. Oh, yes.

“Phil Atken and Teddy Alexander. You saw what we did in DC. You saw us defeat ALL of those teams. And it’s just pushin’ us along, man. It’s da wind beneath our wings. Da momentum is gainin’ and it’s only a matter of time before we’re given our re-match.

(spitting words out like venom) “A match dat Calvin Carlton STOLE from us. I’ll deal with dat little prick later.

“But right now? My focus is gettin’ Atken and me our rematch. We DESERVE a rematch. We deserve a match STRAIGHT – DOWN – DA LINE!”

[Shakes his head. Waggles a finger.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“Jack... you and ya boyfriend, Nova, can’t run from us forever. You can’t hide behind dat little prick’s tennis racquet all ya lives. And when I get my hands on you...”

[Shuts his eyes. Rubs his hands together like he were about to indulge in a feast.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“When I get my hands on you both I will tear you both in two. But for now... If I can’t have my rematch...

“If me and Phil can’t have our rematch RIGHT dis minute...

“I’ll settle for takin’ you down one... at... a time.”

[Points down the camera’s battle.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“So whaddaya say, Jacky-boy? What say you? You man enough to face da Philadelphian Nightmare all on your lonesome?

“Hmmmm?”

[TEDDY leans into the camera.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“You don’t accept I’ll come find you and beat you until you do, Jack. I’ll come find you and give you REASON to accept my challenge.

“I will take your belts. I will take your tag team and tear it apart.”

[Holds a fist defiantly above his head.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“Long live Teddy Alexander and Phil Atken.

(waist belt gestures) “Everette Memorial Champions.

(sadistic grin) “Let da bodies hit da floor.”

[FADE to BLACK!]

 

[EastPrez]

BROKEN CHAMELEON CIRCUIT

(FADEIN: To the street-level lobby of ESEN GLOBAL HEADQUARTERS, NYC, Manhattan. The camera is facing towards the street as New Yorkers make their way down the sidewalk, some in shopping mode, others just walking, faces plastered to their cellphones, almost all dressed well, but bundled up - you can tell it's cold as a lot of women's hair is pushed forward from the wind whipping around.)


(The camera pans to the right where there's a huge, 15-foot Christmas Tree in the lobby, in a respectful crimson, white and white LED light ornamentation. At the top of the tree, instead of a star, is the NFW STAR-LOGO. People walk around a figure that has his eyes trained on the street, wearing a dark blue london fog jacket with military pockets and the collar popped and high around his ears, Jaguar-Teal and Black scarf in a "New York Knot" tucked into the neckline. It's NFW President and Racanteur, 'Hot Property' EDDIE MAYFIELD. Around his legs are several pieces of matching luggage. He's sporting a full Yukon Cornelius reddish brown beard, and a close-cropped haircut--we can see slights of grey hair mixed into his normal crop. He smirks as the 420 Avenue of the America's 2nd-shift doorman, REYNALDO, walks up to him with a whistle inside his gloved hands, dressed in a doormans cap and long wool coat.)


REYNALDO: (Nasly, 'Noo Yawk' drawl) "That's the last of it, President Mayfield..."


MAYFIELD: "Come on Rey, call me Eddie, I gotta tell you that every time."


REYNALDO: (Taking off his hat and scratching his head) "Yeah, I know, I just can't get used to it. I mean, that's what they call you on TV, but I'm sure you know what they call you behind your back!"


MAYFIELD: "Yeah, it's whatever. You don't get here by being thin-skinned. (pulls a GALAXY NOTE III out of his pocket and finger swipes a few screens) So, where's my car service? I gotta get outta here. I still wanted to swing by the Duane Reade and get some earplugs - Lamont snores like someone is sawing enough lumber to make way for a new interstate. I'll never make it to Sydney without protection."


REYNALDO: (Looking outside and down the street - one of his minions is standing outside trying to call down a car) "Never been, Eddie - but don't know how I'd do out there with Koalas and alla 'dat. I like concrete, know what I mean?"


MAYFIELD: (Looking around in his shoulder bag) "I could always find a spot for you with the boys, Rey... 6 months down in Philly in UWA, I'm sure we could give you a gimmick and a finisher - I could teach you how to drop a guy on his head - it's fun! You could be ... (thinks) "THE GATEKEEPER". Probably better than some of these yahoos runnin' around this company..."


REYNALDO: (Absent-mindedly rubbing the back of his head) "Nah! Thanks tho! I like holding doors. That's as hardcore as I get. I'll save the atomic braindrops for the professionals..."


MAYFIELD: (Eyes alite) "So you watched the DVDs I got you? (suddenly, there's a car horn and the VALET outside waves for REYNALDO) Oop- cool, let's grab this sh[BLEEEP!]" (Helps REYNALDO grabs luggage)


REYNALDO: "Nah, I got it, that's my job. (pops the steering bar on a suitcase) You ain't this nice to the wress-uh-luhs that work for you, though - I'm a little shocked."


MAYFIELD: "If 85% of them did THEIR jobs, I'd be nice to them, too. Merry Christmas, Rey." (REY nods and starts taking cases through the left-side doors. We follow them outside, where the VALET opens the rear passenger door to a black towncar, and tips his hat as MAYFIELD gets in the car.)


(CUTTO: The inside of the car, interior shot, like when somebody jumps into CASH CAB. MAYFIELD settles in, and when the door closes, LIGHTS UP - the interior is like a WHOLE different place - there's banks of computer screens, and computer readouts, and tinted windows that have Microsoft SURFACE displays running across them. MAYFIELD raises his eyebrows but puts his bag down and looks around.)


MAYFIELD: "Huh."


(There is a limo-styled black partition cutting off the front of the car. From a speaker? a Voice/Over? We're not sure - a voice booms and it's distant and close at the same time, like BANE in the Batman movie. The voice is loud and distorted and startles MAYFIELD)


VOICE: "MR. PRESIDENT, Welcome ... to TARDIS."


MAYFIELD: "Reminds me of my high school girlfriend - she was bigger on the inside, too. (smirks to himself and goes for his pack of Camel Reds but is cut off by the voice)


TARDIS(?): "Please turn your attention to screen 6 - a rundown on your itinerary and also Australian P.O.I.'s... you have WORK TO DO."


MAYFIELD: (Unlit Camel hanging from his pursed lips) "...so... We can't swing by the Duane Reade now?"


TARDIS: (pause) "You ... you don't know about Fappity, do you?


MAYFIELD: (stinkface) "Wait- wh... WHAT'S HIS NAME? Jesus Christ. I'd be better off with the doorman. (Points ahead) WARP SPEED NINE! GET ME TO AUSTRALIA! NO TIME TO WASTE!"

(FADEOUT as the car lurches forward!)

 

[JBorchard]

Re: BROKEN CHAMELEON CIRCUIT

[CuTTo: A study in some rent-to-film fancyfaced mansion somewhere in the skirt of Sydney, Australia. Books galore, a schweet lookin' oak desk with a grooved-in dragon's head design on its front. Lit to set the mood, a fireplace with an oversized recliner adjacent to a silver platter of kiwi fruit. There sits a man of junior-heavyweight ambitions, masked in an orange and black dragon mask, dressed in a starched white-ruffled dressshirt you could associate more with broadway than that of a professional wrestler. Orange Dragon II, indentity known only by the original Orange Dragon of Puresoru Fame in Kobe, Japan has come to take upon a monumental feat.]

Dragon II: [feet reclined, precious minutes wasted] Hai, Frontiermen. From the ancient stoned-corrals of medieval fable, comes the successor to the most magnificent of all Puroseru warrior. It is I, Orange Dragon II, flown from afar the Japan shores to spread the fire of one's hidden empire.--

[One can assume a smile under the hood of Orange Dragon, yet you can see no hint of eyes, nose nor lips. Perfectly concealed in an elaborate design of the dragon, Ladon.]

Dragon II: It seems there rests untested rapids in this vapid Frontier. For the world was challenged, and other-worldly does most to reciprocate such initiative. So be it for civilized lore to travel such distance to create a melting nexxus of Frontiersmen scratching their hands into the charred remains of befallen peer and neighbor. You thermoplastic of souls need take shelter from the orange fires that rage truth from the true Orange Dragon, the heir to Junior-Heavyweight dominance.

[Ponders, as for a brief second, then tosses a handful of popcorn kernels into the fireplace.]

Dragon II: Popcorn. Once heated, produces delectible treats. I aspire to accomplish much the same feat, as I scorch my verbal wisdom and assault the ahem so-cleverly self addressed New Frontier. Hai, it shall be brand new come the flight of one of Kobe, Japan's most majestic of lores. No Junior-Heavyweight of this Frontier has been pushed to such body-scorched physical want of thirst. Hunger, Thirst-- what New Frontiersman has more-so than the Dragon, who can nay be slayed nor downplayed by haughty jokes nor fluff histories of this so bland plain? Precisely my aim of point.

[Stifles a yawn under his mask. Standing up, he stands a less than spectacular 5'11, like I said.--True Jr. Heavyweight. As the fireplace crackles with Orville's Delight, he continues seemingly disinterested.]

Dragon II: It is no mystery as to why The Frontier seeks out from their drag-knuckled homes. They search true Flight Masters, -- illustrators of a book that actually matters of its content, such as these thousands in this very Study, who can truly back such claims of being Worldly Warriors. Heavens have not opened for this Frontier, not until they dutifully acknowledge that Orange Dragon II is the future heir of this rather unstable empire. [Laughing, a heavy hint that he is Japanese.] It is rather laughable how World Challengers cannot master the task of keeping their internal affairs from being over-run by Windhams, Hellfire Clubs and forgive me, likely a few other clump of angsted thieves. -- Pretenders, the lot.

[Arms folded.]

Dragon II: This is me waiting, - for you, any of you. To speak of why you deserve the opportunity to compete in the new, much-more improved Junior-Heavyweight division. Collectively, an uninspired collection of good, but unspectacular. You may say, 'Who am I to state such retort?'-- Well, who are you to collectively be so ego-driven to call out the other-worldly? The time to stand your ground is fast-approaching, and I can not wait to see which inferior Junior Heavyweight comes forth.

[A rather annoying, heel-forced laugh. He points at the fireplace as it sizzles.]

Dragon II: Popcorn, the lot of you! Pop, POPpop. -- But so little else.

[So it begins, Orange Dragon II has thrown his hood into the Sydney Brawl.]

 

[Rook Black]

Re: BROKEN CHAMELEON CIRCUIT

(FADE IN: A throne made of solid granite, polished to a shiny smooth surface. Carved in relief, the distinctive emblem of the Triple Crown Championship.)

(ROOK BLACK approaches the throne, his back to us. He wears a charcoal armani set with cowboy boots, no bolo, no tie. He holds the The Triple Crown Championship over his shoulder.)

(ROOK seats himself on the throne, his spine straight.)

ROOK: "My name is Rook Black. You can consider me the Final Boss."

ROOK: "I operate under a balance of evil and pragmatism that I like to think of as Enlightened Self Interest."

ROOK: "While it's true that I have something of a streak going for a little bit of time, streaks are statistically insignificant. Don't let it bother you."

ROOK: "I'm not like the others. You're not going to get me, to understand me. Don't let that bother you either."

ROOK: "I am not a very nice person. This is probably because of how unhappy I am whenever I am not actively competing in the ring. I am not your friend. This is probably because I have more use for enemies than I do friends."

ROOK: "I don't mean to hurt your feelings, but I will hurt you to get what I want. Consider it collateral damage. I probably don't dislike you, unless you happen to do one of a dozen things that I secretly take personal offense to."

ROOK: "I am a firm believer in excessively escalated acts of retaliation."

ROOK: "If your ability and accomplishments are respectable, I can guarantee that I hold you in respect, but fortunately I don't let things like respect or other good sentiments get between me and what I want."

ROOK: "Fame. Wealth. These things are merely tools to me, used to craft my legacy. To chisel my destiny out of the rough stone, to create a monument of such magnificence that it can't be ignored."

ROOK: "I am not interested in foolish extravagance. I am not interested in pandering to the sentiment of the barely educated."

ROOK: "I'm interested in this."

ROOK removes the Triple Crown Championship from his shoulder, and holds it out in front of him.

ROOK: "This is mine."

ROOK: "It's basically become me. I consider every single match that I'm in where I am defending it to be the one where I am going to lose it, and from that point of view I make a plan to deny those events and prevent them from unfolding by any means necessary."

ROOK: "I cannot let you touch it, because letting your enemies touch your championship belt makes you appear to be careless with your prize. And people who are careless with their prizes find themselves losing said prizes to those who care more."

ROOK: "But if you want to fight me for it ..."

ROOK: "... well, nothing could please me more."

ROOK: "And if you just want to fight ..."

ROOK: "Well."

ROOK: "That'd be okay too."

 

[Mad Dog]

(FADEIN to Boogie Smallz standing in front of a brick wall with graffiti sprayed on it tagged by various gangs and street artists. Smallz is wearing all black and has a hoodie on pulled over his head. He lifts it up to reveal his face to the camera.)

BOOGIE SMALLZ: When you open up the doors to New Frontier and issue a challenge to the world, you never know who might take you up on your offer. It could be a washed up hack on two bad knees, like Jesse Ramey. Hi, Jess…remember me? (Smirks.)

Maybe you get a chronic masturbator or a masked man from Japan to step up to the challenge? It’s your lucky day…you can mark those off of your talent wish list too.

All of them great finds in their own right and the NFW Front Office should be thrilled with the turnout. I’m more than sure that these guys can generate big bucks right off the bat and take New Frontier to heights it’s never seen before.

But why fool yourselves into thinkin’ that? Why get your hopes up…only to have a big letdown when none of these guys are ANYTHING NEAR what you aspired to get when you circulated your press release to the world?

(Smallz shrugs his shoulders.)

Do you wanna know where you fucked up on this brilliant mishandled idea of yours? Where your plan to bring in new talent failed miserably? How your plea for free agents didn’t generate the interest you were bankin’ on for your tour in Australia to be a success?

Because you alienated half of the free agents out there by only offering a World title shot to any newcomer that wins the Grand Prix. And correct me if I am wrong, but in order to be in the Grand Prix I need to drop about 70 pounds.

I’m sorry, but the Dikembe Mutombo look don’t exactly work for me. Just because I’m a brute force of athleticism and an ungodly physical specimen…you want to exclude me from rakin’ in on a shot at the World champ.

That’s fine…you gotta protect your main guy from a beast like me. That I get, but let’s get serious for a minute and not insult the intelligence of the people responsible for keepin’ New Frontier afloat. Are they gonna buy this crock of shit?

I mean, if that’s how you want to treat your World champion, that’s your business. But if you ask me, the man holdin’ the most coveted title in your organization deserves the absolute best competition he can have. We’re talkin’ about Castor Strife, the ma’phuckin’ winner of the 2012 Ultratitle.

So let’s just throw out this scenario. Say Orange Dragon or Sir Jacks-a-lot wins the Grand Prix and a World title shot. Isn’t that just a disappointment to the fans of New Frontier? A slap in the face to Castor for havin’ to defend the belt against this ridiculous opposition? Why you tryin’ to jerk the man around like Chad Merritt is doin’ to him with his Ultratitle winnings?

(Boogie shakes his head in disapproval.)

I’m not a greedy man. I don’t expect a World title shot that soon. But you gotta admit, my name in the mix brings a lot more attention to the situation than any of these other fools showin’ up for your open challenge. So in the meantime, I will settle for any of your other champions.

Whether it be whoever ends up with the Television title in the Best of Seven or the Triple Crown championship that Rook Black has held forever. It makes none to me.

Maybe NFW will think long and hard before they roll out an open challenge to the world. Because you never know who will accept it and if they may throw a challenge of their own back in NFW’s face!

While I know the door is open, I still want to boot that bitch in and rob a fool…home invasion style! Kick in the door…wavin’ the four-four. Errybody facedown while I help myself to whatever gold you got around.

Nobody moves…nobody gets hurt. But as easy as that sounds…as appealing as it would be to loot a ma’phucka’ with no hassle…where’s the fun in that? No…I want a fight. I’m expectin’ a fight.

See…I’m a man with no obligations. I was in Empire Pro and my contract expired. And instead of Dan Ryan bein’ a wise business man and re-signin’ me to a lucrative deal...he chose to throw a hissy fit and kicked me out the door. I guess lettin’ go of your cash cow is better than dealin’ with the migraine I was causin’ him.

His loss and the next company’s gain.

New Frontier, I’m gonna give you the opportunity you didn’t give me. See after Ultratitle, I was waitin’ for my phone to ring. I was waitin’ for the offers to flood in on the hottest free agent in the game.

I was expectin’ the Peyton Manning treatment.

Bein’ flown around the country and doin’ secret workouts so the paparazzi doesn’t find out. Helicopter footage of me on the news in a car headin’ to some undisclosed location, like I was OJ Simpson in a white Ford Bronco, to meet with the top brass of federation X. All for me to prove that I still have the skills to be the biggest star in this industry.

Instead, I got snubbed by everyone.

And that’s fine. I use that ish as motivation. I’m gonna make you regret that moment. New Frontier is gonna wish they NEVER opened their doors to me.

It’s the gift and the curse. On one hand…you have a bona fide gold mine on your hands…a future Hall of Famer. And in the other hand, you have a man that will not rest until he proves all his doubters wrong. If I wreak havoc on your roster to accomplish this goal…so be it. I’m a heartless bastard and I don’t care what collateral damage I rack up along the way.

(Smallz mean mugs the camera and rolls his neck.)

It all begins in Australia…the land down under. And whoever steps into the ring and opposes me will find an entirely new meanin’ to that phrase…and it’s a deep meanin’…six feet deep. I will slay whatever opposition you put in my way!

Doubt it all you want. Swear up and down it won’t happen. But in the end…ya best…

BELIEVE ‘DAT!

(Boogie looks wild-eyed into the camera and snarls.)

I’m done. Fade me out.

(FADE TO BLACK)

 

[Biron]

Members Only Jacket


(FADEIN: Sydney, Australia’s Bondi Beach; Noon - The camera is centered on a 20 x 20 area of the white immaculate sand that’s been privatized by a stranded, green velvet rope, golden Adonis-esque posts, and a pair of jacked-up Aussies patrolling the perimeter. As the shot zooms in, it clearly shows LANE CASH and the BEAUTIFUL BLONDES lying in what would better described as a high-backed, reclining King’s Throne than a beach lounger. Aside from the pack of Pall Mall Longs on his chest, LANE is only covered by a Laker purple and gold, plaid Pistol Pete Titan Squarecut Swimsuit. THE BLONDES are nude, but nestled next to/around LANE in such a fashion as to hide their best assets. LANE pulls down his Ray-Ban Folding Aviators low enough to stare down a group of surfer dudes and scantly-clad teens that are walking just outside the perimiter ropes.)

CASH: “Keep those little shits back! Back, I say! (pushes Ray-Bans back up, muttering) Man, they’ll let anybody in here … (sits up quickly as the jacked Aussies warn off the group) Hold up! Ask those broads how old they are! (sits back with a satisfied smirk) This beach used to be a great spot to bring chicks and bang them. (his smirk disappears) Now, it’s littered with TRASH - families out for Beach Day, (sneers) a bunch of homeless guys scanning for buried soup cans (shakes head). Has everyone forgot the concept of Members Only!?”

(LANE produces a cigarette from the pack and pinches it between his lips.)

CASH: “Clearly, the EN-EFF-DUB has with this silly Open Call to the World sham. Have you seen the idiots that have crawled out from under their rocks … or parent’s basement. Yeah, I’m lookin’ at you, Fappity. If you think I’m going to standby and allow you to touch my precious, Gift from God face with your calloused, spunk-stained hands, you’re oh-so mistaken! It will not happen! Never! I will hire England’s finest convicts, yes, Australians, to dig a moat around me! There’s nothin’ I won’t do to keep away from you, Fappity. And, like every woman you’ve ever met or seen, you will not touch me! (cackles) You’re just like the other wishful nothings that are standing at the mountain base, lookin’ up at me, in all my greatness, buryin’ my pole deep in that mound, and claimin’ her as mine!”

(LANE lights his Pall Mall Long and takes a drawn-out drag.)

CASH: “Is General Tso unleashin’ his most well-spoken warrior, Orange Chicken, supposed to have this Flightmaster (furrows brow) runnin’ scared? Shiiiiit. You’re gonna wait for me to convince you that I belong? I’m a third-generation CRAFTSMAN, Junior. The Charming Prince doesn’t give a damn what his subservants think of him. You’re coming to MY PLAYHOUSE. You best be happy just to make it to the arena, Flightmaster. ‘cause, if I really wanted to, I’d strut up to your gate at the airport, wait real patient-like, and kick your head clean off your damn shoulders. (nods) They’d wrap your ass up like bad takeout and ship you back to Chinatown. (cackles) How’s that sound, Sun Tzu?”

(LANE stands up, leaving the BEAUTIFUL BLONDES to themselves.)

CASH: “These two jokers lead me up to the BELLE OF THE BALL (eyes widen) .. Jess Ramey. I really dug that box thingy, man. I just so happen to do box tricks, too. Play ‘em like a violin .. (smiles) finish ‘em off like Lars fuckin’ Ulrich! (breaks into a wicked air drum set) You’re a real piece of work, Ramey. Twenty years of being shown the door has turned you into my Uncle Dougie … yanno, claimin’ to see UFOs and complainin’ about how the Man is holdin’ you back. Give me a break. Perk up your ears, buddy, and tune in ‘cause I’m only gonna say this one more time. There’s two types of people, Jess. There’s Kings like me that show up when they wanna and do or say whatever they wanna. I come and go as I please. Guys like you, Ramey, are a dime-a-fuckin’-dozen. You’ve done what the promoters want ‘cause you’re nothin’ special. If you didn’t, they just tossed you aside ‘cause some dingy wrestlin’ school is turnin' out middle-of-the-pack morons every other day. You’re expendable. (pauses, takes a drag) Food for thought, Ramey … you’re a hell of a lot closer to bein’ permanently stuck in a FINE, PINE BOX than you realize.”

(FTB as LANE flicks his still-lit cigarette at the camera.)

 

[jediPREZ]

thump thump thump thump...

(SFX: A low-thumping beat of a tribal drum...)

V/O: "You are alone..."

(FADEIN: A nearly pitch black room except for two dim lamps to the left and right of AKITA HOSHI sitting cross-legged on a carpeted floor...)

BRAWL CALLER V/O: "I don't even know what his name is Akita Yoshi? Why's he even on television anymore!? Tell me Rice, what's the last relevant match this guy has won? Let the younger generation move past him."

AKITA: "Your honor... (AKITA sneers) ...has been questioned..."

PRESIDENT EDDIE MAYFIELD: "Listen, Akita... y'know maybe go back to the Tsunami gig...I don't know, get some of that mojo back! I mean without Mike..."

AKITA: "Your skills... (AKITA's face is twitching) ...are not wanted..."

MAYFIELD: (V/O, cnt'd) "...you and me, we're two different styles out there, I need someone on point PROFESSIONALLY and you're cool, don't get me wrong. Like one of those out of control missiles flying every which way in the air. ...sooooo yeah, I'm gonna roll with Cojones."

(QUICK CLOSE-UP: AKITA's eyes stare blankly ahead...)

AKITA: "Your heart... (AKITA's teeth gnash together, he starts shaking...) YOUR HEART..."

(CUTTO: AKITA forcefully stands up and walks into a dimly lit bathroom, it's decor quickly revealing it's one-star Motel 6 rating. One can only guess if it's west of West Virginia or east of South Dakota...AKITA slowly moves his head closer to the mirror...he closes his eyes...)

AKITA: "THEY DO NOT FEAR YOUR NAME!"

(CUTTO: AKITA's eyes flash open! He bashes his skull into the mirror, sending sharp cracks outward!)

AKITA: "BECAUSE YOU ARE AFRAID!"

(AKITA bashes his head into the mirror again, shards flying!)

AKITA: "DANGERMAN! WHERE ARE YOU!?"

(AKITA bashes his head into the mirror again, more shards dropping as blood splatters against the plastic vinyl wall siding poorly mimicking wood...)

AKITA: "DANGERMAN! WHERE ARE YOU!?"

(AKITA clenches both hands against the sink, blood dripping down his skull... he breathes heavily and looks up slowly into the remaining pieces of the mirror...)

AKITA: (his voice low, calm...) "I am here, Dangerman...a man with no name... no heart..."

(FADEOUT as AKITA's low voice starting to laugh sinisterly...)

AKITA: (laughing) "I am Akita."

(MUSIC-FADE: The tribal drumbeat segueing into 'SEVEN NATION ARMY' -- the WHITE STRIPES)

(FTB.)

 

[Kahrytes]

fap fap fap fap....

#IT'S RAININ' MEN#
#HALLELUJAH IT'S RAININ' MEN#
#AMEN#
#I'M GONNA GO OUT#
#GONNA LET MYSELF GET#
#ABSOLUTELY SOAKING WE-#BEEP”

“dude why do you have a song from the eighties as your ringtone that also implies you are a gay”

“A, shut the christ up. B, I like the song. D, making a jerking off joke there would be too much. Besides, the crowd likes non sequiturs.”

“...What happened to C?”

“C is for cumshot.”

“God damn it, Fappity.”

“MISTER FAPPITY TO YOU. I AM A BIG TIME WRESTLEMAN NOW.”

“So you saw that like everybody in that open signup NFW show is talking about you, huh?”

“Oh my god yes. I creamed like eighteen times when they mentioned me. That's more publicity than I've gotten in like three years.”

“So... Are you gonna tape another promo?”

“...I dunno. Why, should I? I'm just gonna go down there and get put in my place.”

“Well, you are with THAT attitude.”

“Dude, these guys are like World Champions and shit. I'm a joke. I just want the paycheck.”

“Let me put it this way. Do you honestly and truly think that your lethal weapon of a hand isn't a good enough gimmick to maybe do more than just take Boogie Smalls' finisher and get a paycheck?”

“...Truefax.”

“So, why don't you go in there and try to win?”

“Well, no shit I'm gonna try and win. But I think I have something... more in mind.”

“...You want to get the Cream of Fappity off, don't you?”

“It's been a LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONG time since that spot's happened on camera.”

“Well. Good luck, dude. People have quit rather than take that.”

“Make sure you watch. I want at least one person to be rooting for me.”

“Totes.”

CLICK

YOU-FREAKIN-TUBE-DAWT-CAWM-SLASH-PENIS-JOKE

The video comes in on a superiorly handsome man, with stunning features and a gorgeous bod'. He's reclining by poolside, in a tiny little banana hammock. His oiled-up muscles bulge and jiggle as girls walk by.

The camera pans back. The vid' was being shot from the dumpy motel next door to the gorgeous hotel, seperated by a six-foot-tall wrought-iron fence. Spikes on the top. And it was probably electrified to keep the riffraff out.

Riffraff like the man sitting on a shitball Wal-Mart Special plastic deckchair.

“LANE CASH TALKED ABOUT ME! OHMIGOSH OHMIGOSH OHMIGOSH!”, Fappity squeals, his eyes hidden behind the circa-1985 plastic sunglasses he found in a drawer in the shithole motel he was staying in on his way to Sydney. They were probably left there when a drug dealer snorted half of the eightball he was supposed to sell and skipped town rather than face the music.

“I got such a boner from that. I had to go to clownshoe dot com and find a video of a tranny clown drinking cold Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup out of a midget's butthole to avoid shitting my pants in delight.” Drink in that mental image.

Drink It In.

Pause for drinking it in.

"However, I think you all are missing one very important fact here.", Fappity says as he reclines in his cheap Chinese-made crap. He's sitting on the roof of the motel he's been staying in, and is practicing his aim.

He's firing off at pigeons as they fly by. He's a seriously disturbed individual.

"Lane Cash says he's gonna beat me." Fappity is making sure the camera doesn't dip low enough to see. He IS making sure that the camera can see his studly, amazingly muscular, super hardcore chest.

As in "Fappity has no muscle definition, his pecs droop, and he has no abs."

"Some rapper dude named after the Notorious B.I.G. says he's gonna beat me." Fappity's hand is constantly going, however. Fapfapfapfapfap.

"The list goes on, and on, and painfully, irritatingly on. Everyone is totally convinced that they're gonna be the one to beat me because I'm some sort of pervert." Some sort. No, a specific kind. Fappity gives a deep belly-groan, and a squelching sound happens just off-camera. And then a bird squawks.

Bullseye.

"Here's the thing you're all missing, boys and boys. The last time I won a title belt was in 2005. The last match I won was thanks to my tag team partner at the time. I'm what you'd call... "Enhancement talent". I get paid to do a specific job." He gets paid to do jobs. Jay-Oh-Bees.

Fappity brings a hand up, and runs it through his greasy, unbound hair. And it was dirty enough that the specific color of his hair was a bit of a mystery.

"Yes. All of you could very easily beat me in a one-on-one match. If I faced Biggie Smalls, he'd beat me in like two minutes after the "They Call Me Big Poppa" or whatever the christ is his finisher." Fappity reaches back down, going for his crotch once more. Refractory period my ass.

"Lane Cash could... I dunno, make jokes about how many girls he's banged and try to wave that in my face like it's some sort of prize." Like Fappity gave a shit about that. No girl could do the things to his dilz that he could.

"And I'd take it, go get my paycheck and go home. Like always. But this match is different. This match is more my style. All I've got to do is beat off however many other people and keep from getting thrown out of the ring." Ha! He said he'd beat people off. See, cuz it's like... Aw, you get it.

"The one thing that matters in an over-the-top-rope battle royale is gripstrength. And I can promise you that I have more gripstrength than alla you dudes. I can hang onto those ropes like you wouldn't BELIEVE. I'm gonna pretend that thing is my dick and hold on for DEAR LIFE. So... I stand a pretty good chance of lasting a while and getting a REALLY good paycheck." Fappity's hand was hard at work. Ha. He said hard.

"I'm probably not gonna win. I'm a nobody. A jobber who hasn't won a match in something like eight years. But what I CAN do is fly to Australia and touch people's faces with my dick-smelling hand, last for a long time and get enough money to live on for a little while." Which would be awesome. Fappity would love to eat food that doesn't come from the bargain aisle.

"I think Tupac is like an eighteen time World Champion and shit. And Lane Cash has so much money and so many bitches hanging off his dick that he could buy and sell my ass six times over." Again, Fappity would be okay with Lane Cash paying him to lose. Fappity is comfortable with his spot at the bottom.

Did you catch the like three sex jokes there? Oh ho ho, how witty.

"But here's one thing that's inevitable. And I'm tenacious about this. You won't be able to eliminate me before I touch someone's face with the Claw." Grunt. Sploot. Squawk. Bullseye x2.

Fappity brought his hand up, his monstrously discolored hand wiggling dickstained fingers at the camera.

"I'm going to touch your face, Lane Cash. And the stink of twenty years of dicksweat is gonna get stuck in your nose for a week, Laney. You're gonna be Lady MacBething that shit for years. Out, damn spot! Stop making me think of a dick, you'll cry and wail! Oh, how you'll gnash your teeth as you remember the feeling of my skin, how clammy and sweaty it is. And how you'll remember where that sweat probably came from." Fappity gave a toothy grin. His yellow, uneven, never-seen-a-dentist smile wasn't anywhere near as gorgeous and classy as Lane Cash's.

"You'll be going down on a girl, tonguedeep in that furburger, and all of a sudden, a whiff of my dicksweat will stick in your nose. Sure, you can get some happiness out of the fact that you'll probably eliminate me after. But your face is gonna smell like my balls." Fappity gave a wink.

Seriously, Fappity's Claw made some guy kill himself. He couldn't get the dicktaste out of his mouth. And this was no ordinary taste that you smell and it's icky. This was concentrated funk. Not George Clinton-style funk, either. Oprah's ass-style funk. Homeless Man's Balls funk. Ron Jeremy's asshair-type funk.

"I'm going to touch your face with my jerkin' hand. And I'll probably touch Oogie Boogie's face with my jerkin' hand. I'll ruin Orange Centipede Three's mask with my dickfunk." Imagine it. Fappity enters the ring and makes everyone freak the hell out from Brain Chops. Face slaps. Whatever you'd call him just grabbing your face with his funky fingers. "Rook Black, you're the supervillain. You're Raul Julia in Street Fighter. The day you burnt down my pornography stash was the worst day of my life. But to you, it was tuesday."

Fappity reached down with his other hand. That way, he'd get to roll his dick between his palms like a Play-Doh snake. "And... UNGH, BABY." He was touching himself and it was good. "I'm gonna throw a handful of my splooge right in your face." The Triple Crown paled in comparison to Fappity's AVN AEE 2011 "Fastest Wanker" award. He was the quickest masturbator in the world. What.

"Jason Ramey, I do two things with my time. I jerk my gherkin and I spank my monkey and I watch wrestling."

That was three things.

"And even I am not sure who you were. But I'm still gonna tell you a joke in that ring. Here's the joke."

Wait for it.

"What do you get when Spider-Man gets excited?"

Fappity brought one hand up, making a wank-motion, before turning his hand and flinging an invisible handful into the camera.

"HERE COMES THE SPIDER-MAN!" He was seriously planning on throwing dicksnot in the face of just about everyone in the ring. And he was probably gonna touch their face with his dickhand.

"In summary, you're a good wrestler, person-who-will-say-nuh-uh. Eleventy billion time World Chumpion. But, see, I know a wristlock or two or three. I know my way around a ring. I've been doing this long enough that I can grab your face from just about anywhere." Fappity reached up with his claw, extending his fingers out to an imaginary marquee.

"Imagine it. Lane Cash in a ring full of dudes, stomping me into a fine paste. Boogie Woogie runs up to punch LAne in the face. A momentary distraction. I get up and grab Lane's face. And then, Lane's day is ruined. His week is ruined. His month, maybe. It's like a skunk's spray. No tomato juice will help. No clothespin is strong enough." Fappity's eyes had gone off into space, unfocusing as he imagined it.

"Hell, maybe I'll even do a bunch of Mandible Claws. And no. I'm not washing my hand before the match." Fappity never washed his hand. Fappity never washed his ANYTHING. NFW would be lucky if he'd wear a pair of clean tights to the ring. Fappity's current pair had a ketchup stain on one thigh from a burger he had been eating, and... Well...

The rest were probably cumstains.

"Go ahead, guys. Tell me how bad you're gonna beat me. And I'll say "Thank you, sir, may I get paid now?" after you beat me up. But I'm gonna touch your face. Your face is gonna smell like my junk. My sweaty, gross, calloused, blistered, friction-burnt junk. And there's not a thing you can do to stop it." From the poolside area, a loud cry came up. It sounded like a beefcake dillhole screaming “A PIGEON SHAT ON ME!”. But that wasn't bird feces.

THAT WASN'T BIRD FECES AT ALL!

(IT'S AN ALLUSION TO WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN IN SYDNEY. AS IN: FAPPITY IS GOING TO THROW A HANDFUL OF JISM INTO ROOK BLACK'S FACE.)

Fappity cackles and wiggles his Claw at the camera. For posterity: Let's describe the Claw again. His fungernails have a fungus growing on 'em from constant bombardment with high-caloric-value liquid. They're all yellow and waxy. His skin has been stained a deep, dark brown from the little swimmers he's rubbed into his skin like a ashy-skinned black girl. It also is all waxy and clammy, covered in sweat and fromunda cheese. He has no body hair whatsoever on that hand, due to the friction of rubbin' the backside on a pair of boxers and the palm on his favorite body organ.

His epidermis.

And he's gonna touch someone's face with that... that... THING. The very AIR around it ripples like the air above a chunk of boiling blacktop on a hot summer's day, warped from the funkatronic grotendous stank that emanates from every pore, that is soaked into the skin, that radiates with the essence of manbag.

And he's gonna touch. Your. Face.

"See you in Sydney!"

HARDCUT TO BLACK AND RELATED VIDEOS LIKE DOGS HUMPING AND PUKING, PEOPLE GETTING KICKED IN THE DICK AND BAD STAND-UP COMEDY.

 

[JBorchard]

Re: fap fap fap fap....

FadeIN: A pewter-colored velvet couch, sectional. Enough to seat twelve individuals, none of which are on it. Instead, two young Japanese Geisha cover this couch with a collection of rose pedals and detached butterfly wings. Not traditional, but an unique spin on old customs that are slowly losing favor. Orange Dragon II comes into the picture, shirtless but masked in the designs of Ladon. A snap of his fingers as the Geisha leave, and Orange Dragon stretches out into the cushions.

A butterfly wing brushes alongside his right hand, which he promptly picks up by the edge and holds up, inspecting of it as he lays on his stomach.

Dragon II: Gray sail against the sky, Gray Butterfly! Have you a dream for going.-- That is what one Boogie Smallz may ask himself over and over, being neglected as he states, with a thirst to go but no means to arrive. You redicule the New Frontier with their want to improve upon their ranks, be it in front of some uninspired graffiti backdrop as you vehemently wish to be appreciated. To be heard. Hai, perhap they hear you,-- or perhap like myself they believe in something more substancial than what you simply want. I thought I expressed my own thoughts quite clearly, calling forth the good but unspectacular Junior Heavyweights of New Frontier. I did not express nor need your critique. You are, as you stated, seventy pounds plus the desired weight limit. Therefore, like true gray sails against the sky, you must at least muster enough intelligence to realize you have no sail in this particular travel.

Therefore, you are excused unless you do indeed shrink in size or obtain the wrestling accumen of a Castor Strife who exhausted his body to earn the Ultratitle, of which a plethora of unknowns participated in. Are they unworthy of their standings upon just debuting? -- How absurd you sound. Accept your meandering standing, and be grateful a hundred plus talents do not converge into one seething lynch mob, bludgeoning you for besmirching their name. Had I been in the Ultratitle, I would have taken great offence of your smug questioning. For shame, Hai, for shame.

Flicking the butterfly wing pinched between his thumb and index finger, he watches it fall to the floor, and off-handedly shrugs off the mere thought of addressing Boogie Smallz ever again. Such is his ego, afterall.

Dragon II: -- I do admit, I am sorrowed by the lack of true Flightmasters. Surely, one Lane Cash is not the sole proprietor of honoring such a challenge? --Hai, Mr. Cash, I do expect you to explain why you should be in such a standing with me. You are the equivilant of smoke. You puff it, you blow it out. You stench of smoke. And, Hai, you choke like smoke. Your tripe to belittle me as Orange Chicken not nearly as offputting as your desire to claim yourself a craftsman. Hai, perhap you are the tool of New Frontier. The wrench of what others use to tighten up their resumes as they soar past you in each conceivable category. Be it competition or being a man, I see so little in you.

Go away, Little Lane. YOUR playhouse is nothing more than an exaggerated exhale of your wet dreams. You want so bad to be humiliating toward me, yet I feel regret for who you are. A lesser than. A prop, much like a common household ceiling fan. It spins about in its own way, but collects dust more-so than being used. Hai, you are quite the craftsman tool, indeed.

I find it intriguing that these men besmirch me.

I am a glutton, however, to press onward. See the world, -- perhap fancy a title shot only to turn it down in front of the faces of all envious Frontiersmen. Perhap sell it top-Yen to the most undeserving dote I can find.

Hai, I will do precisely that. Take the honor, kill the head and burn the charred remains that was New Frontier while the silent maggots hollar for mercy. Metamorphosis has always amused me. At first, I thought this was the place to be. Where talent gorge on the ascended plane the inferior drones could never reach. Yet, in the end, I get childish name-calling. I receive absurd winging about being overlooked. Hai, PHOOEY. You do not deserve Orange Dragon II.

Pushing upward in a sitting position, rubbing his chin under the mask in a show of pondering.

Dragon II: I will win whatever fool-hardy endeavor the New Frontier dredges up, and gladly give my newly won accolade away in sheer spite. Hai, you can thank Mr. Cash and Mr. Smallz, who simply do not measure to my standards. They have scruples, HAI, but are mere mortal weak flesh. They covet, they want. They are parasitic of what I truly deserve. They are shucked bastards, Hai.

Over-confidant, and embellishing on what he wants. His desires for Junior Heavyweight domination frustrating as he imagined a slew of World Talents to come forward. Orange Dragon II's body language translates disgust with the NFW's silent Junior Heavyweights.

Dragon II: Hai, the Frontier has been shucked. For shame, for shame. Scared and shucked.

Pointing and laughing.

Dragon II: Hana yori dango!! That make you understand, HAI!

His chest in and out, as he loses more composure in hysterical laughing. Feeling 'insulted', he returns such insulting behavior toward the New Frontier.

Dragon II: Or.-- Or perhap this.-- akuin akka!

A stereotypical Japanese-accented laugh, before stopping and standing quietly.

Dragon II: [blandly stated, softly] Deru kui wa utareru. -- Because I stood out, I was subject to criticism. No MORE, Hai! No more Mr. Nice Dragon.

A well-bleeped out hand salute, and obviously Orange Dragon II is thin-skinned. He leaves as-is, devising a plan in his head to shame the Frontier as he feels he was most embarressed. And CUT.

 

[jediPREZ]

Under your Skin

***this is posted on behalf of another user as we work out forum technical difficulties.***

(A boy’s bedroom is his castle where you expect to see a war zone resembling Baghdad in 2003 and walls covered in FHM pullouts of the world’s 100 most famous, I mean sexiest, women. Wait, sexiest has to be right because Angela Merkel would stand no chance of getting in. Sarah Palin, on the other hand…

This one bears none of those features. Its walls are decorated with…Playstation posters?

On the bed, we see a young man wearing sunglasses indoors, yes I know, what a prick, along with a leather jacket and a scraggly, plain white t-shirt that looks like it’s not been washed since he bought it in 1991.)

“No final boss has ever got the better of Kid Chameleon: Not Bowser, not Robotnik, not Lance Vance and Sonny Forelli combined and no, not even Braska’s Final Aeon.”

(Oh yes, I thought he bore resemblance to someone. He’s a rip-off of that old Sega Genesis character, Kid Chameleon. The one that gets sucked into an arcade game and who has to battle his way back to the real world. It’s a bit dated and so is the living one we see before our very eyes.)

“Rook Black isn’t the final boss. Oh, I know who you are. I’ve seen you from afar and you’re a great wrestler, but I’ve had harder times with Sonia, Sindel, Chun Li and Shadow. The last one was the hotter-than-an-iron leather-clad chick from Eternal Champions for those of you not in the know.”

(Chameleon winks at the camera, not that you’d know, because he doesn’t bother to remove his sunglasses first.)

“You’re no M. Bison and you’re certainly no Shao Kahn.

“When I was at high school, I remember seeing your profile and thinking…Rook Black. Cool name…shame about the face.

(Scathing comment. Mind you, he’s got a cheek if you ask me.)

“Final boss? You looked easier to beat than the Green Hill Zone. No wonder, guys used to think I was a geek for liking wrestling with you around. Take a bump? You didn’t look like you could take the bus.

(Kid’s not holding back here, except for the sunglasses. They’re still on. He’s ripping it out of Rook. Surely, Mr. Black’s not going to stand for this, is he?)

“I like Australia. Me and my partner, the other Player, Paul Sanders, rocked it when we beat those annoying, out-of-shape, Health Fanatics three-two in a best-of-five series. There was no way we were losing with two Acer laptops on the line. In fact, since we got them, I’ve not been off mine.

(Looking at Kid Chameleon’s clothes, I think it’s the only true thing he’s said in this interview.)

“Not until now.”

(There’s a seriousness in Chameleon’s voice.)

“I’m a cool guy, well I’m a nerd really, but cool in the sense I don’t get angry. People who know me have always known how to press my buttons…

“By questioning my ability in pressing buttons.”

(It’s a fact that Kid Chameleon has never lost a tournament, backstage or a fans’ convention, in any promotion he’s worked for. In fact, one promotion used to take 5 dollars from kids to see if they could beat Kid, safe in the knowledge their 100 dollar reward was harder to collect than beating the house in Vegas.)

“There isn’t a game I haven’t completed. I’ve got a hundred percent record. Ask my mom. Every time I got a new game, I played it until I finished it and then I got another one. That meant she was buying me at least three games a week and at Christmas…you don’t wanna even know. I think Santa had a sack just for my gaming needs.

(Ho, ho, ho – that was me, not Santa.)

“No player, virtual or physical, male or female, Nintendo or Sega, X-Box or Playstation, Game Boy or Game Gear, Resident Evil or F.E.A.R has stopped me.

“In Australia, Rook, be prepared to meet The World’s Greatest Gamer, The Boffin, Vice City’s Vice-Chief, Gouken’s Third Disciple, The Mayor of Mushroom Kingdom which means, yeah, that’s right, I’m also…

“Princess Peach’s Pin-Up.”

(Chameleon actually removes his sunglasses and turns his head before winking at…Princess Peach or Rook Black?)

“You see, video games are just like films: The good guy always wins and gets the girl.

“And no final boss stops Kid Chameleon from seeing the final credits.”

(And the camera fades to Rook Black. No, not the wrestler. It’s a pun.)

 

[brusch]

Re: Under your Skin

(The camera opens to Leyenda de Ocho in a bright red mask with a matching red M on his forehead, encircled in white. There is a television to the side, playing Kid Chameleon's diatribe.)

Ocho: "...who is...what is...who are you?? Am I looking into a mirror? Is this...what is this??

That's not...you're not...REALLY a chameleon, are you?

Are you trying to be me? Are you trying to take my place? A doppleganger? An identity thief?"

(The screen finishes Chameleon's video and moves to a promotional tape featuring Rook Black. It features an 8-bit soundtrack, images of Dr. Robotnik, Ganon, Sephiroth, and more. As Rook poses in the middle, the text "The Final Boss" appears.)

Ocho: "...??????

I must be going mad...I knew this quest for the Triforce Belt would be difficult, but this?

No, no, Ocho. It's all in your head...

...it's all in your head."

(Ocho turns off the television just as a video package for Fappity begins. He passes a mirror. In the corner of his eye, he swears his mask turned yellow with a purple letter on his forehead; this flashes for a moment, and returns to red. He walks off screen, a blank stare in his eyes as he shakes his head. Fade to black)