BRAWL: Sydney

[Colin]

Re: Members Only Jacket

We find Phil Atken pacing around his luxurious 2 star bed room accommodation further away from Sydney than would be convenient during an Australian tour. Such is the life that Phil Atken leads. People often wonder if he's just really cheap or has the worst travel agent, either is valid.

The reason for his pacing around? Why he was on his mobile phone and looked to be in a rather tense and frustrating conversation.

Atken: Yeah... I know it's going well but... yeah... I know... yeah... but Roops... I know how important Australia is to you. No... yes... no... okay. Teddy's just... right, fine, I get it. Yes, I got the robe, yes, it's very shiny. I like it... no I like it... that was my sincere voice. Look, it's just that Teddy likes to use me as a prop... no, I like winning... Roop, I got to go. The cameras are here. No... they just like to show up whenever. I think Dirk books them as some kind of cruel joke... yes, I know, he has an economy.

Atken flips his phone closed (he still has THAT kind of phone) and gives a weary smile to the camera crew that have apparently just barged into his very hotel room without any level of permission. Such is his life.

Atken: I suppose you're here for my thoughts on something? Did someone insult me again? Anyone imply the whorish tendency of my mother? Perhaps someone through around the j-word?

Phil breathes in and then back in again to produce a deep, heavy, sigh. He waits for a response that doesn't appear to be coming.

Atken: Really? No one took a giant dump on my head and then tried to convince me that it was ice-cream? The times, they really must be a-changin', just like the Vengaboys said in their ill-fated album dedicated to covers of Bob Dylan songs. Turns out people didn't appreciate a reworking of The Hurricane to the phat beats on late 1990s techno dance boy girl bands. Still, I suppose that album was slightly better than Aqua's tribute to Bob Marley. I'm surprised no one revolted the minute "I'm a Marley girl, in a Marley world" fired up.

Atken begins to tap his toes and hum the beat to "Barbie Girl" before he quickly snaps out of it.

Atken: Still, I'm here in almost Sydney. I'm here on NFW's dime. It's nice, I saw several hundred kangaroos the other day. Turns out they're like Australia's pigeons. Well, almost I suppose, I didn't see any of the kangaroos shit on anyone's head. My partner, a great man, a spirit and energetic young talent with an undying passion for this industry, dear Teddy Alexander, he has things on his mind and soon he will have hands around throats. Teddy wants Jack Harmen and who could blame them, The Superfly Express have already ruined their stellar reputation for fair play and common decency in wrestling by choosing to associate with a low level miscreant like Calvin Carlton and worse than that, to allow such a miscreant to ruin the true EMT champion's crowning achievement, finally taking the belts off the smell and unrealistically sweaty waists of the Superfly Express. Calvin Carlton took the crown away from the Atken and Alexander Express and I won't forget that. Why, if my mother was here right now, I'd set her on him. Sadly she has an economy.

Still, who could blame Teddy for wanting to throttle old smuggy pants himself, Jack Harmen. No doubt the man who convinced Carlton to join the Express, he just seems like the sort. He gives of that kind of air, I've spent a lot of time around Harmen recently and his just seems like the most skeezy guy who has ever skeezed. Clearly the guys just aren't comfortable enough in their own ability, need a tennis racket wielding megalomaniac to aid them to defeat NFW's best and brightest. So with Teddy no doubt about to ensure that this is one flight the former High Flyer doesn't return from, where does that leave his adorable and charismatic tag team partner? Where does that leave a man who is the champion of at least two galaxies? Well it leaves him doing a bit of Sydney based tourism but I'm sure that NFW wouldn't be too happy if I didn't do a tad of that wrestling business as well because god knows I don't want to spend hours sitting in a booth signing autographs to Australia's most inbred. I mean, this is where we sent our criminals after all. They'll all be Superfly Express fans.

Phil shudders at the mere though of sitting at an autograph table and interacting with other normal human beings.

Atken: So NFW opens it doors to the world and attracts a man called Fappity, the second of the great Orange Dragon clan, whatever the hell that means and Jesse Ramey, alternative dimension expert. Real great stuff, real great idea Eddie. You know, I'm starting to think August has a point, we need a violent overthrow of our Mayfield oppressor. That last election was a sham and democracy is broken into teeny tiny pieces!

Still, I remember Jesse Ramey, that young plucky man who would become a dimensional traveler, constructing walls just to break them. He was there many years ago, when I worked in one of those places with three letters, it began in an A if I remember correctly... ABC?... ACC? AWC?... ACW! That's the one. I don't really remember Jesse too well because I was too busy MAIN EVENTING. SCORCH! Finally, someone I can shit on! The day has finally come, release the confetti! RELEASE IT! Oh... yeah... I didn't buy any. Sorry guys.

Atken kind of shrugs and kicks the ground at his feet.

Atken: Still, I entered this Grand Prix many months ago with a purpose in mind, not to prove that I'm a superior cruiserweight because that is already established fact printing in the recent publication "Superior Cruiserweights Monthly", a News International publication. I've been the cover boy... cover man... cover person... three months running.

No, I entered the Grand Prix to ensure that me and Teddy got ourselves a shot at the EMT titles, now sure, when I first entered it was so my great partner, Teddy Alexander, would not kill him with his bear like bare hands but now, now I want that damn shot. Now that A&A have come so close, only for the opportunity to be scuppered by a small African man with sports goods, I see the potential in the team. I see the future in it, I see that we are brother... perhaps even brothers in arms and if I have to face down the world to get there, if I have to clip the knees of those who enter the NFW gate to ensure that me and Teddy get our rightful re-match... well then I'm just doing my duty as a tag team partner. I also won't get murdered by Christmas, so that's an added bonus.

 

[Rook Black]

Re: Members Only Jacket

(FADE IN: ROOK BLACK wearing a black t-shirt that reads PLOT in bright blue letters. He's got the Triple Crown Championship areound his waist. Blue jeans, cowboy boots.)

ROOK: "On the complicated side of things, you're not going to understand why someone who is as anti-materialism as I am would have a throne made out of solid granite."

ROOK: "But I'll throw this out there anyway. It hasn't escaped my notice that there's a significant mythological element with regard to the early awe and delight in the playing experience of the classic console game experience. Partially through the limited technology, partially through the growing pains of an artistic/entertainment medium discovering itself, the games took on a relevance for their players that was nigh unto a religious experience. In between blocky pixels and finite date storage of a cartridge is the opportunity for the player to apply their imagination to their game experience, and this meant the people who were playing under a state of passionate immersion were having a definitively superior experience to those who were playing expertly and successfully."

ROOK: "That's how I can easily divide Leyenda de Ocho and Kid Chameleon."

ROOK: "But in any case, my role as antagonist, while currently being adjusted to a more villainous position to exploit the existing mythology, is more resonant to the older narratives, where the bad guys did not just exist to make you feel good about yourself for beating them. They served a far more primal and educational purpose."

ROOK: "I'm the Final Boss because I'm the most formidable opponent you'll face when you're here."

ROOK: "I like quiet evenings all alone, contemplation, reading, violence, and have a strong preference for triple threat matches."

ROOK: "If you want to try me, be my guest. I'm sure there's room for you."

ROOK: "Just keep in mind that my message has been consistent. I will seek a successful outcome by any means necessary. Every other Final Boss you've faced was programmed with an exploitable weakness, a path the programmers built to guide you to your win condition."

ROOK: "This Final Boss? Me? If there is an exploitable weakness in my character somewhere, it has not yet been discovered."

ROOK: "Maybe one day it will. Maybe it will be you."

ROOK: "Highly-"

ROOK: "Unlikely."

(FTB.)

 

[jediPREZ]

Droppin' Quarters

***once again this transmission is brought to you by the kind forces of the intergalactic NFW federation. We have assumed control. WE HAVE ASSUMED CONTROL.***

(‘The Jock’ Paul Sanders and Kid Chameleon are sat in front of Chameleon’s computer. He’s playing on ACW Legends 5: The Video Game. As The Players didn’t debut before the production of the game, Kid Chameleon’s operating as Orphan while Sanders selected Andy Sharp.)

On-screen, Orphan punts Sharp in the skull, which the former called Merciless Judgement.

Quicker than Boris Becker’s sperm swimming to the surface, the Chameleon-controlled Orphan pick his partner’s chosen one up and watches on helplessly as Kid keys in the magical combination to unleash a skull-crushing killoy!

Chameleon lets out a laugh: “Ouch! Leyenda de Ocho feels your pain!”

Cockily, Kid guides the multi-time World champion over and makes a cover before dropping his X-Box controller onto the bed, confident in the academic outcome as Sanders frantically bashes buttons in vain.

Kid offers commiserations to his best buddy. Well, not quite: “What’s that now, Paul? Twenty-three and oh? Twenty-four?”

“If only you could wrestle that well. That’s what matters. If you were that good in the ring, we’d be the greatest team alive.”

Alex The Kid chortled: “You know there’s only one Kid Chameleon. Wait, there are two but he’s the only person I’ve copied.”

The International Playboy was incredulous: “You stole your whole repertoire from Wolf, King and Zangief!”

A shrug of the shoulders met Paul’s riposte: “Okay, I copied them too. So…?”

Sanders sarcastically pointed out the obvious: “So? You’ve copied more than one person.”

Chameleon conceded that: “I have, but I’ve never copied anyone in the wrestling business.

The cogs in Paul’s brain started to turn and Kid smelt blood, just like he had on the 360 mere moments ago: “Have I?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

Ha! That’s what makes me unpredictable. I’m not a conventional wrestler. I wasn’t trained in some high school gym or summer camp. I learned my moves from the best places in the world.

Paul started listing some of the finest wrestling organizations alive “fWo?”

“No.”

“ACW?”

“No.”

“NFW?”

“No.”

“Where?”

“Streetfighter, Mortal Kombat, Virtua Fighter, Tekken and, wait for it, FINAL FIGHT.”

Sanders shook his head: “Not Mike Haggar again!”

“He’s the Mayor of Metro City and I’m the Mayor of Mushroom Kingdom – in Mario’s absence.”

Paul tried to steer things back in the right direction, which wasn’t always easy where his eccentric co-worker was concerned. On this occasion, however, Kid did it before he was told: “Rook Black, you say you weren’t programmed, but you were. You learned from your dad and came from the Black and Black Technical Wrestling Academy.

“He’s a great wrestler, Kid.”

Without batting an eyelid: “Former tSc Champion. The thing is…I’ve faced great wrestlers before. He’s never faced anyone with my style. He’s at a disadvantage like playing EWR on hard.”

The Prince of P-Town looked at the Vice-Chief of Vice City blankly: “You can’t see the stats.”

The penny dropped: “AH.”

“Rook Black knows nothing about me and neither does Leyenda de Ocho, who did well at the Ultratitle tournament.”

The 2nd generation Sanders was surprised: “Kid, I didn’t have you down as a student of the game.”

“I’m not. I am THE GAME,” roared Alex.

Paul moved uneasily and gazed at the camera and then at his tag team partner: “Er…that’s someone else’s deal. He’ll sue you for gimmick infringement.”

“Can I say it’s ‘Game over?’”

Sanders shook his head: “He’s kind of got that covered, too.”

“Here goes…

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

“I said…ARE YOU…”

Sanders stopped his lifelong mate: “KID! I thought you didn’t copy anyone in the wrestling business?!”

Kid produced a drum roll of sorts and psyched himself up: “Okay! I’m Sega’s Ambassador.

“Nintendo’s Number One.

“X-Box’s X-Factor.

Surprisingly, The Jock encouraged The Boffin: “Take it up a notch!”

“Princess Peach’s Pin-Up.

“Kasumi’s Secret Crush.

“And…you know what I’m going to say, don’t you?”

Paul appeared confused: “No.”

“That’s why I’m unpredictable. Last, but very much most…

“Lara’s boyfriend.”

Paul turned partypooper: “You’ve forgotten something…”

There was a moment of silence and then, as partners and best friends do, they blurted it out at the same time: “TRIPLE CROWN CHAMPION.”

 

[Colin]

Re: Droppin' Quarters

We cut to Phil Atken, sitting in his boxer shorts, an Xbox controller in his hands and a headset around his well... head.

Atken: Vidja games? We're really doing this? We're arguing about god damn vidja games? I didn't even pronounce it as vidja games before Rook, The Ocho and Kid Chamillionaire went all referential on NFW, causing my eye to twitch and blood to inexplicably ooze from my ear. I mean, I've been fighting hard to finally build a name for myself in this company, a name that was destroyed by the likes of Teresa Q many moons ago and the minute me and the murderous Teddy Alexander mount the ladder and begin our slow and steady climb up the rung, this place descend into a battle of god damn vidja games? Jesus, get Jesse back in here with his wall based sledgehammer.

Phil looks at the television screen and squints a little in confusion.

Atken: Wait, only fifteen seconds? This is ridiculous. How am I meant to show off my verbose talents... I have to tell this twelve year old when Ocho is poopy, Kid Chameleon is a Chamelenot and Rook Black, more like Rook Blorp. .. I hope it got most of it! Ah well, I'll send it anyway. Down the series of tubes it goes.

The Xbox message travels across the internet to poor unsuspecting 12 year old in the middle of a game of Call of Duty.

 

[jediPREZ]

The Real McCoy

***SUBMITTED FROM THE UNIVERSE***

(We see the lower-half of a man, no it’s not John Holmes, galloping on a muddied pitch.

His socks are rolled down to his ankles and the camera gives us a good glimpse of what are frequently referred to as ‘tree trunk thighs.’ As the man crouches down, ready to sprint at an opponent, we see his shoulders are wider than a Spanish Plaza and he’s an impressive all-round specimen.

A brief clip of him charging into a blood-and-thunder tackle at full-pelt exemplifies this powerhouse’s pace as well.)

After finishing a training session, Reuben McCoy, an ex-Rugby player, comes over to talk to the camera about making his wrestling debut with a local journalist.

“Reuben, when did you decide to enter wrestling? Have you been inspired by Sonny Boy Williams?”

McCoy laughed as his huge hands rested on his hips: “No, not quite! Sonny’s a tough cookie and fair play to him for entering boxing. I hear that English guy, Flintoff, the cricketer, is at it too.”

“He’s not as impressive as Sonny Boy, though.”

“What do you expect? He’s a Pom.”

The interviewer exclaimed: “We’ll not go there!”

Reuben, an outspoken player at the best of times, had a glint in his eye: “Why not? It’s the truth.”

“Back to the question…when and why? Why pro wrestling?”

“I’ve been playing rugby for a long, long time now and I want a change. A bit like Sonny! I’m not tired, Mike. My career’s on the wind, but I’m ready for a fresh challenge. I’ve been blessed physically and I’ve always said if I weren’t a rugby player, I would’ve played another contact sport and I’m not talking about soccer! Bunch of pansies.”

The journalist chuckled and Reuben looked down at him: “Well, they are Mike. Rolling around like they’re on fire. It’s an embarrassment. I’d be ashamed to be associated with that.”

“Well, pro wrestling has its critics…”

“Let me cut you off there. Those guys bust their backsides off every night. They play six or seven times a week and it’s full-on. I think they’re in the toughest sport in the world, I really do, and that’s why I’m in. I think I’m pretty tough, too.”

McCoy cut an offended figure: “Pretty?”

“Wanna try me, Mike?”

“No, thanks!”

Reuben puts a playful headlock on the interviewer and lets him up after 2 seconds, patting him on the head: “Sorry. Seriously though, you’ve gotta be tough to do it and I’ve always enjoyed the physicality of Rugby, so I think I’m cut out for the rough-and-tumble of being in the ring.”

“Why now?”

“Well, I hear NFW, one of wrestling’s biggest federations, is coming to Sydney and they’re issuing an open challenge to outsiders. It’s just perfect.”

Mike smiled: “I know why. Care to share with the viewers?”

Straight-laced, McCoy’s eyes rolled: “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, Reuben!”

“It’s Australia, isn’t it? What better place to kick ass and take names? When I was a kid starting out for the All-Blacks, my debut for the youths was in Oz and a few others were intimidated…”

“Were you?”

Again, Reuben scoffed at the question: “Come on, Mike. Do I look intimidated by anyone? I was up for it and couldn’t wait to get out there. Scored three tries and we won forty-six twenty-five.”

“And now?”

“Now, I want more of the same. I’ve always enjoyed the derby, more than anyone else I know. I relished playing against them. The Aussies have got this superiority complex over us. Not with Rugby, boys. I saw you dancin’ because you got a draw with us! Is that what it’s come to?

“When I played for the All-Blacks, whatever level it was, I refused to lose to them. I’ve never lost to an Aussie at anything and if one wants to turn up in Sydney and go toe-to-toe with me, I guarantee it’ll be the same result. I’ll smash ‘im up.”

Mike pressed McCoy: “Is that a challenge? Are you challenging an Australian for your wrestling debut, just like when you first played rugby for New Zealand?”

“Who they got? Ain’t they got someone called Justin Voss? What happened there? Didn’t he go from saying the F-word every second word to a born-again Christian? He probably repented because he couldn’t back his words up. His mouth was writing checks he couldn’t cash. Typical Australian! Gives it all that and doesn’t back it up when it counts.”

“Are you willing to back this up, Reuben?”

“You know me, Mike. I don’t back down from anyone, let alone those wankers.”

“As always, it’s been a pleasure, Reuben ‘The Real’ McCoy, ladies and gentlemen.”

“Cheers.”

McCoy shook the interviewer’s hand and headed off to the changing room.

 

[fugginVOSS]

The Real McCoy? PUH-leeeeez!

[FADE-IN: on a stripped bare wall. The mortar is falling out of the bricks and a man stands there, fingering at their decay. Running his fingers along the lines of mortar and letting it crumble beneath it. His back is turned to the camera. He wears a green plaid shirt, rolled up to the elbows with tattooed words showing on his outer forearms. He wears khakis and Timberlands. The back of his head, the hair looks unkempt but precisely made to look so.]

MAN:
“So, the NFW is heading AAAALLLLLL the way down to Australia. All the way Down Under and it expects that its gonna put on one Helluva a show the Aussies will never soon forget.”

[His accent is Australian, with a hint of the South, liked he’d spent a while in the South of America just enough to lick at his vocal chords.]

MAN:
“They’re headin’ ALLLLL the way down there and they expect me to just sit idly by and let this little shindig blow off in MY home country without me even so much as showin’ my face?”

[He spins on his heel, arms out as if presenting himself. The man? JUSTIN VOSS. Smiling broadly at the camera.]

JUSTIN VOSS:
“Hello, NFW. It is I, Justin Voss.

“The former Ayatollah of Ass-a-hollah in the flesh before your very eyes starin’ into you masses to let you know that I WILL NOT let your version of a professional wrestler out of Oceania be swayed by that of a no necked, scrum suckin’, sheep shaggin’ bushpig Neanderthal KIWI like Reuben McCoy.”

[Grin.]

JUSTIN VOSS:
“I’ve spent most of my life wrestlin’ across America. Hell, I’ve even ventured to other countries but it’s been SO long...

“OH – SO – LONG since I graced my countrymen with my appearance.

“Way too long.

“Ya see, there’s this little FEUD, I guess you could say, between Australia and New Zealand. To put it more simply, in terms you understand, it’s kinda like the feud between Canada and the States.

“You know, that annoyin’ little kid next door that thinks there’s some bad blood between you but you never really gave a damn about them anyway?

“That’s what it’s like between Australia and New Zealand. Except for the fact that, like any imaginary feud, Australians aren’t so willin’ to allow a Kiwi to get the best of us. Us Aussies don’t really give a damn about New Zealand, but if they try to pull the wool over our eyes you better BELIEVE we’ll slap their Velcro gloved hands away.

“You see, Reuben... that’s where I...” (fingers himself in the chest) “...come in.”

[Nods in testimony to his own words.]

JUSTIN VOSS:
“You see, Reuben... if you’re gonna put your mangled face inside of a wrestling ring inside of MY country you better BELIEVE that I’ll be standing across from it ready to slap you straight back across the Tasman to the far South of your island where you belong.

“The Real McCoy?

“Please. I’ve seen greater challenges in your Kiwi women. You don’t scare me. Your rugby credentials don’t scare me. You gonna stand across the ring and threaten me with the haka?

“Come on, man. Up here for thinkin’...” (points to his temple)

“Down here for dancin’...” (points to his feet)

“Right here for sortin’ out Kiwis.” (shakes a fist)

“You wanna throw down a challenge to Australia? You want to thrown down with ME, Reuben? I’ll kick your ass all over Australia and back again and by the time I’m done with you you’ll think Russell Crowe skull fucked you with a telephone.

“You’re little...” (twirls a finger around in the air) “...CHALLENGE?”

[Snickers.]

JUSTIN VOSS:
“Challenge accepted.

“You bring the stupid.

“I’ll bring the ass kickin’.”

[FADE to BLACK!]

 

[EastPrez]

NFW NEW EMPLOYEE ORIENTATION MEETING

(FADEIN: To the NFW PRESIDENTIAL SEAL on a black screen. After a beat, it fades in on a 8-bit painting of a pixelated wrestler in the vein of the NES PRO WRESTLING art, with a guy (Fighter Hayabusa?) arms raised in victory - underneath that, the famous Engrish statement, "A WINNER IS YOU". That whole image is crossed out with a spraypainted "X". The camera pulls back and we see that it's on the seat of a steel chair, currently being held by COJONES MERCADO, wearing a black wifebeater, army fatigues and black jumpboots, SNARLING at the camera.)

(The camera pans right, to show 'Hot Property' EDDIE MAYFIELD, dressed down in a black tee with a FOXHOUND SPECIAL FORCE GROUP military crest - the profile of a fox whose legs taper into lightning bolts, as well as a pair of black warmup paints with a racing stripe down the side - drawstring out. His arms are wrapped in tape to the forearms, and on his left arm in red marker is some indecipherable writing. MAYFIELD has on either shoulder, A LOT OF CHAMPIONSHIP BELTS, and on his face a grimace, in his mouth, a smoldering Camel Red. In the background is the NFW Star and logo, on a crimson backdrop.)

MAYFIELD: (Cigarette balancing from his lip as he maintains a 'smokers grimace') "HELLO FROM YOUR PRESIDENT. We need to have a chat. I would like to welcome all of you new people to THE GREATEST STAGE IN THE PROFESSIONAL WRESTLING UNIVERSE. You can all talk about those other places - the Alphabit Cereal Grand Champion Ninja Warrior league, the Karate Champ 3rd Dan Tri-Lambda Global red headband association, whatever. For all of you NFW wrestlers who have walked through Eddie Mayfield's doors - I KINDA WANT TO SALUTE YOU, BUT I AIN'T. (COJONES makes his bottom lip contort into a 'U') That's right. For all of you who've answered my Princess Leia beacon - my dancing Tupac hologram that came out of a R2 unit - YES, The NFW has a GLOBAL OPEN CONTRACT. Welcome to the shores of NFW. But as all of you quickly see the beach rush up to you, as you hold on for life in the belly of a personnel carrier, or chinatown bus, or whatever you rode in on - once that gate drops, or that door opens, YOU HAVE JUST ENTERED THE KILLBOX. Think about how many dead dudes lay on the beach of Normandy? Think about how many drowned guys who floated up to the top because they couldn't get their pack over their shoulders and danced in a circle only to get shoved off the side into a watery grave? How many wrestlers do you think have tried to STORM THESE SHORES. What makes YOU GUYS any different? (laughs, as he adjusts the belts on his shoulders) YOU tell me.

"You see, I'm sure you guys see an open invite as a quick 'strap' and a notch in your tights -that you after your 'global' dominance in wherever the hell you came from makes you feel like a tall, tall man - but guess what? I am here to tell you that NFW - New Frontier Wrestling, is the Restaurant at the end of the Universe. This is the weirdest, craziest place in the world, but it's also where STARS ARE MADE. Whatever you THINK you've made hot? (EDDIE shrugs) Man, YOU AIN'T HOT TILL YOU'VE DONE IT HERE. You see it every year - NFW is the straw AND the glass AND the drink that gets stirred. Sh[BLEEEP!] we OWN THE LIQUOR. And the best in the world have come through here, and some times, bodies are dumped in the sand after we chewed them out. Say what you will about the biggest names in this sport - you have not EARNED SH[BLEEP!] until you've come out in Eddie Mayfield's house and made it happen. This open invite is to also show that only the BEST and BRIGHTEST make it here, and I want you to SHOW ME that you have what it takes. And that brings me to these. (nods to his left side) On this one shoulder, sit the PURE Wrestling Championship. Underneath that, the NATIONAL Heavyweight title. On my other shoulder, the ELITE title. These belts - rich with prestige and history, were unified under a NEW mantle. That title, namely called the TRIPLE CROWN CHAMPIONSHIP... (COJONES nods and spins his chair around, which shows an image of the faceplate of that belt, which looks a LOT like the Legend of Zelda crest, spraypainted in gold) currently and undisputedly held by one ROOK BLACK. That man, is the Triple Crown Champion. No I didn't stutter.

"There is a pocket of new enrollers - guys still in their PROBATION PERIOD, out here dancing and singing about the TRIFORCE. Well, as the resident video game officianado around here - as the guy who was talking about Metroid and wrestling BACK IN 1997 . . . I know a few things about gaming, and I also know that you IWC Internet Marks like to run around and 'label' stuff. That Rook's title has been dubbed the "Triforce" belt. (Smirks) Now I gotta say that's catchy - but man, that's NOT canon. That championship ain't about Master Swords and is not stair-stepped in a 8-bit bevel. This is about one man being the BEST and unifying three championship reigns under one roof. I am out here to tell all of you Super Mario dudes that the only game out here is gonna be you PLAYING YOURSELF if you don't take this seriously... take NFW seriously... take CASTOR STRIFE, NFW WORLD CHAMPION, ULTRATITLE CHAMPION . . . seriously. Take The Hellfire Club, who have the TV Title with DORCHESTER STRATTON, seriously... take the SUPERFLY EXPRESS, Everette Memorial Tagteam Champions - the division that has reignited the pilot light on tagteam wrestling in the United States. . . seriously. to take ROOK BLACK, the man that has a track record for NOT LOSING . . . seriously. So if you think you're gonna waltz in here and think I'm impressed because you jerk off a lot? I'M NOT. If you think I'm rubbing my hands together thinking about how I can make t-shirts off of some guys who think they're living in a video game? I AM NOT. You guys had better pull your sh[BLEEEP!] together, FAST.

"New meat? You MUST remember that YOUR PRESIDENT is watching at all times, like that creepy painting in a hallway, eyes moving behind the wall. If you decide to enter NFW on some happy-go-lucky fun-time sh[BLEEEP!]? Well, don't be surprised when you get dumped out back with your neck snapped, at our hands. This roster does NOT need me to speak for them. But consider this, as your new employer? As a friendly Orientation Memo. . .

"DON'T F[BLEEEP!] AROUND."

(FADE TO BLACK as MAYFIELD ashes his cigarette and exhales a stream of smoke out of his nose!)

 

[Biron]

(MUSIC UP: “NO MORE MR. NICE GUY” -- Alice Cooper)

O/S MALE VOICE: (singing) “No more Mr. Nice Guy .. No more Mr. Cle-he-he-hean no!”

(FADEIN: To the leather backseat of a spacious luxury car, where a singing LANE CASH, wearing a disheveled black tuxedo and oversized, gold-rimmed Ray-Ban Clubmasters, is joined by the stylishly-dressed BEAUTIFUL BLONDES, who are both curled up on the seat with their heads resting on LANE’s lap. LANE reaches inside his tux jacket and produces a Pall Mall Long, which dangles from his pursed lips in short order.)

CASH: (still jamming) “Classic, man, classic. Yunno, Orange Chicken, I did not peg you for an Alice-man. (lights up cigarette) At first, second, and even third glance, you’re a Grade-A dickbag. You blabber on and on and on about Flightmasters and honestly, a bunch’a other sh(bleep!) that just doesn’t INTEREST ME. You pop up on my flat-screen like a bad E.D. ad and speak as if you’re better than (thumbs chest) muah? (sneers) That’s my schtick, man. (grabs an empty champagne bottle) I’m TOP SHELF. They come from MILES and MILES away to see ME. You (chuckles, takes a drag) .. for all they know, you’re the busboy from the local P.F. Chang’s. I dunno .. (shrugs) maybe your brand holds weight in the Land of Little People, but around here, it’s just got people jonesin’ for takeout. Lane Cash shows up and ticket sales shoot up into the STRATOSPHERE. Orange Chicken Ocho struts onto the BIG SCREEN and anybody with a PULSE starts scramblin’ for the remote. Your ass is barely on the bus before you’re Next’d! If that chicken mask and all the Zen Garden bulls(bleep!) couldn’t stick to the wall in Japan, what do you think’s gonna happen here? Let me save you a minute, bro. (takes a drag, voice muffled) You’re gonna get spun like a top (exhales) .. but c’mon, you knew that.”

(LANE takes off his Ray-Bans and tosses them onto the seat.)

CASH: “Unless .. (holds up finger) unless you actually thought your high and mighty act was gonna blow up all the skirts. (laughs) Such a noble quest by such a dignified motherf(bleep!) I have NO DOUBT that when you picture a wrestlin’ match, it’s a B-U-TIFUL dance between a couple butterflies. (eyes dance back and forth as if watching a ballet) Weeeell .. that might fly in some Disney fairy tale, but I’ll let you in on a little secret .. Cinderella was a whore. (strokes the taller BLONDE’s curly hair) That’s REALITY, man. There are no Flightmasters. Your whacked perception of claimin’ an honorable kill is gonna get your ass RESET … (cold eyes, emphasized) HARD. There’s no honor among thieves. Instead of giving you this grand display of wrestling prowess, instead of the high flyin’ experience, yunno what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna dig around in my tool bag a bit and see what comes out. Maybe, you’ll go gently into the night … a simple thumb to the eye and a rollup (smoke, exhale, shit-eating grin) or maybe I pull a TACK HAMMER and BLUDGEON you with it. Long story short, there’s more than one way to cook a bird, Junior. Some guys, like that old cat Ramey, you feel bad for so you give ‘em a ride around the block before shovin’ ‘em out the door.”

“But you .. (shakes head) you don’t get that kinda foreplay. I’ve known of your existence for all of twelve ticks and I’m already directin’ bad JU-JU at the old Asian broad that did up that mask. I’d spend my life doin’ community service if Superman could just fly backwards around the Earth, turn back time, and land a fu(bleep!) SATELLITE on the asshat that dreamt up the ORANGE DRAGON. Unfortunately, Superman’s busy (smothers cigarette in the door’s ash tray) so his younger, better lookin’ brother (smirks) is gonna HANDLE it. It’s not even about this Grand Prix, either. I just wanna piss in your rice bowl .. that’s what’s gonna get my rocks off. While you Flightmasters are zippin’ around with the grace of a drunken co-ed, I’m gonna be lyin’ in wait, man and when’s the opportunity presents itself, I’m gonna clip your wings. (makes downward spiraling motion with index finger) CRASH and BURN. Maybe I pin you, maybe I don’t. (shrugs) Maybe I let Fappity pick it up. (goes for another cigarette) They’d probably run you the (mocking Asian accent) You bring great dishonor to our country (switches back) act and revoke your citizenship. One second, you’re soarin’ with the eagles. The next .. you’re pickin’ sh(bleep!) with the sparrows. (smirks like a shark) That’s the thing, Mr. Chicken .. sometimes you don’t grasp that you’re in over your head until you’re runnin’ around WITHOUT ONE.”

(FTB)

 

[JBorchard]

CUTTO: Sydney Airport. A metal bucket beside Orange Dragon II's left foot. He has two seconds behind him, but no worries, these two Puroseru sweeties just don't cut the mustard yet. Many observers look perplexed as Orange Dragon II stands in the direct vacinity of 'the pick-up' area. Seeing a guy in a mask at an airport, not exactly endearing to the paranoid but this is Australia, so it is met with a lower panic than in the States. Bucket kick ever-so slightly so you hear it ting.

Orange Dragon II: [serious, or so we guess?!] Hai, Lane Cash, here I am at airport wondering just when you will meet me here and in oh-so-colored words, 'kick my ass'? I got metal bucket here, perhap I bring teeth protector in fear the great craftman put his tobacco stick down long enough to back his word? -- Then again, Mister Cash much too busy channeling Ford Fairlane and coddling cheap yen escorts in backseats. I am so fortunate that this is the most vocal of Frontiersmen.

Mister Cash, you are correct in only one fact. I am Grade-A. And you, you simply make no grade at anything. You are much like an insolent teenager, Hai, so full of energy yet so full of waste as well. You are wasteful, from your tact to your talent which you so readily want to kill off each drag of your smoke. You, Lane Cash, are the epitome of over-hype. You top-shelf, but unfortunate for you, the merit of truth you stand on very wobbled. You will fall hard, Mister Cash-man, because you lament about my existance and wish for improbabilities while I , true Flightmaster, ready for my opposition and know them in their truest of forms.

All is lost, Frontiersmen.

The Other-Worldly will congregate in your fields, eradicating all confidance. Not only will I not be imposed on by a crass, chain-smoking fool who disinterests me as much as wall-drying puddy, I will not be intimidated by no one. Do you not grasp the fundamental importance of what is to take place in Sydney? Hai, there will be disappointment. Lane Cash pin me?!

Annoying cackle under his mask, holding his stomach. Onlookers gawk.

Dragon II: I believe you have read way too many comic books, Laney-san. Much like these video game enthusiasts, the entire premise of New Frontier seems to be, well, below the line of simple intelligence. I have no inclination to roll over for the whim of Mister Mayfield's pets, who seem to squander opportunities in the most laziest of efforts. I , Orange Dragon II, will transfuse the lifeless into lively, the meek into maniacal, and HAI, the silly-hearted into serious. I have the physical capability to shatter hope into shards of broken worries. Can anyone claim Lane Cash as doing such, as he dolls around.-- The FOOL. My first goal was to lead the Junior Heavyweight Division to great heights. Yet, they all are so lowly. I am afraid that no such leadership from anyone, not even the ever-cloudy minded Mister Mayfield, can reduce the overflow of tom-foolery in the meh, -- bland Frontier.

Points to his temple. Tapping it.

Dragon II: But I could, if I care to. If I were dared to. Hai, it seems only fitting that I be ignored by the very fame-minded. They shine their accolades like precious stones to throw around sparsely, only to discount a presence they never seen before. And fools will do so continually, until they come within the face of an unknown like myself, who will never back off. I am a graduate of a dojo that creates future Flightmasters. Herepresent, you will learn to respect the unknown. The Hidden Empire, --- will take throne. No matter what crude form you curse in, KNOW I am not swayed.

This.-- my final warning. Orange Dragon II will take New Frontier's honor. HAI, all of it! -- and Mister Cash, I TAKE YOUR HEAD RIGHT OFF!!

[A turn, and walk-away. A war on the horizon for the brash Orange Dragon II.]

 

[Jesse Ramey]

The scene opens, who cares what’s going on in the background or what it even is.

“One thing is for certain about all of the conversations that have been going on,” Ramey began, “comparing this stuff to a video game is pretty accurate.”

Ramey smiled wide for the camera, and waved, “Good morning folk, it is I, you’re saving grace of reality; Jesse Ramey. Since I’ve come on for this glorious tour of Australia and since I’ve been blowing all of your minds; my stock has risen significantly. I am forever converting the old guard of wrestling fans who believe what we do inside of that ring is as real as the UFC or the NFL, and forever changing them into the smarks that your management loves to hate.”

“The people who love to cheer for Castor Strife, despite the fact that you force him to shove crap down our throats that make us want to hate him. They cheer for him because they know he is a great wrestling performer; he’s good at what he does. Not the people who cheer for people like Jack Harmen, and actually believe that he took snow into the future to sell it to people who didn’t have snow.”

“I give you more credit than anyone else in this,” Ramey smiled, “because I know you’re smarter than what they think you are. You’ve been paying to see me put on a show for you, for years! The majority of us in this place have, and it’s about time someone feeds you the facts straight.”

“Lane Cash,” Ramey set up his first tirade, “isn’t really a third generation superstar. He just looked enough like the other members of the Cash wrestling dynasty to be played off as one. It’s a common occurrence in this business, you bill someone as having a background that really isn’t their own to try and make money off of it. In your case Cash, it’s not going to work and you’ll be stuck with a hillbilly-esqe gimmick before long, like the one that was pinned on me in Five Star Wrestling.”

“There are niches in this business,” Ramey continued, “that just need to be filled. So, when you’re time as a legacy has come to a close you’ll be the next laughing stock in line. You may as well start growing your hair and beard out now, prepare yourself, and invest in a pair of blue jean overalls because your time will eventually come.”

“Philip Martin Atken,” pause for dramatic effect, “you want to talk about All Star Championship Wrestling all the way back in 2004? That’s fine, let’s talk about it. As far as I can remember you weren’t a main eventer in that company then, wouldn’t be now, and it wouldn’t matter how much of that money you like to throw around from the family trust you’ve been endowed. It’s not working here, so why would it work in another promotion that has been successfully pulling off a world tour? This is the point where you should be taking notes New Frontier management or ESEN executives, whom ever wants to make the final call on this whole thing.”

“Fappity,” pause, “just have a listen to what I told Cash was going to happen to his career; and Cash take even more note. You are a joke, and a curtain jerking jobber; and Cash this is what your future endeavors are going to look like. What more of a joke could there be than a chronic masturbating wrestler? I don’t even think a certain promotion from the nineties that pushed the limits on all things extreme and had some of the most obscure gimmicks in all of professional wrestling would have pushed a character such as the one you portray.”

Ramey paused once again to let everything sink in, “And yes I was speaking of the Asylum.” Ramey smiles wide and rolls his eyes.

“And finally we end with Randall Black,” Ramey pauses, “do you here that Rook? That’s the sound of your career going up in a poof. This is what wrestling needs! I am what wrestling needs! De Ocho may consider you the final boss, but I know you’re the man who has been standing at the top of this company holding the rest of the young or more talented wrestlers down.”

“It’s all backstage politics,” Ramey chuckled, “when you’ve got a stranglehold on a company because the character that you portray brings in ratings and sells merchandise you can do pretty much anything you want. The only way you’re going to see something new is if you stop buying Rook Black products, and turn the channel when he comes on your screen. You’re watching one giant male soap opera unfold anyway, you’d probably get more enjoyment out of tuning into Glee, American Horror Story, or The Walking Dead every week anyway.”

“At least with those programs you know it’s not real,” Ramey nods, “unlike with professional wrestling where they want you to believe everything you see and completely mark out for it. Be smart, judge for yourself. When you see people botch moves, boo them out of the arena. When you see men like Rook Black, Jack Harmen, and Lane Cash shifting their eyes toward their microphone boo them, because they’ve probably taken down notes on their arm about what the writers wanted them to discuss.”

“This is all one big charade, and you are suffering for it.” Ramey sighed, “I’m not the bad guy, I’m just the guy who has been entertaining you for the past twenty plus years, and I’m done being a puppet on a string. If you want the truth, and if you want to see real wrestling without all of the crap and politics that go along with it; then all you need to do is tweet, tout, and facebook the NFW telling them that you want to see me at the top of this company.”

“I’m not a dancing monkey like the rest of the members on this roster,” Ramey smiled, “you ask and you shall receive. I am your saving grace, because I am the only middle man standing between you and what you get to see displayed on live television. I am the voice of the voiceless; and I have given you life.”

Scene fades to black.

 

[Colin]

We find ourselves once again in the lovely and adorable company of a man we have often and continue to know as Phil Atken, once again in his tip top tippity toppity top flight NFW accommodation, several hundred miles away from where he actually needs to be.

Phil stands in front of the camera, eyeballin' it with his eyeballs. In his hand arms he holds a bag, a bag contain some kind of mystery, a mysterious item inside a bag if you will.

Atken: You really want to play that game Jesse? Are you sure, I mean are you really that confident that you have your facts straight about me? We couldn't... we couldn't be singing off of a five year old hymn sheet could we Jess? That couldn't be like you, the man who perceives the true reality, the master of his own domain and the man who can interweave through space and time to moan about Rook Black just a little bit. I mean if you want Jesse, I can print you off my financials for the last five years but I'm sure that wouldn't really impact your dropping of the truth bombs. Well Jesse, word to your mom, I'm droppin' some bombs... of my own.

...

...

Okay, that could've been snappier.

Jesse, you aren't a beloved figure in this industry because of some grand shadowy conspiracy that you've finally cracked the code of. You aren't a beloved figure because don't have that special something about you... what's the word... you hear it all the time on them television sing song shows... it's on the tip of my tongue... CHARISMA! That's it, you, Jesse Ramey are one giant charisma vacuum.

Don't worry, I'm sure that your precious internet fans think similarly of me. Sure, you can boost your confidence because a bunch of moronic drooling marauders on the internet are singing your praises but seriously Jess, these are the same guys who fantasy book their own penises to be World Heavyweight Champion, it's hardly a ringing endorsement.

The fans? They don't hate you because they've been brainwashed into it... they hate you because of well... you. You as a person Jesse are none too interesting, none too pleasant and if you ask me, that's a combination that's asking for a paddling. Or a booing. Or a boomerang to the head. Whatever it is the Australians do.

Atken begins to absent mindedly tug at the bag he's holding, slowly revealing its contents.

Atken: Still, you want to play that ACW game with me? Want me to run down my history with that company? Want me to talk about how they personally recruited me to be a shining light for their grand relaunch back in aught four, how I main evented that second Courage on ACW's grand return, how I wrestled in a match of the year nominee while you were shitting your pants backstage and how awesome me and Chris Messiah were, how at the peak of my time in the company, they forced me into retirement because they were worried I was a little... inconvenient for them.

Well, I've told that story before. I've told that story of how ACW used me, abused me and tossed me out on my ass. Of course Jess, they only done that to me because well... I was an actual threat, I had an actual following, I was a legitimate voice of the people. You? You couldn't inspire Gary Busey to smoke a joint. It's funny though Jesse, I told this tale recently, I told it when your company sent some foot soliders after me at a little place I'm not s'posed to talks about.

You want to talk about upsetting the company? You want to talk about rocking NFW's boat... I was explicitly instructed not to show this off.

Phil takes a final tug of his bag to reveal the Intergalatic Championship, a loverly belt adorned with the logo of a Space Invader (HANDS OFF OCHO)

Atken: I'm Phil Atken, the Intergalatic Champion, making me a champion of at least TWO galaxies, if not more and funnily enough, what a gosh darn coinkydink, I done got it after I defeated some ACW talent who fancied themselves better than I... me... I... it's I, isn't it? ACW talent better than I. Or so they thought, much like you would like to think Jesse. The truth is unfortunate for you but incredibly lucky for me!

I hold such ill will and contempt for the company you want to fly to flag for that well, parts of me that I have since hidden seem to just like to ooze out. Awful things like "confidence" and "faith in myself" that were long beaten out of me during my life on the road suddenly become part of my spirit again, part of me. When I think where I could have been, what I could have achieved five, ten years ago if I wasn't chewed up by ACW, it just stirs something in me that I thought was long dead. I think it died around the point that I couldn't even defeat James Varga in an NFW ring but I'm no real expert on the death of the human soul and I don't really have the funds for a soulologist at the moment.

It's taken me eight years to get back on that ladder of relevance Jesse, eight years. Eight long years of looking up at the ceiling, losing to the ladies, as talented as they may have been, dealing with a family feud that really no one has the mental capacity to process. It took me teaming with this industries brightest rookie, it's future, it's shining star and brutal behemoth, it took me teaming with Teddy Alexander to allow all those feelings to return to me. To get that confidence back, to get some momentum behind me. Teddy is really like the little brother I never had, mostly because my parents swore up and down never to repeat the mistake of having another me.

So if you think you can just wander in to NFW, wander on to MY PATCH, then I'll bring you down, I WILL bring you down. I think there's a song about that. See, I'm not the man that your cursory five minutes of wikipedia searches informed you about. I'm a champion, I'm a tag team and I am the next winner of the NFW Grand Prix. I'm not the kid sucking off his parents teat because he just can't quite manage without them. You see, while people like Kid Chameleon and Leyenda De Ocho, while they try to contain their ASD by associating everything in this industry to video games... making a giant joke out of Rook Black's NFW dominance in the process... and here I thought I'd never agree with Eddie Mayfield... while these kids fight over their childish things, I made sure to lock mine in a box. While Fappity... really? Fappity? That's his name? And he's allowed to the ring? Did we lose our ESEN TV deal while I wasn't watching? Still, while Fappity and Lane Cash do unspeakful things to their companions backstage, I shunned my sexuality. Wait, that doesn't sound right, does that sound right? No it doesn't sound right. The point is Jess, I've put my life on hold for this Australia trip because I have something I want. I have a goal, I have a purpose. I want the EMT shot that winning the Grand Prix brings, I want me and Teddy to finally take those belts off the filthy waists of the Superfly Express, I want what should already be ours Jess. That's reality.

I am a star with the backing of the world's largest media organisation behind me. I have wrestling's greatest monster watching my back. I have a lovely new robe bought for me by the head of the world's largest media organisation. What do you have Jesse? A microphone and a bunch of neckbeards cheering your name. I know which one I'd rather have.

 

[EastPrez]

THE FALCONER

(FADEIN: To the Peachtree Street Penthouse apartment of SHANIQUA CARLTON, who is slow-motion pulling herself out of her infinity pool in a SMOKING swimsuit, a white number that's not leaving much to the imagination! SHANIQUA is glistening, and pouting her lips as she sleepily blinks at the camera, pulling her hair back, and retrieving her over-sized Chanel sunglasses and placing them on her face, walking towards the camera and grabbing a fluffy terrycloth towel which is as thick as a shag carpet. There is a "SHE-UNIQUE" brand logo on it, which looks like a Yves-Saint Laurent interlocking of letters. The camera snaps back to real time as she wraps herself inside the towel, and places herself on the side of a lounge-chair, in total control as she runs her hands down one of her long, chocolate legs.)

SHANIQUA: (Cooing) "New Frontier Wrestling, you must be enjoying yourselves right now, spending all of your time looking at the "Class of 2012" they're trying to force-fit into the company right now. A bunch of men who have answered the open contract siren call by President Mayfield. As a manager of TASTE, OPULENCE AND CLASS, I would be salty if I DIDN'T pay attention to who's coming through the NFW doors right now - some people that raise my interest (smirks) and some that I wouldn't let near my garbage OR bathwater, because I don't know what they'd do with, or TO it! But all of this is to say, Shaniqua Carlton and the DDI are sharp, and keen, and I'm always on top of my business. You don't get to be the #1 rated timeslot on HSN for the Black Friday marathon sale broadcast with my She-Unique "Donkey Spanx" - for those women that need to tame that YEE-HAW donkey, girl! (laughs to herself) Just the line producers of Real Housewives of Atlanta bought 20 pecks of them. Do you know how much a peck is? Well, IT'S A LOT. Obviously, I KNOW marketing, and I know my business, and EYE KNOW BUSINESS.

"And I also know that there's a LOT of things going down in NFW that is getting pushed to the side much like her frilly ivy-league panties---and I'm speaking on Veronica Rumsfeld and the Hellfire Club. Rumsfeld, you saw what happened to you when you got in my face and I slapped the taste out of your Ho mouth, and don't think I won't do it again! I'm a classy lady, but don't think that while Momma Carlton raised me to be a lady, that I didn't sneak out of the mansion from time to time to kick it with the Chula Boriquas down in Crenshaw, that I don't know HOW TO CUT A BITCH. Veronica, when you see me again, and I'm not wearing earrings, or makeup, and my face is real shiny because I smeared vaseline on it? Wearing a sweatsuit and tennis shoes? That means I'M IN BEAT A BITCH DOWN MODE - Call it BEAST MODE if you will, but I call it me about to WHUP THAT ASS AGAIN. TRY ME. (regains her composure, and leans back in the chair, patting the side of her head. She always pats her head when she's upset. Must be a bl... nah.)

"And that leads me to other business. First, is that you may underestimate my... BUSINESS RELATIONSHIPS with Former TV Champion, (And soon to be champ again!) Jack Bryant, and Malik Anderson. That Malik and JB aren't a "REAL" tagteam, that . . . quite frankly, could very EASILY be the NFW Everette Memorial Tag champs, when the time is right. JB is just THAT GOOD, and you know what's up with Malik Anderson. But on that tip, Hellfire Club, don't think that we're done with ya'll. DON'T THINK that Blaine Hollywood, you textbook acquaintance rapist - you can get away with PUTTING YOUR YELLOW HANDS ON ME, YOU RICK FOX LOOKING BASTARD! But just because you sold Malik down the river does NOT mean we're interested in chasing you around a tree for 6 months. Malik has other things he's interested in. Jack Bryant has unfinished business with Dorchester Stratton. Malik Anderson . . . (smiles) Ya'll think you've figured out the Black Sheep? YA'LL DONE DID IT NOW!

(From behind a sliding glass door steps out MALIK ANDERSON, dressed in a black silk shirt, black slacks and gators, wearing a black on black leather varsity-style jacket, which he turns to show us the back that has a magnificently embroidered peregrine falcon, wings outstretched! MALIK snatches off his Terminator 2 raybans and burns a hole through the camera!)

ANDERSON: "BLAINE! You piece of sh[BLEEP!] I don't know who you think you are... (shakes head) scratch that, I KNOW who you are - a worthless piece of ENTITLEMENT TRASH who was NEVER worth a damn in that ring, and this little rinky-dink crew you're runnin' with will make that GLARINGLY, CRYSTAL CLEAR when you lead them into a brick wall of FAILURE. So whatever you THINK you want with Malik Anderson (thumps chest) YOU DON'T WANT IT WITH ME, TRUST. Don't let that little barbie doll fill your rock head with ideas - for your sake, you had better KEEP IT MOVING, because you know what? I got NOTHING to prove to you, buddy. I never have and I never will. I have bigger fish to catch, and Shaniqua knows it too. (SHANIQUA nods, replying "yup") And that's why she's got me these... (Produces an envelope from inside of his falcon jacket) Tickets to the LAND DOWN UNDER. NFW, Ya'll gonna see me in AUSTRALIA, and Shaniqua has told me she's got me booked in SOLO COMPETITION against someone NOT NAMED BLAINE HOLLYWOOD. Blaine, WORLD? I've been saddled with carrying a wet rag for too long and I'm BRUSHING MY SHOULDER OFF - NFW, The Black Sheep is someone who gets no respect - someone who gets DISSED because he's not like the rest. Well now world, hello. You are now speaking to the BLACK FALCON (Thumbs the back of his jacket like RVD) MALIK ANDERSON. I was afraid of a lot before. Afraid of REAL success. Afraid of heights. (Shakes head) NOT NO MORE. Now? You're gonna see the big man FLY TO NEW HEIGHTS, and it's all gonna start at the Australian BRAWL tour, at SOME POOR SLOB'S EXPENSE. I'm coming at YOU, DOUBLE TAP TO THE DOMEPIECE, BABY!"

(SHANIQUA lowers her sunglasses)

SHANIQUA: "I love it when you talk like that! President Mayfield, sign it up - DDI IS COMING TO AUSTRALIA!" (FADEOUT)

 

[fugginVOSS]

Re: THE FALCONER

[FADE-IN: on TEDDY ALEXANDER sitting in his hotel room, facing his laptop. Across his neck brace, scrawled in RED MARKER (ZOMG!) reads “HIGH FLYER”. He wears a JACK HARMEN t-shirt with the sleeves crudely cut off. He snarls as he stares down the barrel of the camera.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“Jack. Your silence.”

[Shakes his head.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“It’s not appreciated.

“You can hide, Jack. Oh yeah. You can hide. Too bad I can smell da PISS tricklin’ down your leg. Too bad I’m comin’ for your RE-GARD-LESS of whether or not you accept my challenge.

“I made it clear, Jack. You and Nova? You got somethin’ of mine.

“Yeah. MINE! Mine and Phil Atken’s. When dat slick sonofabitch Calvin Carlton gots to swingin’ dat tennis racquet ‘round like he has BUSINESS with our match you STOLE our tag title belts.”

[ALEXANDER nods his head slowly.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“You know what you are, Harmen?

“You’re a great, big, hairy, weepin’ pussy. You’re so damn tough hidin’ behind your legacy. Hide behind Nova’s legacy. But when you’re called out one-on-one by a man who isn’t weighin’ a buck twenty, wearin’ a mask, you run like da PUSSY you are, Jack.

“Strength in numbers?

“Seperate and conquer. It’s a basic strategy of war.

“And dat’s where we’re at, Jack. We’re at war. You’ve got somethin’ of mine and I shall take no prisoners until da day we’re given opportunity to take back what’s RIGHTFULLY ours.”

[Snarls.]

TEDDY ALEXANDER:
“Hide, Jack. Hide all you like.

“I’ll find you. I’ll find you and I’ll break you. I’ll snap you. I’ll tear you apart limb-from-limb and then you know what I’m gonna do?

“I’m gonna find your boyfriend, Nova, pull his head clean from his shoulders and shove it straight up your ass.

“And I’m gonna keep takin’ you both apart. Keep pullin’ you apart at da seams until you give us our rematch. Until it’s booked for Phil and I to take what’s rightfully ours.

“Bring your little Roger Federer wannabe and I’ll Grand Slam him right through da canvas JUST like I’ma do to you and Nova.

“Pussy.

“I’ll find you. I’ll find you and when I do?”

[Leans into the camera.]

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

[TEDDY reaches out and slams the top of his laptop down.]

[CUT to BLACK!]

 

[Kahrytes]

Re: Members Only Jacket

The video opened on a friggin' skincolored pillar in the center of the screen. It had hair on it. It was fleshy. Oh good dear good no, it was Fappity's tool.

NO. NO.

The Claw appeared, wrapped tightly around the meat, pumping upwards. God damn, Fappity was packin'. His massive shaft stayed in center-screen, and the Claw wanked back downward.

"You know, I was starting to get a little offended that nobody was talking about me. Come on, bitches. I tossed you an underhand softball. I called myself a jobber."

He sure did. Wank upward.

"But nobody was talking about me. Come on, yo. Easy target and everything. Was everybody taking me to be some kind of joke? I'm threatening to touch your faces with my Claw. I'm gonna do it, too. So... 'the hell?"

Wank downward, with a bit of a twisting motion. The sand behind the thing was calming. Peaceful. Think of the sand, not Fappity's stanksmelling dilz.

"At least dismiss me, guys. I'm such an easy target. I have no muscle mass. No wrestling skill. No history to draw on, cuz I've spent the last like six or eight years or whatever taking any jobs I could find. Srsly, I've been a job guy. Whenever some fed needed someone to come in and be a comedy wrestler who loses, I took the job. And I'd pretty well always get beat."

UNGH. Fappity gave a deep belly groan... And... The camera began to pan back. Wait. That wasn't pubes. And that was a wrist. Fappity grinned a skeezy grin, wiggling his fingertips at the camera as the camera got his hand, his face, and his chest in frame. You thought you were looking at his dick.

"But the thing is, why should I give a shit about winning in Joe's Alabammy Wrasslin' Company or Indytastic Pro?"

Fappity paused for a moment, glancing out over the beach. He was keeping it in his pants, contrary to the norm. It was a beach fulla Aussies, cavorting and playing and all sorts of shit.

"But this is NFW. This is a tour of freakin' Australia. This is a hella good paycheck, and a chance for me to make some REAL money if I win."

Pause for emphasis. Wait, Fappity wanted to win?

"So, the only person who has really talked about me is Jordan Ramey."

Who the fuck is Jordan Ramey. Or Jesse Ramey, for that matter.

"Who the fuck is Jesse Ramey? I love watching wrestling. Especially wrestling with chicks. And mud. And titties. But I did my homework. I have no idea who Jesse Ramey is. He's a World Champion of SHIT and DICK, as far as I'm concerned, two wrestling companies that NO ONE EVER HAS CARED ABOUT."

Fappity takes a long breath, and finally brings both his hands down to slap his knees. GOD, it was tempting to jerk it right now. Girls in bikinis were everywhere. He was refilling the Spank Bank, instead of draining his volleyballs. Soon, my precious. Soon.

"So, I portray a shit gimmick, eh? Well, too bad it ain't a gimmick. I really do have a disease. Sex addiction. And my sex of choice is with my stank-ass claw. A Claw which is going right in your friggin' mouth, Jesse. You are far too cocky, so it's time to see how you like the taste of cock." Fappity gave a Claw-y thumbs up, grinning charmingly. As charming as a man who looked like a serial rapist could give.

"As for the rest of you, I know 'sup. I know that I'm your worst nightmare. A guy you cannot shit-talk, because my losses are out in the open. I'm PROUD of 'em. I choose to lose, fools. All the time. Erry day. It makes me money. But here's a golden opportunity I'd be a fool not to strive for. Getting my ass on TV where I can prove how I can make paying fans laugh, and want to see more?" Fappity arches an eyebrow, leaning infinitesimally forward. "I smell money. I smell attendance. I smell me throwing jism in Jesse Ramey's eyes."

Fappity gives a firm nod. "You see, Jess-man. I'm the dog fapping at your heels." The expression is NIPPING, you braindead tosser. "I'M THE TERROR THAT JERKS IN THE NIGHT!"

From somewhere across the beach, a muscleheaded dudebro who could hear Fappity's cries growled. "SHUT IT, YA TOSSER!", he shouted.

Fappity's eyes widened, and he jabs a finger at the camera. "SEE?! MY GIMMICK IS ALREADY GETTING OVER! Whereas you are some old fogey who nobody has ever given two squirts of ratshit about, Jester. You're desperately trying to get noticed by calling out every Rod, Dick and Harry you can find. Well, don't worry, Jasmine." That one was a stretch.

"I'm gonna make you famous. You, my friend, are gonna be the man who took a load of the Cream of Fappity. You are gonna be an NFW highlight from the beginning of my reign of terror." Fappity thumbs his nose with his non-horrendous hand. Sure, he was acclimated to the smell. Doesn't mean he wanted jerkoff juice on his face. He was zitty enough.

"As for the rest, like I said. Over-the-top-rope battle royale. I got more gripstrength than you. Try to eliminate me at your own risk, that shit ain't gonna work. Try to pin me, I'm gonna touch your face with my hand. It's a zero-sum game. You're gonna have to try to beat me so senseless in the middle of a battle royale that I won't be able to fight back." That one... Ehn, that was honestly quite doable. Fappity wasn't the greatest fighter to ever live.

"But still. Gonna touch your face. Gonna touch it good. You all are gonna scream and whine and cry and claw at your own flesh like a methhead trying to pick the invisible bugs off his skin." Totally gonna end up rubbing sandpaper on the Clawmark, hoping to scrape the stink out before you hit bone.

"So, it's time for the typical end-of-promotional-series rundown. Because I only get three chances to address the world. Youtube has a shortage of bandwidths or something." Fappity twists his head to the right, then the left. "Okay. Let's see here."

"The obvious guy to start with is Old and Desperate Jasper Ramey. Jonah, you're a tool. Scratch that. Toolbox. Scratch THAT. Toolshed. You can bleat and trumpet about how my gimmick sucks and I'm a shit wrestler, but that doesn't change the lonely feeling you get when nobody buys your t-shirt because nobody likes you. So why don't you stop off at Australian Denny's, get yourself an Australian Grand Slam-" The difference was that the Aussie Slam was upside down. "-, and rent yourself an apartment that ISN'T directly on my dick. Seriously, get off my dick, that's my bread and butter."

Fappity(YES, HIS RING NAME IS FUCKING FAPPITY. It was more marketable than his birth name, "Rocko Dionysius Rockchest Hardass McBaddenstein the Third".) hunches forward a bit. "I'm going to touch your face with my dickhand. People are gonna laugh at you. I'm gonna get paid. It's gonna rule."

Fappity leans back, his shoulders rising a bit as he lets out a deep breath. It was as if someone took a ten-ton weight offa him. "Fag."

Moving on.

"Indeed, omniscient narrator. Once I got off my flying scooter powered by pixie farts and fairy dust, I found that a shitton other people got to come to Australia. Some jap named Akita. Well, buddy, let me remind you that the Japanese invented Bukkake, but I perfected it. Gonna shoot on your face and throw you out of the ring." Fappity sits up a bit straighter, crossing his legs into a lotus position seat.

"The Boogie Woogie Man who is not anywhere near as cool as Jimmy Valiant is gonna get hit by a drive-by. A DRIVE-BY OF EJACULATE. And his death will remain as unsolved as Biggie's." It was the police. Duh.

"Orange Dragon 2, I'm gonna add a nice glaze to your orange chicken. A nice, rich, protein-y glaze. I'm pretty sure the guy at the food court does that already, but I don't get paid minimum wage to do it." Fappity's appearance fee is astronomical, compared to minimum wage.

"Kid Chameleon, someday your balls will drop. And on that day, you'll end up beating off rather than trying to beat Tetris. Or whatever game you kids play these days. Call me when they make a murder simulator that ISN'T a chore to play. And has tits. Tits are important." Super important.

"I can't really say anything else negative about you because I like your moxie. Your nicknames are pretty solid. Princess Peach's Pin-Up? It's so corny, you should be getting a lawsuit from Monsanto any day now." They sued over copyright infringement of CORN PLANTS GROWING.

"Rook Black, I have received a special request. I have been told by email that I will be paid a special bounty of eighteen thousand dollars if I jizz in your eyes. I'm pretty sure Eric Dane was the one who sent me the offer, but I am pretty sure he's dead right now, so who the hell knows. I accept check, money order, or cash. Cash is good, especially if it's all ones." Rook Black needed a facial. And Fappity was the man to give it.

"Phil Atkins, what do you expect with an open challenge? We're tournamented out, as a business. All the dudes who woulda been shocking debuts came out for Ultratitle. All that's left are the dregs. So, yeah, my dick, your face, you get the picture. Don't you call me names, you little shit. Bitches who talk trash get to see the pimp side of the Claw." Fappity holds up the Claw, showin' the back of it. The Claw was a bad mother-SHUT YO' MOUTH.

"Reuben McCoy. I'm sure playing games of grabass is familiar to you, you play that game that's like football but with more ass-touching, right? I dunno. You were boring, bro. I'm gonna touch your face." Srsly, what else is there to say about him?

"Justin Voss. Touch your face. Curtis Mayfield's Downsy little brother. Touch your face. And likely get protested for beating up the inferiors. I like to call 'em "Infies". Lane Cash. Well, I respect how your balls clank when you walk, so I might not touch your face. I dunno, we'll see how that one shakes out." Pause. Fappity even grabs his drink, lifting it to his lips and taking a big swig.

The man physically, visibly shudders. "I don't know how you Australians can drink this Vegemite garbage."

"Shaniqua Carlton. Well. Now we're getting somewhere. Listen, there's gonna be a lot of cum flying around the ring. I more than likely will get you pregnant. I want you to understand, I'll get my fatass tag team partner to sit on your stomach and fire that fetus at a target like a cannon. But you aren't getting any child support. Especially since I don't dig black chicks. You're all perfectly nice, but inlaws hate a compulsive jerkoff like me. Call me all sorts of names, get pissed off if I try to style my pubes into a 'fro... Y'know. It just doesn't work. I'm way too white. So, yeah. Babymaker punch. Gotcha."

"Tedward Alexander. Never trust a man with two first names. I'm gonna touch your face. And I get that you're a very angry man. I'm not gonna jerk you off. Sorry. Not my thing."

Who else did the Only Onanist miss? Legion? "Face." Leyenda de Ocho? "Gonna ruin your mask with my dickfunk. Face."

...Others?

"Look, my handler had a really friggin' long day today and the thought of getting to go to Australia, kick it on a fancy beach and watch bikini girls is more than he can bear. So I'm just gonna remind you guys one last thing."

Fappity leans back in his beach chair, extending that hand out toward the camera.

"In pro wrestling, it's considered the norm for someone like me to come into a locker room and shake everyone's hand, introduce myself and be polite. I'll save that for the ring. Anyone who wants to can shake my hand. It's only polite. NFW isn't my home... Not yet."

Wiggle of the Claw-fingers.

"But something tells me you guys won't take me up on my offer. Instead, let me just say something about who and what I am. I am Fappity "The Master" Baytor. My tag team partner was Yiffstar Lionheart, a five-hundred pound furry. We were INTERNET~!, the greatest tag team you never heard of. We represented the worst the Internet had to offer, and that holds true today. With the might and power of every search engine at my beck and call, all the collective force of Porntube and Redtube and YouDick and whatever else..." Fappity clenched the Claw into a fist. It actually looked like a knobbly mace, in this configuration.

"I'm gonna use my Claw as my sword. My shield. It will carry me through this day, and I'll touch the faces of everything opposing me. Because I rule, you suck, my hand stinks, your face is just begging for it."

And now, bikini girls.

"DUDE, STOP JERKING IT ON THE BEACH!", someone shouts. Fappity was busted. Shit. The Hypersexual Hamburglar pops to his feet.

"HEY!", Fappity yells. "WHAT DOES SPIDER-MAN SAY WHEN HE'S ON HIS WAY?!"

"I DON'T KNOW, BUT I'M GONNA KICK YOUR ASS!", cries the person. Fappity yanks his hand from his shorts and whips his handful at the guy off-camera. SPLORT.

"HERE COMES THE SPIDERMAN!", Fappity screams, before turning and breaking into a run. VOOM. Dude was fast. And the camera had no more picture, so... CUT! That's a fap!

Wrap.

#IT'S RAININ' MEN
#HALLELUJAH IT'S RAININ' ME-

"Yo?"

"Fappity, seriously, change your ringtone. I hate that song."

"But it works so well. Raining. Like jerking off over a railing."

"...God damn it, that's disgusting. How's Australia?"

"Nearly got arrested."

"Public indecency?"

"Public indecency."

"How's the match looking?"

"I'm gonna whoop ass."

"Oh, you want to win?"

"Hell yes I do. I want that paycheck. I want to make dick jokes on a national stage. I want to come in Rook Black's stupid face."

"...Well, that's the spirit! Go Fappity!"

"GO THE MASTER!"

"How should we end this phone call?"

"How about if I call you a fat furry fuck and hang up?"

"What? No, tha-"

"YOU FAT FURRY FUCK, I'VE GOT TRAINING TO DO! JAVON RAMEY ISN'T GOING TO BEAT HIMSELF!"

Off. Hanh.

CLICK!

 

[Ford]

Re: Members Only Jacket

(QUICK CUTTO: NFW Graphic Logo.)

(CUTTO: Nova and Jack Harmen, slumped on the couch watching television. They wear tattered clothling from 1984 and the Everette straps tied around their waist.)

JACK HARMEN: Hey Nova.

NOVA: Yeah?

JACK HARMEN: Why does that girl with the funny last name have two tv shows that suck?

NOVA: Cause it's America.

(HARMEN and NOVA clink beers.)

JACK HARMEN: And you know what's the only absolute in life?

(NOVA smacks the Everette strap around his waist.)

NOVA: These ain't EVER coming off.

JACK HARMEN: Never!

(Long pause. WIDE SHOT. HARMEN smiles, as NOVA rubs the front faceplate of the tag strap.)

(CUTTO: NOVA drinking tea at a starbucks.)

NOVA: Never.

(Nova closes some kid's laptop.)

NOVA: And your screenplay sucks.

(CUTTO: JACK HARMEN, sliding down a ginormous water slide.)

JACK HARMEN: NEEEEVVVVA COOOOMMMMING OOOOOFFFFF....

(CUTTO: NOVA, stuck in a police lineup. An officer walks over and tries to remove his title. NOVA promptly punches him in the jaw.)

NOVA: NEVER GONNA HAPPEN PIGLET.

(CUTTO: JACK HARMEN, attempting to ride a bull, tag strap around his waist. He gets to five seconds before being tossed off.)

JACK HARMEN: Good job donkey. I still have my strap around my waist, and IT'S NEVER COMING OFF!

(CUTTO: NOVA, basejumping down a volcano, tag belt weighing him down. He turns to the camera and gives it a thumbs up.)

NOVA: NEEEVA comin' off.

(CUTTO: JACK HARMEN stands in a small carrier aircraft. He's dressed in a weird orange jumpsuit and wears a backpack. Around his waist, the Everette strap.)

JACK HARMEN: I'm NEVER taking this off!

(HARMEN slaps his tag strap two times. The cargo bay opens, and HARMEN JUMPS out of the airplane.)

(CUTTO: NOVA showering, the Everette Tag Team Championship covering his genitalia.)

NOVA: NEVER. COMING. OFF. Work AROUND it.

(CUTTO: NOVA and JACK HARMEN in line at an airport for their flight to SYDNEY. They get to the front of the line, and the TSA official immediately looks them up and down.)

TSA OFFICIAL: I'm sorry, you're going to have to remove that gaudy metal thing around your waist.

(HARMEN and NOVA both frown, lean in and begin to have a quiet whispered discussion. They both turn, satisfied back to the overworked TSA official.)

JACK HARMEN: No.

NOVA: Never.

JACK HARMEN: Not gonna happen.

NOVA: No way.

JACK HARMEN: I'd sooner DIE!

NOVA: This is my GOLDEN STOMACH!

JACK HARMEN: It's apart of me.

NOVA: Does a man with a pacemaker need to remove his chest?

JACK HARMEN: Does a man with... no, what you said is good, but substitute a woman instead.

NOVA: Yeah. Equal opportunity. I get what you di--

(FROM BEHIND, NOVA and JACK HARMEN are TASED by ANOTHER TSA official. He whips the sweat from his brow.)

OTHER TSA OFFICIAL: Man. I'm getting too old for this shit.

(CUTTO: Wide overhead shot, as the camera slowly zooms out.)

NARRATOR: Can the plucky Superfly Express board their flight to Sydney wearing the Everette Memorial Straps? Or will they be left behind? Join us NEXT week, for an all new adventure of...

(TITLE CARD in a similar fashion to the beginning of Cabin in the Woods: "THEY NEVER COME OFF.")

(CUTTO: Black.)