Chain Reaction #5 (Mystery style line up)
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John Doe
The Anorexic Ethiopian
Perfect and Convincingly.
FADE IN...
[We are on an enclosed balcony in California over looking the Pacific Ocean, Beach front property. Perfection is in a pair of shorts and flip flops. He is eating strawberries sitting in a nicely padded chair, he bites into the strawberry.]
Delectable these fruits, these treasures of the earth. These ones specifically are roughly eight dollars a pound. Organic growers in Southern California and some specialized hybrid of the fruit. But that's just it, you pay for what you get for, the closer to Perfection, the more you spend on it.
And guess what?
The sweeter it tastes. The better it is than ALL OTHERS. The more it was worth every damn penny.
Let's take a short little trip back in time to The Experience and doing what I said I would do. Putting the snooze out on Scott Douglas and getting my shot at my belt.
I won, need I say more? I told every single one of you it wasn't going to be a difficult victory. Walked out unscathed, as I surely predicted. Now let us think back on that match and how great I looked with that new moisturizer.
[Perfection tosses the end of the strawberry to the ground]
I looked Perfect.
But most men would say “I won now I will focus on my next challenge” but let's face it there is no challenge left for me. Let's be honest since apparently I am the only honest man in this disgusting racket.
Vizier is no challenge to me.
Also, honestly, I don't care that I took a tire iron to the skull of Rocko Dayman, who could blame me? You have Seti running around the ring talking about how Rocko and anyone outside of IWF are frauds.
But listen to me very carefully, he....signed....the...contract. He signed the damn thing! If Seti was so holy, he would have offered that title shot before I smashed Rocko Daymon like such....
[And he squashes a strawberry in his hand]
You think I did that for me? To allow me the chance to get my title shot. Of course not, who do you think I am. I did it because no person outside of MY company deserves a shot at MY belt.
Like I said earlier, you whore'd my belt out to Rocko, you are a snake that I need to cut the head off of. And I will, in due time.
So let me say this to the rest of the locker room, I did you all a favor. I allowed you the chance to walk out to that ring and have your chance at a title shot. I expect a f-cking thank you card in my dressing room.
[Perfection pauses to indulge on another strawberry]
But did any of you take it, did any of you have the testicular fortitude to walk out?
Of course not. I give you a chance and not one of you capitalizes. Seti didn't give you a chance until it was a time to make him look good until I took out Daymon. You think Vizier Seti cares about the locker room?
It wasn't until he had to play hero and leave it an open title shot because I did what I did. He not once before The Experience said "anyone who wants to step up can because Rocko Daymon isn't in IWF and doesn't deserve it".
Instead he let the very man he considers a fraud a chance wrestle him for the title. I nipped that in the ass the best way I could. If there is any fraud in this company it is, Vizier Seti!
Don't get me wrong, none of you deserve it looking the way you do like mangy dogs. But at least the offer would have been on the table!
[He points the half eaten strawberry at the camera]
Yet, you want to preach hypocrisy Vizier. Please, save your breath you will need it to keep from gassing when I cash in my title shot.
Besides, you aren’t worth my time right now, I have others less blessed in the genetics area to deal with. Less than Perfect humans that grace us.
And to those individuals...that means the entire human populace. I want you to look at me, in all my glory, in all of my tanned, muscle defined greatness. Just examine me, a real specimen. Look closely.
[Camera super close up of his flexed bicep]
Perfect!
[Super close up to his flexed pectorals]
Perfect!
[Super close up of his super white, perfectly straight, and flossed beautifully teeth as he smiles]
Jesus H. Christ.....Perfect.
[Back to far shot of Perfection]
That's the point of everything ladies and gentlemen. That when you reach the top of the mountain and look down the people are that much more insignificant.
I proved with Scott Douglas that I am the only force that wants it and how insignificant he is.
I am the only man that has had his title robbed from him. I am the true champion of this company and my crown was taken by a thief...assisted by a window licking Gump.
But never mind that, the fact I pinned Scott in a more than convincing fashion only adheres more to the logical sense that Vizier is not even on par with me.
It makes Perfect sense.
[He puts up a finger and pauses for a few seconds]
Does that mean I will cash in my title shot this week?
Of course not. Why would I give anyone that opportunity to see me win my belt at Chain Reaction Five. I need time to lavish in my victory, to allow you all to soak it in.
Think about it. If I cash in my title shot for my belt this week and win...convincingly. Then you all don't have enough time to embrace my perfect pinfall victory at The Experience.
Again, just like I did the locker room a favor by treating Rocko Daymon's head like a tea-ball, I do the fans a favor of taking in too much, too fast.
[Smart ass grin starts to the creep]
Courtney Paz would know a good lesson on that.
So sit back, relax and watch my plan unfold, watch as I show each and everyone of you exactly who is the real champion of this company.
No need to say it, yes he is on your TV screen or computer monitor this very second.
So, gentlemen and Mary-Lynn whom I already beat, again, convincingly.
Come Chain Reaction Five, prepare for another crowd who chant the name loud, proud, and in perfect audible levels.
Perfection.
FADE OUT
FADE IN...
[We are on an enclosed balcony in California over looking the Pacific Ocean, Beach front property. Perfection is in a pair of shorts and flip flops. He is eating strawberries sitting in a nicely padded chair, he bites into the strawberry.]
Delectable these fruits, these treasures of the earth. These ones specifically are roughly eight dollars a pound. Organic growers in Southern California and some specialized hybrid of the fruit. But that's just it, you pay for what you get for, the closer to Perfection, the more you spend on it.
And guess what?
The sweeter it tastes. The better it is than ALL OTHERS. The more it was worth every damn penny.
Let's take a short little trip back in time to The Experience and doing what I said I would do. Putting the snooze out on Scott Douglas and getting my shot at my belt.
I won, need I say more? I told every single one of you it wasn't going to be a difficult victory. Walked out unscathed, as I surely predicted. Now let us think back on that match and how great I looked with that new moisturizer.
[Perfection tosses the end of the strawberry to the ground]
I looked Perfect.
But most men would say “I won now I will focus on my next challenge” but let's face it there is no challenge left for me. Let's be honest since apparently I am the only honest man in this disgusting racket.
Vizier is no challenge to me.
Also, honestly, I don't care that I took a tire iron to the skull of Rocko Dayman, who could blame me? You have Seti running around the ring talking about how Rocko and anyone outside of IWF are frauds.
But listen to me very carefully, he....signed....the...contract. He signed the damn thing! If Seti was so holy, he would have offered that title shot before I smashed Rocko Daymon like such....
[And he squashes a strawberry in his hand]
You think I did that for me? To allow me the chance to get my title shot. Of course not, who do you think I am. I did it because no person outside of MY company deserves a shot at MY belt.
Like I said earlier, you whore'd my belt out to Rocko, you are a snake that I need to cut the head off of. And I will, in due time.
So let me say this to the rest of the locker room, I did you all a favor. I allowed you the chance to walk out to that ring and have your chance at a title shot. I expect a f-cking thank you card in my dressing room.
[Perfection pauses to indulge on another strawberry]
But did any of you take it, did any of you have the testicular fortitude to walk out?
Of course not. I give you a chance and not one of you capitalizes. Seti didn't give you a chance until it was a time to make him look good until I took out Daymon. You think Vizier Seti cares about the locker room?
It wasn't until he had to play hero and leave it an open title shot because I did what I did. He not once before The Experience said "anyone who wants to step up can because Rocko Daymon isn't in IWF and doesn't deserve it".
Instead he let the very man he considers a fraud a chance wrestle him for the title. I nipped that in the ass the best way I could. If there is any fraud in this company it is, Vizier Seti!
Don't get me wrong, none of you deserve it looking the way you do like mangy dogs. But at least the offer would have been on the table!
[He points the half eaten strawberry at the camera]
Yet, you want to preach hypocrisy Vizier. Please, save your breath you will need it to keep from gassing when I cash in my title shot.
Besides, you aren’t worth my time right now, I have others less blessed in the genetics area to deal with. Less than Perfect humans that grace us.
And to those individuals...that means the entire human populace. I want you to look at me, in all my glory, in all of my tanned, muscle defined greatness. Just examine me, a real specimen. Look closely.
[Camera super close up of his flexed bicep]
Perfect!
[Super close up to his flexed pectorals]
Perfect!
[Super close up of his super white, perfectly straight, and flossed beautifully teeth as he smiles]
Jesus H. Christ.....Perfect.
[Back to far shot of Perfection]
That's the point of everything ladies and gentlemen. That when you reach the top of the mountain and look down the people are that much more insignificant.
I proved with Scott Douglas that I am the only force that wants it and how insignificant he is.
I am the only man that has had his title robbed from him. I am the true champion of this company and my crown was taken by a thief...assisted by a window licking Gump.
But never mind that, the fact I pinned Scott in a more than convincing fashion only adheres more to the logical sense that Vizier is not even on par with me.
It makes Perfect sense.
[He puts up a finger and pauses for a few seconds]
Does that mean I will cash in my title shot this week?
Of course not. Why would I give anyone that opportunity to see me win my belt at Chain Reaction Five. I need time to lavish in my victory, to allow you all to soak it in.
Think about it. If I cash in my title shot for my belt this week and win...convincingly. Then you all don't have enough time to embrace my perfect pinfall victory at The Experience.
Again, just like I did the locker room a favor by treating Rocko Daymon's head like a tea-ball, I do the fans a favor of taking in too much, too fast.
[Smart ass grin starts to the creep]
Courtney Paz would know a good lesson on that.
So sit back, relax and watch my plan unfold, watch as I show each and everyone of you exactly who is the real champion of this company.
No need to say it, yes he is on your TV screen or computer monitor this very second.
So, gentlemen and Mary-Lynn whom I already beat, again, convincingly.
Come Chain Reaction Five, prepare for another crowd who chant the name loud, proud, and in perfect audible levels.
Perfection.
FADE OUT
Last edited:
User Poets
The Shadow Pope
- Joined
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Retread
(FADEIN on nothing. Black. Darkness.)
SETI: I'm enough of a man to admit my mistakes.
(And a puff of smoke.)
SETI: And I apologize to Rocko Daymon.
(The smoke catches some light, and the blacked - out face of Vizier ta Seti is barely seen in the background.)
SETI: Rocko, I accused you of being a coward, too scared to show your face to the IWF fans, too full of contempt to wrestle in a company that wasn't going to kowtow to your supposed superstar status; supposed because you couldn't even defend a World Championship without vacating it.
(He opens his eyes, strikingly white against the contrasted black.)
SETI: I now know that you missed our scheduled match through no fault of your own, and for accusing you of cowardice and avarice, I apologize.
However, you are still a poor excuse for a Champion.
(Vizier smirked.)
SETI: You asked me, Rocko, if I would have defended your Championship after the injuries you suffered, and the answer is yes, I would. When you have the top championship belt in your organization strapped around your waist, you are held to a higher standard than anyone else around you, and you must prove that you deserve the honor, every night.
Even if it means the end of your career.
Or did you prefer your career coming to an abrupt conclusion while sitting on the sidelines instead of in the ring like a man?
(Vizier looked up)
SETI: Regardless, you want to wrestle, you come and take it. I'll even volunteer to be your personal bodyguard to make sure you can get to your match safe and sound.
Of course, I can't promise you'll make it... out... of the ring, safe and sound.
(He held the Emerald City Championship belt up to the camera lens and pushed, bumping the camera.)
SETI: Speaking of the IWF, the Emerald City, and Championship Belts... congratulations are in order to James Witherhold for winning the number one contendership to my Emerald City belt.
But the question remains... if this was supposed to be your belt, why did you have to earn a shot at it? If this was supposed to be your belt... why weren't you facing me for it?
If you're truly supposed to be perfect, James... your record would be.
(He laughs)
I'll even give you the benefit of the doubt and say that you didn't lose when you faced off against Scott Douglas and myself to become the first Champion... if you really were perfect, why is there a third number attached to it?
Four... oh... and one.
(Vizier put the belt down.)
SETI: As it stands, James... don't insult what little intelligence you have by talking about cashing in a title shot. You can have as many shots at my Championship as you want.
So can Rocko Daymon.
So can Cottonmouth Mateo.
So can every other wrestler in the entire sport of professional wrestling.
I don't care about some kind of epic victory over you, James. I don't hate you or feel that you're my rival.
I nothing you.
I don't care about any other wrestler in the locker room, and I owe them nothing but successful title defense after successful title defense. Let the insecure wrestlers worry about making headlines.
Like James Witherhold.
Let the insecure wrestlers worry about getting the fans on their side.
Cheer me or boo me, put an opponent in the ring across from me and I'll make you remember me.
My loyalty is to the IWF, James... not to you or any other wrestler in the locker room. So you can take your feeble attempt at a guilt trip and save it for someone who cares.
But... does anyone care, James?
If there was a poor turnout to the Crucifixion, would you have rescheduled?
As long as they get your good side, right?
(FADEOUT)
(FADEIN on nothing. Black. Darkness.)
SETI: I'm enough of a man to admit my mistakes.
(And a puff of smoke.)
SETI: And I apologize to Rocko Daymon.
(The smoke catches some light, and the blacked - out face of Vizier ta Seti is barely seen in the background.)
SETI: Rocko, I accused you of being a coward, too scared to show your face to the IWF fans, too full of contempt to wrestle in a company that wasn't going to kowtow to your supposed superstar status; supposed because you couldn't even defend a World Championship without vacating it.
(He opens his eyes, strikingly white against the contrasted black.)
SETI: I now know that you missed our scheduled match through no fault of your own, and for accusing you of cowardice and avarice, I apologize.
However, you are still a poor excuse for a Champion.
(Vizier smirked.)
SETI: You asked me, Rocko, if I would have defended your Championship after the injuries you suffered, and the answer is yes, I would. When you have the top championship belt in your organization strapped around your waist, you are held to a higher standard than anyone else around you, and you must prove that you deserve the honor, every night.
Even if it means the end of your career.
Or did you prefer your career coming to an abrupt conclusion while sitting on the sidelines instead of in the ring like a man?
(Vizier looked up)
SETI: Regardless, you want to wrestle, you come and take it. I'll even volunteer to be your personal bodyguard to make sure you can get to your match safe and sound.
Of course, I can't promise you'll make it... out... of the ring, safe and sound.
(He held the Emerald City Championship belt up to the camera lens and pushed, bumping the camera.)
SETI: Speaking of the IWF, the Emerald City, and Championship Belts... congratulations are in order to James Witherhold for winning the number one contendership to my Emerald City belt.
But the question remains... if this was supposed to be your belt, why did you have to earn a shot at it? If this was supposed to be your belt... why weren't you facing me for it?
If you're truly supposed to be perfect, James... your record would be.
(He laughs)
I'll even give you the benefit of the doubt and say that you didn't lose when you faced off against Scott Douglas and myself to become the first Champion... if you really were perfect, why is there a third number attached to it?
Four... oh... and one.
(Vizier put the belt down.)
SETI: As it stands, James... don't insult what little intelligence you have by talking about cashing in a title shot. You can have as many shots at my Championship as you want.
So can Rocko Daymon.
So can Cottonmouth Mateo.
So can every other wrestler in the entire sport of professional wrestling.
I don't care about some kind of epic victory over you, James. I don't hate you or feel that you're my rival.
I nothing you.
I don't care about any other wrestler in the locker room, and I owe them nothing but successful title defense after successful title defense. Let the insecure wrestlers worry about making headlines.
Like James Witherhold.
Let the insecure wrestlers worry about getting the fans on their side.
Cheer me or boo me, put an opponent in the ring across from me and I'll make you remember me.
My loyalty is to the IWF, James... not to you or any other wrestler in the locker room. So you can take your feeble attempt at a guilt trip and save it for someone who cares.
But... does anyone care, James?
If there was a poor turnout to the Crucifixion, would you have rescheduled?
As long as they get your good side, right?
(FADEOUT)
TSiegel
I spoil things.
Critics' Choice
"Hrmph.."
(Fadein, Mateo's Pub as he lays face down on a weathered couch, his cowboy hat covering the one side of the face that might be exposed to the few lights that still work in the place. The Cameraman's left boot nudges Mateo and he turns over. Another nudge and Mateo finally clambers into an upright position, quickly shading from the light until he can he can get his bearings about him. Before he makes an attempt to reposition his hat, he looks around at no one in particular, hat still on the FRONT of his face.)
EM: Mall?? Ah dahn' smeh' payn'caykes...es et Franch tahst' Toosday??
(The Cameraman's hand protrude and snaps fingers next to Mateos' temple, gaining his attention as Mateo swats angrily at it, finally grabbing his belt buckle with one hand and his hat with the other, he notices the cameraman, holding another IWF stationary business card. He acknowledges and scoots off the couch over to the bar, taking out a shot of Jack Daniel's Whiskey, and a bottle of beer. Downing the shot, he chases it with a swig of the beer before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.)
EM: Sow...Meester Vector Vahn Suhkehtash es ah Poe-et an' din' no et...
Sheet mayne...ah dahn car' ef youse gayte cher'd, ah dahn car' ef youse 'er 'aven bood. Youse seems tah thank thayt ay-moshon ain't gon' bee ah fack'er wayne youse git too tha' rang....
Wail whut ef ahs kick youse en tha' twat, house thayt gon' mayke yah fail??
Youse sayt thar' an' 'pol-gise tah Sloppeh-Rackoon fer' sumthan' youse hayd nose cun-troll o'fer, bet thar's too trooths tah cahm ov' thays....numbers won:
Youse my-teh tol' Sloppeh-Rackoon thayt hays ah p'er scoos' fer ah Champ'n...an' fer thayt youse my-teh bean roit....bet youse nose sum'then ellos??
Sloppeh-Rackoon wuss-ah Bech, beh'fer...
(Mateo pauses a second.)
Yah...ahs' sed-et.
Youse spitten aht haw bean ah champ'n...youse gots'tah prooof thayt youse days'erv et, an' goes aht ever'naht, an' allz thayt udder gar'bayge...bet youse din' did thayt tha' udder naht, didja??
Sher...Meester "Ain'-sow-perfeck" dead hess bess tah tayke ah chains...bet et stale din' happ'n dead et?? Ahz whooped up own thayt fer'ner an' caked hess ace jes' lahk ah sed ah wood.
Fack 'es...ahs tol' 'em hay din' bay-long thar' tah bay-gen weth, sow ahs throo hem aht.
Tha fack es...thes ain' 'bout no dame ray-cord, ets 'bout fahtin'.
An' no won lahks gatin' ah faht m'er thayn meh, thayts fer sher'.
Jam's...prob-lam-o es thayt hay same tah thank thayt hays owed anudder shot ayt tha' Em'rald Citeh title...es'pesh'lly saints hay naver gots pined 'er sub-mitted...
'er mayde folks pine or sub-mitt....bet neber tha lace....
Sum'thin tails meh thayt ain' ah wain need'er...an' las' ah chayk...thayts whut madders.
An' nut'en madders tah meh m'er thayn too thangs....drankin' an' fahtin'....an' cahmin' aht tha' vayctor...
(Mateo pauses as he review what he just stated, counting off fingers.)
oh-kay...threy thangs.
Tha' fack thayt ol' Vinnie gaht luckeh layst tahm...ah reckon thayt din' sayt wail wit' meh....an' et won' 'til ah hayve thayt Em'rald Citeh Champ'ship. Youse gaht ta nose Vernon, ah NEEEEDS thayt Em'rald Champ'n'ship tight-al...naht jest tah proof mah werth ass won o' tha baste thes bid'ness hass tah of'er...
(Mateo pauses for a second, a feeling of compassion waving over him as he lowers his head a second.)
Bet tah sho' thayt mah ate-yer-ol' neese Carolin', thayt thayt lit' gerl reely cane do an'thang sheh wonts, eff sheh jest poots hair min' tah et....
(Mateo raises his head, his eyes filled with FIRE.)
An' nutt'n aht-sahd tha' smahill o' thayt lil' gerls' fayce wood mayke meh happ'yer thayn tah nose thayt mayken et hap'n ayt tha ex'pents o' sum mid-eestern eegip'chen...
Ah's gahts meh ah fellin' o' pay-chree'tism runnin' throo meh thayt es say'con tah nun....eben ef tha fellin' o' ah Bran Muff'n dern' ah hayng-ober es ah close say'con'.
Ahs don' car' ef youse don' car' bout Jams' 'er "Pop-Ah-Squat" 'er Sloppeh-Rackoon....bet youse cane baste beh-LEEEB thayt youse gon' bee 'mo'shun'al wayne ah'm throo weth youse....Ah don' wont youse loya'ty, ah don' eben wont youse fren'chip, 'case Ahs don' NEEEED et.
Ah jest wont tha Champ'n'chip tight-all....
An' Ah'll doo an'thang en mah pow'r thayt thes Cun'trey bodeh hass lef' en et tah gate et.
Ah ain' perfeck....bet ah nose youse ain' neether, an' ass soooooon ass ah gate ah chains...
(Mateo takes another long swig of the beer, puts it down, and holds up two fists, plain as can be.)
...ah'm ah sho' yah too reesons wha'.
FADEOUT
"Hrmph.."
(Fadein, Mateo's Pub as he lays face down on a weathered couch, his cowboy hat covering the one side of the face that might be exposed to the few lights that still work in the place. The Cameraman's left boot nudges Mateo and he turns over. Another nudge and Mateo finally clambers into an upright position, quickly shading from the light until he can he can get his bearings about him. Before he makes an attempt to reposition his hat, he looks around at no one in particular, hat still on the FRONT of his face.)
EM: Mall?? Ah dahn' smeh' payn'caykes...es et Franch tahst' Toosday??
(The Cameraman's hand protrude and snaps fingers next to Mateos' temple, gaining his attention as Mateo swats angrily at it, finally grabbing his belt buckle with one hand and his hat with the other, he notices the cameraman, holding another IWF stationary business card. He acknowledges and scoots off the couch over to the bar, taking out a shot of Jack Daniel's Whiskey, and a bottle of beer. Downing the shot, he chases it with a swig of the beer before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.)
EM: Sow...Meester Vector Vahn Suhkehtash es ah Poe-et an' din' no et...
Sheet mayne...ah dahn car' ef youse gayte cher'd, ah dahn car' ef youse 'er 'aven bood. Youse seems tah thank thayt ay-moshon ain't gon' bee ah fack'er wayne youse git too tha' rang....
Wail whut ef ahs kick youse en tha' twat, house thayt gon' mayke yah fail??
Youse sayt thar' an' 'pol-gise tah Sloppeh-Rackoon fer' sumthan' youse hayd nose cun-troll o'fer, bet thar's too trooths tah cahm ov' thays....numbers won:
Youse my-teh tol' Sloppeh-Rackoon thayt hays ah p'er scoos' fer ah Champ'n...an' fer thayt youse my-teh bean roit....bet youse nose sum'then ellos??
Sloppeh-Rackoon wuss-ah Bech, beh'fer...
(Mateo pauses a second.)
Yah...ahs' sed-et.
Youse spitten aht haw bean ah champ'n...youse gots'tah prooof thayt youse days'erv et, an' goes aht ever'naht, an' allz thayt udder gar'bayge...bet youse din' did thayt tha' udder naht, didja??
Sher...Meester "Ain'-sow-perfeck" dead hess bess tah tayke ah chains...bet et stale din' happ'n dead et?? Ahz whooped up own thayt fer'ner an' caked hess ace jes' lahk ah sed ah wood.
Fack 'es...ahs tol' 'em hay din' bay-long thar' tah bay-gen weth, sow ahs throo hem aht.
Tha fack es...thes ain' 'bout no dame ray-cord, ets 'bout fahtin'.
An' no won lahks gatin' ah faht m'er thayn meh, thayts fer sher'.
Jam's...prob-lam-o es thayt hay same tah thank thayt hays owed anudder shot ayt tha' Em'rald Citeh title...es'pesh'lly saints hay naver gots pined 'er sub-mitted...
'er mayde folks pine or sub-mitt....bet neber tha lace....
Sum'thin tails meh thayt ain' ah wain need'er...an' las' ah chayk...thayts whut madders.
An' nut'en madders tah meh m'er thayn too thangs....drankin' an' fahtin'....an' cahmin' aht tha' vayctor...
(Mateo pauses as he review what he just stated, counting off fingers.)
oh-kay...threy thangs.
Tha' fack thayt ol' Vinnie gaht luckeh layst tahm...ah reckon thayt din' sayt wail wit' meh....an' et won' 'til ah hayve thayt Em'rald Citeh Champ'ship. Youse gaht ta nose Vernon, ah NEEEEDS thayt Em'rald Champ'n'ship tight-al...naht jest tah proof mah werth ass won o' tha baste thes bid'ness hass tah of'er...
(Mateo pauses for a second, a feeling of compassion waving over him as he lowers his head a second.)
Bet tah sho' thayt mah ate-yer-ol' neese Carolin', thayt thayt lit' gerl reely cane do an'thang sheh wonts, eff sheh jest poots hair min' tah et....
(Mateo raises his head, his eyes filled with FIRE.)
An' nutt'n aht-sahd tha' smahill o' thayt lil' gerls' fayce wood mayke meh happ'yer thayn tah nose thayt mayken et hap'n ayt tha ex'pents o' sum mid-eestern eegip'chen...
Ah's gahts meh ah fellin' o' pay-chree'tism runnin' throo meh thayt es say'con tah nun....eben ef tha fellin' o' ah Bran Muff'n dern' ah hayng-ober es ah close say'con'.
Ahs don' car' ef youse don' car' bout Jams' 'er "Pop-Ah-Squat" 'er Sloppeh-Rackoon....bet youse cane baste beh-LEEEB thayt youse gon' bee 'mo'shun'al wayne ah'm throo weth youse....Ah don' wont youse loya'ty, ah don' eben wont youse fren'chip, 'case Ahs don' NEEEED et.
Ah jest wont tha Champ'n'chip tight-all....
An' Ah'll doo an'thang en mah pow'r thayt thes Cun'trey bodeh hass lef' en et tah gate et.
Ah ain' perfeck....bet ah nose youse ain' neether, an' ass soooooon ass ah gate ah chains...
(Mateo takes another long swig of the beer, puts it down, and holds up two fists, plain as can be.)
...ah'm ah sho' yah too reesons wha'.
FADEOUT
BWade
Grandma Took Me Home
Catching Up to the Past, Part I (More Fatherly Advice)
Scott wasn't one to make excuses or grandstand about being railroaded or screwed. Under most circumstances he would take his lumps where given and ultimately chalk it up to the experience. IWF's first pay per view event, The Experience, would prove to be no different.
"I don't even have to say anything, do I?" Scott asked Courtney as he unlaced his boots; shirtless and sitting in the steel folding chair.
The event still roared on out among the fans and commentators. The public address system became degraded to a low rumble by the time it shook through the concrete walls, and made its way in the make shift locker room Scott shared with a few other performers. Most of whom, would be huddled around a common monitor somewhere watching how the end of the night would turn out.
Scott would catch a replay.
At this point he just wanted to shower and get clear of the night. Start fresh in morning.
"No, you don't. I already know." She replied with a scolded school girl's tone as she gathers her and Scott's things in preparation for their imminent departure.
Scott's chest is nearly touching his knees as he leaned down, feverishly pulling the stings from his boots. He snatched each down far enough to fling the tatter foot wear off of his worn out feet. Exhausted; he sits back letting the cold steel cool his heated body and sore back.
"I don't blame you. I just worry."
Courtney zips up her bag and responds, "I know. I just wish..."
Scott interrupts, "Wishing is a kin to crying. Neither accomplish anything. Don't worry about it... all of this isn't over yet. I'm still the number two contender, right?"
"Right." She responds unconvinced and unenthusiastic.
Scott rubs his neck; which his and all of his competitors body weight, and force thereof, came crashing down upon to put an end to an otherwise stellar performance. Courtney pulls Scott's dry shirt from his bag, and tosses in his drenched in-ring garment. She hears a prescription bottle of pills rolling around in the bag and pulls it from the bottom.
"What are these?" she questions.
Scott attempts to crack his neck snatching his chin from side to side before turning to examine what Courtney is holding in her hands, assuming already it's the bottle from his bag.
"Muscle relaxers. Soma." He answered very directly. "Matter of fact, let me have one of those. My neck got wrenched something terrible tonight."
Courtney applies the appropriate pressure and multitask-ed directions of movement to prove her age to the inanimate object and shakes a pill out into the cap left in her free hand. She dumps the round white pill into Scott's palm and he tosses it back. "Water?" she asks extending a half drank bottle to Scott from the bench. He takes a swig and swallows the pill and then raises the bottle back to his lips to finishes it off. The earth friendly bottle crackles and shrieks as Scott crushes it to coax every drop he can from it.
"Is that ...the Scott Douglas?" a voice questions.
Scott slowly turns, favoring his neck, to see his father approaching from the door way.
"Pops, I didn't know you made it out."
Scott's father, Nate, took a seat next to his Scott and Courtney's bags on a bench next to his son's chair. "Courtney, it's been quite sometime since I've seen that gorgeous young face." He notes, mostly as a pleasantry.
Courtney, lightly shrugs her shoulders, smiles and turns her face slightly to the left to convey a mix of modesty, embarrassment and appreciation for the compliment. "Yes, sir. Quite some time." She replies. "It's wonderful to see you Mr. Douglas. I'll let you two chat... Scotty, I'm going to go see if pay out is ready."
"Alright." Scott responds as Courtney leaves the room.
Nate adjusts himself on the bench. "Courtney ... Sarah ... Allen. Your mother wondered why you hadn't been home." Nate chuckles, "I just told her you were a grown man in a hectic business and not to worry about it. I wasn't worried."
Scott interjects, "I appreciate that, Pops."
"Well, don't jump the gun son. I wasn't ... until I finally caught an episode of Chain Reaction and I see Courtney out there." Nate explains to his battle worn son.
Scott, assuming he knows what's coming, immediately goes on the defensive; "Look, I know how you and mom feel but..."
Nate puts his hand out motioning for Scott to yield. "Hold on now, son," he chuckles "didn't I just... tell you not to jump the proverbial gun. Look, I'm not worried about you and her together. Hell, when you didn't come home after the first show, I figured as much. I'm not going to hold two adults liable for their misadventures as children. You two had something, but it didn't work out. You grew up, and now it may ... hell I ain't 'Dear Abby.'"
Nate struggles to hold back a cough reaching for his handkerchief from his front chest pocket. Once holdings the finely stitched cloth up to his mouth and in the clear he lets loose and descends into a coughing fit for a moment. Scott extends his hand toward his father but purposefully never quite reaches him. Based on his personal knowledge that, though humble, his father is proud man from a different era and its best just to leave him be.
The fit subsides, and with his composure reestablished: Nate continues, "You mother? Now that's a different story all together, son." Nate pauses to clear his throat. "My concerns lie solely in; why the hell you got that girl out there with you? ... and honestly I think what happened tonight just proves my point."
Scott allows the concerns voiced to sink in for a moment before he responds, "I get it. I really do. Believe it or not, I was just talking to her about that and I worry about her safety ... But as she reminds me, constantly, she's a grown women... and I don't want to send her ego to the stratosphere but I have to hand it to her; she took a hell of a bump tonight."
"Well, son ... that me be, although I'm not sure I'm fully on board with that line of thought, but what about the fact that you may have very well flipped that last Suplex if it had not been for your concern for her well-being?" Nate questions. Adding, "Which regardless of what you tell me now, is certainly strong. As it should be."
Scott quips back, respectively, but quickly. "Pop, if it had not been for her I wouldn't have made it back into the tournament, let alone be up for number one contender."
"Ok, ok ... It's your deal son. Your cross to bare. I'm not here to intervene or act like an old washed up worker can call shots. Just wanted to voice my concern." Scott's father tells him.
Scott scratches his bearded cheek while staring to floor contemplating what his father has said. He looks up, "Alright. I'll certainly take it into consideration old man." Scott smirks.
"That's all I ask." Nate replies with a grin of his own.
Just as the father/son duo's conversation seemingly draws to somewhat of a conclusion; Courtney returns with two white envelopes in hand.
"Well, its late son and I really need to get going before your mother thinks I'm gallivanting the bar scene or something irrational of the like. Miss Courtney, it is always wonderful to see you. Keep your eye on this one." Nate jokingly warns.
"Same here, Mr. Douglas. Say hello to Mrs. Douglas for me please." Courtney responds as Scott hauls himself to his feet.
Nate leans in and give Courtney a big hug and tells her; "I'll be sure to do that, and hun' call me Nate." She responds "yes, sir" as the two pull back from one another.
"Glad you made it out, old man. I ... thought I heard some old crow screaming 'Douglas Sucks' out there tonight" Scott adds as the three share a laugh. Scott and his father share a hug in the form of a hand shake, a shoulder bump, and a mutual pat on the back.
"You two be good, now." Nate remarks as he backs away from Scott and heads out.
"Yes, sir." Scott and Courtney respond, nearly, in unison.
Once Nate appears to be out of sight and ear shot, Courtney turns to Scott.
"What was that all about?"
Scott snatches his bag from the bench where his father had been previously sitting.
"Just some fatherly advice. You ready?"
Scott wasn't one to make excuses or grandstand about being railroaded or screwed. Under most circumstances he would take his lumps where given and ultimately chalk it up to the experience. IWF's first pay per view event, The Experience, would prove to be no different.
"I don't even have to say anything, do I?" Scott asked Courtney as he unlaced his boots; shirtless and sitting in the steel folding chair.
The event still roared on out among the fans and commentators. The public address system became degraded to a low rumble by the time it shook through the concrete walls, and made its way in the make shift locker room Scott shared with a few other performers. Most of whom, would be huddled around a common monitor somewhere watching how the end of the night would turn out.
Scott would catch a replay.
At this point he just wanted to shower and get clear of the night. Start fresh in morning.
"No, you don't. I already know." She replied with a scolded school girl's tone as she gathers her and Scott's things in preparation for their imminent departure.
Scott's chest is nearly touching his knees as he leaned down, feverishly pulling the stings from his boots. He snatched each down far enough to fling the tatter foot wear off of his worn out feet. Exhausted; he sits back letting the cold steel cool his heated body and sore back.
"I don't blame you. I just worry."
Courtney zips up her bag and responds, "I know. I just wish..."
Scott interrupts, "Wishing is a kin to crying. Neither accomplish anything. Don't worry about it... all of this isn't over yet. I'm still the number two contender, right?"
"Right." She responds unconvinced and unenthusiastic.
Scott rubs his neck; which his and all of his competitors body weight, and force thereof, came crashing down upon to put an end to an otherwise stellar performance. Courtney pulls Scott's dry shirt from his bag, and tosses in his drenched in-ring garment. She hears a prescription bottle of pills rolling around in the bag and pulls it from the bottom.
"What are these?" she questions.
Scott attempts to crack his neck snatching his chin from side to side before turning to examine what Courtney is holding in her hands, assuming already it's the bottle from his bag.
"Muscle relaxers. Soma." He answered very directly. "Matter of fact, let me have one of those. My neck got wrenched something terrible tonight."
Courtney applies the appropriate pressure and multitask-ed directions of movement to prove her age to the inanimate object and shakes a pill out into the cap left in her free hand. She dumps the round white pill into Scott's palm and he tosses it back. "Water?" she asks extending a half drank bottle to Scott from the bench. He takes a swig and swallows the pill and then raises the bottle back to his lips to finishes it off. The earth friendly bottle crackles and shrieks as Scott crushes it to coax every drop he can from it.
"Is that ...the Scott Douglas?" a voice questions.
Scott slowly turns, favoring his neck, to see his father approaching from the door way.
"Pops, I didn't know you made it out."
Scott's father, Nate, took a seat next to his Scott and Courtney's bags on a bench next to his son's chair. "Courtney, it's been quite sometime since I've seen that gorgeous young face." He notes, mostly as a pleasantry.
Courtney, lightly shrugs her shoulders, smiles and turns her face slightly to the left to convey a mix of modesty, embarrassment and appreciation for the compliment. "Yes, sir. Quite some time." She replies. "It's wonderful to see you Mr. Douglas. I'll let you two chat... Scotty, I'm going to go see if pay out is ready."
"Alright." Scott responds as Courtney leaves the room.
Nate adjusts himself on the bench. "Courtney ... Sarah ... Allen. Your mother wondered why you hadn't been home." Nate chuckles, "I just told her you were a grown man in a hectic business and not to worry about it. I wasn't worried."
Scott interjects, "I appreciate that, Pops."
"Well, don't jump the gun son. I wasn't ... until I finally caught an episode of Chain Reaction and I see Courtney out there." Nate explains to his battle worn son.
Scott, assuming he knows what's coming, immediately goes on the defensive; "Look, I know how you and mom feel but..."
Nate puts his hand out motioning for Scott to yield. "Hold on now, son," he chuckles "didn't I just... tell you not to jump the proverbial gun. Look, I'm not worried about you and her together. Hell, when you didn't come home after the first show, I figured as much. I'm not going to hold two adults liable for their misadventures as children. You two had something, but it didn't work out. You grew up, and now it may ... hell I ain't 'Dear Abby.'"
Nate struggles to hold back a cough reaching for his handkerchief from his front chest pocket. Once holdings the finely stitched cloth up to his mouth and in the clear he lets loose and descends into a coughing fit for a moment. Scott extends his hand toward his father but purposefully never quite reaches him. Based on his personal knowledge that, though humble, his father is proud man from a different era and its best just to leave him be.
The fit subsides, and with his composure reestablished: Nate continues, "You mother? Now that's a different story all together, son." Nate pauses to clear his throat. "My concerns lie solely in; why the hell you got that girl out there with you? ... and honestly I think what happened tonight just proves my point."
Scott allows the concerns voiced to sink in for a moment before he responds, "I get it. I really do. Believe it or not, I was just talking to her about that and I worry about her safety ... But as she reminds me, constantly, she's a grown women... and I don't want to send her ego to the stratosphere but I have to hand it to her; she took a hell of a bump tonight."
"Well, son ... that me be, although I'm not sure I'm fully on board with that line of thought, but what about the fact that you may have very well flipped that last Suplex if it had not been for your concern for her well-being?" Nate questions. Adding, "Which regardless of what you tell me now, is certainly strong. As it should be."
Scott quips back, respectively, but quickly. "Pop, if it had not been for her I wouldn't have made it back into the tournament, let alone be up for number one contender."
"Ok, ok ... It's your deal son. Your cross to bare. I'm not here to intervene or act like an old washed up worker can call shots. Just wanted to voice my concern." Scott's father tells him.
Scott scratches his bearded cheek while staring to floor contemplating what his father has said. He looks up, "Alright. I'll certainly take it into consideration old man." Scott smirks.
"That's all I ask." Nate replies with a grin of his own.
Just as the father/son duo's conversation seemingly draws to somewhat of a conclusion; Courtney returns with two white envelopes in hand.
"Well, its late son and I really need to get going before your mother thinks I'm gallivanting the bar scene or something irrational of the like. Miss Courtney, it is always wonderful to see you. Keep your eye on this one." Nate jokingly warns.
"Same here, Mr. Douglas. Say hello to Mrs. Douglas for me please." Courtney responds as Scott hauls himself to his feet.
Nate leans in and give Courtney a big hug and tells her; "I'll be sure to do that, and hun' call me Nate." She responds "yes, sir" as the two pull back from one another.
"Glad you made it out, old man. I ... thought I heard some old crow screaming 'Douglas Sucks' out there tonight" Scott adds as the three share a laugh. Scott and his father share a hug in the form of a hand shake, a shoulder bump, and a mutual pat on the back.
"You two be good, now." Nate remarks as he backs away from Scott and heads out.
"Yes, sir." Scott and Courtney respond, nearly, in unison.
Once Nate appears to be out of sight and ear shot, Courtney turns to Scott.
"What was that all about?"
Scott snatches his bag from the bench where his father had been previously sitting.
"Just some fatherly advice. You ready?"
Last edited:
Showtime
League Member
Eddie Whisky rationalizes
Back to the locker room of the Moss Bay Events Center we go. Eddie Whisky is not a happy camper. That red mark he made on the wall from the past week has been joined by new, fresher marks. No sir, Eddie's a bit grumpy. There he is, kicking his locker door. No one's told him yet that any damage to the Events Center comes out of his salary. But then, he's really not very approachable right now...
Eddie Whisky: THEFT! It says righ there in that Bible thing: Thou Shalts noth steal thy neighbor's ass! And what does Mary-Lynn "I'm Stupid" Mayweather do? Steals from me! That match was mine to win. What happened? WHAT HAPPENED!?
Eddie pauses. He strokes his mustaches as he ponders the answer.
EW: I will tell you what she did. She stole my victory. "MLM", as the hip kids call her, snuck in after the beating I gave her--the beating she so rightly asked for--and rolled me up, probably grabbed my shorts and paid off the ref too. Short version: Mary-Lynne Mayweather is a cheat. Thus, her victory is void. Null.
Eddie sits down, taking a moment to tape up his wall-punchin' hand.
EW: I'm vindicated. We here in the IWF already know the depths of thievery MLM will stoop to, but I foolishly thought she would AT LEAST have the honor and decency to fight a fair fight. Now you there might argue 'Eddie, you are practically twice her size, and you're awesome! If anything the match was unfair for her to begin with!'
Eddie smiles.
EW: Well thank you, yes I am awesome. But that is besides the point. Mary-Lynn, like Shirley Parsons knew who she was going up against, and had every opportunity to back down and accede a forfeit. No, just like how Shirley told on Little Eddie and stole Stuart, so did Mary-Lynn Mayweather stack the deck against Grownup Eddie--which is myself--and stole the match. So no, it was unfair only to me.
Eddie shrugs.
EW: As I said, I was naive to think that I could expect a fair fight from her. And as such, I have no qualms about bringing the angry, murderous Eddie Whisky that my therapist advised me was best to keep buried. And when I bring the Bad Old Eddie Whisky to Chain Reaction #5, it will be with a clear conscience that I unleash him upon you, IWF.
Eddie stands again. It seems sitting still is not one of his strengths.
EW: Do not blame me, it was all Mary-Lynn's fault. When the smoke clears and the bodies are counted, the blood will be on her hands.
Fade.
Back to the locker room of the Moss Bay Events Center we go. Eddie Whisky is not a happy camper. That red mark he made on the wall from the past week has been joined by new, fresher marks. No sir, Eddie's a bit grumpy. There he is, kicking his locker door. No one's told him yet that any damage to the Events Center comes out of his salary. But then, he's really not very approachable right now...
Eddie Whisky: THEFT! It says righ there in that Bible thing: Thou Shalts noth steal thy neighbor's ass! And what does Mary-Lynn "I'm Stupid" Mayweather do? Steals from me! That match was mine to win. What happened? WHAT HAPPENED!?
Eddie pauses. He strokes his mustaches as he ponders the answer.
EW: I will tell you what she did. She stole my victory. "MLM", as the hip kids call her, snuck in after the beating I gave her--the beating she so rightly asked for--and rolled me up, probably grabbed my shorts and paid off the ref too. Short version: Mary-Lynne Mayweather is a cheat. Thus, her victory is void. Null.
Eddie sits down, taking a moment to tape up his wall-punchin' hand.
EW: I'm vindicated. We here in the IWF already know the depths of thievery MLM will stoop to, but I foolishly thought she would AT LEAST have the honor and decency to fight a fair fight. Now you there might argue 'Eddie, you are practically twice her size, and you're awesome! If anything the match was unfair for her to begin with!'
Eddie smiles.
EW: Well thank you, yes I am awesome. But that is besides the point. Mary-Lynn, like Shirley Parsons knew who she was going up against, and had every opportunity to back down and accede a forfeit. No, just like how Shirley told on Little Eddie and stole Stuart, so did Mary-Lynn Mayweather stack the deck against Grownup Eddie--which is myself--and stole the match. So no, it was unfair only to me.
Eddie shrugs.
EW: As I said, I was naive to think that I could expect a fair fight from her. And as such, I have no qualms about bringing the angry, murderous Eddie Whisky that my therapist advised me was best to keep buried. And when I bring the Bad Old Eddie Whisky to Chain Reaction #5, it will be with a clear conscience that I unleash him upon you, IWF.
Eddie stands again. It seems sitting still is not one of his strengths.
EW: Do not blame me, it was all Mary-Lynn's fault. When the smoke clears and the bodies are counted, the blood will be on her hands.
Fade.
Last edited:
User Poets
The Shadow Pope
- Joined
- Jan 6, 1995
- Messages
- 2,192
- Points
- 36
- Age
- 44
- Location
- Top of the Pile
- Website
- www.valeriansgarden.com
What If?
(FADEIN on a large campfire, with Vizier ta Seti in the middle of it. It's unclear whether the fire is superimposed over Vizier, if Vizer is superimposed over the fire, or if he is simply sitting behind the fire in the same shot.
His eyes are blacked out and closed, giving him the visual of large, empty eye sockets.)
SETI: I had a vision, recently, of an IWF of another time and place. Of what would have happened if I had never shown up.
I see a promotion with no identity and no draw, trying to carve out its niche amongst the dozens of companies currently in existence and trying to compete with the overblown, overpaid monstrosities that dominate the major markets. I see a promotion working on a shoestring budget, always flirting with bankruptcy from show to show, doing its best to fill seats with stunt casting and whatever national figure recently missed his flight out of Seattle.
I see a series of Chain Reaction events where the fans are getting louder and louder to get behind their hometown promotion, and their enthusiasm is greeted by athlete after athlete who wanted to go to the ring, show off what they can do in hopes of getting a major league deal, and leaving the arena with a win or a loss, and a shrug.
And I see a wrestling company featuring James Witherhold as its heavyweight Champion.
(Subtle laughter)
Does that surprise you?
Of all the wrestlers currently in the IWF, the only one with skills near my own belong to James Witherhold. He's young and inexperienced, but he has the look of a man who refuses to give up on his goals. There is something to be admired for that.
Until he's plucked from the IWF for greater fame and fortune elsewhere.
The problem with that, for James Witherhold, is that the national companies are filled to the brim with cocky, arrogant wrestlers who think they're much better than they actually are. Some of them are likeable, some of them are the biggest kind of bastard, and some of them are lucky to be there.
James Witherhold would be lucky to be there, and in time would be just another wrestler whose entire job would be predicated on jerking the curtain, because he has nothing extraordinary to offer this business.
The IWF and James Witherhold should both be glad that The One Who Saw All is here.
For the IWF... you're spared the possibility of your Champion walking out at the sign of more money. You're spared the reality of living on the edge every day without knowing if your future is about to drop the Emerald City Championship belt into a trash can.
For the IWF... you have an identity.
For James Witherhold... you're welcome. If I wasn't here you would probably be Champion, and when the call to sell out inevitably comes down, you'd take it without a second thought and be back in less than a year because you never learned how to adapt and grow... because you never thought you had anything else to offer.
Because when you decide to take your shot at the Emerald City Championship and lose... you'll be forced to look at yourself with an unbiased perspective and be forced to change your presentation.
Without me, James... you are a loser.
It's a good thing for you, that I see all.
(FADEOUT)
(FADEIN on a large campfire, with Vizier ta Seti in the middle of it. It's unclear whether the fire is superimposed over Vizier, if Vizer is superimposed over the fire, or if he is simply sitting behind the fire in the same shot.
His eyes are blacked out and closed, giving him the visual of large, empty eye sockets.)
SETI: I had a vision, recently, of an IWF of another time and place. Of what would have happened if I had never shown up.
I see a promotion with no identity and no draw, trying to carve out its niche amongst the dozens of companies currently in existence and trying to compete with the overblown, overpaid monstrosities that dominate the major markets. I see a promotion working on a shoestring budget, always flirting with bankruptcy from show to show, doing its best to fill seats with stunt casting and whatever national figure recently missed his flight out of Seattle.
I see a series of Chain Reaction events where the fans are getting louder and louder to get behind their hometown promotion, and their enthusiasm is greeted by athlete after athlete who wanted to go to the ring, show off what they can do in hopes of getting a major league deal, and leaving the arena with a win or a loss, and a shrug.
And I see a wrestling company featuring James Witherhold as its heavyweight Champion.
(Subtle laughter)
Does that surprise you?
Of all the wrestlers currently in the IWF, the only one with skills near my own belong to James Witherhold. He's young and inexperienced, but he has the look of a man who refuses to give up on his goals. There is something to be admired for that.
Until he's plucked from the IWF for greater fame and fortune elsewhere.
The problem with that, for James Witherhold, is that the national companies are filled to the brim with cocky, arrogant wrestlers who think they're much better than they actually are. Some of them are likeable, some of them are the biggest kind of bastard, and some of them are lucky to be there.
James Witherhold would be lucky to be there, and in time would be just another wrestler whose entire job would be predicated on jerking the curtain, because he has nothing extraordinary to offer this business.
The IWF and James Witherhold should both be glad that The One Who Saw All is here.
For the IWF... you're spared the possibility of your Champion walking out at the sign of more money. You're spared the reality of living on the edge every day without knowing if your future is about to drop the Emerald City Championship belt into a trash can.
For the IWF... you have an identity.
For James Witherhold... you're welcome. If I wasn't here you would probably be Champion, and when the call to sell out inevitably comes down, you'd take it without a second thought and be back in less than a year because you never learned how to adapt and grow... because you never thought you had anything else to offer.
Because when you decide to take your shot at the Emerald City Championship and lose... you'll be forced to look at yourself with an unbiased perspective and be forced to change your presentation.
Without me, James... you are a loser.
It's a good thing for you, that I see all.
(FADEOUT)
TSiegel
I spoil things.
Seti=Wicked Witch of the FAR EAST...
"Ah Cahmp-fahr an' no "S'mors"?? Hays ah ferign'er a'roit...."
(FADEIN, an IWF backdrop, with Erik Mateo dressed in wrangler jeans, Ford-Truck belt buckle, a plaid shirt, bolo tie, and black cowboy hat in front of a "Chain Reaction" logo.)
EM: Nah, ah nose whut youse gon' sai....ah'm naht haven ayt won m'sehf, an' ah'm tha won cah-booyee troo tah hes nay-cher...whut geeves??
Eesee....ah bayne drankin', an' on-leh ah MO-RON lahk Meester Naht-sow-pear-feck are Veenchen-so-Vahn-seeny wood reesk drahv-in.
Bet fer theh porpoise thar'en, ah'm hair tah despewt tha' fack thayt Venni Vinnie FAH-CHIIIINA...coodent beh mar' rahng.
Youse 'eem tah thank thayt youse cane say jest ah'bet aneh'thang tah pr'jeck y'sef tah beh ah saaaaaad baste-ard.
Naver-mine thayt youse say thangs an' o'fer ann'lize thangs fer tha warse fer ware sen'areeoo, youse jest cayn't seh thayt gahs lahk ma'sef mayk ayn ah-temp tah bee tha bader main...an' wail doos jest 'bout an'thang tah gate et don.
Ah'm naht lahk Meester-Naht-Sow-Goooood...an' garan-tee per-feck-chun....Ah main...thank 'bout et....ya'll sane mah bar....ya'll sane howl ah look....does ah look lahk per-feck-chun too youse??
'Coars naht.
Don' main ah'm naht gone steel gahve eht ah shot, bet onleh tha' main upstars wail nose ef ah'll cahm aht tha' wainer be'fer tha' bail.
An' thayts odds ah lahk warkin' weth.
Ass f'r ass tha' folks thayt cane cape ahp w'cha??
Youse thanks thayt jest 'cahs Meester "Wehther-hay-howlds-mah-nuts-are-naht" ain' ACK-CHU-LEE loose lahk ah hade tha' misfor-tune tah do...thayt ah cayn't cape ahp w'cha??
Hail, Sonneh-boy, ain' nahn ov thaym folks bay-long en tha' rang weth meh tah bay-gin weth.
So's ah's t'rows dem aht, roit wer' dey bay-lon'....an' thayts naht nuthen tah aid-mar'....bet whut ails cane youse doo wain ate's perdy claire whut nayme es on et...
Ol' Un-kah Err'ks, thayts hoe...an' ass soonas' ah pah-roooovs et tah tha' 'tire WA-ERD...
Ah-Dubya-Eff es gon' beh eben bagger thane dose too udder com'nees bayck eeest.
Bet youse tha tahp ah gah thayt naids tah beh none 'bout thayt f'r an'thang lace thane three fig-yers....ayn ya GON'!!!
Meh??
Oh Un'ka Er'k don maid hes for'chun....an' ain' ah dollah gon' chain' NUTHEN.
Youse thanks thayt youse cane "say awl"??
Hoe 'bout ah cake youse en tha twat?? Betcha youse'll neber say thayt common....WOODJA??!?!!
Sloppeh-Rackoon wahs ah BEECH....ah-ways wahs...ah-waze wail bee.
Eff youse wahsent hair...ain' nudder main hair thayt bee Champ'n bet MEH....hail...et STEEL shood beh meh, bet thayts' a fack'r ah en-tindah chainge eh-vain-chall-eh.
Neber mahn 'bout Meester Naht-sow-Pear-feck.....hays ah looser an'way...hays jest too pear-sistan' tah say et lahk tha raced ov tha' 'rasslin' word....
Ass f'r meh??
Ah'm gon' cape drankin'....jest lahk ah ah'waze doo wain ah'm naht fahtin'....
(Mateo stops pacing back and forth)
Ah nose whut youse awl thankin'...."Un'ka Er'k....youse naht drankin' nahw..."
(Mateo pulls out afew handfuls of "Mini-bottles" from out of his pockets.)
Youse cawl'n meh ah lyre?"
(FADEOUT as Mateo downs acouple.)
"Ah Cahmp-fahr an' no "S'mors"?? Hays ah ferign'er a'roit...."
(FADEIN, an IWF backdrop, with Erik Mateo dressed in wrangler jeans, Ford-Truck belt buckle, a plaid shirt, bolo tie, and black cowboy hat in front of a "Chain Reaction" logo.)
EM: Nah, ah nose whut youse gon' sai....ah'm naht haven ayt won m'sehf, an' ah'm tha won cah-booyee troo tah hes nay-cher...whut geeves??
Eesee....ah bayne drankin', an' on-leh ah MO-RON lahk Meester Naht-sow-pear-feck are Veenchen-so-Vahn-seeny wood reesk drahv-in.
Bet fer theh porpoise thar'en, ah'm hair tah despewt tha' fack thayt Venni Vinnie FAH-CHIIIINA...coodent beh mar' rahng.
Youse 'eem tah thank thayt youse cane say jest ah'bet aneh'thang tah pr'jeck y'sef tah beh ah saaaaaad baste-ard.
Naver-mine thayt youse say thangs an' o'fer ann'lize thangs fer tha warse fer ware sen'areeoo, youse jest cayn't seh thayt gahs lahk ma'sef mayk ayn ah-temp tah bee tha bader main...an' wail doos jest 'bout an'thang tah gate et don.
Ah'm naht lahk Meester-Naht-Sow-Goooood...an' garan-tee per-feck-chun....Ah main...thank 'bout et....ya'll sane mah bar....ya'll sane howl ah look....does ah look lahk per-feck-chun too youse??
'Coars naht.
Don' main ah'm naht gone steel gahve eht ah shot, bet onleh tha' main upstars wail nose ef ah'll cahm aht tha' wainer be'fer tha' bail.
An' thayts odds ah lahk warkin' weth.
Ass f'r ass tha' folks thayt cane cape ahp w'cha??
Youse thanks thayt jest 'cahs Meester "Wehther-hay-howlds-mah-nuts-are-naht" ain' ACK-CHU-LEE loose lahk ah hade tha' misfor-tune tah do...thayt ah cayn't cape ahp w'cha??
Hail, Sonneh-boy, ain' nahn ov thaym folks bay-long en tha' rang weth meh tah bay-gin weth.
So's ah's t'rows dem aht, roit wer' dey bay-lon'....an' thayts naht nuthen tah aid-mar'....bet whut ails cane youse doo wain ate's perdy claire whut nayme es on et...
Ol' Un-kah Err'ks, thayts hoe...an' ass soonas' ah pah-roooovs et tah tha' 'tire WA-ERD...
Ah-Dubya-Eff es gon' beh eben bagger thane dose too udder com'nees bayck eeest.
Bet youse tha tahp ah gah thayt naids tah beh none 'bout thayt f'r an'thang lace thane three fig-yers....ayn ya GON'!!!
Meh??
Oh Un'ka Er'k don maid hes for'chun....an' ain' ah dollah gon' chain' NUTHEN.
Youse thanks thayt youse cane "say awl"??
Hoe 'bout ah cake youse en tha twat?? Betcha youse'll neber say thayt common....WOODJA??!?!!
Sloppeh-Rackoon wahs ah BEECH....ah-ways wahs...ah-waze wail bee.
Eff youse wahsent hair...ain' nudder main hair thayt bee Champ'n bet MEH....hail...et STEEL shood beh meh, bet thayts' a fack'r ah en-tindah chainge eh-vain-chall-eh.
Neber mahn 'bout Meester Naht-sow-Pear-feck.....hays ah looser an'way...hays jest too pear-sistan' tah say et lahk tha raced ov tha' 'rasslin' word....
Ass f'r meh??
Ah'm gon' cape drankin'....jest lahk ah ah'waze doo wain ah'm naht fahtin'....
(Mateo stops pacing back and forth)
Ah nose whut youse awl thankin'...."Un'ka Er'k....youse naht drankin' nahw..."
(Mateo pulls out afew handfuls of "Mini-bottles" from out of his pockets.)
Youse cawl'n meh ah lyre?"
(FADEOUT as Mateo downs acouple.)