Curtain Call

[Manson]

(CUTTO: B/W footage of the NFW's inaugral Random Rumble where ARES turns around, having cleared the ring only be nailed with a chairshot by MICHAEL MANSON, making his NFW debut.)

(CUTTO: MANSON pushing a shopping cart at a manical pace with PAT BLACK lying inside at BANNED 4 LIFE and gleefully shoving off the loading dock.)

(Blood splatters across the screen as we see MANSON wincing and grimacing in agony as BLOODHUNT locks him in the tarantula inside the cage with ARMANDO MONTEZUMA's help. SMASH CUT: MANSON wheeling down the ramp on CRASH as NFW Commissioner.)

(CUTTO: MANSON and SHANE SOUTHERN exchanging lefts and rights at NFW Interconference WarGames in Season 1. SEGUE TO: The NFW East Devil logo. MANSON giving BLOODHUNT the Sweet Dreams Stunner. CUTTO: MANSON raising up the NFW World Heavyweight title.)

(SMASH CUT: MANSON hanging upside from a banner to put SHANE SOUTHERN in the Tourniquet Crippler Crossface while he's on a ladder. CUTTO: MANSON holding up the Ultratitle Trophy.)

(Fade to black.)

(FADEIN: A vineyard at dusk. It's empty since most of the work is done during the day. Standing in the center is a tall scarecrow made out like JOEY MELTON, complete with blond hair and flowing blue robe. MICHAEL MANSON wanders up to it. He's wearing a loose black t-shirt and jeans.)

MANSON: I used to live my life by the motto that I had already died years ago and now I could do whatever I want. I'd wrestle the same way.

My wrestling career ended a month ago. It's gone and buried. Joey Melton wants to rape the corpse.

But if my wrestling career is dead, then I can do whatever I want in this match. No title shots to worry about. No further, far-flung plans eying the future. No needing to have to look out for enemies, new and old.

No consequences at all.

It's my perfect world without sin. Because everything is a sin.

(Manson steps back out of the view of the camera, but can still be heard.)

If ever there was one rule I actually cared about, it was listening to the ref count to three or hear my opponent tap out. That's what mattered.

But now I don't even need to care about that. After winning everything before, what do I need to win now?

It's just about opportunity and a victim.

(Manson steps back on camera with a spiked bat. He taps it against Melton's scarecrow.)

Without sin. Without consequence.

(Manson shuffles calmly off.)

 

[Steve]

(FADEIN: Joey Melton, unshaven, drunk, sitting in a dry bath tub, legs hung over the sides.)

MELTON: Maybe if I'd raped the corpse, I wouldn't have this pain (Joey points to his heart) HERE.

You know, Michael....the problem with you is you've never made anyone laugh. I'm not invested in this freak show. You've never done anything for me but make better wine. But here at the end I finally see it. Only now I see you're nothing more than a con artist.

Ohh you hurt. The worst has already been done to you and now you're living free. You dont' know what pain is Michael. You stick a needle in your palm in the middle of the ring and expect people to believe. I am Michael Manson. I am all this dark **** you've dreamt up and made a few pennies inflicting on otherwise good souls. I am what Manson should've been. I am crippled by pain and unable to breath. I hurt Michael. The best of me has been taken, and what you'll be getting in Cleveland or whevever the **** this PPV is, is a shell. A ghost. Someone who wants to bleed.

Dark Chuckles you're story never resonated with the common folk because it lacked truth.

Someone as dark as you claimed to be. Someone so wrong, so cruel, so up his own ass could only have been made by the quick, bitter touch of a woman.

I am Michael Manson, because Lindsay Troy made me see. That horrid ***** (whimper) has taken me to a place I never sunk to in the midst of drugs. You're Jim Morrison poetry offered at an Emily Dickinson reading Michael. A joke. A straight edged ***** telling his friends he's been high before.

But it's all coming to a close? Wonderful. For all I care you can bring the goat back and tie it to a handicap parking post. Let's go full circle. You're claim to fame is bettering Shane Southern. A man who doesn't need Jeff Foxworthy to prove he's IQ isn't at a 5th grade level.

You got under my skin Manson when trivial matters like vineyards or quarter hour ratings mattered to me. Had you come on the scene at this precise moment I would've bought you Michael. I might have looked into your eyes, dug the makeup and silent, goth ***** by your side and dared to relate. I might've let you lead me anywhere you please, but Troy has ruined me too late. Or maybe it's your timing that sucks. The point is, you have one more shot to hook me.

I want to believe in magic. In the Manson mystique. Right now I need it more than anything. At Wrestlebowl, I'm going to give you the opportunity to make me disappear.

(Melton points and the camera pans to reveal a horizontal, wooden box.)

It's an old trick, but you're not capable of anything more today. Put me in the box and cut me in two.

And then it'll be over for the great (scoffs) Michael Manson. I'm sure we'll see you around. If Troy Windham can win a cable ace award, I'm certain there's a reality show under your name.

(FTB)

 

[Manson]

Have you heard the one...?

(FADEIN: A cliff on a bold blue day with a strong wind. A little girl sits on a blanket with a pinic basket open, playing with her doll. Then she looks up abruptlt as a car careens wildly up towards the cliff's edge. A woman sticks her head out of the passenger's window.)

WOMAN: OUT OF THE WAY! DADDY LOST CONTROL OF THE CAR! WE LOVE YOU SWEET HEART!

(The girl dashes out of the wheel as the car runs over the basket and blanket, barrelling over the edge and plunging down into the ocean. She climbs up to the edge, shaking, crying uncontrollably.)

GIRL: MOMMY! DADDY!

(Hearing the sound of her voice, a priest dressed in black and a priest's collar runs up to the girl.)

PRIEST(in an irish accent): Mae lass, whatever is the matter?

GIRL(weeping, barely able to speak): My...my parents just drove over the cliff!

(The priest shakes his head sadly.)

PRIEST: Just not your day, is it, honey?

(He then audibly unzips his fly.)

(CUTTO: A long view as the priest throws back his head as his hand forces her down onto her knees. He blocks her, but he's humming an old irish diddy and its heard on the wind. Then MICHAEL MANSON steps into view, blocking the priest. He's wearing an open black leather jacket, shirt, and jeans.)

MANSON: Now, you see, if I were really interested in just making people laugh, I'd hire out small theater actors and lure the children of prostitutes with candy to act out pedophile jokes.

Whenever I made a joke, there was only one audience I cared about and that's myself. No matter what I did, no matter how many times I turned the NFW into my psychologically-scarring sideshow of a satire, I only ever cared about pleasing myself.

And I'm a harsh, harsh critic.

But it's not ego that makes me care about only my own opinion.

It might not shock anyone that I, being the enemy of god, man, and good taste, didn't feel much sympathy or bond with my fellow wrestlers, but there's a better reason than me just being me.

One thing I won't miss when I'm fully retired and focusing my attention on a supervillan attempt to seize the American East Coast is the all-consuming, idiotic pride of every other wrestler in this entire industry.

Quite frankly, each and every one is a f'n idiot.

All of you have to claim to be the man everyone is afraid of, the guy everyone wants to beat, the guy manipulating everyone, the guy making the most money, the guy with the most women, and the guy that's greater than the champion even though he just lost to him.

Whenever I lost a match, a title, or was injured, I admitted it and moved on.

Because I actually was the guy who really was everything I just listed above. But just like I never claimed to be dark, disturbed, demented, great, smart, a savior, or a Satan, people said all that about me anyway.

But I always knew what I wanted and what I was about. Because in my career it always came down to me. What I wanted. What I was going to do. How I failed and how I came back.

Except for once. Once when the power of heavy painkillers and tranquillizers reduced to a fawning, Abercrombie and Fitch shadow of myself. But even then, I made wine like no man ever born before could and when I left, Joey Melton's entire vineyard collapsed behind me.

Because, even then, once I stepped onto that vineyard, addled or not, it was about me.

Let me explain something to you, Joey Melton, but listen very, very closely because I doubt anyone has ever told you this before.

I don't give a f'n s**t about you or Lindsay Troy. Whenever I hear about either of you, you're spewing verbal diareathea out of their mouths like the kids from Dawson's Creek having grown middle-aged and unable to kick their heroin addictions.

Ever notice none of that wretched melodrama for the sake of meldrama never spilled over into the NFW?

Because I wouldn't allow such a farce.

If I were facing Lindsay Troy in the ring, in about 7 minutes after I humiliated her, she'd making me a sandwich. If she were managing you, she'd be holding my jacket while I kicked your skull in.

She's a non-factor.

You want me to hurt you? You want to make you believe in the Manson mystique?

You already do!

Why the hell else would anyone want to start a fight with me?

You can say you're not afraid of me like every other f'n fool in the world, but what it comes down is that you and everyone else is!

Of course you are! I set people on fire when I'm bored!

(Suddenly the boom mic is dropped and a crewman runs into the scene, flames raging up and down his back.)

CREWMAN: Help me ! Help me!

(Other crewmen rush on-scene and spray him down with foam.)

(CUTTO: A different shot of Manson where you can't see the crewman.)

MANSON: Joey Melton, I am not interested in pleasing you or taking a role in whatever stupid drama you've conjured up this week after watching Grey's Anatomy. This is about me avenging a time when I was your wine-making butler!

Yes, I put you out of business. Yes, I thrashed you at the Survivor Series. Yes, I drank your blood, but that's not enough! For months, I grovelled and now you are.

This is about me ending my career the only way it could. With a victory, certainly, but performing acts that have banned me from 27 different countries and still get me mentioned on the 700 Club every year.

Did you think it was an accident every time a new pope is nominated as a papal candidate every time?

I'm Michael damn Manson. I'm more exciting than Jesus!

You only think you can make it about you.

But when I hurt someone, it's always, always about me.

 

[Steve]

(FADEIN: Joey Melton in the work out room of a Private County Club, no doubt there as a guest of the Calton’s. Melton is in raggedy work out attire. His body is in horrible shape. He looks…more like Cameron Cruise than Joey Melton. Joey on his knees, counts off a PUSH UP as friend, pal, and hanger-on ADRIAN EVANS looks on.)

MELTON: One hundred and fiiiiiiiiive…

ADRIAN EVANS: Bull ****.

MELTON: One hundred and twelve…

ADRIAN EVANS: Just stop!

MELTON: Oh, thank the heavens.

(Joey lays on his back and waits to pass out)

ADRIAN EVANS: No, not that! Stop all this half-assed ****. Now, back on your knees.

MELTON: (moans) That’s an easy set up for me, but it hurts too much still to make the joke.

ADRIAN EVANS: (looks into the camera) I tried. Damn, I thought he’d take that one for sure.

MELTON: Adrian, I can smell her. Here in the carpet.

ADRIAN EVANS: (lights up!) THAT’S IT! YES!

MELTON: What?

ADRIAN EVANS: That’s the Joey Melton I know and love. Now, cut a promo against that freak Manson.

MELTON: I was just saying I remember all the times I trained with Troy….our bodies meshed together in her dungeon, on the floor…sweaty, hot, letting our fierce competitive streaks get the better of us as we turned our passion into…

ADRIAN EVANS: He’s falling….

MELTON: (moans) Oh what have I done? Or said? Adrian, she’s coming back right? She’s coming back?

CAMERAMAN: We’re rolling in 4, 3, 2….

(Melton sits up and tries to find some measure of form.)

Congratulations, you’re an asshole. It’s all about you. You’re the man more exciting than Jesus. You’re the self-professed better of a man who’s been MIA for two thousand years. Sort of like arranging a breakfast cereal taste test, but not supplying Brand X.

You’re the anti-hero of what exactly Michael? I see the beads of sweat on your forehead where you’ve tried so hard to become something, to craft an image of this dark figure who cut against the grain. You’ve professed your dislike of Christianity, and mocked religion from a locker room heavy with thieves, liars, and fools. Big deal. That’s about as sad as one of us cutting a promo praising our sexual conquests. Which admittedly I’ve done, but the real story is being in this business and NOT getting laid. I’m a sexual compulsive, you never went to Sunday School. Great. What really separates us Michael?

It’s the melodrama you DID allow. When you suddenly became the Fonzie in an alternate universe who didn’t jump the sharks. You finally, and God bless you for it, became mediated, or ate cat food by mistake…whatever it was that chilled you, that stripped of that tired, forced image you made. You became a worker bee. And look how good you were. I was never mad that you made better wine. I was pissed that you burned down my vineyard and outlawed Boggle from the break room, sure, but never that you improved the product. You rolled up your sleeves and worked for me. You submitted to your superior. And you found comfort. You found your true calling. And now you want to beat my ass because somehow you feel ashamed for the time you spent on my property. You found yourself Michael. No one should ever second guess that.

I never said I feared you. You want me to. You want me to buy into the Mystique and come out white as a ghost, believing that you’re going to set me on fire, or knock me back into daylight savings time. And if that’s what you need at night to keep from getting back on your medication, fine. I fear you (Melton shudders).

No, I really don’t.

You came to me putz.

You sought me out to work in my vineyard. And now you faxed the contract to me. And it’s really not that much of an honor. Being your ‘last’. I’m sorry Shane Southern couldn’t do it. But what does that say about your career that Shane chose rebuilding his shantie in New Orleans than being your whore?

One of the highlights of your career Michael is the night where Silver jobbed and passed the torch. If you really knew how much Doc was ‘respected’ in this business, and how far his name traveled you’d laugh. Or cut yourself, or make Scary Movie. Whatever it is that you do.

I agreed to this match, to be your pantsy for one reason. And one reason only. I’ve been a kept man.

I won’t lie to you and say the sex wasn’t fantastic… (Melton drifts) Damn, was it ever. She was….she was…something. ****ing Troy was like taking that 14 year-old girl we all see during the course of the day, and size up for a brief second. She was younger, tighter, and….

(Melton starts to cry, but Adrian shakes him by the shoulders)

ADRIAN EVANS: Pull it together now. Focus! She’s gone!

MELTON: No!

ADRIAN EVANS: That ***** left you Melton!

MELTON: SHE’S COMING BACK! She just left to get some groceries…she’s coming back…

ADRIAN EVANS: She used you! Dammit Joey, stop crying! Alright, stop filming! STOP FILMING!

MELTON: No, (pulling it together) I’m fine. Don’t. (sniffle) Manson. This isn’t about Wine. It’s about the ULTRATITLE. And how Shane Southern, ****ing dumb hick that he is, robbed me of the chance to embarrass you in Season One and take back what was rightfully mine. And now…I couldn’t because of a broken heart. (sniff) But it’s never too late to go back to School. At Wrestlebowl, class will be back in session, and when the bell rings, Joey Melton will have proven he’s a man again…his own man, and the true ULTRATITLE CHAMPION.

ADRIAN EVANS: That’s it buddy. Breathe…Breathe…

MELTON: I just want to die Adrian…. I just want to die… (Joey falls back.)

ADRIAN EVANS: I know you do….I know you do.

(FTB)

 

[Manson]

Ymca

(FADEIN: An elegant painting of Christ on his cross. CUTTO: Michael Manson standing next to it making an "M" with his arms. Next to him, the camera cuts to Manson making a "C", and finally Manson yet again, making an "A." We flash by the sequence again and again as the Village People's YMCA cues up.)

(CUEUP: Manson sitting down on an art museum's stairway, snorting strawberry-banana pez off his hand.)

MANSON: While I won't claim that mocking religion is anything new to this sport of ours, I will go so far as to claim that no one does with the panache that my dark-witted, ash tray of a soul does.

But what is religion if not something that exists to comfort you? The idea of someone or thing greater than you always watching out for you. That there's a place warm and peaceful for you to go someday.

That's there someone out to save you.

And for you, Joey Melton, that savior was none other than Shane Southern.

I half expect him to show up, superkick Lindsay Troy in the face, and then drag her off back to your bedroom.

Because, believe it or not, Shane Southern, the first NFW Hall of Famer, saved your life and livelihood. A whole year of your life that you spent with the gorilla you shaved and force-fed growth hormones to and called Lindsay. And when she did something really clever like run and get your newspaper, you gave her a banana. But back to Shane Southern.

All because he beat you and went to face me in the Season 1 Ultratitle finals you had one more year to yourself.

Because, without question, I would have mowed over you like everyone else in my path. You can't keep a supernova from exploding, Joey.

And what did you do with this year? Surely, you didn't know that you'd have a match with me at the end of it, but how did you spend this time?

Hung around with Mister Beau Michaels? Had your falling out with Lindsay the Wonder Ape?

I know you didn't do a lot of work on the vineyard since I did all that.

You wasted all that time.

And what did I do?

You claim i was happy like a seal on your vineyard, grovelling and liking to be given direction. In fact, I like it so much I eventually bit a chunk out of your neck, swallowed it, regurgitated it, and spat it back out at a homeless shelter so they can eat it.

The mere fact that you claim that you made me happy is enough reason for me to want to maim you, but the truth is were you Joey Melton my personal savior and your vineyard my heaven and Graceland, I wouldn't have left, let alone destroy it.

You go on about Southern and Doc Silver and what I've done to them....but you've forgotten the most important thing. The NFW is my kingdom. Here it's not important that I wrestled them. It's that they wrestled me.

Which is why I faxed you a contract for a match. Revenge aside, I want to give you a chance. Just one to actually make something of these 2 seasons you've spent in NFW. Allt his time claiming you're better than everyone else, yet never actually doing a damn thing worth mentioning.

You mock Shane Southern, but all the same, you never beat Shane Southern, while I did. And this isn't just your chance to beat me. No, it's your chance to beat me in my last match. The last time anyone will ever see me except on America's Most Wanted.

That's memorable. Because I actually want you at your peak or however close you get to it these days. Forget all about Lindsay Troy and everyone else and remembered that I ruined your vineyard because I could.

That I tore open your bthroat with my teeth and drank your blood twice.

That I locked you in my Torniquet crossface and you tapped and pleaded for mercy.

And if that's not enough, pretend I'm Shane Southern, Lindsay Troy, or whomever else you have to.

Then when you're ready to actually wrestle and kill me, I'm going to break you in half. If a few planks of wood are nearby, I'm going to crucify you too and get the NFW kicked off television forever. It's my last match. Why should I care?

Because that's how I'm going to make it memorable.