Joke?
It was a day later. Guy woke up from his sofa-bed groggy, but quickly narrowed his senses. As expected, Clapper was up and about. Even though the clock read seven in the morning, Clapper looked like he had started the day hours ago.
Guy looked out the window to see the rising sun in the east. The sky was clear.
Yes, clear. Not a cloud in the sky.
Half an hour later, after a breakfast of Cheerios from Clapper's food cabinet, he looked over the paper and read the daily forecast for New York City. No chance of rain. Seemed typical... New York was in for another sweltering day of heat.
Around noon, Guy left to grab lunch. The power had returned to the city, but everything still seemed a little edgy. The blood of the metropolis had been stopped but was slowly beginning to flow again. He grabbed something from Subway, dropped by at the airport for a couple hours to schedule his flight San Antonio that evening, and returned to Clapper's place by mid-afternoon.
The time was 3 P.M. As he came in, Clapper was seated, watching the small 16 inch television with it's typical sports entertainment report. Gary MacFarland and Mojo Massey sat next to each other in a discussion about predicted matches for the upcoming Revolution, the last before GXW's next Pay Per View event.
Guy: Anything of interest?
Clapper didn't look up to greet him. He just shoot his head, and Guy fell into the sofa.
Guy: Got my flight booked... so I'll be out of here in a couple hours. Thanks again for letting me crash for the...
He trailed off when Clapper held up his hand. The conversation on TV took a different turn.
Massey: ...may be looking for a match at Revolution. Rumor has it, the opponent's going to be Clapper.
MacFarland: Fasco and Clapper? Wait... was my wish granted? Cause I sure don't remember making any payments to that Talent Tailoring thing!
Massey: I don't know... copies of a letter had been floating through the locker rooms as of late, and there has been some talk in the office about Clapper calling in to reserve himself to a match... but I think a promo filmed today seemed to clinch the notion.
MacFarland: Oh yeah... are we going to show that?
Massey: Yes, here it comes...
The next few minutes were spent watching the promotional segment featuring Rebuen Fasco in a phonebooth in an urban area that was supposedly New York. It was raining in the promo. Guy looked out the window again to see the usual clear skies, and wondered how it would be raining in Reuben Fasco's Brooklyn when their hadn't been a drop of rain on Long Island all day. Fasco spoke to a voice on the other end of the phone, then occassionally looked up at the camera to take a few potshots at the man who rightfully accepted the challenge.
So much for making things look unscripted. How would it be possible that a person being informed of his match would have a camera crew ready for him there on the spot? And RAIN?! Where the hell did THAT come from?!
It ended, and there was a moment of silence. Massey and MacFarland went on. Clapper puffed the cigarette in silence.
Clapper: This was a mistake, Guy...
Guy: Nah, it'll be fine. You can't be having doubts.
Clapper: No, quite the opposite. I didn't think I could every be 110% sure, but after this... I think I reached it. It's against my morals, Guy, to hurt a mentally handicapped individual... I don't know how I'm going to live with myself when I put this retard in the hospital
That made him laugh.
Clapper: Get a crew ready... we'll cut something together before your flight.
Guy: Okey dokey.
They went to work.
====================
Cameras rolling.
We open up in the beautiful park, clear skies...
That's right, clear skies.
No rain. It rains sometimes in New York City, but not today. It provides a bit of a paradox compared to what people saw a couple hours ago from Reuben Fasco's promo. Maybe an explanation will be made.
The camera begins on the crisp, clear blue skies above New York, catching some of the skyscrapers in the surrounding area. Then it pans down into the lush, green park. Taking up the center of the frame is Clapper, seated on a simple green bench. Feeding pigeons? Yep. Not much else to do in Central Park other than jog or look at sh!t.
Clapper smiles. Shades in place, black trench coat over the back of the bench... still the cold look on his face.
"My my... what a nice day it is today. It's been an easygoing afternoon for yours truly... I watched quite an entertaining promotional segment earlier, and I think I'll catch that new Freddy and Jason cross-over later tonight. Until then, I can only fill this time to address you..."
He widens the smile.
"...and the man who may be the next in Clapper's path of destruction... Reuben Fasco."
He nods respectfully.
"Well, might I be the first to congratulate you, Reuben Fasco, on that marvelously produced promo you filmed earlier today. I wouldn't nominate it for an Oscar, but hey, you got away with it, I suppose. I like how the camera was there JUST AS you got the news that I am the man who will likely be your next opponent. What soundstage did you film that on? Had to have been pretty big to fit all of those look-alive model buildings from the 'mean streets of Brooklyn'. And the rain, yeah, that was a nice touch..."
"Only problem is..."
He holds out his hands to present the good weather.
"Hasn't rained a drop all day, Fasco. Don't know what part of Brooklyn you were in at the time of that promo, but I've been there all day, and it's been relatively dry since sun-up. Either you did that on a studio lot someplace, or you aren't in Brooklyn. Hate to break it to ya, but just because you're in a place with big buildings doesn't mean you're in New York City..."
He tsk tsks.
"Come on, Fasco... you know better."
"It also seems you're under the impression that I've made comments earlier about the challenge you laid down to everybody on the working roster, but unless there's a hidden camera planted somewhere in my apartment, I don't think that's possible. To add to that, we had a BLACKOUT yesterday, unless you were too busy trying to get your head out of the toilet to notice... so there was no way I could broadcast from this area. I think you're making that information up, cause this is the first time I've been in front of a camera for over a month."
"I really don't know what you've heard through the grapevine, but nothing has come from my lips... so I think you should consider that 'response' as nothing more than a false rumor made up by someone in the office, and listen to what I have to say now, in the REAL promo."
He takes a moment to light up a cigarette, and continues.
"First and foremost, I think I should defend myself on the comments you made about ME. Right off the bat, let me just come out and say that if I didn't want to fight you... I would have never made that call to GXW in acceptance of your challenge. What gives you the idea that I DON'T want to fight you? I was on the phone with Dupree himself yesterday, where I DEMANDED, 'Chad, the punk is mine'."
"Fear, Fasco? God... a well-dressed trick-or-treater could provide more fear than you. Unlike you, I claim nothing. I never said I was a big GXW superstar... nor do I aim to be. I'm here to make a profit, and do it by cleaning out jobbers like you. You, on the other hand, seem to think very highly of yourself. Seen your record lately? How about your reputation? Yeah, it's obvious you aren't here to win, cause win you cannot. And rather than kick ass and take names as you state as your purpose, you do a better job of getting your OWN ass kicked, and annoying the hell out of everybody. You're hardly a superstar, amigo... you're a slack-off. Or better yet, a leach."
He shakes his head.
"Too bad you have no idea what fear is, Fasco... cause you obviously will have a definition at Revolution, should this match be signed."
"Second, I don't see what being Italian has anything to do with wrestling... or being an Italian Bruiser. I'm Irish--hey, pleased to meet ya! Last I checked, there's as many of us in Brooklyn as there are guys like you. Even though I associate myself with many Italians--big time mafia types--I think I'd know a threatening one from a harmless one."
"And Fasco... from what I've seen, you couldn't hurt a kid a stroller."
"If I get the time, I'll introduce you to a close Italian associate of mine... partner in crime. They call him Lambourni. Big guy. Pull your arm out of the socket in a handshake. That's threatening, Fasco... that's an Italian Killer. Way out of your league, bro."
He takes a few drags of the cigarette to continue.
"It's funny how you do nothing but talk... do nothing but step in the ring and lose matches, then convict me of no talk and all-action. You need to do a little research, my friend. Undefeated in GXW... undefeated in singles matches for, well... just about my entire 'wrestling career'. I think you should recognize that next time you decide to do a little running of your OWN mouth. I also think you should be aware that every man whose fallen to me so far in GXW... sorta left due to injury."
"It's nothing strange to me. It's quite usual. Every week, it's a new moron who thinks he's so much better than me, and he ends up in the hospital bed of yesterday's typical jobber. It's sad what single-mindedness could do to a person..."
Shakes his head in disappointment once again, and takes another drag.
"I think you need to use that head of yours a little more, Fasco... it's hard to talk to a mentally challenged person, which is what you make yourself out to be. I'm sure many people watched your promo and wondered what they missed, cause the way you talk, I've done nothing but b!tch about you for the past three or four weeks. Rather, this is the first time I've actually come out and said anything to YOU..."
"Apply a bit of your own philosophy to yourself: shut up or put up, dumbass. You laid down the challenge, you stupid motherf*cker, and I accepted without comment or bias. But you've gone ahead and made yourself like an IDIOT before any words were exchanged."
"I sure hope you feel stupid right now, cause if you don't, then you truly are a retard..."
"I'm not going to say any more until the match is signed. I hope you accept, Fasco. Here's my proposal: since you see yourself as so 'hardcore', let's take it up a notch. Hardcore rules, anything goes, fight until the winner is the last man standing. You bring your dumpster and shopping carts of tables and trash cans... and I'll bring the most dangerous thing you can image:"
"Myself."
"Until then, try not to wet yourself from fear or, simply, not having the mental capabilites to hold in your own feces. I eagerly anticipate seeing you to your retirement. Have a nice day, Rubes..."
With a silent nod, we fade to black.
======================
Ryan - Ian, how do I get to the morgue?
Ian - Just drive away from the YMCA.
