FadeIN: Two big uglies decked out denim jackets and all the required fixin's of being badasses. Cliff Litherland sports a denim jacket with the 'smiley face having a bullethole in it' patch. We know this because his back is to us and he's overlooking steamboats at some polluted dock somewhere in NastyWaterville. His bigger, going balder half, 'Scuzball' Keith Scalzo, with a 'hatchet in the smiley face' patch on his jacket. They're growling at each other, not literally, -- just talking in their gruff, buff man-hard voices.
Litherland: --- So, any the hell way.-- I'm sittin' at the fuggin' cell I stole from that nosepick peckerseed a few months ago, waitin' on Jay to fuggin' call me. And to my very own shockin' surprise, it turns out that the over-emotional brown turdbucket done scoffed us off. So, here we are, Intergalactically 'bout to smilekill two masses of comedic suck!
CUTTO: Cliff Litherland turning around, and at 6'4, 240 lbs-- he looks imposing. If only he wasn't dressed up like a Hell's Angel reject from 1984. His face shadowed by a thin, barely visible black stubble. His green eyes a hint of overplayed psycho as his abundantly big-hooked nose casts a banana shaped shadow.
Litherland: Monsters of The Pacific.-- Like who duh fugg is afraid of Pacificers?! Everybody who is anyfugginbody knows the toughest of the roughest is Atlanticers. I bet these hypeboys actually believe they gonna come into IGC and blow every Bug, Fugg and Mug out the water. Well, Jackin'Noffs, fugg you and your imagination PALS. I been scourin' these steamboats just for the effect of what I could compare the twos of you to. -- I live in West for fuggin' VA, and I can tell you that they don't make bigfoots nowhere near as stanky and stupid as you two inkblots.
CUTTO: The New Jawsey/West Virgy tough-talker sticking out his chin. Holding up the double fingerguns.
Litherland: -- See, the IGfugginC is all about fun.-- Fugg that f-word sideways. Ya'll jokesters, tokers an' comedy-cubby mothers best believe that in our galaxy there ain't no fugging cake-party. No fugging red rubber noses, hell-NAW. You see, fun is nothin' but another bullet to the fugging smilin' mouths of the gee-golly outdated be happy wrastlin' system. And it is the job of Funicide to kill every single joyous, absent'fuggin serious peon in the Intergalaxy. Do ya'll understand or do I gotta piss it on the concrete barrier in yellow-urine english?!-- We just AIN'T a cake party.
CUTTO: Keith Scalzo, bitter-beer faced. His muttonchops fuzzy and electrifying. His receding brunette hair unwashed. The 6'7, 288 lber spits near his boot. Litherland open-palm slaps him on the chest.
Litherland: Tell'em Skuz.--
CUTTO: Keith Scalzo nodding affirmatively. Another chest-strike to Scalzo by Litherland.
Litherland: Preach it to the peachy mother fugs.--
CUTTO: Awkward quietness. Scalzo is a bit more unpolished on mic. He's like that old furnace in the basement. Got to kick it a few times to get it humming the heat.
Litherland: -- Let me continue, then.-- Where the fug was I?!-- Name-blastin'. Check. Demographic doggin'. Check. Threatin' tone. Check. I guess the only thingelse I gots to say is death to the fugging funny. --
CUTTO: Keith Scalzo double-flexing his fists, as he wide-eyes!
Scalzo: Hey sissuh-britches, yeah I talkin' to ya'll over yonder. Ya'll PacTARDS. Where I come from, a man don't call hisself a monster. What ya'll halloweenerin' as, two big craps uh' doofuses? In 'Bama, we done woulda kicked ya'lls non-Southern britches cleanclear out to the Gulfshore! We don't know ya'll and already don't like ya'll! Tell'em why, Cliff!
CUTTO: Litherland blinks.
Litherland: -- Was that your best?!
Scalzo: --Best, schmest. -- I'm a card-carryin', hatchet-marchin' talk-turkey bruiser. I'll throw my fists in them faces so hard they'll snort knuckles an' piss Alabama Punch. That ain't jokin', its truth. I'm a scuzzy son of a britch. I'll shed twenty layers uh'skin trying to remove my entire fist from them Pacificer's snouts! - Qualify my arse. -- How'd that sound?
CUTTO: Litherland nodding, following a grunt that would make Tim 'Toolman' Taylor proud. They pound double-fists, and angry chest-bumps. They both turn, ruggedly angry.
Litherland: Our goal is one thing, Chucklefaces. -- Fuggin' joymurder. And although yous don't know us and we don't know yous two, we rather assume you two pieces of bologna are bonafide funcakes. And we hate funcakers. Fuuugggg Yoooouuss, I ain't afraid no Chuckleberries. Chuckleberries ain't nothin' but the dangle off arsehairs. What yous are, Pacifi-losers.
Scalzo: YEAH! -- PacPECKERS!
Litherland: -- Get ready for no fun, NO HOPE!
CUTTO: Litherland scowls. Scalzo spits to his side, dragging his denim sleeve over his mouth in a methodical swipe. As we fadeout, a steamboat whistles which begs the answer why they were at a harbor in the first place?!
The camera does a once-over of the surroundings. Various pet carriers, each containing animals which can only be seen in the farthest reaches of the world… at Edgar Bundy’s Pet Shop Stop. Dogs, cats, lizards, gerbils, birds; a whole myriad of animals from big to small, short and tall, stinky, scaly and everything in between remain strewn about the vicinity.
Wall-to-wall mirrors wrapped around the extensive space, and in the center, a regulation-sized wrestling ring. Off in one corner, was nothing short of a gaudy display/abuse of lasers, enough to make Laser Floyd look like an impotent dying flashlight.
Standing tall in the ring stood the form of Captain Justice, letting his smile shine brightly and his blue orbs penetrating the camera lens with a focused smile. Decked out in his signature suit, Sporting a white cowboy hat worn proudly along with what appeared to be a sheriff’s badge pinned to his shirt, the Americanimal smiled a confident smirk as the incredibly blinding light show continued behind him, the entire closed space left in a sea of red, white, and blue hues.
Captain Justice: It’s been far too long, my friends! Welcome! Welcome one and all to Captain Justice’s Castle of Seclusion! NOT some shabby run-down pee-pee-soked heckhole in the middle of the Arctic… but a REAL place! And most certainly not some old gym I rent out by the month!
Justice coughed when the camera got wind of the shoddy-looking “Bateman’s Gym” sign he didn’t cover before starting this promo.
Captain Justice: We’ve ventured out of the reaches of our fair Planet Earth only to venture out to the far, far reaches of OUTER SPACE… conveniently placed in Louisville. Ultrajira! How goes, friend?
Beating the ever-loving shinola out of a speed bag in the corner, the huge tattooed and muscular Ultrajira – Wrestling’s Only Kaiju – was working up a sweat. For those not in the know, Ultrajira speaks in tongues that very few can understand. For the purposes of this promotional piece, we’ve given you some lovely subtitles. Enjoy.
Ultrajira: What did I tell you about talking to me when I’m working the bag… how I count the days until I may feast upon your innards… or defecate in your bag… I may do that again.
The Cap’n is none the wiser to his tag team partner’s silent threats and looks more focused on the lightshow.
Captain Justice: Oh, Ultrajira, you and your witticisms, something hilarious no doubt about our opposition in the IGC… (snaps fingers) wait, who are we facing? Oh, quick! To the Matchlookerupperabob 6000!
…His Apple iPhone 5…
Captain Justice thumbs the web page on his browser until he gets to the IGC website. From there…
The high-pitched squeal from Captain Justice completely throws Ultrajira off his game. He walks over to Justice… yep, still screaming… and shakes him. Then shakes him some more. Then slaps him. And another slap. And for good measure, yet another slap.
Ultrajira: WHAT IN THE BIG BLUE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH YOU!?!?!
After he takes a moment to compose himself, The Americanimal flashes his phone to his tag team partner and pokes the screen.
Captain Justice: This! Funicide! The IGC never told us that we were facing… MURDERERS!
Ultrajira’s jaw is about to drop.
Ultrajira: I know I ask you this all the time and it’s a pretty common phrase in our conversations, Cap, but… what in the fuck are you talking about?
Captain Justice: You know, savages! Beasts! Assassins! Slayers! Executionsers! Unrepentant killing machines! And they’ve ventured out to the farthest regions of the galaxy to kill… FUN!
Annnnnnnnnnnndddddddddd that was Ultrajira’s jaw ACTUALLY hitting the floor. Captain Justice was wallowing in a pool of his own self-... something. Dignity, but he’s in a big USA-themed superhero costume WITH a sheriff’s badge and cowboy hat. How much dignity could he really HAVE?
Captain Justice: By stars and garters, what the fuddrucker did fun ever do to deserve such a heinous death sentence? Who would do such a thing as declare war on fun? Fun is… well, fun! It’s awesome! If fun weren’t around, we’ve all just be a bunch of dull boys!
Ultrajira: That’s play, you chucklefuck.
Captain Justice: Not now, Ultrajira! No time for play! We’re going to need all the training that we can! We’ve got to go up against… uh… what do Funicide look like anyway?
(FAST FORWARD FOR TIME WHILE ULTRAJIRA SHOWS CAPTAIN JUSTICE THE EARLIER PROMO FROM THEIR OPPOSITION… THEN PROMPTLY SLAPS HIM SOME MORE)
Captain Justice: Talk-turkey? Pactards? Smilekill? Funcakers? They have their own tongues just like you do, Ultrajira! I can’t comprehend any of this hogwash!
Ultrajira: They’re from West Virginia. They look pretty mean, but we can take ‘em.
Captain Justice: And he has the NERVE to call us… us… you and I… The Monsters of the Pacific… Pacifi-LOSERS?! HOW DARE THEY, ULTRAJIRA, HOW DARE THEY! HOW. DARE. THEY.
Captain Justice continues to pace a circle around Ultrajira who is subjected to this.
Captain Justice: Is THIS what has become of the American educational system in our absence? Have Scholastic Book Fairs gone the way of the do-do? Do they not have the ability to navigate through the deadly confederate flags and deliverance banjos to educate these simple minds? These monsters need to be stopped! They must be brought to justice… CAPTAIN JUSTICE! Ha! Go, sparkling wit!
Balling his fist, the heroic half of the Monsters growls.
Captain Justice: We fight back! We take the fight to these amusement-loathing rapscallions and shove the balled-up fist of justice and feed it to them in the most delectable knuckle sandwich ever doled! We will move onwards and upwards until we reach the end where the Intergalactic Team Championships lay! We win the titles and protect them with our very lives from every scourge that comes across!
Wrestling’s Only Kaiju shakes his head while his partner continues his tirade.
Captain Justice: These low-down, no-good, rotten, foul-smelling, greased-up, weird-talking, hygienically challenged, gangly-toothed monsters will be put to pasture…
Ultrajira: Uh… he’s gonna keep going, so I’m outta here…
Ultrajira takes his stuff and leaves while Captain Justice continues to walk in circles, yelling more tirades about how he’ll do battle.
FAST FORWARD ANOTHER FIVE HOURS…
Captain Justice: …WILL GET EXACTLY WHAT IS COMING TO THEM!!! …What do these guys have against fun anyway? “We Die Young” is pleasantly soothing to the ears. Oh, well, time to get some training in! A good four hours of cardio will help me prep for battle.
The hero walks over to his gym bag. As he starts to open it, he gets a whiff something most pungent and foul.
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