AGGRESSION 53: KOTC Rd. 2 - Layne Winters vs. "Dopesmoker" Erik Black
- Thread starter DBrunkGXW
- Start date
(The camera opens up in a Wal-Mart parking lot, where all manner of mankind can be seen... the circus sideshow of the modern Midwestern-American society. There’s a bit of a gathering around a peculiar display on the fringe of the lot, where an ordinary household shower curtain has been drawn over a crudely made rig system. An audience of ten or perhaps a dozen watch with baffled interest as what appears to be a transient man step before the curtain and read in a rather monotone voice from a cue card held in his hand.)
Hobo
“Gather ‘round, ladies and gentlemen... citizens of the Insignificant Blue Planet known as Earth... prepare your small and unassuming minds for alarming and often frightening realizations that await you, as impossibilities become realities.
“Gather, men and women... young and old... and behold... the marvels of the Escape Artist... here is... the DOPESMOKER.”
(A smattering of applause among the group. Along with that, with a lot of confused whispering, beginning with “Who the fuck...?” and “Did he just say...?” The bum – a one-time announcer likely bribed into taking the job with a Black Cobra forty in a brown paper sack – pulls the curtain aside as he steps out of the frame and wanders off. On the other side, we see the SPACEVAN parked along the curb. The side door pops open and slides aside as leftover sparklers from Independence Day celebrations flare off brilliantly from their perched places on the curtain rig.)
(CUE UP: “Jerusalem (Part 3)” by stoner power trio Sleep... to be touring again in the states for the firt time in over 15 years this coming fall. Prepare the Pilgrimage, fellow Creedsmen!)
(At first, what looks like another hobo bounding purposefully out of the van and onto the parking lot asphat. But it’s not a bum... it’s a DRUID. It’s “The Dopesmoker” Erik Black, donning his ceremonial Bathrobe of Bongitude, the ever present Aviators of Astro-Vision, a Clutch t-shirt, beach shorts, and flip-flops. Perhaps not homeless, but he definitely looks unemployed. He stands for a moment like a new Messiah just flown down from the realm beyond, with his arms triumphantly outstretched to his sides. He hesitates a moment, as if expecting more applause, but doesn’t get it... so he breaks the pose, snatches the shades from his face to make eye-contact, and begins speaking to the crowd directly.)
DOPESMOKER
Thank you, everyone, thank you... or should I be thanking YOU? Chew on that for sec...
As you heard before, I am the acclaimed ESCAPE ARTIST... the man that cannot be CONTAINED by any physical or even MENTAL limitation. The present day reincarnation of Houdini himself.
(More confused murmurs ripple through the crowd. A cunning grin crosses Black’s face.)
DOPESMOKER
Oh... doubt me, do you? That’s not surprising; they ALL doubt me.
Why, it was only a matter of a couple weeks ago when the purported “Greatest Wrestling on Cthulhu’s Green Earth” DONOVAN ASTROS doubted my ability to escape him from the STEEL CAGE! But OH, if only you could have seen his face the moment I hurled my body over that wall... my feet touched the ground... and I locked eyes with that poor fool...
It was the face of a man whose very GRASP on reality was beginning to SLIP...
I warn all of you... if you are feint of heart or deficient in BRAIN... the things you are about to witness may completely FUCK YOU UP for the rest of your short and meager existence on this doomed planet.
(He reaches into his robe and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. They appear to be sturdy and effective.)
DOPESMOKER
BEHOLD, these manacles... capable of binding any man’s hands together with the force of STEEL
(He pulls up the sleeves of his robe and slaps the cuffs around his wrists in a rather dramatic manner. This gets at least some reaction from the crowd... a few “OOHs”, and even a couple chuckles at the blunt manner of applying them to himself, as if there was some knucklehead in the crowd thinking, “Oh shi... let’s see where THIS goes...”)
DOPESMOKER
Now, ladies and gentlemen... for your entertainment, for your money, and for the sake of ENLIGHTENMENT of the human race, I will ESCAPE these handcuffs that have securely bound my hands together!
At this point, I must humbly ask from you all your complete silence. This is a very delicate and complicated process that requires every last bit of my concentration.
(With that, Black turns around and wanders back behind the curtain, drawing it behind him to leave himself obscured from the eyes of the crowd...)
(More confused murmurs spread around, and a few more people approach the scene to get a load of what is happening. From behind the curtain, we can hear an odd sequence of noises. First, the clattering the of manacles as they rubbed against the chain... then a loud GRINDING noise that sounds like a hacksaw... followed by a strange bubbling... a fit of coughing... and then... SILENCE...)
(After several long moments, Black emerges from the curtain... head down and hands held in front of him, like a war prisoner being led into the woods to dig his own grave. Then, quite confidently, he raises his head... holds up his arms... and the handcuffs fall to the asphalt. Black again holds out his arms in the Messiah pose as many people in the crowd applaud.)
DOPESMOKER
Oh no, ladies and gentlemen... it is I who should be applauding YOU! You have taken the first steps into an entirely new concept of reality... one you never thought existed until this day! What I have done here is a mere PARLOR TRICK compared to the amazing and impossible feats I will perform at Aggression 53, in Minneapolis, Minnesota!
(His eyes suddenly find the cameraman, standing amid the crowd... and that cunning smile returns.)
DOPESMOKER
It will be there, within the steel confines of the Zane Cage, where I will yet again lock horns with the young buck who calls himself the “New School” of professional wrestling... LAYNE WINTERS... a man who thinks himself the next CHOSEN one of this sport... the next bright and shining STAR to mark the birth of a false prophet. Such a fool. Just a fly – a mere PEST on the arm of a sleeping giant.
Winters and I have had many encounters... but the last two times, things didn’t really end up that well on his part. And why is that? Well, folks, we could sit here all day thinking of reasons... but perhaps the most LOGICAL one is that I’m simply BETTER than the way he sees himself.
Imagine that, ladies and gentlemen... just SAVOR the irony! Professional wrestling’s face of the future, outwitted time and time again by this lowly and humble DOPESMOKER. After all the time we’ve spent together against one another in the ring, you’d THINK by now he would have proven that he’s truly cut from a finer cloth.
No doubt, Winters wants to move on to the next round in this tournament. He’d LOVE a shot at his old pal from HOPE, or the World Champion and KING himself. Sadly for him, folks, he’s not going to get there. He’s going to FALL just like Donovan Astros did... and just like so many more have and inevitably will. And you’re going to witness it.
Just this once, it doesn’t matter who is the better wrestler, or who is more determined, or who is more deserving of moving on. All that really DOES matter is that I’m SMARTER and FASTER than Layne Winters.
Try as he might, there’s nothing he can do to prevent me from ESCAPING the Zane Cage. As I said before, ladies and gentlemen... I am the ESCAPE ARTIST... and there is NOTHING that can confine the RIFF-FILLED REVELATIONS of the DOPESMOKER!
Come to Minneapolis... WITNESS the mind-blowing and hope-shattering SECRETS of the Cosmos as I step into the cage and ESCAPE... untouched and unharmed by any manner of living and intelligent entity.
(From in the crowd, that same guy who chuckled earlier can be heard shouting, “You’re full of shit... and those cuffs are phony!” Black’s defiant grin becomes an addled grimace. He quickly snatches the binders off the ground and holds them up as if to prove their legitimacy.)
DOPESMOKER
I assure you, these cuffs are REAL, just as my impending VICTORY without VIOLENCE will be real within the Zane Cage!
Still doubt me? Fine...
(He wanders over to a beat cop that’s come into the crowd as some point during the exhibition. He seems more interested in Black than he does the cuffs that are presented before him.)
DOPESMOKER
Officer, you look like an expert in this sort of thing. Have a look at these handcuffs, and assure these people that they are in fact genuine.
Cop
How ‘bout I take a look at your permit to perform in a public place instead, eh?
DOPESMOKER
...uh, permit?
Oh... RIGHT! Why, I’ve got that in my van...
(The policeman sniffs the air a couple times. He can smell something familiar, and you can almost see his eyes water behind his own aviators. He knows he’s about to bust somebody and make his monthly quota of protecting, serving, and interfering in the choices of free Americans.)
Cop
Yeah, why we don’t we have a look in the back of that van while we’re at it?
DOPESMOKER
...shit.
(He turns to simply walk off, but the cop’s not having it. A hand stops the DOPESMOKER, grabbing him by the cuff of his robe. The cop spins him around, reaches into one of his pockets and pulls out...)
Cop
A-HA!! A JOINT of MARIJUANA! You’re screwed now, son!
(At first, Black’s face grows PALE with the sudden mind-blowing and hope-shattering truth that he’s probably going to prison. Then something pops into his mind, and he suddenly regains his cool.)
DOPESMOKER
What do you think, officer? Want to light that up and let me fill you in on a few things?
Cop
Get over here, hippy!
(The cop forcibly takes him over to the van and pushes him against the side of it. The crowd now only doubles in size at this NEW scene – somebody actually getting busted in public. Black gets bound within his own cuffs again and is left sitting on the curb as the cop tries to disperse them.)
Cop
Well, folks... turns out he was RIGHT. Those WERE real handcuffs.
(He flashes a goofy grin and gets some chuckles.)
Cop
Anyway, looks like the show’s over. Nothing more to see here, so if I can ask you to just go back to your every day lives... this man is going away for a long time, and won’t be bothering you again.
(Our hobo friend returns, tapping the cop on the shoulder.)
Cop
Not now, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to leave, before I bust you too... for VAGRANCY.
Hobo
I’m no vagrant. I’ve got a JOB... and a whole other card I was supposed to read when that guy was done.
(The cop scoffs, but now seems mildly amused by the entire situation.)
Cop
Okay, bud... let’s here it then. But make it snappy, cause I got to radio in a squad car to take this loser downtown...
(The bum clears his throat and holds up the second cue card in that same monotonous drawl.)
Hobo
“Thank you once again for your time, ladies and gentlemen. By now, I have either been arrested, stabbed, or shooed off the premises, for being too bold and visionary for this society to accept within itself.
“This is of no matter. Society cannot restrain the free-roaming will of the Escape Artist.”
(He squints as he reads the signature at the bottom of the card.)
Hobo
“Four, twenty.”
Cop
Meh... well, sounds like this punk’s “free-roaming will” is going to be limited to his JAIL CELL from now on. Heh heh...
(The police officer turns around... and freezes.)
Cop
...ssshhhHEEEEEEIIIITTT!!!
(No van. No DOPESMOKER. Just an opened pair of cuffs left on the asphalt on the other side of an open curtain. The cop looks up and down the road, but the Escape Artist is nowhere to be seen. Fade to black.)
420
Hobo
“Gather ‘round, ladies and gentlemen... citizens of the Insignificant Blue Planet known as Earth... prepare your small and unassuming minds for alarming and often frightening realizations that await you, as impossibilities become realities.
“Gather, men and women... young and old... and behold... the marvels of the Escape Artist... here is... the DOPESMOKER.”
(A smattering of applause among the group. Along with that, with a lot of confused whispering, beginning with “Who the fuck...?” and “Did he just say...?” The bum – a one-time announcer likely bribed into taking the job with a Black Cobra forty in a brown paper sack – pulls the curtain aside as he steps out of the frame and wanders off. On the other side, we see the SPACEVAN parked along the curb. The side door pops open and slides aside as leftover sparklers from Independence Day celebrations flare off brilliantly from their perched places on the curtain rig.)
(CUE UP: “Jerusalem (Part 3)” by stoner power trio Sleep... to be touring again in the states for the firt time in over 15 years this coming fall. Prepare the Pilgrimage, fellow Creedsmen!)
(At first, what looks like another hobo bounding purposefully out of the van and onto the parking lot asphat. But it’s not a bum... it’s a DRUID. It’s “The Dopesmoker” Erik Black, donning his ceremonial Bathrobe of Bongitude, the ever present Aviators of Astro-Vision, a Clutch t-shirt, beach shorts, and flip-flops. Perhaps not homeless, but he definitely looks unemployed. He stands for a moment like a new Messiah just flown down from the realm beyond, with his arms triumphantly outstretched to his sides. He hesitates a moment, as if expecting more applause, but doesn’t get it... so he breaks the pose, snatches the shades from his face to make eye-contact, and begins speaking to the crowd directly.)
DOPESMOKER
Thank you, everyone, thank you... or should I be thanking YOU? Chew on that for sec...
As you heard before, I am the acclaimed ESCAPE ARTIST... the man that cannot be CONTAINED by any physical or even MENTAL limitation. The present day reincarnation of Houdini himself.
(More confused murmurs ripple through the crowd. A cunning grin crosses Black’s face.)
DOPESMOKER
Oh... doubt me, do you? That’s not surprising; they ALL doubt me.
Why, it was only a matter of a couple weeks ago when the purported “Greatest Wrestling on Cthulhu’s Green Earth” DONOVAN ASTROS doubted my ability to escape him from the STEEL CAGE! But OH, if only you could have seen his face the moment I hurled my body over that wall... my feet touched the ground... and I locked eyes with that poor fool...
It was the face of a man whose very GRASP on reality was beginning to SLIP...
I warn all of you... if you are feint of heart or deficient in BRAIN... the things you are about to witness may completely FUCK YOU UP for the rest of your short and meager existence on this doomed planet.
(He reaches into his robe and pulls out a pair of handcuffs. They appear to be sturdy and effective.)
DOPESMOKER
BEHOLD, these manacles... capable of binding any man’s hands together with the force of STEEL
(He pulls up the sleeves of his robe and slaps the cuffs around his wrists in a rather dramatic manner. This gets at least some reaction from the crowd... a few “OOHs”, and even a couple chuckles at the blunt manner of applying them to himself, as if there was some knucklehead in the crowd thinking, “Oh shi... let’s see where THIS goes...”)
DOPESMOKER
Now, ladies and gentlemen... for your entertainment, for your money, and for the sake of ENLIGHTENMENT of the human race, I will ESCAPE these handcuffs that have securely bound my hands together!
At this point, I must humbly ask from you all your complete silence. This is a very delicate and complicated process that requires every last bit of my concentration.
(With that, Black turns around and wanders back behind the curtain, drawing it behind him to leave himself obscured from the eyes of the crowd...)
(More confused murmurs spread around, and a few more people approach the scene to get a load of what is happening. From behind the curtain, we can hear an odd sequence of noises. First, the clattering the of manacles as they rubbed against the chain... then a loud GRINDING noise that sounds like a hacksaw... followed by a strange bubbling... a fit of coughing... and then... SILENCE...)
(After several long moments, Black emerges from the curtain... head down and hands held in front of him, like a war prisoner being led into the woods to dig his own grave. Then, quite confidently, he raises his head... holds up his arms... and the handcuffs fall to the asphalt. Black again holds out his arms in the Messiah pose as many people in the crowd applaud.)
DOPESMOKER
Oh no, ladies and gentlemen... it is I who should be applauding YOU! You have taken the first steps into an entirely new concept of reality... one you never thought existed until this day! What I have done here is a mere PARLOR TRICK compared to the amazing and impossible feats I will perform at Aggression 53, in Minneapolis, Minnesota!
(His eyes suddenly find the cameraman, standing amid the crowd... and that cunning smile returns.)
DOPESMOKER
It will be there, within the steel confines of the Zane Cage, where I will yet again lock horns with the young buck who calls himself the “New School” of professional wrestling... LAYNE WINTERS... a man who thinks himself the next CHOSEN one of this sport... the next bright and shining STAR to mark the birth of a false prophet. Such a fool. Just a fly – a mere PEST on the arm of a sleeping giant.
Winters and I have had many encounters... but the last two times, things didn’t really end up that well on his part. And why is that? Well, folks, we could sit here all day thinking of reasons... but perhaps the most LOGICAL one is that I’m simply BETTER than the way he sees himself.
Imagine that, ladies and gentlemen... just SAVOR the irony! Professional wrestling’s face of the future, outwitted time and time again by this lowly and humble DOPESMOKER. After all the time we’ve spent together against one another in the ring, you’d THINK by now he would have proven that he’s truly cut from a finer cloth.
No doubt, Winters wants to move on to the next round in this tournament. He’d LOVE a shot at his old pal from HOPE, or the World Champion and KING himself. Sadly for him, folks, he’s not going to get there. He’s going to FALL just like Donovan Astros did... and just like so many more have and inevitably will. And you’re going to witness it.
Just this once, it doesn’t matter who is the better wrestler, or who is more determined, or who is more deserving of moving on. All that really DOES matter is that I’m SMARTER and FASTER than Layne Winters.
Try as he might, there’s nothing he can do to prevent me from ESCAPING the Zane Cage. As I said before, ladies and gentlemen... I am the ESCAPE ARTIST... and there is NOTHING that can confine the RIFF-FILLED REVELATIONS of the DOPESMOKER!
Come to Minneapolis... WITNESS the mind-blowing and hope-shattering SECRETS of the Cosmos as I step into the cage and ESCAPE... untouched and unharmed by any manner of living and intelligent entity.
(From in the crowd, that same guy who chuckled earlier can be heard shouting, “You’re full of shit... and those cuffs are phony!” Black’s defiant grin becomes an addled grimace. He quickly snatches the binders off the ground and holds them up as if to prove their legitimacy.)
DOPESMOKER
I assure you, these cuffs are REAL, just as my impending VICTORY without VIOLENCE will be real within the Zane Cage!
Still doubt me? Fine...
(He wanders over to a beat cop that’s come into the crowd as some point during the exhibition. He seems more interested in Black than he does the cuffs that are presented before him.)
DOPESMOKER
Officer, you look like an expert in this sort of thing. Have a look at these handcuffs, and assure these people that they are in fact genuine.
Cop
How ‘bout I take a look at your permit to perform in a public place instead, eh?
DOPESMOKER
...uh, permit?
Oh... RIGHT! Why, I’ve got that in my van...
(The policeman sniffs the air a couple times. He can smell something familiar, and you can almost see his eyes water behind his own aviators. He knows he’s about to bust somebody and make his monthly quota of protecting, serving, and interfering in the choices of free Americans.)
Cop
Yeah, why we don’t we have a look in the back of that van while we’re at it?
DOPESMOKER
...shit.
(He turns to simply walk off, but the cop’s not having it. A hand stops the DOPESMOKER, grabbing him by the cuff of his robe. The cop spins him around, reaches into one of his pockets and pulls out...)
Cop
A-HA!! A JOINT of MARIJUANA! You’re screwed now, son!
(At first, Black’s face grows PALE with the sudden mind-blowing and hope-shattering truth that he’s probably going to prison. Then something pops into his mind, and he suddenly regains his cool.)
DOPESMOKER
What do you think, officer? Want to light that up and let me fill you in on a few things?
Cop
Get over here, hippy!
(The cop forcibly takes him over to the van and pushes him against the side of it. The crowd now only doubles in size at this NEW scene – somebody actually getting busted in public. Black gets bound within his own cuffs again and is left sitting on the curb as the cop tries to disperse them.)
Cop
Well, folks... turns out he was RIGHT. Those WERE real handcuffs.
(He flashes a goofy grin and gets some chuckles.)
Cop
Anyway, looks like the show’s over. Nothing more to see here, so if I can ask you to just go back to your every day lives... this man is going away for a long time, and won’t be bothering you again.
(Our hobo friend returns, tapping the cop on the shoulder.)
Cop
Not now, sir. I’m going to have to ask you to leave, before I bust you too... for VAGRANCY.
Hobo
I’m no vagrant. I’ve got a JOB... and a whole other card I was supposed to read when that guy was done.
(The cop scoffs, but now seems mildly amused by the entire situation.)
Cop
Okay, bud... let’s here it then. But make it snappy, cause I got to radio in a squad car to take this loser downtown...
(The bum clears his throat and holds up the second cue card in that same monotonous drawl.)
Hobo
“Thank you once again for your time, ladies and gentlemen. By now, I have either been arrested, stabbed, or shooed off the premises, for being too bold and visionary for this society to accept within itself.
“This is of no matter. Society cannot restrain the free-roaming will of the Escape Artist.”
(He squints as he reads the signature at the bottom of the card.)
Hobo
“Four, twenty.”
Cop
Meh... well, sounds like this punk’s “free-roaming will” is going to be limited to his JAIL CELL from now on. Heh heh...
(The police officer turns around... and freezes.)
Cop
...ssshhhHEEEEEEIIIITTT!!!
(No van. No DOPESMOKER. Just an opened pair of cuffs left on the asphalt on the other side of an open curtain. The cop looks up and down the road, but the Escape Artist is nowhere to be seen. Fade to black.)
420
LQJT86C
Where's my money, Chad?
(FADEIN: Standing in front of his black Hummer H2 is LAYNE WINTERS. He's wearing camouflage shorts, black boots, a white tanktop, and a backwards Seahawks hat. He shoots the camera a menacing look, but can't hide the grin that creeps up on his face. Something's funny- and he takes off his hat to wipe the sweat from his long, dirty blonde hair, putting back on and starting to laugh a bit)
WINTERS: You know, I looked at the brackets the other day, saw my name right above Erik Black's. Then I turned on the TV, watched his latest promo, and thought to myself, "Jeez Erik, I liked you more when you were marking out for me." But something happened between the first time we met, and now. Somewhere along the line, you grew a pair of what we like to call in the north country, "BALLS," you hooked up with Stalker, and started sticking your dick in the proverbial mashed potatoes LEFT and RIGHT!
Well I'll be, Erik. You've come a long way! I always thought you'd do better not to respect people so much, and to get after it a bit. I'm proud of you son. Except there's one little problem, I don't know, maybe you overlooked it, maybe you didn't...
YOU'RE STILL ERIK BLACK.
...and I'm still Layne Winters. I'm STILL the guy that cracked you in half at Aggression 48. STILL the guy who you FAILED, that's right, FAILED to take the title from in a Gauntlet match. And at Black Dawn, you had your chance FINALLY to redeem yourself and become Television champion, but you failed for a third time. In baseball, we call that STRIKE THREE. We call that an OUT. In Erik Black's cracked out fantasia world, he calls that "outwitted time and time again."
Lucky for me, we don't live in Never Never Land. It's a cruel, cruel world, buddy. And it doesn't get any crueler than your odds stepping into that cage with me at Aggression 53.
So a couple bullsh*t cheapshots have you feeling strong. Congratulations, pal. But what you went and did, is you entered this tournament that says the winner, the KING, is the man who can survive IN A CAGE. Four walls, TRAPPED, nowhere to go but up and over or through the door over my dead body. No Stalker, no barbwire bats, no steel chairs. Now you have to BEAT ME...utterly BEAT ME, something you couldn't do even with all that other horsesh*t factored in. You want one more swing at the plate? Come get your strike four, Erik. Bring your little helmet, your kid-sized batting gloves, your embarrassingly small Nike cleats, and try to get your first hit on me. You Cheech and Chong, hackey-sack playing son of a b*tch. COME SWING AGAIN.
Everywhere I look, this company is full of f*cking clowns. You've got the facepainted queerbag clowns like The First- makes me wanna vomit on a pair of matinee tickets to Twilight. Then there's your dumb ass, pulling off white trash magic shows in Bi-Lo parking lots like he's the retarded son of g*ddamn Houdini. Yeah, go ahead, put yourself in handcuffs, drown yourself in a fishtank, whatever gets your rocks off Erik. But I ain't gonna put you in any handcuffs. The cage ain't some bisexual S&M club- it's where BUSINESS GETS DONE.
You're faster than me? You better be, you weigh about 150 pounds with your peach fuzz grown to max capacity. Smarter? Ya know, normally I cede people that point, but something tells me your grid got shut down long ago when you started smoking banano in the 10th grade. So excuse me if your little gameplan to run out of the cage like a beaten spouse out a trailer park doesn't impress me all that much. This isn't like somebody's front door, where you just walk in and out at your leisure. You've gotta stand up to me, and BEAT your way out of the cage.
Escape artist? Do the wise thing, Erik. Escape from your contract. Escape from the building. Do what I warned you to do the first, second, and third time we met, and DON'T SHOW UP. Because in that cage with me, there is no escape. I want that crown, I want THE KING, and you're merely the court jester.
(Grits teeth)
SOMEBODY get me Stevens. You listening, EPW? I've had your Copycats, your Dragons, your Bastards, your Dopesmokers...hell, I don't even know what the f*ck a Fusenshoff IS but I've had that too...I've had 'em ALL, and now I want HIM. How many more dreams to I have to kill? Erik Black's thrown so many darts at the wall, trying to find the path around the roadblock that is Layne Winters, and like so many others he'll never pass.
I'm the dream-killer. The clown-killer. It's time I took the head of a King.
Erik Black, you're in the worst spot a man can be right about now. Between me...and my crown.
(FADEOUT)
WINTERS: You know, I looked at the brackets the other day, saw my name right above Erik Black's. Then I turned on the TV, watched his latest promo, and thought to myself, "Jeez Erik, I liked you more when you were marking out for me." But something happened between the first time we met, and now. Somewhere along the line, you grew a pair of what we like to call in the north country, "BALLS," you hooked up with Stalker, and started sticking your dick in the proverbial mashed potatoes LEFT and RIGHT!
Well I'll be, Erik. You've come a long way! I always thought you'd do better not to respect people so much, and to get after it a bit. I'm proud of you son. Except there's one little problem, I don't know, maybe you overlooked it, maybe you didn't...
YOU'RE STILL ERIK BLACK.
...and I'm still Layne Winters. I'm STILL the guy that cracked you in half at Aggression 48. STILL the guy who you FAILED, that's right, FAILED to take the title from in a Gauntlet match. And at Black Dawn, you had your chance FINALLY to redeem yourself and become Television champion, but you failed for a third time. In baseball, we call that STRIKE THREE. We call that an OUT. In Erik Black's cracked out fantasia world, he calls that "outwitted time and time again."
Lucky for me, we don't live in Never Never Land. It's a cruel, cruel world, buddy. And it doesn't get any crueler than your odds stepping into that cage with me at Aggression 53.
So a couple bullsh*t cheapshots have you feeling strong. Congratulations, pal. But what you went and did, is you entered this tournament that says the winner, the KING, is the man who can survive IN A CAGE. Four walls, TRAPPED, nowhere to go but up and over or through the door over my dead body. No Stalker, no barbwire bats, no steel chairs. Now you have to BEAT ME...utterly BEAT ME, something you couldn't do even with all that other horsesh*t factored in. You want one more swing at the plate? Come get your strike four, Erik. Bring your little helmet, your kid-sized batting gloves, your embarrassingly small Nike cleats, and try to get your first hit on me. You Cheech and Chong, hackey-sack playing son of a b*tch. COME SWING AGAIN.
Everywhere I look, this company is full of f*cking clowns. You've got the facepainted queerbag clowns like The First- makes me wanna vomit on a pair of matinee tickets to Twilight. Then there's your dumb ass, pulling off white trash magic shows in Bi-Lo parking lots like he's the retarded son of g*ddamn Houdini. Yeah, go ahead, put yourself in handcuffs, drown yourself in a fishtank, whatever gets your rocks off Erik. But I ain't gonna put you in any handcuffs. The cage ain't some bisexual S&M club- it's where BUSINESS GETS DONE.
You're faster than me? You better be, you weigh about 150 pounds with your peach fuzz grown to max capacity. Smarter? Ya know, normally I cede people that point, but something tells me your grid got shut down long ago when you started smoking banano in the 10th grade. So excuse me if your little gameplan to run out of the cage like a beaten spouse out a trailer park doesn't impress me all that much. This isn't like somebody's front door, where you just walk in and out at your leisure. You've gotta stand up to me, and BEAT your way out of the cage.
Escape artist? Do the wise thing, Erik. Escape from your contract. Escape from the building. Do what I warned you to do the first, second, and third time we met, and DON'T SHOW UP. Because in that cage with me, there is no escape. I want that crown, I want THE KING, and you're merely the court jester.
(Grits teeth)
SOMEBODY get me Stevens. You listening, EPW? I've had your Copycats, your Dragons, your Bastards, your Dopesmokers...hell, I don't even know what the f*ck a Fusenshoff IS but I've had that too...I've had 'em ALL, and now I want HIM. How many more dreams to I have to kill? Erik Black's thrown so many darts at the wall, trying to find the path around the roadblock that is Layne Winters, and like so many others he'll never pass.
I'm the dream-killer. The clown-killer. It's time I took the head of a King.
Erik Black, you're in the worst spot a man can be right about now. Between me...and my crown.
(FADEOUT)
(The scene opens up at nightfall, on the location of a seasonal fair set in a modest-sized Midwestern town. Off in the distance, a brightly lit Ferris wheel is juxtaposed against a stark black sky, giving off a neon-yellow glow over what must be hundreds of townsfolk in attendance. Not too far off, we can hear the all too familiar sounds of carnival music. The camera takes a few long, panning shots of some of the games, delicacies, and other attractions set up in the array of stalls and booths along the boardwalk. A few people try their hand at shooting targets and throwing weighted balls and winning garish sky-blue stuffed elephants. Others chow down on boxes of popcorn and elephant ears and peanuts. Yet an even smaller pocket of people seem to be gravitating toward what looks like a pitch-tent set up on the far end of the boardwalk... almost as if it wasn’t part of the fair proper.)
(A sign hangs over the entrance, that reads: “DR. DOPESMOKER: ESCAPE ARTIST EXTRAORDINAIRE”.)
(Standing on an empty soap box just outside the open slit leading into the dark interior is a small person – a keen eye would recognize the face as that of Stumpy, the favored diminutive sidekick of a certain Viking Pornstar – dressed a pin-striped vest over a white shirt with suspenders, slacks, and a tweed hat. He’s even got a cane to complete the ensemble. As people walk by, he cries out to get their attention.)
Stumpy
Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Come ONE, come ALL! Witness the very SECRETS of the unknown universe with your very eyes! Let the mysteries of LIFE and LOVE be REVEALED!
Step right inside, young boys and girls! Learn the true value of your precious lives! SEE, with your own two eyes, the impossible become POSSIBLE by a mere pair of human hands!
(The camera, approaching this scene almost unconsciously, is now almost upon the midget. With a devilish grin, Stumpy catches eyes with the camera, and pulls the canvas flap of the tent aside...)
Stumpy
Right inside, sir... but I must WARN you...
...the revelations you are about to learn may send you away SCREAMING! HAHAHA!!
(We step inside the tent, where a few rows of chairs have been set up and are occupied by various fair-goers who dared step inside the tent of Dr. Dopesmoker. The audience faces a blank and unassuming stage, illuminated by a pair of candelabras stationed on the far ends. The camera zooms in on the stage, and for a moment, it almost seems as though the candlelight fades only slightly...)
“Ladies and gentlemen... coming to you all the way from the FURTHEST REGIONS of human consciousness... please welcome the famous ESCAPE ARTIST... DOCTOR DOPESMOKER!!”
*KA-POW!!*
(CUE UP: "Jerursalem (Part 4)" by Sleep. A small explosion goes off right in the center of the stage, sending a thick plume of smoking billowing up into the air. It quickly dissipates, and as soon as it does, it becomes obvious that there is a MAN standing right there where only moments ago, there was NOTHING. The audience gains its first view of Dr. DOPESMOKER... otherwise known as Erik Black.)
(Unlike how he’s previously been seen, Black seems to be putting more effort into making himself look presentable. Yessir, indeed... gone are the days of doing small-time gigs in parking lots. He comes adorn in a dark red Victorian era suit with a frilled-collar under-shirt, also with an attached crimson cape falling past his shoulders. Upon his head, hiding his wild and unkempt hair, is a TURBAN with a green jewel studded right where his “third eye” would be. And, of course, the aviators; Can’t go without the badass sunglasses.)
(He opens his mouth, as if to speak, but perhaps for another reason, as ANOTHER plume of thick smoke billows into the air. He coughs a couple times, waves a hand to clear the air around him, clears his throat, and begins the monologue.)
DOPESMOKER
Welcome, welcome... and thank you all for coming here tonight, ladies and gentlemen. As you all must know by now... I am the one known as DOPESMOKER... the modern day professional wrestling Escape Artist... the traveler of lost and forbidden realms... the seeker of truths and secrets long forgotten and seldom conceived.
(An odd smile forms beneath the large, mirror-like aviators set across the stoner daredevil’s face.)
DOPESMOKER
Tonight, you will WITNESS sights that will leave your mind desperately grasping for answers to questions you never once thought to ask yourselves in the course of your short and insignificant lives. I assure you... this is not fantastical magic, or even divine intervention. All the same, the feats you are about to witness will shake the very foundations of everything you believe to be real.
How is this possible, you ask? Simple...
(Slowly, and with purpose, he paces from one end of the stage to the next, making eye contact with some of the spectators and speaking with a kind of constitution and confidence that would be considered uncanny for your typical pot-head.)
DOPESMOKER
They say that seeing is believing... but that’s not completely true, is it? The average human being is only capable of seeing a single facet of reality at a time... walking through life as if in a tunnel, and unconsciously following the light at the end of the road. But how can anybody know the difference between FACT and FICTION without seeing the big picture?
(He suddenly stops in place, popping one hand behind the small of his back and using the other to hold up four fingers in front of the crowd.)
DOPESMOKER
Allow me to demonstrate, folks. I want you to tell me how many fingers I am holding up.
(The crowd almost unanimously says “Four”, and the smile on Black’s face only seems to widen. Slowly, he brings the hand tucked behind his back around and reveals another four fingers extended.)
DOPESMOKER
You mean... “EIGHT”.
(Some confused murmuring goes through the crowd. Lowering his hands, except for the occasional gesture to give his words the flair of a showman, Black explains...)
DOPESMOKER
You didn’t know I was holding up another four fingers behind my back, did you? Of course not; you couldn’t SEE IT. The limitations of human perception can only see what exists on the SURFACE. From your perspective, you could only see the four fingers on the hand I held out in front of me.
On the surface, one would perceive the fact that I haven’t pinned or forced into submission the man who calls himself the “New School” of professional wrestling as a clear sign of inferiority. But clearly... there’s more truth to the matter than what we can see on the surface. There’s more that lies beneath, in the dark oceans of the mental abyss.
“New School” Layne Winters is afraid to swim in those places... because he can’t see what lurks there in the dark. So he ignores it, and pretend there’s nothing to be seen.
Layne Winters is a man that buys into his own bullshit, and believes in all the illusions and fallacies set around him. Every match he wins serves as justification that what he says is nothing short of the truth. But tonight... I dare all of you to CHANGE your perspective... to see truth and reality in a completely different and foreign light, as I do. I dare Layne Winters to do the same, if he’s even CAPABLE of doing such.
See... the ORIGINAL Escape Artist, Harry Houdini, recognized the limitations of human perspective. It was the secret to his success for many years, and also the reason why he made it his life’s work to debunk the various spiritual mediums across the nation that claimed they had powers above and beyond human capabilities. They were no more magic than they were deceptive, the same way my esteemed opponent is no more gifted than he is full of shi.
In his own mind, Layne Winters believes everything he says to be true. So as Houdini did with so many frauds in his era... I will now do the same to him, and a number of his more ridiculous, shallow-minded claims. I will do this simply by casting these supposed “truths” under a completely different light, to expose his blatant ignorance.
(That smile on his face seems to widen a bit. We still can’t quite make out the full of his expression, given his eyes are hidden behind the aviators, eerily reflecting a blank-faced crowd back upon themselves, as if to reflect their own dismal ignorance.)
DOPESMOKER
Layne Winters believes me to be a FAILURE for not leaving with the Television Title around my waist on more than one occasion. However, failure would imply that I TRIED. The truth is, it was never my intent to strip him of that chintzy and forgettable title. I felt I made this point clear... more than once... but apparently, his memory is worse than that of your average stoner.
Strike three, I’m out? No, I don’t think so; I haven’t even swung the bat yet. Winters is lousy enough at pitching that I don’t have to do ANYTHING before I eventually take a walk to first base.
Even though I’m not standing here now before you as a Television Champion... I never deemed Black Dawn as a failure on my end. If anything, it was a SUCCESS... in that I succeeding in doing everything I set out to do in that match. Being a champion was never my intent; if it WAS, I would have made an actual effort in finishing the match. As it is, the only reason I went into that ring was to prove to those two fools that I DO have the power and the skill and the gumption to beat them at their own game... but I willingly hold back, for lack of any real motivation.
As it came to be, the only thing that prevented me from standing here before you now as the Television Champion was the involvement of a third man. Did I fail to redeem myself, then? I wasn’t aware it was redemption that I was seeking.
The way I see it, the only complete and utter FAILURE in that match was Layne Winters himself... who failed to back up his hollow words and defend his title. Layne Winters... who, as he screamed out in agony while this lowly stoner’s hands pulling back on his mandible in excruciating form, FAILED to prove he was truly any better at wrestling than a mere stoner.
(He shakes his head with clear disapproval, then waves to somebody off stage. Stumpy reappears, this time wheeling out onto the stage what appears to be an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus, stood upright.)
DOPESMOKER
Layne Winters also believes that now, as the two of use enter the confines of the cage, I will have no choice but to finally BEAT him. But again... I would beg to differ.
That’s the beauty of this tournament; I don’t have to beat ANYBODY. All I have to do is ESCAPE... a skill that comes to me so naturally, I practically make it an ART.
I didn’t have to beat Donovan Astros to get this far in the King of the Cage tournament... and just the same, I won’t have to beat Winters to advance to the semi-final round. All I have to do is outwit him... out-think him... find an opportunity, and slip out before he has a chance do anything about it. I don’t have to beat Layne Winters, because he will simply beat himself... the same way he no doubt beats himself every night, to his own promos.
(This merits a brief chuckle. Stumpy undoes a few clasps on the sides of the elaborate bronze casket and opens it up, revealing the dark and empty interior. Without even looking back, Black takes three steps backwards and fits perfectly into the hollow space within.)
DOPESMOKER
Layne Winters will also have you believe that he’s ready to move on up in the world... and that’s he ready fight the World Heavyweight Champion himself. Again, this is coming from the same man that was on the verge of being CHOKED THE FUCK OUT by this lowly STONER... this “court jester”, unfit for any throne.
What exactly makes him worthy of being on the level of the acclaimed “Triple X” Sean Stevens? His record-breaking tenure as Television Champion? Why, even Karl Brown – the very man who took that title away from him – went a year as the Intercontinental Champion... and just the same, it didn’t get him any closer to the main event. Hearing Layne Winters say he’s ready to fight at the top of the mountain is like hearing a soap-box derby winner say he’s reading to win the Indy 500.
I admire the gumption... but I balk at the sheer stupidity and ignorance.
(He shakes his head again. After a brief trip off stage, Stumpy returns with three very sharp swords in his possession. Black catches his eye... nods... then continues speaking to the crowd.)
DOPESMOKER
Ignorance, it seems, is only natural. As was said before... all humans are limited in their perception of the truth. Allow me to demonstrate one more time...
(Stumpy closes the lid on the sarcophagus, and seals it tight with the clasps. A silence falls over the crowd... and somewhere in the back, we can hear a drum-roll to heighten the sense of drama. Stumpy crosses over to the other side of the bronze coffin, holding up the first sword and finding a slot – one of three lining the edge of the sarcophagus, and just wide enough to fit a sword through. With a forceful THRUST, the midget assistant slides the sword through, it’s pointed in clearly sticking out the other end. The crowd “OOH’s” in wonder.)
(Stumpy raises the second sword to the next slot... and with another forceful thrust, pushes it through the same as the first. Inside, Erik Black would now be skewered through the legs and the abdomen. Stumpy prepares the third sword... but quickly realizes that the last slot is too high for him to reach. The audience chuckles for a moment as he comically bounces a couple times in a vain effort to reach it, then just says to hell with it and grabs a stool from off-stage. Another thrust... and all three swords have pierced the width of the sarcophagus.)
(The drum-roll accelerates as Stumpy undoes one clasp at a time... and finally, the flourish of a CYMBAL heralds the door opening. Inside, we can see the three swords, clearly skewering the interior of the casket... but Erik Black is nowhere to be seen. On cue, the audience applauds this feat... and when they stop clapping, some annoying viewer in the back of the tent continues applauding, slowly and obnoxiously.)
*CLAP... CLAP... CLAP... CLAP...*
(Everyone turns around to look, and lo and behold... there is ERIK BLACK himself, standing at the BACK of the crowd, puffing away at a joint cleft in a cigarette holder as if he’s been there the entire time. They react with some shock and amazement)
DOPESMOKER
Perception of the truth... is not a realization of the truth. Never again believe simply what you see, because there is so much that you CAN’T see.
(He casually struts down an aisle back to the stage – coughing a bit as he lets another hit into the air – then rejoins Stumpy, his assistant, next to the open sarcophagus.)
DOPESMOKER
No magic is at work here... simply the power of ILLUSION. A magician never reveals his secrets, because it debases all that he stands for. I am no magician; I’m an Escape Artist. And to deny you the secrets of my art would be nothing less than a crime.
(On the same wheels used to carry the bronze coffin onto the stage, Black swirls the sarcophagus around so that the audience sees the back end. There’s a clearly defined rectangle on the blind side, which he pushes open, revealing to be a fake door that he no doubt slipped out of while all eyes watched the midget manage the swords.)
DOPESMOKER
You couldn’t see this door before. And yet, if I had not pointed it out, you would have believe that I had just done something physically impossible. What else is there in the world around you that you can’t see?
What is out there that “New School” Layne Winters can’t see with his own eyes, in the light of his own ignorance?
(He shrugs, and closes the fake door. Stumpy wheels the sarcophagus off-stage as Black turns his attention back on his audience.)
DOPESMOKER
I don’t blame Layne for being ignorant. But I DO blame him for being stupid, for choosing only to listen to anybody who puts his shoulders to the mat. Even then, he finds excuses to save face.
At Aggression 53... should I ESCAPE the cage yet again... will he finally listen to what I’ve been painstakingly telling him this entire time? Or is he just doomed to grope through the darkness of life, blind, deaf, and dumb?
(He shakes his head... as if unable to think of an answer.)
DOPESMOKER
These are questions that perhaps have no answer... so I’ll ask another, completely unrelated question, that maybe some of you CAN answer.
Specifically... is there anybody in the audience tonight who would like to purchase some marijuana?
Anybody?
Anybody at all?
(A cry from the back of the tent catches the attention of the audience. Everybody turns back there to see a man with a VIP pass angrily bursting in with a police escort. He points, accusingly, to the man standing on the stage.)
Fair Organizer
There he is, officer! He just SHOWED UP and set this tent up without our approval! I think he's trying to sell DOPE, or something!
(Black raises the aviators briefly – he’s red-eyed to all hell right now – and considers the situation.)
DOPESMOKER
Hm... seems like an ample time to make my exit.
Show’s over, folks... remember what I said. Don’t believe the illusions... don’t believe the LIES. In that cage, the truth will be revealed!
(He makes a graceful bow, and – )
*KA-POW!!*
( – disappears behind a wall of smoke. The cops march to the stage and search the area, but find nothing. Yet again, Erik Black has slipped away into the night.)
420
(A sign hangs over the entrance, that reads: “DR. DOPESMOKER: ESCAPE ARTIST EXTRAORDINAIRE”.)
(Standing on an empty soap box just outside the open slit leading into the dark interior is a small person – a keen eye would recognize the face as that of Stumpy, the favored diminutive sidekick of a certain Viking Pornstar – dressed a pin-striped vest over a white shirt with suspenders, slacks, and a tweed hat. He’s even got a cane to complete the ensemble. As people walk by, he cries out to get their attention.)
Stumpy
Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! Come ONE, come ALL! Witness the very SECRETS of the unknown universe with your very eyes! Let the mysteries of LIFE and LOVE be REVEALED!
Step right inside, young boys and girls! Learn the true value of your precious lives! SEE, with your own two eyes, the impossible become POSSIBLE by a mere pair of human hands!
(The camera, approaching this scene almost unconsciously, is now almost upon the midget. With a devilish grin, Stumpy catches eyes with the camera, and pulls the canvas flap of the tent aside...)
Stumpy
Right inside, sir... but I must WARN you...
...the revelations you are about to learn may send you away SCREAMING! HAHAHA!!
(We step inside the tent, where a few rows of chairs have been set up and are occupied by various fair-goers who dared step inside the tent of Dr. Dopesmoker. The audience faces a blank and unassuming stage, illuminated by a pair of candelabras stationed on the far ends. The camera zooms in on the stage, and for a moment, it almost seems as though the candlelight fades only slightly...)
“Ladies and gentlemen... coming to you all the way from the FURTHEST REGIONS of human consciousness... please welcome the famous ESCAPE ARTIST... DOCTOR DOPESMOKER!!”
*KA-POW!!*
(CUE UP: "Jerursalem (Part 4)" by Sleep. A small explosion goes off right in the center of the stage, sending a thick plume of smoking billowing up into the air. It quickly dissipates, and as soon as it does, it becomes obvious that there is a MAN standing right there where only moments ago, there was NOTHING. The audience gains its first view of Dr. DOPESMOKER... otherwise known as Erik Black.)
(Unlike how he’s previously been seen, Black seems to be putting more effort into making himself look presentable. Yessir, indeed... gone are the days of doing small-time gigs in parking lots. He comes adorn in a dark red Victorian era suit with a frilled-collar under-shirt, also with an attached crimson cape falling past his shoulders. Upon his head, hiding his wild and unkempt hair, is a TURBAN with a green jewel studded right where his “third eye” would be. And, of course, the aviators; Can’t go without the badass sunglasses.)
(He opens his mouth, as if to speak, but perhaps for another reason, as ANOTHER plume of thick smoke billows into the air. He coughs a couple times, waves a hand to clear the air around him, clears his throat, and begins the monologue.)
DOPESMOKER
Welcome, welcome... and thank you all for coming here tonight, ladies and gentlemen. As you all must know by now... I am the one known as DOPESMOKER... the modern day professional wrestling Escape Artist... the traveler of lost and forbidden realms... the seeker of truths and secrets long forgotten and seldom conceived.
(An odd smile forms beneath the large, mirror-like aviators set across the stoner daredevil’s face.)
DOPESMOKER
Tonight, you will WITNESS sights that will leave your mind desperately grasping for answers to questions you never once thought to ask yourselves in the course of your short and insignificant lives. I assure you... this is not fantastical magic, or even divine intervention. All the same, the feats you are about to witness will shake the very foundations of everything you believe to be real.
How is this possible, you ask? Simple...
(Slowly, and with purpose, he paces from one end of the stage to the next, making eye contact with some of the spectators and speaking with a kind of constitution and confidence that would be considered uncanny for your typical pot-head.)
DOPESMOKER
They say that seeing is believing... but that’s not completely true, is it? The average human being is only capable of seeing a single facet of reality at a time... walking through life as if in a tunnel, and unconsciously following the light at the end of the road. But how can anybody know the difference between FACT and FICTION without seeing the big picture?
(He suddenly stops in place, popping one hand behind the small of his back and using the other to hold up four fingers in front of the crowd.)
DOPESMOKER
Allow me to demonstrate, folks. I want you to tell me how many fingers I am holding up.
(The crowd almost unanimously says “Four”, and the smile on Black’s face only seems to widen. Slowly, he brings the hand tucked behind his back around and reveals another four fingers extended.)
DOPESMOKER
You mean... “EIGHT”.
(Some confused murmuring goes through the crowd. Lowering his hands, except for the occasional gesture to give his words the flair of a showman, Black explains...)
DOPESMOKER
You didn’t know I was holding up another four fingers behind my back, did you? Of course not; you couldn’t SEE IT. The limitations of human perception can only see what exists on the SURFACE. From your perspective, you could only see the four fingers on the hand I held out in front of me.
On the surface, one would perceive the fact that I haven’t pinned or forced into submission the man who calls himself the “New School” of professional wrestling as a clear sign of inferiority. But clearly... there’s more truth to the matter than what we can see on the surface. There’s more that lies beneath, in the dark oceans of the mental abyss.
“New School” Layne Winters is afraid to swim in those places... because he can’t see what lurks there in the dark. So he ignores it, and pretend there’s nothing to be seen.
Layne Winters is a man that buys into his own bullshit, and believes in all the illusions and fallacies set around him. Every match he wins serves as justification that what he says is nothing short of the truth. But tonight... I dare all of you to CHANGE your perspective... to see truth and reality in a completely different and foreign light, as I do. I dare Layne Winters to do the same, if he’s even CAPABLE of doing such.
See... the ORIGINAL Escape Artist, Harry Houdini, recognized the limitations of human perspective. It was the secret to his success for many years, and also the reason why he made it his life’s work to debunk the various spiritual mediums across the nation that claimed they had powers above and beyond human capabilities. They were no more magic than they were deceptive, the same way my esteemed opponent is no more gifted than he is full of shi.
In his own mind, Layne Winters believes everything he says to be true. So as Houdini did with so many frauds in his era... I will now do the same to him, and a number of his more ridiculous, shallow-minded claims. I will do this simply by casting these supposed “truths” under a completely different light, to expose his blatant ignorance.
(That smile on his face seems to widen a bit. We still can’t quite make out the full of his expression, given his eyes are hidden behind the aviators, eerily reflecting a blank-faced crowd back upon themselves, as if to reflect their own dismal ignorance.)
DOPESMOKER
Layne Winters believes me to be a FAILURE for not leaving with the Television Title around my waist on more than one occasion. However, failure would imply that I TRIED. The truth is, it was never my intent to strip him of that chintzy and forgettable title. I felt I made this point clear... more than once... but apparently, his memory is worse than that of your average stoner.
Strike three, I’m out? No, I don’t think so; I haven’t even swung the bat yet. Winters is lousy enough at pitching that I don’t have to do ANYTHING before I eventually take a walk to first base.
Even though I’m not standing here now before you as a Television Champion... I never deemed Black Dawn as a failure on my end. If anything, it was a SUCCESS... in that I succeeding in doing everything I set out to do in that match. Being a champion was never my intent; if it WAS, I would have made an actual effort in finishing the match. As it is, the only reason I went into that ring was to prove to those two fools that I DO have the power and the skill and the gumption to beat them at their own game... but I willingly hold back, for lack of any real motivation.
As it came to be, the only thing that prevented me from standing here before you now as the Television Champion was the involvement of a third man. Did I fail to redeem myself, then? I wasn’t aware it was redemption that I was seeking.
The way I see it, the only complete and utter FAILURE in that match was Layne Winters himself... who failed to back up his hollow words and defend his title. Layne Winters... who, as he screamed out in agony while this lowly stoner’s hands pulling back on his mandible in excruciating form, FAILED to prove he was truly any better at wrestling than a mere stoner.
(He shakes his head with clear disapproval, then waves to somebody off stage. Stumpy reappears, this time wheeling out onto the stage what appears to be an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus, stood upright.)
DOPESMOKER
Layne Winters also believes that now, as the two of use enter the confines of the cage, I will have no choice but to finally BEAT him. But again... I would beg to differ.
That’s the beauty of this tournament; I don’t have to beat ANYBODY. All I have to do is ESCAPE... a skill that comes to me so naturally, I practically make it an ART.
I didn’t have to beat Donovan Astros to get this far in the King of the Cage tournament... and just the same, I won’t have to beat Winters to advance to the semi-final round. All I have to do is outwit him... out-think him... find an opportunity, and slip out before he has a chance do anything about it. I don’t have to beat Layne Winters, because he will simply beat himself... the same way he no doubt beats himself every night, to his own promos.
(This merits a brief chuckle. Stumpy undoes a few clasps on the sides of the elaborate bronze casket and opens it up, revealing the dark and empty interior. Without even looking back, Black takes three steps backwards and fits perfectly into the hollow space within.)
DOPESMOKER
Layne Winters will also have you believe that he’s ready to move on up in the world... and that’s he ready fight the World Heavyweight Champion himself. Again, this is coming from the same man that was on the verge of being CHOKED THE FUCK OUT by this lowly STONER... this “court jester”, unfit for any throne.
What exactly makes him worthy of being on the level of the acclaimed “Triple X” Sean Stevens? His record-breaking tenure as Television Champion? Why, even Karl Brown – the very man who took that title away from him – went a year as the Intercontinental Champion... and just the same, it didn’t get him any closer to the main event. Hearing Layne Winters say he’s ready to fight at the top of the mountain is like hearing a soap-box derby winner say he’s reading to win the Indy 500.
I admire the gumption... but I balk at the sheer stupidity and ignorance.
(He shakes his head again. After a brief trip off stage, Stumpy returns with three very sharp swords in his possession. Black catches his eye... nods... then continues speaking to the crowd.)
DOPESMOKER
Ignorance, it seems, is only natural. As was said before... all humans are limited in their perception of the truth. Allow me to demonstrate one more time...
(Stumpy closes the lid on the sarcophagus, and seals it tight with the clasps. A silence falls over the crowd... and somewhere in the back, we can hear a drum-roll to heighten the sense of drama. Stumpy crosses over to the other side of the bronze coffin, holding up the first sword and finding a slot – one of three lining the edge of the sarcophagus, and just wide enough to fit a sword through. With a forceful THRUST, the midget assistant slides the sword through, it’s pointed in clearly sticking out the other end. The crowd “OOH’s” in wonder.)
(Stumpy raises the second sword to the next slot... and with another forceful thrust, pushes it through the same as the first. Inside, Erik Black would now be skewered through the legs and the abdomen. Stumpy prepares the third sword... but quickly realizes that the last slot is too high for him to reach. The audience chuckles for a moment as he comically bounces a couple times in a vain effort to reach it, then just says to hell with it and grabs a stool from off-stage. Another thrust... and all three swords have pierced the width of the sarcophagus.)
(The drum-roll accelerates as Stumpy undoes one clasp at a time... and finally, the flourish of a CYMBAL heralds the door opening. Inside, we can see the three swords, clearly skewering the interior of the casket... but Erik Black is nowhere to be seen. On cue, the audience applauds this feat... and when they stop clapping, some annoying viewer in the back of the tent continues applauding, slowly and obnoxiously.)
*CLAP... CLAP... CLAP... CLAP...*
(Everyone turns around to look, and lo and behold... there is ERIK BLACK himself, standing at the BACK of the crowd, puffing away at a joint cleft in a cigarette holder as if he’s been there the entire time. They react with some shock and amazement)
DOPESMOKER
Perception of the truth... is not a realization of the truth. Never again believe simply what you see, because there is so much that you CAN’T see.
(He casually struts down an aisle back to the stage – coughing a bit as he lets another hit into the air – then rejoins Stumpy, his assistant, next to the open sarcophagus.)
DOPESMOKER
No magic is at work here... simply the power of ILLUSION. A magician never reveals his secrets, because it debases all that he stands for. I am no magician; I’m an Escape Artist. And to deny you the secrets of my art would be nothing less than a crime.
(On the same wheels used to carry the bronze coffin onto the stage, Black swirls the sarcophagus around so that the audience sees the back end. There’s a clearly defined rectangle on the blind side, which he pushes open, revealing to be a fake door that he no doubt slipped out of while all eyes watched the midget manage the swords.)
DOPESMOKER
You couldn’t see this door before. And yet, if I had not pointed it out, you would have believe that I had just done something physically impossible. What else is there in the world around you that you can’t see?
What is out there that “New School” Layne Winters can’t see with his own eyes, in the light of his own ignorance?
(He shrugs, and closes the fake door. Stumpy wheels the sarcophagus off-stage as Black turns his attention back on his audience.)
DOPESMOKER
I don’t blame Layne for being ignorant. But I DO blame him for being stupid, for choosing only to listen to anybody who puts his shoulders to the mat. Even then, he finds excuses to save face.
At Aggression 53... should I ESCAPE the cage yet again... will he finally listen to what I’ve been painstakingly telling him this entire time? Or is he just doomed to grope through the darkness of life, blind, deaf, and dumb?
(He shakes his head... as if unable to think of an answer.)
DOPESMOKER
These are questions that perhaps have no answer... so I’ll ask another, completely unrelated question, that maybe some of you CAN answer.
Specifically... is there anybody in the audience tonight who would like to purchase some marijuana?
Anybody?
Anybody at all?
(A cry from the back of the tent catches the attention of the audience. Everybody turns back there to see a man with a VIP pass angrily bursting in with a police escort. He points, accusingly, to the man standing on the stage.)
Fair Organizer
There he is, officer! He just SHOWED UP and set this tent up without our approval! I think he's trying to sell DOPE, or something!
(Black raises the aviators briefly – he’s red-eyed to all hell right now – and considers the situation.)
DOPESMOKER
Hm... seems like an ample time to make my exit.
Show’s over, folks... remember what I said. Don’t believe the illusions... don’t believe the LIES. In that cage, the truth will be revealed!
(He makes a graceful bow, and – )
*KA-POW!!*
( – disappears behind a wall of smoke. The cops march to the stage and search the area, but find nothing. Yet again, Erik Black has slipped away into the night.)
420
LQJT86C
Where's my money, Chad?
(FADEIN: Television screen, still-shot of Erik Black mid-promo. It's a DVD recording on pause, being watched by a man who's got his feet up on the coffee table in front of him. We hear slurping from a can, a loud, violent crunch...and a can of Coors is soon pelted at the corner of the TV screen)
"Turn that f*ckin' thing around, I've got somethin' to say after watching that garbage, wasting the last 30 minutes of my life..."
(Camera makes a 180 degree turn and is now facing LAYNE WINTERS sitting on his couch, barefoot, jeans, tanktop, cracking open another beer from his cooler)
WINTERS: Now I want you to take notice of somethin', Erik. See this here? It's a cooler, filled with enough beer it could last a man through an entire barbecue. And see these? (grabs a handful of candy bars from the cushion next to him) SNICKERS BARS. And you know what THIS is? (tosses the candy bars aside and grabs a bowl of popcorn from the armchair) POPCORN, Erik. Now can you tell me, for the love of God, does Layne Winters need the TWELVE PACK...CANDY BARS...and a second helping of POPCORN just to sit here and see what another man's got to say about him?
BECAUSE WATCHING YOUR PROMOS IS LIKE A F*CKIN' EVENT.
This ain't the usual "sit down and facepalm myself for 5 minutes while Mike Bastard embarrasses himself" or "endure 3 and a half minutes of Sean Stevens saying PLEASE B*TCH!" It's more like the videos they show the down syndrome kids to calm 'em down from fits of rage that bring on retard strength. I'd love to just fast forward, but I'm afraid I'd wind up givin' you more credit than what you're worth...which is saying a lot, 'cause I didn't think much of you to begin with.
Hell, I don't even know where to start with you. Coming out and saying, "I DIDN'T TRY." OK, tell you what...I DIDN'T TRY EITHER. How do you like that? 50% Layne beat 50% Erik, and 50% Erik came up 100% short on three different occasions. So when we meet at Agg 53, I'm pretty damn sure 100% Layne is gonna beat 100% Erik. What'd I say last time...strike three? Nah, it ain't strike three any more. This sh*t is getting to be like STARKS FOR THREE. You keep up throwing sh*t up at the backboard, throwing it at the dartboard hoping it sticks...but it ain't never gonna. I'm ALWAYS gonna be there, swatting it away, sending you home heartbroken and wondering what life might've been like had Layne Winters never existed.
Probably you'd be right where you are anyway, doing magic shows at kids birthday parties, telling some other guy who beat you about how "I WASN'T EVEN TRYING!"
(Unpauses the DVD, and the camera cuts to the screen where Erik Black is speaking)
Look at you...standing there in your $13 cape and jeweled turban that you brought from Party City in the mall. And you got your little smoke machine going in the back. What IS this sh*t? You look like a homosexual genie. I liked you better when you were smoking reefer within the confines of four walls, where at least you couldn't bother anyone. Watching crap like this makes me wonder why I even started wrestling in the first place...and then I remember there's the payoff where I get to maul you in the center of the ring.
Seeing ain't believing, huh? For your sake, I sincerely hope that's true, because what I'm SEEING is Jambi from Pee Wee's Playhouse giving me the Cliff's Notes of his community college philosophy class. In my case, I ALWAYS believe what I see. And not too long ago, I saw your shoulders pinned to the mat after I drilled your head into the ground. I've also seen you do a lot stupid things- things so mind numbingly dumb, they make Copycat and Yosemite Sam look like strategic geniuses by comparison. Like getting yourself DQ'd and joining up with Stalker, stank bastard that he is.
Guys like you operate on the hope that people will assume some sort of brilliance or gamesmanship behind your f*ckin' moronic actions. Truth is, you give new meaning to "Stupid is as stupid does," 'cause you've done nothing in EPW but a WHOLE LOT of stupid. Me? I do the only thing worth doing in this sport- WIN. And if your week to week bullsh*t ain't adding up to wins, then you're just wasting everybody's time. Seriously Erik, what the F*CK are you here for? What, does Stalker have a fetish for gettin' his dick sucked by a guy in a cape? Is that where Omega drew the line? I bet his lawyer snuck that into the contract with Fusenshoff, the bastard.
When it comes to Layne Winters, there ain't no sleight of hand. WHAT YOU SEE is WHAT YOU GET. And in that cage, the people are gonna see clear as day, no sleeves necessary...as I bluntly end your run in this tournament. It's about ONE MAN making it to the top of that hill. I hope that's what you're after, Erik, I really do. Because if you get into that cage looking to f*ck around for sh*ts and giggles...you're gonna get seriously hurt. This isn't a game to me, or a fashion show, or a way to get noticed.
You play around with men, you're gonna get treated like one. Are you a man, Erik? Or are you a sideshow? A little boy...pretending like he wants to play with the grown ups. 'Cause tell you what...I'll make you disappear in that cage, and no there's not a top hat in this f*cking universe that'll bring you back.
(FADEOUT)
"Turn that f*ckin' thing around, I've got somethin' to say after watching that garbage, wasting the last 30 minutes of my life..."
(Camera makes a 180 degree turn and is now facing LAYNE WINTERS sitting on his couch, barefoot, jeans, tanktop, cracking open another beer from his cooler)
WINTERS: Now I want you to take notice of somethin', Erik. See this here? It's a cooler, filled with enough beer it could last a man through an entire barbecue. And see these? (grabs a handful of candy bars from the cushion next to him) SNICKERS BARS. And you know what THIS is? (tosses the candy bars aside and grabs a bowl of popcorn from the armchair) POPCORN, Erik. Now can you tell me, for the love of God, does Layne Winters need the TWELVE PACK...CANDY BARS...and a second helping of POPCORN just to sit here and see what another man's got to say about him?
BECAUSE WATCHING YOUR PROMOS IS LIKE A F*CKIN' EVENT.
This ain't the usual "sit down and facepalm myself for 5 minutes while Mike Bastard embarrasses himself" or "endure 3 and a half minutes of Sean Stevens saying PLEASE B*TCH!" It's more like the videos they show the down syndrome kids to calm 'em down from fits of rage that bring on retard strength. I'd love to just fast forward, but I'm afraid I'd wind up givin' you more credit than what you're worth...which is saying a lot, 'cause I didn't think much of you to begin with.
Hell, I don't even know where to start with you. Coming out and saying, "I DIDN'T TRY." OK, tell you what...I DIDN'T TRY EITHER. How do you like that? 50% Layne beat 50% Erik, and 50% Erik came up 100% short on three different occasions. So when we meet at Agg 53, I'm pretty damn sure 100% Layne is gonna beat 100% Erik. What'd I say last time...strike three? Nah, it ain't strike three any more. This sh*t is getting to be like STARKS FOR THREE. You keep up throwing sh*t up at the backboard, throwing it at the dartboard hoping it sticks...but it ain't never gonna. I'm ALWAYS gonna be there, swatting it away, sending you home heartbroken and wondering what life might've been like had Layne Winters never existed.
Probably you'd be right where you are anyway, doing magic shows at kids birthday parties, telling some other guy who beat you about how "I WASN'T EVEN TRYING!"
(Unpauses the DVD, and the camera cuts to the screen where Erik Black is speaking)
Look at you...standing there in your $13 cape and jeweled turban that you brought from Party City in the mall. And you got your little smoke machine going in the back. What IS this sh*t? You look like a homosexual genie. I liked you better when you were smoking reefer within the confines of four walls, where at least you couldn't bother anyone. Watching crap like this makes me wonder why I even started wrestling in the first place...and then I remember there's the payoff where I get to maul you in the center of the ring.
Seeing ain't believing, huh? For your sake, I sincerely hope that's true, because what I'm SEEING is Jambi from Pee Wee's Playhouse giving me the Cliff's Notes of his community college philosophy class. In my case, I ALWAYS believe what I see. And not too long ago, I saw your shoulders pinned to the mat after I drilled your head into the ground. I've also seen you do a lot stupid things- things so mind numbingly dumb, they make Copycat and Yosemite Sam look like strategic geniuses by comparison. Like getting yourself DQ'd and joining up with Stalker, stank bastard that he is.
Guys like you operate on the hope that people will assume some sort of brilliance or gamesmanship behind your f*ckin' moronic actions. Truth is, you give new meaning to "Stupid is as stupid does," 'cause you've done nothing in EPW but a WHOLE LOT of stupid. Me? I do the only thing worth doing in this sport- WIN. And if your week to week bullsh*t ain't adding up to wins, then you're just wasting everybody's time. Seriously Erik, what the F*CK are you here for? What, does Stalker have a fetish for gettin' his dick sucked by a guy in a cape? Is that where Omega drew the line? I bet his lawyer snuck that into the contract with Fusenshoff, the bastard.
When it comes to Layne Winters, there ain't no sleight of hand. WHAT YOU SEE is WHAT YOU GET. And in that cage, the people are gonna see clear as day, no sleeves necessary...as I bluntly end your run in this tournament. It's about ONE MAN making it to the top of that hill. I hope that's what you're after, Erik, I really do. Because if you get into that cage looking to f*ck around for sh*ts and giggles...you're gonna get seriously hurt. This isn't a game to me, or a fashion show, or a way to get noticed.
You play around with men, you're gonna get treated like one. Are you a man, Erik? Or are you a sideshow? A little boy...pretending like he wants to play with the grown ups. 'Cause tell you what...I'll make you disappear in that cage, and no there's not a top hat in this f*cking universe that'll bring you back.
(FADEOUT)
Last edited:
(We fade in on a busy street, in what we can only assume is the downtown area of Minneapolis. The place has pretty high pedestrian traffic. The camera opens up outside a theater, where people are filing in through sets of spinning glass doors after flashing oddly red tickets to the ticketmaster in the booth.)
(The camera pans up to get a shot of the marquee. It reads: “DOPESMOKER: A JOURNEY INTO THE MIND’S EYE”.)
(We cut inside where the last few people are finding their seats. A large red curtain is pulled across the stage. Everything seems very quiet and reserved... professional, even. After a moment, the lights begin to dim... and a deep, baritone voice makes a soft introduction.)
“Ladies and gentlemen... here is... the DOPESMOKER.”
(The audience applauds. No cheers, no whoops... just very formal clapping. The curtain, parted down the middle, is drawn aside... and the stage lights come up.)
(CUE UP: “Jerusalem (Part 5)” by Sleep. A quartet of female dancers – dressed unusually like druids – perform a brief routine for the viewing audience in time to the music. Suffice to say, it’s very slow. After a series of synchronized steps and moves, the four converge in a brief circle. When they step away... “DOPESMOKER” ERIK BLACK is standing where the center of the circle would have been. It’s as though he’s just appeared out of nowhere.)
(The audience claps again as the star of the show makes his appearance, rather dramatically holding his arms out to his sides, head titled down so that his hair obscures the upper portion of his face. He’s wearing black pants and a long-sleeve black shirt with a turtle neck. The David Blaine look. When the clapping dies down, he speaks...)
DOPESMOKER
“He that has and a little tiny wit,
“With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
“Must make content with his fortunes fit,
“For the rain it raineth every day.”
(He lowers his arms and raises his head... revealing that he’s still wearing his aviators. You’d think he slept with them on, or something. Ah, well... aviators are the stoner eye-wear of choice.)
DOPESMOKER
Good evening ladies and gentlemen... and welcome to the show. I hope you got your popcorn, candy bars, and six packs.
I know why it is that you’ve come here all tonight. You’ve to see the secrets of the Cosmos and the world around you revealed... to have your inhibited perspectives expanded. Since you’ve made it this far, then I must assume you at least have the courage to want to know.
Tonight’s theme is POWER... specifically, who really has it... and who really NEEDS it. “Power” is a dubious force... and comes in many forms. There is power gained in having money. There is physical power in the human potential. There is even power in mental and intellectual dominance.
When you think of the person with the most power in the world... only one kind person comes to mind... and that is the image of the KING.
(Hands folded in front of him, he paces from one end of the stage to the next, eyes cast down to the stage.)
DOPESMOKER
The quote I’ve just given you moments ago comes from Bill Shakespeare’s “King Lear”. For those who are unfamiliar with the play... I’ll give you a brief run-down.
Lear, the titular character, exiles his youngest daughter from the kingdom when she refuses to be forced to declare her love and loyalty for her father and king. This leaves the inheritance of his wealth and power to be divided among his remaining two daughters when they profess their own undying love.
He soon discovers that these were hollow claims, meant to soften him up and win him over. Faced with the realization of this blunder, he runs out into a raging storm... stricken with madness, and raving like a lunatic.
Those words spoken to you earlier, however, don’t come from any wisened KING, or earl, or duke, or ungrateful daughter. No... those are the words of the Fool... Lear’s court jester, accomplice, critic, and, incidentally, his only friend left in the world when the storm ultimately sets in, and his kingdom crumbles around him.
A rough translation to that passage would be... “You really shot yourself in the foot this time, Boss... and it’s only going to get worse from here on out, cause now you gotta DANCE.”
(The audience chuckles briefly at this dry humor. He stops, turns to the audience again.)
DOPESMOKER
The King... the most powerful man in the land, who can move MOUNTAINS at his command... and yet, is completely POWERLESS in gaining the love he wants from his daughters... and is equally powerless to control his own insanity when it ultimately sets in. He was proud... he was STUPID... but he’s not alone.
My opponent at Aggression 53 – LAYNE WINTERS... the man who calls himself the “New School” of professional wrestling, and future KING of the Cage – suggests that I, the acclaimed Artiste de Fuite and humble Smoker of the Dope – am but a court jester in a king’s court.
And you know something? He’s completely right when he says that. But he’s WRONG when he thinks he’s insulting me. Fact is... I’m just fine with being the Fool.
(A sardonic smile crosses his face.)
DOPESMOKER
See... the Fool is more interesting than people give him credit for. On the surface, he’s just a bumbling clown... a man meant for gags and laughs. But upon closer inspection, one would notice he uses humor only as a medium to say things that nobody else can say, given their rank and identity. The Fool is the only person in the king’s court who has the REAL power to point out the fallacies and illusions that exist everywhere you look. He is the ONLY individual that works outside the boundaries of political correctness and taboo. He tells it like it is... and regardless of whether or not people take his words seriously... there’s always a tinge of truth to them.
I mean... is it any wonder why the majority of people today look to the Daily Show as their primary source of news in the world? Could that be, perhaps, that it’s because Jon Stewart has the BALLS to say things that your typical newscaster CAN’T in order to maintain a false sense of professionalism?
Shakespeare’s Fool is no different. It’s not surprising, then, that when shit finally hits the fan for Lear, and he realizes the folly of his own pride and the misuse of his power, his loyal FOOL is the only man to openly recognize all that has happened, all that IS happening, and all that WILL happen. Contradictory to what his title might suggest... the Fool is anything but foolish. In fact... he seems to be the only person competent and wise enough to realize his master’s self-imposed doom and bleak retribution.
No... the only real fool in all of this is Layne Winters himself... a man who has time and time again IGNORED the truths I’ve put before him, just as King Lear so foolishly ignored all the warnings and caveats given to him.
(He lowers his head again, shaking it sadly.)
DOPESMOKER
“New School” Layne Winters... another rat caught in the never-ending race... another lost soul, committed to the fruitless pursuit of power and fame. Another plastic, prepackaged action-figure with Kung-Fu grip... buying into his own bullshit... thinking that the end-all, be-all of this sport is winning matches and decorating the waistline with a bit of chintzy metal... believing, with what little BRAIN MATTER there is in that sad man’s head, that he’s got a special something that sets him above all the OTHER plastic, pre-packaged jack-offs with the same one-dimensional ideals.
He had so much potential to go far... to become great... and some day, maybe he will. But, in a rare act, I’ve decided this time around to transcend over my own apathy... to for once, actually GIVE A SHIT about what I do in that ring... to prove to him just how wrong he is, and always has been.
So... let’s get this going. Let’s reveal the truth... for once and for all.
(He turns his back to the crowd and walks toward the back end of the stage. Backlighting comes up, revealing a long metal piece of scaffolding lying prone on the ground, with two support beams jutting up about thirty feet on the ends. The dancing druids return, one carrying a straight jacket...)
DOPESMOKER
I stand here before you here tonight, ladies and gentlemen... boldly declaring that the infantile pursuit of power is nothing but an illusion... a truth as empty as my lungs are blackened with thick resin... yet still widely believed to be the one, true goal of every man and woman to ever step between the ropes. As we all know well by now... I ERASE illusions... as my predecessor Houdini so many years before me.
You see... everybody wants to be the King of the Empire... everybody wants to be the World Heavyweight Champion... to have the POWER and RESPECT that the position supposedly merits. But the King is not invincible, nor is he omnipotent. If anything, he’s vulnerable... and only the Fool knows how he is. Just ask Lear... who thought he had everything and found he had NOTHING.
I know how Layne Winters is vulnerable in ways that even Layne Winters doesn’t realize himself. That’s the advantage I have. His self-perception of his own power is an illusion that is preposterous as it is fake. As he willingly swims in this ocean of ignorance... I will use truth as my weapon, to bring his world crashing down around him... to kill the dreams of power and grandeur of the so-called dream-killer of Empire Pro.
(Black bends over and removes his shirt as he stands at the center part of the scaffold, setting his feet into two place-holders. Two of the druids lock his legs in place. Holding his arms out again in a Christ-like pose, the other two druids open the straight jacket and strap it on him. His eyes don’t the leave the audience.)
DOPESMOKER
The truth is... I never WANTED his Television Title. He seems to think I was left “heart broken” after our every encounter, but it seems to me like he’s willingly forgetting the NUMEROUS TIMES I boldly declared my complete lack of interest in carrying that belt. In our last encounter at Black Dawn, I emphasized this point but refusing to make a cover at any point in the match. Sometimes I wonder... how many times to I have to reiterate to this asshole that I HAVE NO INTEREST in feeding my ego.
The truth is... I don’t even want to be King of the Cage. There is not to be a crown on this Fool’s head. But I’m going to win this tournament, just the same. I’m going to prove to this entire federation that I don’t have to be the best wrestler in that locker room in order to succeed and move ahead of them.
The truth is... Layne Winters has no penis.
The TRUTH IS, ladies and gentlemen... in the nine months since he spiked my head off the mat at Aggression 48... I’ve spiked HIS HEAD off of BARB multiple times... and set him into the Cottonmouth at least twice. I held him there while he flailed and screamed in agony. He chooses to forget this ever happened, BUT... it happened, just the same. It’s there on tape if you don’t believe me. He sent me home “heart broken”. I sent him home HEAD broken. Listening to him now, it’s obvious that I’ve given the poor bastard brain damage with all the chair shots and chokeholds he’s been through.
(The druids tighten the straps and the locks, then move to the opposite ends of the scaffolding, where the support beams are. Pulling on sets of cables, the scaffold slowly begins to raise. Black, from his black in the middle, ascends with it... arms bound in the jacket and legs bound in the place-holders. Once he’s reached the top, the druids walk off stage...)
DOPESMOKER
But the most important truth of all, ladies and gentlemen, is that in spite of not getting the job done the last three times... THIS time, we’re stepping into the CAGE... where the Escape Artist works BEST.
I have two things Layne Winters only WISHES he had: SPEED and CUNNING. These are my greatest strengths within the cage. Regardless of who really IS the better man in terms of talent and skill... all I have to do is ESCAPE to move on this tournament. He KNOWS this... but for the life of him, he can’t give an honest answer as to how he’ll prepare for it.
So he just sits there... mocks the way I stand here to ENLIGHTEN YOU with provoking thoughts and mind-blowing feats... such as the one I will perform for you NOW...
(The druids return... two of them dragging a thick sheet of padding, which they set some feet before the scaffold, in case somebody should fall from there. Somebody probably WILL. What’s more interesting is what the other two druid dancers are pushing onto the stage, which is a large bed of very sharp blades, jutting straight up. They position this directly below the scaffold. One can see, now, that the blades align with the gaps in the scaffolding. From above, a digital clock lowers. The time is set as 4:20.)
DOPESMOKER
The ends of this platform I’m currently affixed to are rigged to detach themselves the moment this counter begins counting down from exactly four minutes and twenty seconds. In that time, I will attempt to escape this straight jacket... the bindings on my feet... and leap safely to the padding down below.
If I don’t manage to do this in the allotted time, the scaffold will lose its support... free-fall some thirty feet straight down... and I will be cut to pieces by the very real sharp blades set below me.
(The druids clear the stage. The lights dim until only a spotlight is on Black now, reflecting two white orbs in his mirror-like aviators.)
DOPESMOKER
There’s a good chance I may not even make it to Aggression 53, to reveal these truths to Layne Winters first-hand, when I step into that cage, run circles around him, and slip either out the Zane Gate or over the wall. All the same... I will do this... just to prove that I can escape ANYTHING.
(He glances off stage...)
DOPESMOKER
Okay... start the counter.
(At once, the clock begins counting down... 4:19... 4:18... 4:17...)
(Black’s torso twists and struggles as he tries to free his arms from their bindings. The audience is deadly silent. Past the four minute mark now... 3:59... 3:58... 3:57. Black’s efforts are proving almost useless, and for several moments it seems as though his flailing becomes even more spasmodic... panicked, even. Something must be going horribly wrong...)
(The clock passes the three minute mark. Black’s motions stop, and he looks around, a blank expression on his face... the look of a man who perhaps knows he is only minutes away from killing himself in front of a live audience. 2:46... 2:45... 2:44...)
(The camera zooms in on Erik Black’s face... and it’s then we notice that there are FINGERS creeping out of the collar of the straight jacket. In the fingers, there’s a thin white object... a JOINT. Quite casually, Black pops this into his mouth. The fingers disappear into the jacket again... returning to reveal they’re holding a LIGHTER! He flicks it and burns the end of the spliff... taking a long, hard drag and releasing it, which the clock just ticks away... 2:13... 2:12... 2:11... knowing time is growing short, the fingers drop the lighter to the stage, and push themselves further.
(Through more twisting and turning, fingers become a hand... the hand becomes a forearm... and suddenly, he has the leverage to move. Dropping below two minutes left, his arm reaches over his shoulder, undoing the first strap on the jacket. This gives him only more room to push his arm out, undoing the second strap. Time ticks away as he calmly undoes the straight jacket... 1:36... 1:35... 1:34... and the jacket is OFF, getting an “OOH!” from the audience.)
(The straight jacket falls down to the stage, fluttering white in the dark, landing in a heap just to the left of the safety padding. With his arms free, Black’s sweat drenched body goes to work on the confines around his ankles. He undoes his left leg first... 1:02... 1:01... 1:00... less than a minute now, as he begins working on the right leg.)
(Finally, with a little less than a minute left on the clock, he frees his other leg. The Escape Artist has ESCAPED the trap he built for himself. Looking down at the safety padding, he steps to the edge of the scaffold, preparing to jump off... but DOESN’T. Instead, he calmly looks over his shoulder, watching the clock. 0:32... 0:31... 0:30... when he looks back to the audience, there’s a defiant GRIN on his face, as he lets the clock bleed down.)
(The countdown continues, and a confused murmur ripples through the crowd. Why hasn’t he JUMPED yet? 0:13... 0:12... 0:11... just TEN SECONDS now! And still, he waits... fingers flittering slightly as he bends his knees, preparing for the dismount...
(Seven... six... five... four... three... TWO... ONE!!)
(A loud pop PEALS through the theater as the supports break free, and with a SCREECH, the scaffold PLUNGES to the bed of blades below... and in that instant, Erik Black SPRINGS OFF, gracefully SOMERSAULTING through the air. The scaffold CRASHES to the stage first, blades slicing through the gaps but cutting NOTHING but the air. Black hits a half second later, making a perfect two-footed dismount on the pad. A second later, he perks straight up, arms held straight into the air, and joint jutting out of his mouth as if it were attached to him.)
(The crowd doesn’t just clap this time around. They break into an all-out ROAR. Black makes a single bow...)
DOPESMOKER
Thank you ladies and gentlemen... it’s been a blast.
(All at once, the lights cut to black. The applause subsides... and when they pop back on...)
(Erik Black is STILL STANDING there... shirt-less, sweat-drenched, breathing heavily. No disappearing act this time... but...)
(Seeing is not believing.)
(The camera zooms out... and reveals that he’s no longer standing on a stage in a theater. He’s standing in an EMPTY ARENA, right in front of a wrestling ring where the steel cage has already been set up. Just seconds ago, he was standing in front of a complete audience, who have all but seemingly VANISHED. It could have been a simple editing trick, BUT... the joint is still there in his mouth... the aviators are still there on his face... hell, even the STRAIGHT JACKET is still sitting there on the floor, as if it had been there there the entire time. He removes the shades and looks directly into the camera... directly into the EYES of Layne Winters, sitting at home, finishing off beer number six and stuffing the last Pay Day into his b*tch mouth – a rare occasion in which he’s NOT talking shit.)
DOPESMOKER
I really mean that, Layne, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal; it HAS been a blast... going into that ring one week after the next and making you look good. But you’ve been smoking the bowl of luck for far too long, and at Aggression 53, in THIS cage... that bowl is going to be CASHED.
You can refuse to acknowledge it all you want, but the fact is, I SMOKED YOUR DUMB-ASS at Black Dawn... and while I didn’t walk away with a belt that I didn’t even want to begin with... you can’t deny that I had a distinct hand in forcing you to lose it.
The Television Title was the best thing that ever happened to you... but you let the POWER get to your head. But you HAVE no power, bro... you’re just living in a world of dreams and illusions. You want to be KING? This Fool thinks – KNOWS – that you’re hitting a ten-foot bong that you don’t have HALF the lung-capacity to take.
At Aggression 53, you’ll walk into the ring, thinking that history will repeat itself. But you will only come to find out that everything you THOUGHT was real was nothing more than a LIE. Paco, I’m going to FUCKING BLIND YOU with the rays of the NEW STONER SUN RISING... and in time, you’ll come to realize that what I did in stripping you of that belt at Black Dawn was the beginning of the end for you... the first step in the FALL of Layne Winters, and the subsequent RISE of the DOPESMOKER.
(As he says this, the beam of a flash-light falls on his face. Figures, the minutes he takes the damn sunglasses off...)
Security Guard
Hey! What the hell are you doing in here?!
...are you SMOKING WEED DOWN THERE, you little punk!?
DOPESMOKER
GODDAMN COPS!! A STONER just can’t catch a break sometimes...
(In Bugs Bunny fashion, Black raises a leg, and darts off into the dark. The rent-a-cop – heard flopping sluggishly down the aisle – shouts out a few protests and commands to stop, but he’s already gone... like a THIEF in the NIGHT, making off with the crown jewels.)
420
(The camera pans up to get a shot of the marquee. It reads: “DOPESMOKER: A JOURNEY INTO THE MIND’S EYE”.)
(We cut inside where the last few people are finding their seats. A large red curtain is pulled across the stage. Everything seems very quiet and reserved... professional, even. After a moment, the lights begin to dim... and a deep, baritone voice makes a soft introduction.)
“Ladies and gentlemen... here is... the DOPESMOKER.”
(The audience applauds. No cheers, no whoops... just very formal clapping. The curtain, parted down the middle, is drawn aside... and the stage lights come up.)
(CUE UP: “Jerusalem (Part 5)” by Sleep. A quartet of female dancers – dressed unusually like druids – perform a brief routine for the viewing audience in time to the music. Suffice to say, it’s very slow. After a series of synchronized steps and moves, the four converge in a brief circle. When they step away... “DOPESMOKER” ERIK BLACK is standing where the center of the circle would have been. It’s as though he’s just appeared out of nowhere.)
(The audience claps again as the star of the show makes his appearance, rather dramatically holding his arms out to his sides, head titled down so that his hair obscures the upper portion of his face. He’s wearing black pants and a long-sleeve black shirt with a turtle neck. The David Blaine look. When the clapping dies down, he speaks...)
DOPESMOKER
“He that has and a little tiny wit,
“With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
“Must make content with his fortunes fit,
“For the rain it raineth every day.”
(He lowers his arms and raises his head... revealing that he’s still wearing his aviators. You’d think he slept with them on, or something. Ah, well... aviators are the stoner eye-wear of choice.)
DOPESMOKER
Good evening ladies and gentlemen... and welcome to the show. I hope you got your popcorn, candy bars, and six packs.
I know why it is that you’ve come here all tonight. You’ve to see the secrets of the Cosmos and the world around you revealed... to have your inhibited perspectives expanded. Since you’ve made it this far, then I must assume you at least have the courage to want to know.
Tonight’s theme is POWER... specifically, who really has it... and who really NEEDS it. “Power” is a dubious force... and comes in many forms. There is power gained in having money. There is physical power in the human potential. There is even power in mental and intellectual dominance.
When you think of the person with the most power in the world... only one kind person comes to mind... and that is the image of the KING.
(Hands folded in front of him, he paces from one end of the stage to the next, eyes cast down to the stage.)
DOPESMOKER
The quote I’ve just given you moments ago comes from Bill Shakespeare’s “King Lear”. For those who are unfamiliar with the play... I’ll give you a brief run-down.
Lear, the titular character, exiles his youngest daughter from the kingdom when she refuses to be forced to declare her love and loyalty for her father and king. This leaves the inheritance of his wealth and power to be divided among his remaining two daughters when they profess their own undying love.
He soon discovers that these were hollow claims, meant to soften him up and win him over. Faced with the realization of this blunder, he runs out into a raging storm... stricken with madness, and raving like a lunatic.
Those words spoken to you earlier, however, don’t come from any wisened KING, or earl, or duke, or ungrateful daughter. No... those are the words of the Fool... Lear’s court jester, accomplice, critic, and, incidentally, his only friend left in the world when the storm ultimately sets in, and his kingdom crumbles around him.
A rough translation to that passage would be... “You really shot yourself in the foot this time, Boss... and it’s only going to get worse from here on out, cause now you gotta DANCE.”
(The audience chuckles briefly at this dry humor. He stops, turns to the audience again.)
DOPESMOKER
The King... the most powerful man in the land, who can move MOUNTAINS at his command... and yet, is completely POWERLESS in gaining the love he wants from his daughters... and is equally powerless to control his own insanity when it ultimately sets in. He was proud... he was STUPID... but he’s not alone.
My opponent at Aggression 53 – LAYNE WINTERS... the man who calls himself the “New School” of professional wrestling, and future KING of the Cage – suggests that I, the acclaimed Artiste de Fuite and humble Smoker of the Dope – am but a court jester in a king’s court.
And you know something? He’s completely right when he says that. But he’s WRONG when he thinks he’s insulting me. Fact is... I’m just fine with being the Fool.
(A sardonic smile crosses his face.)
DOPESMOKER
See... the Fool is more interesting than people give him credit for. On the surface, he’s just a bumbling clown... a man meant for gags and laughs. But upon closer inspection, one would notice he uses humor only as a medium to say things that nobody else can say, given their rank and identity. The Fool is the only person in the king’s court who has the REAL power to point out the fallacies and illusions that exist everywhere you look. He is the ONLY individual that works outside the boundaries of political correctness and taboo. He tells it like it is... and regardless of whether or not people take his words seriously... there’s always a tinge of truth to them.
I mean... is it any wonder why the majority of people today look to the Daily Show as their primary source of news in the world? Could that be, perhaps, that it’s because Jon Stewart has the BALLS to say things that your typical newscaster CAN’T in order to maintain a false sense of professionalism?
Shakespeare’s Fool is no different. It’s not surprising, then, that when shit finally hits the fan for Lear, and he realizes the folly of his own pride and the misuse of his power, his loyal FOOL is the only man to openly recognize all that has happened, all that IS happening, and all that WILL happen. Contradictory to what his title might suggest... the Fool is anything but foolish. In fact... he seems to be the only person competent and wise enough to realize his master’s self-imposed doom and bleak retribution.
No... the only real fool in all of this is Layne Winters himself... a man who has time and time again IGNORED the truths I’ve put before him, just as King Lear so foolishly ignored all the warnings and caveats given to him.
(He lowers his head again, shaking it sadly.)
DOPESMOKER
“New School” Layne Winters... another rat caught in the never-ending race... another lost soul, committed to the fruitless pursuit of power and fame. Another plastic, prepackaged action-figure with Kung-Fu grip... buying into his own bullshit... thinking that the end-all, be-all of this sport is winning matches and decorating the waistline with a bit of chintzy metal... believing, with what little BRAIN MATTER there is in that sad man’s head, that he’s got a special something that sets him above all the OTHER plastic, pre-packaged jack-offs with the same one-dimensional ideals.
He had so much potential to go far... to become great... and some day, maybe he will. But, in a rare act, I’ve decided this time around to transcend over my own apathy... to for once, actually GIVE A SHIT about what I do in that ring... to prove to him just how wrong he is, and always has been.
So... let’s get this going. Let’s reveal the truth... for once and for all.
(He turns his back to the crowd and walks toward the back end of the stage. Backlighting comes up, revealing a long metal piece of scaffolding lying prone on the ground, with two support beams jutting up about thirty feet on the ends. The dancing druids return, one carrying a straight jacket...)
DOPESMOKER
I stand here before you here tonight, ladies and gentlemen... boldly declaring that the infantile pursuit of power is nothing but an illusion... a truth as empty as my lungs are blackened with thick resin... yet still widely believed to be the one, true goal of every man and woman to ever step between the ropes. As we all know well by now... I ERASE illusions... as my predecessor Houdini so many years before me.
You see... everybody wants to be the King of the Empire... everybody wants to be the World Heavyweight Champion... to have the POWER and RESPECT that the position supposedly merits. But the King is not invincible, nor is he omnipotent. If anything, he’s vulnerable... and only the Fool knows how he is. Just ask Lear... who thought he had everything and found he had NOTHING.
I know how Layne Winters is vulnerable in ways that even Layne Winters doesn’t realize himself. That’s the advantage I have. His self-perception of his own power is an illusion that is preposterous as it is fake. As he willingly swims in this ocean of ignorance... I will use truth as my weapon, to bring his world crashing down around him... to kill the dreams of power and grandeur of the so-called dream-killer of Empire Pro.
(Black bends over and removes his shirt as he stands at the center part of the scaffold, setting his feet into two place-holders. Two of the druids lock his legs in place. Holding his arms out again in a Christ-like pose, the other two druids open the straight jacket and strap it on him. His eyes don’t the leave the audience.)
DOPESMOKER
The truth is... I never WANTED his Television Title. He seems to think I was left “heart broken” after our every encounter, but it seems to me like he’s willingly forgetting the NUMEROUS TIMES I boldly declared my complete lack of interest in carrying that belt. In our last encounter at Black Dawn, I emphasized this point but refusing to make a cover at any point in the match. Sometimes I wonder... how many times to I have to reiterate to this asshole that I HAVE NO INTEREST in feeding my ego.
The truth is... I don’t even want to be King of the Cage. There is not to be a crown on this Fool’s head. But I’m going to win this tournament, just the same. I’m going to prove to this entire federation that I don’t have to be the best wrestler in that locker room in order to succeed and move ahead of them.
The truth is... Layne Winters has no penis.
The TRUTH IS, ladies and gentlemen... in the nine months since he spiked my head off the mat at Aggression 48... I’ve spiked HIS HEAD off of BARB multiple times... and set him into the Cottonmouth at least twice. I held him there while he flailed and screamed in agony. He chooses to forget this ever happened, BUT... it happened, just the same. It’s there on tape if you don’t believe me. He sent me home “heart broken”. I sent him home HEAD broken. Listening to him now, it’s obvious that I’ve given the poor bastard brain damage with all the chair shots and chokeholds he’s been through.
(The druids tighten the straps and the locks, then move to the opposite ends of the scaffolding, where the support beams are. Pulling on sets of cables, the scaffold slowly begins to raise. Black, from his black in the middle, ascends with it... arms bound in the jacket and legs bound in the place-holders. Once he’s reached the top, the druids walk off stage...)
DOPESMOKER
But the most important truth of all, ladies and gentlemen, is that in spite of not getting the job done the last three times... THIS time, we’re stepping into the CAGE... where the Escape Artist works BEST.
I have two things Layne Winters only WISHES he had: SPEED and CUNNING. These are my greatest strengths within the cage. Regardless of who really IS the better man in terms of talent and skill... all I have to do is ESCAPE to move on this tournament. He KNOWS this... but for the life of him, he can’t give an honest answer as to how he’ll prepare for it.
So he just sits there... mocks the way I stand here to ENLIGHTEN YOU with provoking thoughts and mind-blowing feats... such as the one I will perform for you NOW...
(The druids return... two of them dragging a thick sheet of padding, which they set some feet before the scaffold, in case somebody should fall from there. Somebody probably WILL. What’s more interesting is what the other two druid dancers are pushing onto the stage, which is a large bed of very sharp blades, jutting straight up. They position this directly below the scaffold. One can see, now, that the blades align with the gaps in the scaffolding. From above, a digital clock lowers. The time is set as 4:20.)
DOPESMOKER
The ends of this platform I’m currently affixed to are rigged to detach themselves the moment this counter begins counting down from exactly four minutes and twenty seconds. In that time, I will attempt to escape this straight jacket... the bindings on my feet... and leap safely to the padding down below.
If I don’t manage to do this in the allotted time, the scaffold will lose its support... free-fall some thirty feet straight down... and I will be cut to pieces by the very real sharp blades set below me.
(The druids clear the stage. The lights dim until only a spotlight is on Black now, reflecting two white orbs in his mirror-like aviators.)
DOPESMOKER
There’s a good chance I may not even make it to Aggression 53, to reveal these truths to Layne Winters first-hand, when I step into that cage, run circles around him, and slip either out the Zane Gate or over the wall. All the same... I will do this... just to prove that I can escape ANYTHING.
(He glances off stage...)
DOPESMOKER
Okay... start the counter.
(At once, the clock begins counting down... 4:19... 4:18... 4:17...)
(Black’s torso twists and struggles as he tries to free his arms from their bindings. The audience is deadly silent. Past the four minute mark now... 3:59... 3:58... 3:57. Black’s efforts are proving almost useless, and for several moments it seems as though his flailing becomes even more spasmodic... panicked, even. Something must be going horribly wrong...)
(The clock passes the three minute mark. Black’s motions stop, and he looks around, a blank expression on his face... the look of a man who perhaps knows he is only minutes away from killing himself in front of a live audience. 2:46... 2:45... 2:44...)
(The camera zooms in on Erik Black’s face... and it’s then we notice that there are FINGERS creeping out of the collar of the straight jacket. In the fingers, there’s a thin white object... a JOINT. Quite casually, Black pops this into his mouth. The fingers disappear into the jacket again... returning to reveal they’re holding a LIGHTER! He flicks it and burns the end of the spliff... taking a long, hard drag and releasing it, which the clock just ticks away... 2:13... 2:12... 2:11... knowing time is growing short, the fingers drop the lighter to the stage, and push themselves further.
(Through more twisting and turning, fingers become a hand... the hand becomes a forearm... and suddenly, he has the leverage to move. Dropping below two minutes left, his arm reaches over his shoulder, undoing the first strap on the jacket. This gives him only more room to push his arm out, undoing the second strap. Time ticks away as he calmly undoes the straight jacket... 1:36... 1:35... 1:34... and the jacket is OFF, getting an “OOH!” from the audience.)
(The straight jacket falls down to the stage, fluttering white in the dark, landing in a heap just to the left of the safety padding. With his arms free, Black’s sweat drenched body goes to work on the confines around his ankles. He undoes his left leg first... 1:02... 1:01... 1:00... less than a minute now, as he begins working on the right leg.)
(Finally, with a little less than a minute left on the clock, he frees his other leg. The Escape Artist has ESCAPED the trap he built for himself. Looking down at the safety padding, he steps to the edge of the scaffold, preparing to jump off... but DOESN’T. Instead, he calmly looks over his shoulder, watching the clock. 0:32... 0:31... 0:30... when he looks back to the audience, there’s a defiant GRIN on his face, as he lets the clock bleed down.)
(The countdown continues, and a confused murmur ripples through the crowd. Why hasn’t he JUMPED yet? 0:13... 0:12... 0:11... just TEN SECONDS now! And still, he waits... fingers flittering slightly as he bends his knees, preparing for the dismount...
(Seven... six... five... four... three... TWO... ONE!!)
(A loud pop PEALS through the theater as the supports break free, and with a SCREECH, the scaffold PLUNGES to the bed of blades below... and in that instant, Erik Black SPRINGS OFF, gracefully SOMERSAULTING through the air. The scaffold CRASHES to the stage first, blades slicing through the gaps but cutting NOTHING but the air. Black hits a half second later, making a perfect two-footed dismount on the pad. A second later, he perks straight up, arms held straight into the air, and joint jutting out of his mouth as if it were attached to him.)
(The crowd doesn’t just clap this time around. They break into an all-out ROAR. Black makes a single bow...)
DOPESMOKER
Thank you ladies and gentlemen... it’s been a blast.
(All at once, the lights cut to black. The applause subsides... and when they pop back on...)
(Erik Black is STILL STANDING there... shirt-less, sweat-drenched, breathing heavily. No disappearing act this time... but...)
(Seeing is not believing.)
(The camera zooms out... and reveals that he’s no longer standing on a stage in a theater. He’s standing in an EMPTY ARENA, right in front of a wrestling ring where the steel cage has already been set up. Just seconds ago, he was standing in front of a complete audience, who have all but seemingly VANISHED. It could have been a simple editing trick, BUT... the joint is still there in his mouth... the aviators are still there on his face... hell, even the STRAIGHT JACKET is still sitting there on the floor, as if it had been there there the entire time. He removes the shades and looks directly into the camera... directly into the EYES of Layne Winters, sitting at home, finishing off beer number six and stuffing the last Pay Day into his b*tch mouth – a rare occasion in which he’s NOT talking shit.)
DOPESMOKER
I really mean that, Layne, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal; it HAS been a blast... going into that ring one week after the next and making you look good. But you’ve been smoking the bowl of luck for far too long, and at Aggression 53, in THIS cage... that bowl is going to be CASHED.
You can refuse to acknowledge it all you want, but the fact is, I SMOKED YOUR DUMB-ASS at Black Dawn... and while I didn’t walk away with a belt that I didn’t even want to begin with... you can’t deny that I had a distinct hand in forcing you to lose it.
The Television Title was the best thing that ever happened to you... but you let the POWER get to your head. But you HAVE no power, bro... you’re just living in a world of dreams and illusions. You want to be KING? This Fool thinks – KNOWS – that you’re hitting a ten-foot bong that you don’t have HALF the lung-capacity to take.
At Aggression 53, you’ll walk into the ring, thinking that history will repeat itself. But you will only come to find out that everything you THOUGHT was real was nothing more than a LIE. Paco, I’m going to FUCKING BLIND YOU with the rays of the NEW STONER SUN RISING... and in time, you’ll come to realize that what I did in stripping you of that belt at Black Dawn was the beginning of the end for you... the first step in the FALL of Layne Winters, and the subsequent RISE of the DOPESMOKER.
(As he says this, the beam of a flash-light falls on his face. Figures, the minutes he takes the damn sunglasses off...)
Security Guard
Hey! What the hell are you doing in here?!
...are you SMOKING WEED DOWN THERE, you little punk!?
DOPESMOKER
GODDAMN COPS!! A STONER just can’t catch a break sometimes...
(In Bugs Bunny fashion, Black raises a leg, and darts off into the dark. The rent-a-cop – heard flopping sluggishly down the aisle – shouts out a few protests and commands to stop, but he’s already gone... like a THIEF in the NIGHT, making off with the crown jewels.)
420
LQJT86C
Where's my money, Chad?
(CUTTO: LAYNE WINTERS, at the counter of a local bookstore)
CLERK: Hi, can I help you?
WINTERS: Damn right you can. I'm looking for the Cliff's Notes version of Erik Black's promos, you got 'em?
CLERK: Hmm, lemme check. (begins to type)
(Pause)
WINTERS: Come on, I don't have all day.
CLERK: Sorry, I'm not seeing anything like that. We do have a DVD: The Best of Erik Black.
WINTERS: THE BEST OF?! HE'S NEVER WON A F*CKING MATCH!
CLERK: It says we've got a copy right behind the desk here. (fumbles at the shelf behind him) Here we are. Would you like to take a look?
WINTERS: (grabs the DVD case) Gimme that. ... WHAT THE...? "Erik Black hits Layne Winters with a barb wire bat." ARE THEY F*CKING KIDDING ME? THAT'S IT?
CLERK: Can I help you with anything el-(interrupted by case being thrown at his face)
WINTERS: I ain't buying a three minute DVD of me getting hit with a bat, I don't care if there IS a commentary option.
(STATIC- Time has elapsed)
CLERK: Hi, can I help you?
WINTERS: Damn right you can. I'm looking for the Cliff's Notes version of Erik Black's promos, you got 'em?
CLERK: Hmm, lemme check. (begins to type)
(Pause)
WINTERS: Come on, I don't have all day.
CLERK: Sorry, I'm not seeing anything like that. We do have a DVD: The Best of Erik Black.
WINTERS: THE BEST OF?! HE'S NEVER WON A F*CKING MATCH!
CLERK: It says we've got a copy right behind the desk here. (fumbles at the shelf behind him) Here we are. Would you like to take a look?
WINTERS: (grabs the DVD case) Gimme that. ... WHAT THE...? "Erik Black hits Layne Winters with a barb wire bat." ARE THEY F*CKING KIDDING ME? THAT'S IT?
CLERK: Can I help you with anything el-(interrupted by case being thrown at his face)
WINTERS: I ain't buying a three minute DVD of me getting hit with a bat, I don't care if there IS a commentary option.
(STATIC- Time has elapsed)