And now, a word from your esteemed Television Champion...
“Here’s what I think, right off’a the top’a my head.”
[Up.]
“You pipsqueaks have been spending entirely too much time saying the same exact things to each other over and over and over and over again.”
[Rich Mahogany, the Cock of the Walk as it were, sits lazily in a pool-chair, directly in front of an Empire Pro backdrop. A small tray table sits beside him, but we’ll get to that in a minute. The only thing that you really need to understand is that the Empire Pro Television Title belt is propped in his lap, leaning against his lower-torso, and covering his free-swinging dong.]
Rich:
I mean, and maybe I’m the odd man out here, but you people may have unhealthy obsessions with either yourselves or each other. Seriously, guys, get a girlfriend, get a hooker, get a friggin’ Fleshlight if that’s what it takes, just get off of each other’s Johnson’s.
Please?
It’s gettin’ a little gay in here.
And that’s not to say that ol’ Rich ain’t down for a gool old fashioned Devil’s Three-Way, and WHAT HAPPENS AT THE HO-JO STAYS AT THE HO-JO, but a full on Sword Fight at the Sausage Festival?
Hellz naw, son, hellz naw.
[Now, back to that tray-table.]
Rich:
Now that that’s out of the way, let me do the professional thing here and mention my opponents for the upcoming Aggression 64. I’ll start with Rezin.
[Rich reaches down and retrieves a small pyrex “adult novelty” smoking apparatus. There are colorful swirls, and glass-blown into the shape of tits, it’s all very Rich Mahogany. He also picks up a small grinder and starts grinding.]
Rich:
Dude. Seriously.
[He opens the grinder and sprinkles a bit of bright green material into the glass boob shaped smoking apparatus, hereto be known as “the pipe” for the rest of this promo.]
Rich:
I got a guy, he can get you some THC Snow, it’s a new variation of White Widow, for four-hundred bucks an ounce. It’ll get your head right, man, and you’ll quit coughing up that brown lumpy stuff all the time. Also your breath will smell better.
But then, you’re kinda broke, huh...
[He takes a good long toke, holds it for as long as possible, and coughs it up like a little girl within seconds. After he hacks and sputters for a while, he scratches his chin thoughtfully.]
Rich:
I could probably just cut you some out of my personal.
Twenty bucks a gram.
Can you dig it?
[Completely stoned, he sets the pipe down and reaches for a cigarette. Virginia Slim Light 120s if you’re the curious sort.]
Rich:
And don’t even get me started on Anarky.
Dude, we get it. You’re a big bad scary man. My knees are totally quakin’ guy. [he rolls his eyes] What you really are is a confused little boy in a grown fella’s body, struggling to find his way in the big bad world.
You suck at wrestling.
You suck at fighting.
You suck at talking.
You pretty much just suck at existing.
Why don’t you either figure out the business you’re in, or get out of it. Is it the paydays keeping you around? I mean, I know former champions can make like five hundo a night on the indy-circuit. Yanno, since you don’t care about The Empire or it’s legacy, or anything else like that.
Why don’t you just call Bumfights?
Wouldn’t you feel a little bit more at home fighting in the streets for a maggot-covered bone in some back alleyway while hobos give each other blowjobs for what passes for crack on the streets these days? I mean, because you don’t care about anything and all.
Why don’t you get out of my wrestling ring?
Ya know what? Better yet, why don’t you bring all’a that faux rage at me in the ring and watch me as I kick you in the nuts, jab you in the eyeball, roll you up with a handfull of tights and prop my feet up on the ropes, and send your skinny jeans wearing ass right back to the front of the line at the pay window to pick up your share of the losers’ purse?
Again.
You remind me of this guy I once met in this ****hole I got fired from named Joe the Plumber. Except you know, without the legions of ravenous fans, undefeated streak, semblance of marketability or backing from the front office.
[Shrug.]
Rich:
It must be awesome to have a history to use as a crutch.
[Wink.]
[The Hand that Robs the Cradle smiles his zillion dollar smile.]
Rich:
Which brings me to contestant number three, Layne Winters.
…
I legit didn’t know who you were until like forty minutes ago. I googled you on my Android and all it came up with was “Second Greatest Empire TV Champion of all time,” so I was all like “pssh, he must be some wrestler.”
I hope you don’t think you’re coming back to EPW to pick up wherever you left off, which I guess was at the TV Title, because a few things have changed around here since you’ve been gone, most specifically the fact that RICH MOTHER-EFFIN’ MAHOGANY is the be-all end-all of the Television Title, and everybody else is just living in Stalker’s World.
[Shudder.]
Rich:
And speaking of Mr. Reeves, if I may be so presumptuous as to call you that, sir, I just want to go on record as saying that I have absolutely zero issues with you and your quest for the World Title. A nobler quest could hardly be dramatized...
As a matter of fact, if on your way to said title, you wanted to stack up Karl Brown, Otaku, and Impulse in a neat little pile, pin them all, and take all of their belts up the mountain with you, I’d be all for that. Just...
Do me a solid, wouldja?
Stay the hell away from me and the TV Title.
And I promise I won’t get scared and pee on you on accident.
Please?
[A somber moment passes.]
Rich:
And as far as my esteemed partners go...
If you guys could just line up, get on board with the master plan, and keep these mongoloids from ganging up on me to try to take what’s mine away from me, that’d be peaches, mmkay?
And try not to make me look bad in the process.
It’s not good for my image with The Ladies.
[Another Cheshire smile.]
[Rich takes a final drag from the cigarette.]
[Fade to pink.]
“Here’s what I think, right off’a the top’a my head.”
[Up.]
“You pipsqueaks have been spending entirely too much time saying the same exact things to each other over and over and over and over again.”
[Rich Mahogany, the Cock of the Walk as it were, sits lazily in a pool-chair, directly in front of an Empire Pro backdrop. A small tray table sits beside him, but we’ll get to that in a minute. The only thing that you really need to understand is that the Empire Pro Television Title belt is propped in his lap, leaning against his lower-torso, and covering his free-swinging dong.]
Rich:
I mean, and maybe I’m the odd man out here, but you people may have unhealthy obsessions with either yourselves or each other. Seriously, guys, get a girlfriend, get a hooker, get a friggin’ Fleshlight if that’s what it takes, just get off of each other’s Johnson’s.
Please?
It’s gettin’ a little gay in here.
And that’s not to say that ol’ Rich ain’t down for a gool old fashioned Devil’s Three-Way, and WHAT HAPPENS AT THE HO-JO STAYS AT THE HO-JO, but a full on Sword Fight at the Sausage Festival?
Hellz naw, son, hellz naw.
[Now, back to that tray-table.]
Rich:
Now that that’s out of the way, let me do the professional thing here and mention my opponents for the upcoming Aggression 64. I’ll start with Rezin.
[Rich reaches down and retrieves a small pyrex “adult novelty” smoking apparatus. There are colorful swirls, and glass-blown into the shape of tits, it’s all very Rich Mahogany. He also picks up a small grinder and starts grinding.]
Rich:
Dude. Seriously.
[He opens the grinder and sprinkles a bit of bright green material into the glass boob shaped smoking apparatus, hereto be known as “the pipe” for the rest of this promo.]
Rich:
I got a guy, he can get you some THC Snow, it’s a new variation of White Widow, for four-hundred bucks an ounce. It’ll get your head right, man, and you’ll quit coughing up that brown lumpy stuff all the time. Also your breath will smell better.
But then, you’re kinda broke, huh...
[He takes a good long toke, holds it for as long as possible, and coughs it up like a little girl within seconds. After he hacks and sputters for a while, he scratches his chin thoughtfully.]
Rich:
I could probably just cut you some out of my personal.
Twenty bucks a gram.
Can you dig it?
[Completely stoned, he sets the pipe down and reaches for a cigarette. Virginia Slim Light 120s if you’re the curious sort.]
Rich:
And don’t even get me started on Anarky.
Dude, we get it. You’re a big bad scary man. My knees are totally quakin’ guy. [he rolls his eyes] What you really are is a confused little boy in a grown fella’s body, struggling to find his way in the big bad world.
You suck at wrestling.
You suck at fighting.
You suck at talking.
You pretty much just suck at existing.
Why don’t you either figure out the business you’re in, or get out of it. Is it the paydays keeping you around? I mean, I know former champions can make like five hundo a night on the indy-circuit. Yanno, since you don’t care about The Empire or it’s legacy, or anything else like that.
Why don’t you just call Bumfights?
Wouldn’t you feel a little bit more at home fighting in the streets for a maggot-covered bone in some back alleyway while hobos give each other blowjobs for what passes for crack on the streets these days? I mean, because you don’t care about anything and all.
Why don’t you get out of my wrestling ring?
Ya know what? Better yet, why don’t you bring all’a that faux rage at me in the ring and watch me as I kick you in the nuts, jab you in the eyeball, roll you up with a handfull of tights and prop my feet up on the ropes, and send your skinny jeans wearing ass right back to the front of the line at the pay window to pick up your share of the losers’ purse?
Again.
You remind me of this guy I once met in this ****hole I got fired from named Joe the Plumber. Except you know, without the legions of ravenous fans, undefeated streak, semblance of marketability or backing from the front office.
[Shrug.]
Rich:
It must be awesome to have a history to use as a crutch.
[Wink.]
[The Hand that Robs the Cradle smiles his zillion dollar smile.]
Rich:
Which brings me to contestant number three, Layne Winters.
…
I legit didn’t know who you were until like forty minutes ago. I googled you on my Android and all it came up with was “Second Greatest Empire TV Champion of all time,” so I was all like “pssh, he must be some wrestler.”
I hope you don’t think you’re coming back to EPW to pick up wherever you left off, which I guess was at the TV Title, because a few things have changed around here since you’ve been gone, most specifically the fact that RICH MOTHER-EFFIN’ MAHOGANY is the be-all end-all of the Television Title, and everybody else is just living in Stalker’s World.
[Shudder.]
Rich:
And speaking of Mr. Reeves, if I may be so presumptuous as to call you that, sir, I just want to go on record as saying that I have absolutely zero issues with you and your quest for the World Title. A nobler quest could hardly be dramatized...
As a matter of fact, if on your way to said title, you wanted to stack up Karl Brown, Otaku, and Impulse in a neat little pile, pin them all, and take all of their belts up the mountain with you, I’d be all for that. Just...
Do me a solid, wouldja?
Stay the hell away from me and the TV Title.
And I promise I won’t get scared and pee on you on accident.
Please?
[A somber moment passes.]
Rich:
And as far as my esteemed partners go...
If you guys could just line up, get on board with the master plan, and keep these mongoloids from ganging up on me to try to take what’s mine away from me, that’d be peaches, mmkay?
And try not to make me look bad in the process.
It’s not good for my image with The Ladies.
[Another Cheshire smile.]
[Rich takes a final drag from the cigarette.]
[Fade to pink.]