Fade the **** In: Zesty is living the life. He's sitting in his ripped-out car's seat set atop a building overlooking Central Park. The red wheelbarrow houses a sh*tload of ice and booze: cheap plastic bottles of vodka, rum, whiskey and a few mixers (sprite, ginger ale, tonic water, etc) all with varying dents in their weightage.
Zesty Mordant: Corey, I can't believe you missed the beginning of what is most truly-lier gonna be a fackin beautific relationshup.
Corey: Oh yeah?
Zesty stretches out to the 'barrow and scoops out a bottle of vodka, dumping several fat glugs into his cut-in-half liter bottle of coke which acts as his glassware, the top of its first life capped and acting as a plug.
Zesty: Oh yeah, you poor excuse for an anorexic mutilated chicken corpse! It's the start of the relationshup of me and facking winning! Yours truthfully, I, is going to beat the sh*ts straight out of every senselessly dumb basturd that climbs into the squared circle with this guy!
(As he says "this guy" he of course jabs both his thumbs towards his chest twice repeatedly)
Corey: What's a squared circle, Zesty?
Zesty: Sh*t, I donno, it's like a rectangularized trapagon or an ocular isosceles, ya know? It's full of philosphy, strategem and pain. Now me, I specialties in the pain, pally. Ask the bumps on that Jewchinks forehead. Then, I got more strategoricals than Patton patting like fifty love hungry kitty cats.
Corey: Aww. That was awfully nice, Zesty.
Zesty launches out from his car-seat chair and kicks it off the rooftop.
Zesty: Fack that!
Before he finishes his sentence a few far-away shrieks and pounded car horn blasts are heard, but-
Zesty: Tell nice to grab the first jetplane to f*ckoffsville and crash into the nicey-nice mountains of gadamn Pleasantryland. Tell nice to find a hole, dive in and lose itself in sh*tstain, gadamat. The're all talking about numbering contenders first and some fat f*ck who thinks eating chicken wings gets broads wet and playing video games is some kinda good-f*ck charm. Well, this Vic Grabbindur is about as intimidating as one of your retarded little kittens trying to hump a ball of string after buying it dinner.
(As he responds, Zesty livens up his drink with whatever bottle his hand has grabbed. He takes a good long pull before securing it in his torn up button down shirt's breast pocket)
Zesty: Corey, I don't want dinner! And the only f*ck I'm passionately thinking of is upping this fat cowturd Vic through and through the mat. Ya know why they call it a mat?
Corey: Because it's a piece of fabric used as a protective covering on an otherwise unwelcoming surface?
Zesty: No, assturd, because it matters. Because it's mat what this fatty fat tries to do to me, man! Because it's all mat, it's all up to the mat and things like that.
Corey: I'm really not sure if that makes any sense.
(Zesty has been looking around a bit during the last few exchanges, trying to locate his drink which is still in his breast pocket)
Zesty: Look, assh*le -
(he's still scanning the roof for his drink)
Zesty: - sense isn't about your fool head or your assh*le mouth, sense is about what I take outta this fat basturd they got shuffling into the ring, MY ring!
(he's now on his hands and knees, looking underneath the wheelbarrow)
Zesty: Sense is what he'd better hope he finds before he finds my foot in his mouth and his food in my mouth. That's right. I'm -
(He gives up searching and grabs Corey's drink, downs it)
Zesty: - Ahh, Corey, look, this is what that is, or er this is what that has becomed and now this is what that was and that has become what this is gonna have to be.
Zesty: I'm about to beat the sh*t out of some dumb fat cow before I go and take some big fancy belt from either some nutsass viking wannabe or a little turd who likes to think he means something to some things that mean more than he thinks some things mean to anything.
Corey: Zesty, I seriously have no idea what you're saying.
Zesty: Corey, I seriously don't give a sh*t about what you're saying or what fatf*ck Grabbendoors will say or what Ray Pizzaloseah says. Bottom of the line is Zesty gadam Mordant is about to tear every ass out of this town and get some cash money, a f*ckton of respect and whatever pretty bracelet or crown they's gonna give to whatever dog's ass wins some match before they get rassle-raped by this guy (again, really? - another double thumbs to the chest?) the boozin bruiser!
Corey: Yeah! Man, that's it, I'm pumped up!
Zesty: Gadam right. I knew that oxy would kick in, bud. Now shave another down so we can enjoy this view and let's us then philosphoricalize on life and limbs, ya know, the things that fat turd has to worry about losing this upcoming match.
(Camera slowly zooms out and begins to pan away...)
Zesty (off screen) What the sh*t!? Camera dude, you were all about this sh*t before, you gonna party or what?
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