NotorisSTD
League Member
(CUEUP: “Holy Tears” by Isis….)
(CUTTO: Black and white footage of Felix Red, standing in front of a concrete wall, again with black body paint smeared all over, denim jacket w/spikes, no shirt, dickies, wrap around sunglasses, sneering like a big mean jerk…)
RED: It just goes on…
The end continues to be the beginning born knowing. We never really outgrow anything, and everything that will happen is nothing but what has already happened.
We’re not going to let this Lindsay Lohan thing go, are we?
I might be the world champion, I might be able to do a standing 450 splash, I might be able to hit two consecutive spinning heel kicks without touching the ground, I might be one of the most dangerous athletes alive…But because Lindsay Lohan said nice things about me before I orchestrated her death, I must be worthless…
Well, fine then. If the great fates will it that I am to dogged by seemingly inconsequential matters…I present you, NFW fans, and opponents…My new manager. Zombie Lindsay Lohan.
(RYOKO MIKOTO pushes a cart of several sewn together sacks of chunky vomit, kinda resembling a humanoid form with big floppy tits, with a heavily made up happy face and a wig on the sack passing for Lindsay’s head into the shot…)
RYOKO MIKOTO: Uh, Felix? We gotta talk.
FELIX: Hush. Not now.
RYOKO: Yeah, sure. (storms off in a huff)
FELIX: So Lindsay, tell the people about my master strategy to screw Dan Ryan out of his grand anointment as Ultratitle champion.
VOMIT SCARECROW:…………
FELIX: Fascinating! Have you and Paris made nice yet? Your endless squabbling has become so very tiresome…
VOMIT SCARECROW:……
FELIX: Ah, I see. You’ve grown exhausted, once more. Well then, take yourself a refreshing power nap, eh? (kicks the pile of sacks out of the shot)
Oh, the repetition, and how it pains me. Once again, my Danny, you’ve taken to talking in circles. You’ve supposedly neglected to do nothing, but if that were true, then why would fate need to step in and erase your mistakes? If you’re supposed to be where I am, then why aren’t you? And what makes you think fate cares whether or not you choke to death on an eggshell?
Would you like to know why what I’ve done matters? I’d prefer to make that case by calling attention to the lives I’ve ruined, but maybe, for a fresh perspective, we should look to the lives I’ve improved. If you really question my overall value, ask yourself this…
Would Yori Yakamoto Jr. have a job if it wasn’t for me?
No…No he wouldn’t.
Because before me, it wasn’t cool to be a drug addict. It wasn’t cool to say things most of the audience didn’t understand. It wasn’t cool to explore uncharted regions of the dream realm during matches and interview segments…I changed all that. Now, that’s all you have to do to be a star in this company…You don’t have to be me, you just have to want to be…
There’s Yori, Maggot, Kin, a giant talking Cat for christsake, guys on other shows, and yeah, probably Jean Rabesque, wherever he is….
(CUTTO: MAD HATTER, in his bathrobe, sitting on the couch drinking Sparks…)
MAD HATTER: F(bleep) you, I don’t wanna explain who Jean Rabesque is…
(CUTTO: Felix…)
FELIX: In the ever-consequential actualized present tense, everyone is dropping acid and flying around in time machines and getting advice from dead celebrities. Before, it was just me. Can you sincerely convince yourself this is all just a coincidence? Do you really believe only in what you want to?
And why am I so special? Why was I able to alter everyone’s entire moral barometer and notion of corporeality? Why are there so few remaining, Dan the man…Who want to be you?
I’m not just a drug addict with delusions of grandeur and divinity. And I’m not just a sadistic, sociopathic glory monger with a black heart and no soul…I’m the best wrestler in the world. I’m the standard bearer for wrestling excellence. It’s not you, Dan Ryan, it’s me.
My pop-apocalypse, my neon-genesis, my one man lies, oppression, and violence experiment…when wrestling and conventional logic as we know them are obliterated, atomized, leaving not so much as a trace to remember them by….and from the nuclear winter, an entirely new way of combat and thought arises to fill the void…It’s not starting. It’s already happened. And you, Dan the man…Are in the way of progress. This is my time. This is my world. My reality. My f(bleep)king show…And you don’t have a place here.
Your problem is you’re so used to people telling you how wonderful you are, it never dawns on you that those people are clueless tag alongs who only assume you’re great because you’re supposed to be. I already know how disposable all my sucklings are. They happen to be right about how great I am, but that’s just happenstance…They don’t fully appreciate what’s happening here. Yori and Maggot and the others scratch the surface. But they aren’t men of vision. And while no one’s come right out and said it yet, popular odds are whichever one of us advances is a lock for the Conference Championship. Yori, for all his…shall we say…sazz…is no match for either of us….Well, except that one time (winks)…and I’m honestly not sure how Maggot got as far as he has…But it doesn’t matter, because what this means is, I am a lock for the Conference Championship.
Perhaps…destiny has a sense of humor, or irony, or tragedy, depending on how badly your eyes are bleeding…You, Dan the man…Despite the many, many negative things I have to say about you, are a man of vision. In a different world, in some alternate reality, you could walk with me through fields of psychic ataxia. We could play fiddles as wrestlingrome burned…And you could be free like I am…
Or free like I was….True anarchy, that’s with a cee ahch, only happens when everyone looks and acts completely differently. Convince an entire population to do enough drugs, and pretty soon you’ll be able to tell each and every one of them apart. As long as you don’t let them run out of drugs.
Think of it. No more clones of me. No more clones of you. No more goth monsters. No more bland, forgettable, purist types, no more young cocky womanizing upstart archetype, no more archetypes at all…Wrestling could become art. It’d be f(bleep)king magick. But engineering all that is a lot of responsibility. And if I’m going to actualize this lofty goal of mine….More importantly, if I’m going to acquire more drugs, sex, and money….and most importantly, if I am to prove that I am exactly what I say I am, that I am the most revolutionary athlete in existence, that this belt is the only one that means dick because it’s mine, and I that am the worlds finest wrestler…Dan, the man, you’re going to have to be hospitalized.
I had a destiny once, and I saw it all unfold before me. Now I am destiny. You three aspire to forge your own, and make me yours, but that’s going to be hard to do with a fractured skull.
(CUTTO: Black and white footage of Felix Red, standing in front of a concrete wall, again with black body paint smeared all over, denim jacket w/spikes, no shirt, dickies, wrap around sunglasses, sneering like a big mean jerk…)
RED: It just goes on…
The end continues to be the beginning born knowing. We never really outgrow anything, and everything that will happen is nothing but what has already happened.
We’re not going to let this Lindsay Lohan thing go, are we?
I might be the world champion, I might be able to do a standing 450 splash, I might be able to hit two consecutive spinning heel kicks without touching the ground, I might be one of the most dangerous athletes alive…But because Lindsay Lohan said nice things about me before I orchestrated her death, I must be worthless…
Well, fine then. If the great fates will it that I am to dogged by seemingly inconsequential matters…I present you, NFW fans, and opponents…My new manager. Zombie Lindsay Lohan.
(RYOKO MIKOTO pushes a cart of several sewn together sacks of chunky vomit, kinda resembling a humanoid form with big floppy tits, with a heavily made up happy face and a wig on the sack passing for Lindsay’s head into the shot…)
RYOKO MIKOTO: Uh, Felix? We gotta talk.
FELIX: Hush. Not now.
RYOKO: Yeah, sure. (storms off in a huff)
FELIX: So Lindsay, tell the people about my master strategy to screw Dan Ryan out of his grand anointment as Ultratitle champion.
VOMIT SCARECROW:…………
FELIX: Fascinating! Have you and Paris made nice yet? Your endless squabbling has become so very tiresome…
VOMIT SCARECROW:……
FELIX: Ah, I see. You’ve grown exhausted, once more. Well then, take yourself a refreshing power nap, eh? (kicks the pile of sacks out of the shot)
Oh, the repetition, and how it pains me. Once again, my Danny, you’ve taken to talking in circles. You’ve supposedly neglected to do nothing, but if that were true, then why would fate need to step in and erase your mistakes? If you’re supposed to be where I am, then why aren’t you? And what makes you think fate cares whether or not you choke to death on an eggshell?
Would you like to know why what I’ve done matters? I’d prefer to make that case by calling attention to the lives I’ve ruined, but maybe, for a fresh perspective, we should look to the lives I’ve improved. If you really question my overall value, ask yourself this…
Would Yori Yakamoto Jr. have a job if it wasn’t for me?
No…No he wouldn’t.
Because before me, it wasn’t cool to be a drug addict. It wasn’t cool to say things most of the audience didn’t understand. It wasn’t cool to explore uncharted regions of the dream realm during matches and interview segments…I changed all that. Now, that’s all you have to do to be a star in this company…You don’t have to be me, you just have to want to be…
There’s Yori, Maggot, Kin, a giant talking Cat for christsake, guys on other shows, and yeah, probably Jean Rabesque, wherever he is….
(CUTTO: MAD HATTER, in his bathrobe, sitting on the couch drinking Sparks…)
MAD HATTER: F(bleep) you, I don’t wanna explain who Jean Rabesque is…
(CUTTO: Felix…)
FELIX: In the ever-consequential actualized present tense, everyone is dropping acid and flying around in time machines and getting advice from dead celebrities. Before, it was just me. Can you sincerely convince yourself this is all just a coincidence? Do you really believe only in what you want to?
And why am I so special? Why was I able to alter everyone’s entire moral barometer and notion of corporeality? Why are there so few remaining, Dan the man…Who want to be you?
I’m not just a drug addict with delusions of grandeur and divinity. And I’m not just a sadistic, sociopathic glory monger with a black heart and no soul…I’m the best wrestler in the world. I’m the standard bearer for wrestling excellence. It’s not you, Dan Ryan, it’s me.
My pop-apocalypse, my neon-genesis, my one man lies, oppression, and violence experiment…when wrestling and conventional logic as we know them are obliterated, atomized, leaving not so much as a trace to remember them by….and from the nuclear winter, an entirely new way of combat and thought arises to fill the void…It’s not starting. It’s already happened. And you, Dan the man…Are in the way of progress. This is my time. This is my world. My reality. My f(bleep)king show…And you don’t have a place here.
Your problem is you’re so used to people telling you how wonderful you are, it never dawns on you that those people are clueless tag alongs who only assume you’re great because you’re supposed to be. I already know how disposable all my sucklings are. They happen to be right about how great I am, but that’s just happenstance…They don’t fully appreciate what’s happening here. Yori and Maggot and the others scratch the surface. But they aren’t men of vision. And while no one’s come right out and said it yet, popular odds are whichever one of us advances is a lock for the Conference Championship. Yori, for all his…shall we say…sazz…is no match for either of us….Well, except that one time (winks)…and I’m honestly not sure how Maggot got as far as he has…But it doesn’t matter, because what this means is, I am a lock for the Conference Championship.
Perhaps…destiny has a sense of humor, or irony, or tragedy, depending on how badly your eyes are bleeding…You, Dan the man…Despite the many, many negative things I have to say about you, are a man of vision. In a different world, in some alternate reality, you could walk with me through fields of psychic ataxia. We could play fiddles as wrestlingrome burned…And you could be free like I am…
Or free like I was….True anarchy, that’s with a cee ahch, only happens when everyone looks and acts completely differently. Convince an entire population to do enough drugs, and pretty soon you’ll be able to tell each and every one of them apart. As long as you don’t let them run out of drugs.
Think of it. No more clones of me. No more clones of you. No more goth monsters. No more bland, forgettable, purist types, no more young cocky womanizing upstart archetype, no more archetypes at all…Wrestling could become art. It’d be f(bleep)king magick. But engineering all that is a lot of responsibility. And if I’m going to actualize this lofty goal of mine….More importantly, if I’m going to acquire more drugs, sex, and money….and most importantly, if I am to prove that I am exactly what I say I am, that I am the most revolutionary athlete in existence, that this belt is the only one that means dick because it’s mine, and I that am the worlds finest wrestler…Dan, the man, you’re going to have to be hospitalized.
I had a destiny once, and I saw it all unfold before me. Now I am destiny. You three aspire to forge your own, and make me yours, but that’s going to be hard to do with a fractured skull.