Little Boy Who Wished He Was
(CUT TO: LANE CASH, clad in plaid board shorts and Aviators, "CASH" stamped across the bridge, over his Emerald Greens, lying poolside in a lounge chair. Behind him, sharing the chair, is his scantly clad lady servant, MONA, who seems focused on massaging Lane's bare upperbody. As the shot swings around head-on with the Louisville Slugger, his index finger lowers the Aviators enough for his eyes to peek over.)
LANE CASH: ...
(Annoyed sigh.)
CASH: Oh, Randall. You silly, little boy. You're just little Johnny, who asked his mother if he could have a cookie before dinner, waiting for a reply, aren't you? Waiting for Lane Cash, your favorite wrestler, to tell you that "No, Randall, you're not a mutt. You're a purebred, just like me." (smirks) But, that would be a lie now wouldn't it, Randall? I know you would (gasp) NEVER want somebody to lie. So, I won't. I'll give it to you STRAIGHT. There's no comparison between you and I. It wouldn't even be fair to pretend you were up on MY LEVEL. Almost NO ONE is. When other kids were attending Preschool, playing with blocks, I was ON THE ROAD. Carter Cash was busy selling out Arena AFTER Arena AFTER Arena. (smiles proudly) At the age of five, I had already started to hone my craft. I cut sizzling promos that made grown men break down in tears. It came to me NATURALLY. Not a big surprise, I was the Prince of the Cash Wrestling Family. What were you doing, Randall? Hmm. Was your father, Carter, teaching you to become the single, greatest wrestler EVER? Or, when you asked Momma Impulse who daddy was, and what did he do, she tossed you the Brooklyn phone book and say "your guess is as good as mine, Randall." (chuckles) You're like millions of others, all wanting to be LANE CASH. To be wrestling royalty, revered by most, feared by ALL.
(Glasses off.)
CASH: Of course, you'll no doubt bring up the outcasts who you hung around with. The trainer you oh-so love, Johnny Jizzbang, who couldn't sell out a concessions stand in a town riddled with obesity, much less a hundred-seat gymnasium. Hoping that, just maybe, I'd accept you as a brother among us royals. Sure, I might possibly consider you an ADOPTED brother, who I would pretend to like, and then drown in the bathtub. To which, nobody really gives a DAMN because you're just another face. A snarky, little cunt who plays by the rules and perseveres. What a touching, fucking story. You've whored yourself out to every shanty promotion with a PENNY, and what do you have to your name? Some second rate strap and a chip on your shoulder that all one hundred-sixteen pounds of you can't HOLD UP. Oh, but Lane, w-w-what have you done? (sneers) Do I look like I need the money? (holds arms out) Should I take the bus to Pigsknuckle, Arkansas and beat simple farmer folk for their cardboard title? Puh-lease. I have BETTER things to do. I don't have TIME to associate with you, common folk. I'm here for four matches, a couple of scalps, and about another year of vacation. I only need one tournament, Randall. I walk in, I win, and I walk out.
(Deep breath.)
You can take that to the bank, Junior.
(FTB)