Fucking shit. You’d think that a night on the town between the two would be a bit more glamorous than an alt-rock concert, but you’re obviously untrained to expect the unexpected even if that unexpected consists of mediocre and faggish.

“Shawn, this is shit.” Ellis leans back to yell in his ear through all the squealing guitar riffs and fucktastic bass slaps.

“Patience, my love! It shall get better.”

The lead singer/effects guitarist, who was dressed in black-and-yellow checkered bellbottoms and a yellow snakeskin vest, looked as if he was jacking off the neck of the guitar as he waved his Carrot Top-esque red hair around wildly. Not to be topped in the weird department, the saxapohonist completed his ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude with the grimiest dreads this side of the equator and a tie-dyed shirt. No, not a hippy; just homeless.

Over the offensively incoherent music, the singer approaches his mic stand and begins yelling out the most outrageous phrases you’ve ever heard. Don’t believe me?

“DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU JUST HEARD? DO YOU KNOW WHAT THOSE SOUNDS ARE? THOSE SOUNDS ARE NOTHING MORE THAN WAVES TRAVELLING THROUGH THE AIR. YOU CANNOT SEE THESE WAVES.”

Ellis turns to face him, taking full advantage of her “what the fuck were you thinking?” facial expression that she’d perfected over the years of dominating past relationships.

“You seriously had better pull some lame practical joke shit right here.”

Shawn bites his lip. He begins to quiver some resemblance of an explanation, but is ‘saved’ by more inane babble

Still don’t believe me?

“EARTH PEOPLE, GATHER AROUND THE FRONT OF THE STAGE; I NEED YOUR ENERGY TO CONTINUE. PLEASE, EARTH PEOPLE—COME TO THE FRONT OF THE STAGE.”

The thirty-six people in attendance weren’t really enthused by the band’s antics, and were probably only there to see whoever would be playing the next set. No one complied to the lead singer’s cries, which continued for another five minutes while the bass player (clad in matching yellow vest and white headband) and lead guitarist/vampire impersonator trade jarring melodies, if you can call them that.

Yes, their lead guitarist is a vampire. Or at least looks like one.

“We’re leaving.”

Shawn doesn’t disagree. But during that extremely drug-out car ride home, he almost wishes he did; if only to prolong the inevitable.

“That was some bogus shit, Shawn.” She tears into him right away. “Extremely romantic though. Honestly, when that faggot tried to use the zipper of his pants as a pick I got a little turned on.”

He grips the steering wheel in a bit of preparation. “I’m pretty sure he was playing with the head of his penis...” Shawn says, prompting a long, awkward silence.

[cough]

Yeah, it’s long.

“That is some BOGUS shit, Shawn! Where the fuck did you hear of this band? Are you a big fan of faggot crap, you acid dropping freak?”

He sneers, “You’re starting to sound like Kelli.”

Ellis shoots Shawn’s fucking head off. Well, not really, but she does bitchslap the taste right out of his fucking brain.

“Never relate me and her in any way, shape, or form. NEVER.”

“I haven’t even heard that band before tonight! Someone I know told me this band was good and that I should check them out so I decided ‘hey, why not?’ and thought you might enjoy a concert so I asked you and you said yes so--”

“--I said yes so you decided to shovel shit into my ears; that’s been established. Whose brain is so rotted from your drug escapades that they’d actually recommend that crap?”

“....some guy.”

“Some guy?”

“Some guy. On the internet.”

“Some guy on the internet. Wow, you never cease to amaze me.” Ellis folds her arms and begins chuckling to herself as if she were in a British comedy with Hugh Grant.

“Whatever, you don’t even know. This guy has the most posts on the altrocklikewhoa.com message boards, he obviously knows what he’s talking about. Plus he’s so gosh darned nice that I felt obligated to humor his reccomendation.”

“Are you listening to yourself? You’re entertaining a peon’s suggestions from the internet and making some idiot with shitty taste think he’s influenced another person towards idiotic assimilation. While you’re stupid for being gay and using a message board, because seriously who does that?, you were still wronged by this douchebag. You’d better rectify this situation, hon. Or else you’re the woman in this relationship and that shit can’t fly.”

Of course, he says she’s right because he wants to have sex that night which probably won’t happen anyways but hey a guy can only hope.

“You’re right! This asshole is going down! I’m totally going to use my superior intelligence and quick wit in an effort of humiliating this digital fool in front of all the altrocklikewhoa.com message board users!”

“That’s the spirit.” She says while pulling the joint she had tucked behind her ear out.

Shawn takes a deep whiff as she lights it. “And I’ll do it right when we get home!”

Oh boy oberto.....

_______________--_________________

The following pre-recorded promotion is brought to you by the Television Legend, Shawn Christopher.

Shawn Christopher still doesn't seem to get it. He thinks I'm trying to win him over? That my promos are shit? Shawn - take a second to listen to yourself. Promos? You're slamming my promos? Both of us sit here with gold around our waist. Both of us are winners. Our records prove that very point. We have a match on Thursday that could give both our careers a HUGE boost - and you're talking about PROMOS?! This business is not about promos, Shawn. Sure - charisma has a lot to do with fan popularity. Sure it sells tickets. However - charisma doesn't win you gold, Shawn. Dedication, passion, heart, and skill win you gold in this business. Heart, Shawn - something I've had my whole life! I grew up on the streets of Detroit! I had to fend for myself most of my life before I made it in this business! You want to talk about PROMOS?!

The tape stops and we fade back, revealing Shawn Christopher sitting in a chair in front of a TV, with Hunter's face on pause.

"And so that began another promo from the pathetic loser, Hunter Ryan."

Shawn shakes his head.

"Ok Hunter, here's how it is. I've tried to be nice, but it seems like you're actually starting to get to me. So lemme explain some things to you.

See, I know what brings people’s attentions to a federation. I know what attracts people to certain cards, I know these things because I was a wrestling fan at one time. I didn’t lead a hard life, I didn’t see my parents die when I was a toddler. I had friends in high school, I was captain of the swimming team, I’m not your ‘stereotypical’, crack addicted, drug fiend with a chip on my shoulder. No. I’m not even rough around the edges. What I am, Hunter, is your stereotypical misunderstood guy, with a little violent tendency when competitive. I grew up rooting for guys that put wrestling on the map, the guys that propelled wrestling into what it is today. Guys like Bret Hart, Jimmy Snuka, and Hulk Hogan. Guys with more charisma in their right foot than you’ve got chest. That’s who people are attracted to, that’s what people pay to see. People who can talk shit, and back it up; People who are innovative; People who never say die, never quit, and by God, they get the job done. That’s who I grew up with, and I’m sure you know these guys, too. But, Hunter… what you’ve become isn’t anything Bret Hart and Hulk Hogan saw in their hay days.”

Shawn stands and starts to walk towards the camera.

"What exactly ARE you, Hunter. Are you a jackass? Are you a wrestler? Are you a sidekick? WHAT ARE YOU?! Nobody knows what the fuck you are, man. And I use that term lightly. I know what I saw two weeks ago, and, hunny? That’s some bullshit if you think you deserve to be a champion. Real champs don't lose their cool when they realize they can't get the job done. Real champs can stand on their own, and don't need the backing of other guys. I mean, last week, it took you and two of your buddies to beat me. What the hell is that? Honestly, what makes you think you’re any different than any other person that wanted to make a statement? Cause you're a Ryan. You know what makes a wrestler?

Talent. Determination. Heart. Drive.

All the traits that you claim you have. What did you show me two weeks ago? Nothing. What did you show last week? Nothing. Hell, what did you show this Monday night? Nothing. You showed you’re a coward. Showed you’re a damn fool for doing what you’re doing, and I wont be surprised when Darkhan or Stevo attacks you during our match. And to be honest? I wont bat an eyelash when you get your head caved in. Because you’re only in the XWF because you have a brother, not because you have talent, or charisma. You’re nothing without a tag partner, and you definitely are lacking self respect, and THAT, Hunter, will do you in.”

Shawn chuckles to himself.

"I’m sorry, Hunter. I know you think you’re tough shit and think that I should kiss your boots, blah blah blah, ‘you're from the mean streets of Detroit’, blah blah blah. We get the point! We get the idea. You think you’re tough shit, I think I’m tough shit, and if we get into that ring together we’ll end up a big pile of tough shit, right? That’s how it’s going to be, right? WRONG! No, this isn’t about you, Hunter. This isn’t about Nick, or even Famine. This isn’t about Shawn Christopher or even Bigg Rigg. This match is about one thing, and one thing alone. The World Title. The title that I quite simply believe you don’t deserve. But that’s just me. Then again, what do I know, right? I’m just a 27 year old city boy trying to strike it big in a no-name federation, right? Absolutely not. I’ve wrestled for better than two years now, I’ve been in big name federations before, and held my own – I’ve even won heavyweight tournaments, Hunter. I know what the fuck I’m talking about. I know what the fuck I mean. And I know, for a matter of fact, that you couldn’t hold a candle at my vigil, that’s how much you suck in the ring.”

“This match has one purpose for me, and that's to get my chance at the World title, which is why I’m still in this little bracket with the likes of Nicky, Tonka Truck, and… you. But over the last few weeks, staring at the numbers of attendance and TV viewers… it’s obvious what my new purpose is. Bringing the XWF back to the top of the crop, something I know a lot about. You weed out the bad seeds – yourself and Bigg Rigg and the like – and you water, feed and keep the good seeds growing. And when the good seeds mature, and you have your crop, the rest will strive to be like the good seeds. Myself? I’m the good seed. And by natural selection, I will beat you this week, next week, and any week we’re in the ring against each other.”

SC nods.

“This company needs a real star. Not a crazy jackass who attacks people from behind, or some guy that holds down an opponent and lets a woman take a boot to him. But those type of people took away the glory of the Universal Championship, Hunter. That’s why I’m going for the World Title, a title that was MADE for me. MADE for a man of my talents. MADE for me to hold up, Hunter. The World Title has been calling me since the first time I was an XWF event. Who are you to keep me from getting it? Who are you to keep me from saving this company from people like the Corporation or your Initiative? You are nobody...

Because nobody knows what you are."

Shawn looks up at the camera.

“This match will be nothing more than a whining contest, Hunter, because that’s all you’re good for. Don’t ask me, don’t ask our fellow wrestlers. Ask the fans… ask the people that matter.

But don’t worry, Hunter, I’ll make the match quick. Before you know it, you’ll hit the ground and your eyes will roll to the back of your head, but I assure you the feeling you get will be nothing like what a bitch like you is used to.”

Shawn nods, smirking. The camera fades away.