AGGRESSION 50: HOPE (Anarky & Layne Winters) vs. The Heirs of Wrestling
- Thread starter DBrunkGXW
- Start date
LQJT86C
Where's my money, Chad?
(FADEIN: Bent over, elbows at knees, LAYNE WINTERS sits in the EPW locker room preparing for an in-ring workout session. There is silence save for three sounds and three only: the humming of the radiator; concentrated exhale breathing; and the STRIP sounds of tape being pulled, ripped, and applied to the man's hands. He clenches his newly taped fist before looking up at the camera)
WINTERS: Heirs of Wrestling, I wanna let you know something right off the bat. Now you might find this strange coming from me, but I don't begrudge you boys your methods. See, I understand how hard it is to get noticed in a big wrestling market. I understand, maybe better than anyone, that to get somewhere you've gotta cut corner, take sideroads, find the angles where you can.
No boys, Layne Winters doesn't hate you...for sh*tting on a bunch of lockerroom pictures. I don't hate you for making a splash right out of the gate...don't begrudge you getting your names out there.
Now I don't know about my associate in the skeleton facepaint, but me? I ain't gonna hurt ya for doing what you did at Aggression.
I'm gonna hurt you...because you signed that dotted line. Because you're here...on the show where I made MY NAME...won MY TITLE...made MY MONEY! Y'see, I have a SPOT, boys. I'm a champion. SHAWN HART...the only man in EPW to have beaten me yet, he's a champion too. SEAN STEVENS...a man who by all rights should want me, Anarky, Hart, and The First DEAD for what we've got planned....he's the WORLD CHAMPION, and not for long.
Like you, I exist in a pecking order. Just as I am above you, there are those who sit above me, perched atop the main event like it's their throne- and they call themselves Kings, make no mistake. And like you, Heirs of Wrestling, I want somebody else's spot.
But there's something that sets me apart from the rest, and it's not JUST that I'm the uncrowned pound for pound BEST. Man, I'm 27 years old, still young...but I can't undo the sh*t my body's endured for nine years. I can't take out the poisons I've put in. There's no going back for me, Heirs of Wrestling. I did what I had to in order to compensate for a lack of movie star looks, an Olympian body, a devil's wit, or whatever bullsh*t intangibles that didn't get me railroaded to the top when I was still green. I paid the price to get here when many of my peers did NO SUCH F*CKING THING. Heirs of Wrestling, do you hear what I'm saying to you?
I sat and watched last week, as Troy Windham, the Epitome himself, took a piece of the action. A piece of MY ACTION! HOPE is my pipeline, my shortcut, MY GIG! I get that little bastard his World Title, and soon it becomes mine! He's INDEBTED TO ME!
Alliances are not my thing, but man...this body of mine...27 f*cking years old, what a goddamn shame...it don't have the sorta time left you think it does. I'm in my prime now, but it won't be long until my debts come home. That's a fear you just can't manufacture; there is no SEAN STEVENS legacy, no TROY WINDHAM hype strong enough trump that. They can write what they want about these men, these so-called "legends," but the simple fact is that it's either them or me. And it sure as F*CK ain't gonna be me...
Now we come to you...the "Heirs of Wrestling." They call you that, not because it's what you are, but because it's what you want them to think...it's the self-fulfilling prophecy you've placed your bet on.
Maybe when I'm standing over the motionless bodies of Sean Stevens, of Troy Windham, that motherf*cker trying to get in on my action...or maybe over the great Dan Ryan himself...maybe then I'll call myself the "Legend Killer."
But there's another aspect in all this, and that's what I'm sitting on. It's my TV title, it's my place in this company; it's everything I've worked for to this point, and everything I must protect going forward. In order for me to kill the legends, I've gotta make DAMN SURE that some pissants like yourselves don't f*ck around with my spot. I don't have the luxury of sh*tting on photos to make a name...I'm at the point where I just have to go and f*ck somebody up, no punches pulled. When I say something, I've gotta DO IT...there's no other way. Guys like you...young guys with time on your side...you can afford to make mistakes. Layne Winters...CAN'T.
When I see guys like you, trying to get ahead by stepping over me...I've gotta kill their momentum. I've gotta sh*t their bed; I've gotta steal their dreams.
Say whatever cocky sh*t you want, the fact is...you're getting BURIED at Aggression 50. I'm not gonna sit here and pretend I don't know your names, or I'm too good to fight you. Nah, I ain't too good to lay a beating on ANYBODY. You wanna step up? Then step up, get your shot at the big boys. Come at me and 'Nark, and get a taste of what it's like when you run with the wolves.
Come at me...Heirs of Wrestling...come get your dreams stolen.
(FADEOUT)
WINTERS: Heirs of Wrestling, I wanna let you know something right off the bat. Now you might find this strange coming from me, but I don't begrudge you boys your methods. See, I understand how hard it is to get noticed in a big wrestling market. I understand, maybe better than anyone, that to get somewhere you've gotta cut corner, take sideroads, find the angles where you can.
No boys, Layne Winters doesn't hate you...for sh*tting on a bunch of lockerroom pictures. I don't hate you for making a splash right out of the gate...don't begrudge you getting your names out there.
Now I don't know about my associate in the skeleton facepaint, but me? I ain't gonna hurt ya for doing what you did at Aggression.
I'm gonna hurt you...because you signed that dotted line. Because you're here...on the show where I made MY NAME...won MY TITLE...made MY MONEY! Y'see, I have a SPOT, boys. I'm a champion. SHAWN HART...the only man in EPW to have beaten me yet, he's a champion too. SEAN STEVENS...a man who by all rights should want me, Anarky, Hart, and The First DEAD for what we've got planned....he's the WORLD CHAMPION, and not for long.
Like you, I exist in a pecking order. Just as I am above you, there are those who sit above me, perched atop the main event like it's their throne- and they call themselves Kings, make no mistake. And like you, Heirs of Wrestling, I want somebody else's spot.
But there's something that sets me apart from the rest, and it's not JUST that I'm the uncrowned pound for pound BEST. Man, I'm 27 years old, still young...but I can't undo the sh*t my body's endured for nine years. I can't take out the poisons I've put in. There's no going back for me, Heirs of Wrestling. I did what I had to in order to compensate for a lack of movie star looks, an Olympian body, a devil's wit, or whatever bullsh*t intangibles that didn't get me railroaded to the top when I was still green. I paid the price to get here when many of my peers did NO SUCH F*CKING THING. Heirs of Wrestling, do you hear what I'm saying to you?
I sat and watched last week, as Troy Windham, the Epitome himself, took a piece of the action. A piece of MY ACTION! HOPE is my pipeline, my shortcut, MY GIG! I get that little bastard his World Title, and soon it becomes mine! He's INDEBTED TO ME!
Alliances are not my thing, but man...this body of mine...27 f*cking years old, what a goddamn shame...it don't have the sorta time left you think it does. I'm in my prime now, but it won't be long until my debts come home. That's a fear you just can't manufacture; there is no SEAN STEVENS legacy, no TROY WINDHAM hype strong enough trump that. They can write what they want about these men, these so-called "legends," but the simple fact is that it's either them or me. And it sure as F*CK ain't gonna be me...
Now we come to you...the "Heirs of Wrestling." They call you that, not because it's what you are, but because it's what you want them to think...it's the self-fulfilling prophecy you've placed your bet on.
Maybe when I'm standing over the motionless bodies of Sean Stevens, of Troy Windham, that motherf*cker trying to get in on my action...or maybe over the great Dan Ryan himself...maybe then I'll call myself the "Legend Killer."
But there's another aspect in all this, and that's what I'm sitting on. It's my TV title, it's my place in this company; it's everything I've worked for to this point, and everything I must protect going forward. In order for me to kill the legends, I've gotta make DAMN SURE that some pissants like yourselves don't f*ck around with my spot. I don't have the luxury of sh*tting on photos to make a name...I'm at the point where I just have to go and f*ck somebody up, no punches pulled. When I say something, I've gotta DO IT...there's no other way. Guys like you...young guys with time on your side...you can afford to make mistakes. Layne Winters...CAN'T.
When I see guys like you, trying to get ahead by stepping over me...I've gotta kill their momentum. I've gotta sh*t their bed; I've gotta steal their dreams.
Say whatever cocky sh*t you want, the fact is...you're getting BURIED at Aggression 50. I'm not gonna sit here and pretend I don't know your names, or I'm too good to fight you. Nah, I ain't too good to lay a beating on ANYBODY. You wanna step up? Then step up, get your shot at the big boys. Come at me and 'Nark, and get a taste of what it's like when you run with the wolves.
Come at me...Heirs of Wrestling...come get your dreams stolen.
(FADEOUT)
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(FADE-IN: Lights of every single shade of color you can think of – including ones yet to have been invented – completely drown out the clear night above Las Vegas, Nevada like a really horrid and kitschy Photoshopped picture. The camera catches various glimpses of all the flashy, crazy hoi polloi. Vibrant, colorful personalities from the pimps and hookers to Larry Larryson who bet his life savings on red to the successful groups of folks using their winnings to buy a badass limo ride. In short, the entire region STINKS of having that same Las Vegas air.
Walking amidst the madness, in super slow motion like one of 1571204587 action movies where you know that some **** is really about to go down, are none other than Frank Pierce, Ryan Gallway, and Mack Brody in that order. Frank’s rocking a pair of mirrored aviators, Ryan sports a really horrid European-looking jacket and scarf and Mack keeps his faux-hawk neatly trimmed while rocking a very tight black muscle shirt and blue jeans. Frank acknowledges the camera first and grins.)
FRANK PIERCE: (very, very slowly) ANNNNARRRRRKYYYYY…
WINNNTTTTEEERRRSSSS… WAAAAAIIITTT…. TURRRRN ITTTT OFFFF!
(Annnnd we’re back to normal speed now. Sorry ‘bout that. The three members of the Heirs each look deep in thought into the vast cosmos above… but that’s bull**** and we know all it. They’re pretty much buying themselves a little time until the cameraman, Bernie, gets the right ****ing camera angle for once. Seriously, dude’s on his last legs.)
FRANK PIERCE: Never heard of us, guy? Really? From one Seattlite to another… that hurts, man. (taps heart) That hurts. You, sir, have been missing out.
MACK BRODY: And we’ve got Anarky again, yeah?
FRANK PIERCE: Right.
RYAN GALLWAY: So… we’re doing the EXACT same match as the first one, but we’re in essence trading one singles guy for another? And a former TV Champion for the current one?
FRANK PIERCE: Well, they’re getting warmer. We ask for the best tag teams to come up. They didn’t QUITE deliver back at Onslaught, but this time it’s Anarky and Winters. They’re at least stablemates, so they’re slowly working up the hierarchy.
(All three Heirs nod in agreement before continuing their walk along the insanity that was a typical night out in Sin City. Frank moves towards the camera and removes his sunglasses once more, yet again showing off that slick arm movement that shows he’s probably done this more than a few times in his young career.)
FRANK PIERCE: Now, Layne Winters, I am going to extend my hand and say thank you. Thank you for openly acknowledging the awesomeness of our ways and thank you for at least seeing things on our side. Unlike our last opponents whose entire grand argument for winning was “DUR. YOU R NEWB. DUR, FILLER, YOU CAN’T R WIN!” You can at least know why we did what we did… because, you know, before us, the entire Tag Team scene sucked big, fat, floppy donkey nads. But seriously? That’s where that ****’s going to stop, man.
MACK BRODY: Where IS this Joey Porter “Me vs. You vs. Them” bull**** coming from anyway?
FRANK PIERCE: That’s my next point, Mack. I’m twenty-four, he’s twenty-seven, we’re each in our early-to-mid twenties, but apparently rather than get a really good education or doing… well, ****, anything… he apparently wrestled out of the womb and has been clawing for his spot or some ****. (to the camera) Now, Layne, I don’t have the experience you do, but, I’ve seen enough of the “MINE! MINE! MINE!” rhetoric and saw generic angry faces shot at the camera, too. I believe a great prophet by the name of “Daffy Duck” did the same thing and it made me laugh. Milk came out my nose, the whole nine. But this is about twenty years later and right now, it gives me a tiny nostalgic chuckle. Nothing more, nothing less. So you’ll have to excuse me if we’re not all shaking in our boots while you scout your next dingy, macabre bingo hall to film your next promo in.
(With a deep breath, Frank Pierce sighs contently while Ryan Gallway adjusts his man-scarf. Why he’s wearing it, nobody knows. Claims he got it as a gift in Japan when he slayed native wrestler Ignacious the Terrible. How a guy in Japan is named Ignacious, we’ll never know. Hey, look, kids! It’s a promo!)
RYAN GALLWAY: And what the Quarian ****, dude? He thinks we call ourselves the Heirs of Wrestling because it’s a prophecy and we just made up the title? Well, we DID… and we ARE the bright, shining, badass future of wrestling, but still, man.
MACK BRODY: Uh… dumbass… check out the bio. My dad, Frank’s Godfather, Alexandria’s father, Ryan’s trainer… Uh… all LEGENDS, bro.
FRANK PIERCE: Hey, don’t fault the guy. They don’t have computers in VFW Halls. And they weren’t very prominent back in 1997 independent wrestling where he clearly stepped out from. Yep. Had a time machine built of Super Nintendo parts, the original Pentium processor, and for some reason, it made a ****ed-up dial-up noise, too.
(Frank just shakes his arms in the air, not so much in a defeated, “Eh, **** this, let’s go somewhere else” but more in such a way that it trivializes everything he just said. He tilts his head to the side and lets his thoughts gather.)
FRANK PIERCE: At the end of the day, Staley, you can sit there and be the Man in the Box, living in his own little world or you can peek your head out and take to heart what we have to say. Trust me when I tell you that the spot you covet on the EPW roster is entirely safe. EPW needs the “starving bull**** artist” just as much as it needs Petey the Ring Crew Man-Boy to help put it all together. You can be Old School, New School, Middle School, Remedial School for all I care next to your ranting and breathing retard of a tag team partner, Anarky. The spot we want is merely the one that’s laying in front of us come Aggression 50.
RYAN GALLWAY: AGG FITTY, *****ES!
MACK BRODY: Was that pig-Latin or something… ah, who cares, I’m too man-pretty for this ****.
(The self-proclaimed “Here And Now” points his fingers out into the distance and makes the camera follow where he points.)
FRANK PIERCE: See that, Anarky and Winters? That’s called the sky. And there is an old, very tired, very worn-out cliché about that thing being the limit. Layne’s right. We are young. We’re good. We know our audience and how to push their buttons. But not even that big, dark mess up there is going to keep us from reaching the heights that we plan to attain. While our methods may come into question from time-to-time, the goal is there. We’ve already put ourselves on the map and soon, we’ll work our way to the top of the heap.
(Rounding the corner, The Heirs swing back toward the camera and start walking towards an illuminated section of the hustle-and-bustle that is The Entertainment Capital of the World. The camera slowly backs away so it can keep pace with each of them as they stroll further away.)
FRANK PIERCE: We whet our appetites with Onslaught, and now we get to dine with kings on the fiftieth edition of Aggression; the biggest edition yet. Anarky and Winters, you both first-hand, get to find out just what we’re all about. And when it’s all said and done… we walk out of Sin City striking a blow against HOPE, continuing to ride the flashy rails, living it up on our path to greatness, enjoying all of the finest things in life... **** the finer things. As for you two? You’ll be left killing each other for the scraps on the Master’s table.
(With a laugh, all three Heirs keep walking as the camera comes to a complete halt. The cocky rookie ****s exit stage right before refocusing on the cornucopia of color that bathes the skyline. From there, we fade to black. And poof… begone. By, "poof" we mean Bernie the Cameraman. The Heirs don't roll with no pillow-biters.)
FADE OUT.
Walking amidst the madness, in super slow motion like one of 1571204587 action movies where you know that some **** is really about to go down, are none other than Frank Pierce, Ryan Gallway, and Mack Brody in that order. Frank’s rocking a pair of mirrored aviators, Ryan sports a really horrid European-looking jacket and scarf and Mack keeps his faux-hawk neatly trimmed while rocking a very tight black muscle shirt and blue jeans. Frank acknowledges the camera first and grins.)
FRANK PIERCE: (very, very slowly) ANNNNARRRRRKYYYYY…
WINNNTTTTEEERRRSSSS… WAAAAAIIITTT…. TURRRRN ITTTT OFFFF!
(Annnnd we’re back to normal speed now. Sorry ‘bout that. The three members of the Heirs each look deep in thought into the vast cosmos above… but that’s bull**** and we know all it. They’re pretty much buying themselves a little time until the cameraman, Bernie, gets the right ****ing camera angle for once. Seriously, dude’s on his last legs.)
FRANK PIERCE: Never heard of us, guy? Really? From one Seattlite to another… that hurts, man. (taps heart) That hurts. You, sir, have been missing out.
MACK BRODY: And we’ve got Anarky again, yeah?
FRANK PIERCE: Right.
RYAN GALLWAY: So… we’re doing the EXACT same match as the first one, but we’re in essence trading one singles guy for another? And a former TV Champion for the current one?
FRANK PIERCE: Well, they’re getting warmer. We ask for the best tag teams to come up. They didn’t QUITE deliver back at Onslaught, but this time it’s Anarky and Winters. They’re at least stablemates, so they’re slowly working up the hierarchy.
(All three Heirs nod in agreement before continuing their walk along the insanity that was a typical night out in Sin City. Frank moves towards the camera and removes his sunglasses once more, yet again showing off that slick arm movement that shows he’s probably done this more than a few times in his young career.)
FRANK PIERCE: Now, Layne Winters, I am going to extend my hand and say thank you. Thank you for openly acknowledging the awesomeness of our ways and thank you for at least seeing things on our side. Unlike our last opponents whose entire grand argument for winning was “DUR. YOU R NEWB. DUR, FILLER, YOU CAN’T R WIN!” You can at least know why we did what we did… because, you know, before us, the entire Tag Team scene sucked big, fat, floppy donkey nads. But seriously? That’s where that ****’s going to stop, man.
MACK BRODY: Where IS this Joey Porter “Me vs. You vs. Them” bull**** coming from anyway?
FRANK PIERCE: That’s my next point, Mack. I’m twenty-four, he’s twenty-seven, we’re each in our early-to-mid twenties, but apparently rather than get a really good education or doing… well, ****, anything… he apparently wrestled out of the womb and has been clawing for his spot or some ****. (to the camera) Now, Layne, I don’t have the experience you do, but, I’ve seen enough of the “MINE! MINE! MINE!” rhetoric and saw generic angry faces shot at the camera, too. I believe a great prophet by the name of “Daffy Duck” did the same thing and it made me laugh. Milk came out my nose, the whole nine. But this is about twenty years later and right now, it gives me a tiny nostalgic chuckle. Nothing more, nothing less. So you’ll have to excuse me if we’re not all shaking in our boots while you scout your next dingy, macabre bingo hall to film your next promo in.
(With a deep breath, Frank Pierce sighs contently while Ryan Gallway adjusts his man-scarf. Why he’s wearing it, nobody knows. Claims he got it as a gift in Japan when he slayed native wrestler Ignacious the Terrible. How a guy in Japan is named Ignacious, we’ll never know. Hey, look, kids! It’s a promo!)
RYAN GALLWAY: And what the Quarian ****, dude? He thinks we call ourselves the Heirs of Wrestling because it’s a prophecy and we just made up the title? Well, we DID… and we ARE the bright, shining, badass future of wrestling, but still, man.
MACK BRODY: Uh… dumbass… check out the bio. My dad, Frank’s Godfather, Alexandria’s father, Ryan’s trainer… Uh… all LEGENDS, bro.
FRANK PIERCE: Hey, don’t fault the guy. They don’t have computers in VFW Halls. And they weren’t very prominent back in 1997 independent wrestling where he clearly stepped out from. Yep. Had a time machine built of Super Nintendo parts, the original Pentium processor, and for some reason, it made a ****ed-up dial-up noise, too.
(Frank just shakes his arms in the air, not so much in a defeated, “Eh, **** this, let’s go somewhere else” but more in such a way that it trivializes everything he just said. He tilts his head to the side and lets his thoughts gather.)
FRANK PIERCE: At the end of the day, Staley, you can sit there and be the Man in the Box, living in his own little world or you can peek your head out and take to heart what we have to say. Trust me when I tell you that the spot you covet on the EPW roster is entirely safe. EPW needs the “starving bull**** artist” just as much as it needs Petey the Ring Crew Man-Boy to help put it all together. You can be Old School, New School, Middle School, Remedial School for all I care next to your ranting and breathing retard of a tag team partner, Anarky. The spot we want is merely the one that’s laying in front of us come Aggression 50.
RYAN GALLWAY: AGG FITTY, *****ES!
MACK BRODY: Was that pig-Latin or something… ah, who cares, I’m too man-pretty for this ****.
(The self-proclaimed “Here And Now” points his fingers out into the distance and makes the camera follow where he points.)
FRANK PIERCE: See that, Anarky and Winters? That’s called the sky. And there is an old, very tired, very worn-out cliché about that thing being the limit. Layne’s right. We are young. We’re good. We know our audience and how to push their buttons. But not even that big, dark mess up there is going to keep us from reaching the heights that we plan to attain. While our methods may come into question from time-to-time, the goal is there. We’ve already put ourselves on the map and soon, we’ll work our way to the top of the heap.
(Rounding the corner, The Heirs swing back toward the camera and start walking towards an illuminated section of the hustle-and-bustle that is The Entertainment Capital of the World. The camera slowly backs away so it can keep pace with each of them as they stroll further away.)
FRANK PIERCE: We whet our appetites with Onslaught, and now we get to dine with kings on the fiftieth edition of Aggression; the biggest edition yet. Anarky and Winters, you both first-hand, get to find out just what we’re all about. And when it’s all said and done… we walk out of Sin City striking a blow against HOPE, continuing to ride the flashy rails, living it up on our path to greatness, enjoying all of the finest things in life... **** the finer things. As for you two? You’ll be left killing each other for the scraps on the Master’s table.
(With a laugh, all three Heirs keep walking as the camera comes to a complete halt. The cocky rookie ****s exit stage right before refocusing on the cornucopia of color that bathes the skyline. From there, we fade to black. And poof… begone. By, "poof" we mean Bernie the Cameraman. The Heirs don't roll with no pillow-biters.)
FADE OUT.
Last edited:
LQJT86C
Where's my money, Chad?
(FADEIN to a run-down bar, covered in peeling paint and unlit neon Schlitz signs. A few listless, overweight gentlemen sit at the bar. Every one of them has a single beer in front of them, and none of them are even looking at each other; a few stare at the old, beaten up TV on the wall. In the corner sits ANARKY, a bottle of Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA bottles sitting in front of him. Next to him: LAYNE WINTERS in a Seahawks cap and red/black RVCA shirt. Anarky seems to be staring off into nothing. He speaks, not to anybody in particular it seems, but nobody at the bar even notices or cares)
ANARKY: “I’ve been doin’ this too f*cking long.
“You wanna know how I know that, guys? Heirs of Wrestling?
“Because here you are, acting like you reinvented the f*cking wheel. Like nobody ever came out here and ran there mouths and acted real clever-like.
“See… you wear skull f*cking facepaint into that ring and someone’s gonna make fun of you, man. You know how many times I was called a goth? Y’know how many f*cking times I’ve had to talk real slow so I could make you understand how much I don’t give a f*ck?
“You come out here, and you try and just throw a convenient little label on everybody, and you try to just kinda distill them into one tiny little f*cking thing, and you crack a little joke, which, with ANY luck, actually makes someone chuckle, and you call it a night.
“I get it. Really, I do.
“It’s 2010 and we’re all f*cking self-aware and ironic now. We turn everything into cute little archetypes and then we mock it. Ooooh, you’re so edgy, guys! I’ve never heard anybody refer to me as a scary monster-type who threatens to hurt people! Wow! You called Layne a suffering bullsh*t artist!
“Whoa, man, hold the blogs! Check out the screamin’ wit on these guys. They made fun of someone because they shot a promo somewhere depressing like a bar! Wow! Nobody has ever made a weird meta-reference to the bizarre hobbies people have on the Internet!
“Or, rather, every f*cking douchebag and their mother runs the same f*cking tired routine out here. Same old f*cking dog and pony show. You should work for Carlos Mencia with material that f*cking fresh.
“Oh, I f*cking get it. See, when I shoot a promo in a graveyard, I’m a depressing goth. When I shoot it in a nice park, I’m trying to be deep. Guys like you, they just sit back and critique everything else because in the end, y’know what?
“You’re a f*cking sideshow. You talk the talk, but you and me, we ain’t in the same f*cking league.
“Onslaught is just a warmup. This sh*t counts.
“I ain’t here in a bar to prove how f*cking tough and edgy I am. I just love f*cking drinking almost as much as I f*cking love puttin’ punk b*tches on their asses.
“So I’m gonna go out there, AGAIN, and I’m gonna f*cking do what I do best, and that ain’t crack pseudo-intellectual bullsh*t jokes about how uncool my opponents are, cause you and I both know by now how little I can even PRETEND to f*cking care.
WINTERS: (Smiling) "You know what, Pierce? I wish I could stand here and tell you my name wasn't Layne Winters- that I'm really from Palm Springs, have two houses, a wife and three kids, a dog...that my brutal upbringing in this business was just some sh*t I said to make money.
"And man, if only I had the talent, the charisma....I could have got in on some decades-old cocky mid-south archetype bullsh*t, where I carry around mirrors, blow kisses to girls, name my moves so they rhyme, talk about how I'm my daddy's son, and I'm the man...and...sh*t, maybe I could even STRUT, too!"
"But that'd be lying, Pierce. And as much as I'd love to help you tear down the business some more, I'm afraid I can't oblige. See, I am what I say I am....and that's the worst news you ever got."
"Think, Frank...how important is this sh*t to you, really? Is it important enough that you risk your debut, maybe your career, stepping there with a guy like me; getting crushed the way better men before you did?"
"This ain't intimidation, boys...it's f*ckin' life counseling. Fact is, I ain't the starving Indy God I once was, wrestling out of bingo halls, and all the other crap you sought to mock me with. Nah, those days are over. My rent is PAID, believe that. I cut a paycheck, because unlike the rest of you f*cking hype-artists, my sh*t comes true. Not a single empty-threat has been issued from my lips, nor a false promise. My checks...they don't bounce."
"That's why World Champions lose their sh*t when I get involved. It's why Sean Stevens' days as King are dwindling by the hour, and why Anthology is on it's death bed. It's why...when The First needed a man to bring this company to it's KNEES, he didn't go to some vanilla Nature Boy who calls himself "HEIR" or "COCKY"...he came to ME! OK, yeah, fine, he went to Troy Windham, but F*CK HIM! He came to me FIRST!"
"And you too, Anarky." (NARK shoots a glance over at an insincere Winters)
ANARKY: “I didn’t come to EPW to start a new stand-up comedy act. I came here to do what I do best.
“And now… this is MY f*cking time, guys. Okay?
“I dragged my ass into this hellhole at Dan Ryan’s request, just so we could f*ck with Beast. Just for fun. Just cause that’s the kind guy I am.
“And for all my f*cking trouble, I end up getting laid out by the f*cking King of Meta, ol’ Felix Red. But here I am, back again.
“I got Sean Edmunds and Copycat actually cuttin’ promos BRAGGING about the fact that they DIDN’T leave the ring in a stretcher! Are you f*cking kidding me? This is Anthology’s great victory? That they CRAWLED AWAY FROM MY RING?
“And now Sean Stevens knows. Just like f*cking Larry Tact knew. Just like Westcott knew. Just like Craig f*cking Miles knew before he ran his coward-ass back to wherever it is he comes from.
“Just like you’re gonna f*cking know. I’m not some archetype. I am the real mother*cking deal, gentlemen. And this ain’t my first time out there.
“Of course… I won’t be alone. I got my good friend with me. And my good friend, Layne… he may sound a little grungy, but let’s face it, man… the dude can f*cking fight.
“Why don’t you go ask Copycat what kind of man Layne is. Or better yet, you can ask him yourself.”
(WINTERS smiles and turns to the camera)
WINTERS: "Watch the match, fellas. They put it on the the 'Best of...' DVD for a reason. Pardon the spoiler, but I f*ck him up. Badly."
(ANARKY smiles and nods, raising his glass to WINTERS, who does the same)
ANARKY: “Enjoy, my friend. Tonight, we drink."
“And soon, the Heirs of Wrestling are going to get their official welcome to Eee Pee f*cking Dubya. And I can’t think of a better, more retro and ironic present to give them than HOPE’s dark passenger.
“I promise you, gentlemen. I am going to enjoy every f*cking second of this moment together. And when it’s done, all those annoying jokes and cute little self-aware one-liners are going to sound so much more beautiful."
“Because they’ll sound like the muffled cries of your pathetic little whimpering."
“Sadly, it’ll be the most clever thing you’ve said yet.”
(FADEOUT as he raises his glass to the camera and smiles)
ANARKY: “I’ve been doin’ this too f*cking long.
“You wanna know how I know that, guys? Heirs of Wrestling?
“Because here you are, acting like you reinvented the f*cking wheel. Like nobody ever came out here and ran there mouths and acted real clever-like.
“See… you wear skull f*cking facepaint into that ring and someone’s gonna make fun of you, man. You know how many times I was called a goth? Y’know how many f*cking times I’ve had to talk real slow so I could make you understand how much I don’t give a f*ck?
“You come out here, and you try and just throw a convenient little label on everybody, and you try to just kinda distill them into one tiny little f*cking thing, and you crack a little joke, which, with ANY luck, actually makes someone chuckle, and you call it a night.
“I get it. Really, I do.
“It’s 2010 and we’re all f*cking self-aware and ironic now. We turn everything into cute little archetypes and then we mock it. Ooooh, you’re so edgy, guys! I’ve never heard anybody refer to me as a scary monster-type who threatens to hurt people! Wow! You called Layne a suffering bullsh*t artist!
“Whoa, man, hold the blogs! Check out the screamin’ wit on these guys. They made fun of someone because they shot a promo somewhere depressing like a bar! Wow! Nobody has ever made a weird meta-reference to the bizarre hobbies people have on the Internet!
“Or, rather, every f*cking douchebag and their mother runs the same f*cking tired routine out here. Same old f*cking dog and pony show. You should work for Carlos Mencia with material that f*cking fresh.
“Oh, I f*cking get it. See, when I shoot a promo in a graveyard, I’m a depressing goth. When I shoot it in a nice park, I’m trying to be deep. Guys like you, they just sit back and critique everything else because in the end, y’know what?
“You’re a f*cking sideshow. You talk the talk, but you and me, we ain’t in the same f*cking league.
“Onslaught is just a warmup. This sh*t counts.
“I ain’t here in a bar to prove how f*cking tough and edgy I am. I just love f*cking drinking almost as much as I f*cking love puttin’ punk b*tches on their asses.
“So I’m gonna go out there, AGAIN, and I’m gonna f*cking do what I do best, and that ain’t crack pseudo-intellectual bullsh*t jokes about how uncool my opponents are, cause you and I both know by now how little I can even PRETEND to f*cking care.
WINTERS: (Smiling) "You know what, Pierce? I wish I could stand here and tell you my name wasn't Layne Winters- that I'm really from Palm Springs, have two houses, a wife and three kids, a dog...that my brutal upbringing in this business was just some sh*t I said to make money.
"And man, if only I had the talent, the charisma....I could have got in on some decades-old cocky mid-south archetype bullsh*t, where I carry around mirrors, blow kisses to girls, name my moves so they rhyme, talk about how I'm my daddy's son, and I'm the man...and...sh*t, maybe I could even STRUT, too!"
"But that'd be lying, Pierce. And as much as I'd love to help you tear down the business some more, I'm afraid I can't oblige. See, I am what I say I am....and that's the worst news you ever got."
"Think, Frank...how important is this sh*t to you, really? Is it important enough that you risk your debut, maybe your career, stepping there with a guy like me; getting crushed the way better men before you did?"
"This ain't intimidation, boys...it's f*ckin' life counseling. Fact is, I ain't the starving Indy God I once was, wrestling out of bingo halls, and all the other crap you sought to mock me with. Nah, those days are over. My rent is PAID, believe that. I cut a paycheck, because unlike the rest of you f*cking hype-artists, my sh*t comes true. Not a single empty-threat has been issued from my lips, nor a false promise. My checks...they don't bounce."
"That's why World Champions lose their sh*t when I get involved. It's why Sean Stevens' days as King are dwindling by the hour, and why Anthology is on it's death bed. It's why...when The First needed a man to bring this company to it's KNEES, he didn't go to some vanilla Nature Boy who calls himself "HEIR" or "COCKY"...he came to ME! OK, yeah, fine, he went to Troy Windham, but F*CK HIM! He came to me FIRST!"
"And you too, Anarky." (NARK shoots a glance over at an insincere Winters)
ANARKY: “I didn’t come to EPW to start a new stand-up comedy act. I came here to do what I do best.
“And now… this is MY f*cking time, guys. Okay?
“I dragged my ass into this hellhole at Dan Ryan’s request, just so we could f*ck with Beast. Just for fun. Just cause that’s the kind guy I am.
“And for all my f*cking trouble, I end up getting laid out by the f*cking King of Meta, ol’ Felix Red. But here I am, back again.
“I got Sean Edmunds and Copycat actually cuttin’ promos BRAGGING about the fact that they DIDN’T leave the ring in a stretcher! Are you f*cking kidding me? This is Anthology’s great victory? That they CRAWLED AWAY FROM MY RING?
“And now Sean Stevens knows. Just like f*cking Larry Tact knew. Just like Westcott knew. Just like Craig f*cking Miles knew before he ran his coward-ass back to wherever it is he comes from.
“Just like you’re gonna f*cking know. I’m not some archetype. I am the real mother*cking deal, gentlemen. And this ain’t my first time out there.
“Of course… I won’t be alone. I got my good friend with me. And my good friend, Layne… he may sound a little grungy, but let’s face it, man… the dude can f*cking fight.
“Why don’t you go ask Copycat what kind of man Layne is. Or better yet, you can ask him yourself.”
(WINTERS smiles and turns to the camera)
WINTERS: "Watch the match, fellas. They put it on the the 'Best of...' DVD for a reason. Pardon the spoiler, but I f*ck him up. Badly."
(ANARKY smiles and nods, raising his glass to WINTERS, who does the same)
ANARKY: “Enjoy, my friend. Tonight, we drink."
“And soon, the Heirs of Wrestling are going to get their official welcome to Eee Pee f*cking Dubya. And I can’t think of a better, more retro and ironic present to give them than HOPE’s dark passenger.
“I promise you, gentlemen. I am going to enjoy every f*cking second of this moment together. And when it’s done, all those annoying jokes and cute little self-aware one-liners are going to sound so much more beautiful."
“Because they’ll sound like the muffled cries of your pathetic little whimpering."
“Sadly, it’ll be the most clever thing you’ve said yet.”
(FADEOUT as he raises his glass to the camera and smiles)
- Joined
- Feb 4, 2005
- Messages
- 1,143
- Points
- 38
(FADE-IN: The Heirs of Wrestling [that’s Frank Pierce, Ryan Gallway and Mack Brody, for those of you keeping a tally at home], all three, standing around a random studio in the middle of nowhere, all dressed in various shades of blue jeans and another marketing genius t-shirt of “Heirs of Wrestling: Throwin’ ‘Bows and Ascendin’ Thrones.” Coming SOON… ish to EPWshop.com! Behind them is that oh-so-familiar EPW interview backdrop which tells the audience that we are about to go old-school. Ryan Gallway pulls out a haromica and plays a very solid note before humming along.)
RYAN GALLWAY: Laaaaaaaaaa….
(The pint-sized member of the Heirs takes a moment to clear his throat.)
RYAN GALLWAY: HEY…
WINTERS!
ANARKY!
DO…
WE…
NEED…
TO…
SPEAK…
UP?!?!
(Both Mack and Frank are taken aback by the noise that their friend makes. To their and the viewer’s chagrin, he continues.)
RYAN GALLWAY: CAN…
YOU…
HEAR…
US…
NOW?!?!
(Ryan looks ready to cut another note, but Frank runs a hand across his throat, politely telling him to cut it the **** out. Mack pats Ryan on the back while Frank Pierce moves this right along, all three members of the Heirs looking like the very embodiment of cockiness… and douchyness… which is next to Godliness. In their eyes, anyhow.)
FRANK PIERCE: Hopefully, that got your attention, guys. I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to get through the **** that you two have caked right between your ears… not to mention, trying to get through the 245,262 attempts to scare us in your failed abortion called “Your last dialogue.”
But I’m going to hope and pray for the best that our message is not lost upon you. Now, from what I’ve understood, Anarky’s had a real big problem with the kinds of messages we convey. He doesn’t like us cutting our promos in flashy places like the Las Vegas strip and he doesn’t like the way we say things inside a Podunk wrestling ring that Layne Winters has had the displeasure of competing in, as he’s regaled us AND the entirety of EPW ad nauseum. So in the interest of keeping things to the archaic method of wrestling’s earlier times, we’ve gotten only ourselves and the backdrop for this one so that way you two can hopefully follow along this time.
(Pierce pauses, waving a hand in front of him to show off the pretty little backdrop before he delves further.)
FRANK PIERCE: Now, in our very short with Empire Pro Wrestling, we’ve had the dubious distinction of having to piece together the very things that Anarky has had to say. From what we’ve gathered and from tapes that have been studied arduously, we’ve arrived at several conclusions. Take it away, boys.
MACK BRODY: Number One… Anarky is a very violent individual who has made a living doing this somewhere in the vicinity of thirteen or so years, maybe more.
Cracking skulls, punching people’s lights out and all that jazz.
RYAN GALLWAY: Number B… He’s a fine connoisseur of weird-sounding booze. Now while I like to partake in the delight of a good Chultzian Gin and Tonic on Planet Arzubar, Dogfish ain’t bad.
FRANK PIERCE: And to our winning conclusion… for a guy that’s quick to chastise us for being unoriginal guys who think they’ve (obnoxious air quote) reinvented the ****ing wheel (obnoxious air unquote), about the ONLY thing you’ve done is repeat everything and tack on how much you’re going to hurt us. At least for Layne Winters, he has the upshot of being able to properly articulate his whiny, angsty ****. All you’ve done since we’ve got here is further prove our point by devolving into nothing more than a grunting Neanderthal. It’s pretty much like talking to Lucy the gorilla that does sign language, but if Lucy only knew how to sign one specific thing.
(Moving slowly, Frank moves from a more relaxed position against the backdrop and now stands upright, almost like he’s trying to burn a hole through the camera lens. Ryan is LITERALLY trying to burn a hole in the lens. If George Clooney can do his interpretation of killing goats, why can’t he burn **** with his mind, eh?)
FRANK PIERCE: Now, boys, you guys like to talk lots about being men who simply just don’t give two squirts of piss about the current era of our sport. Fists are all you need, grunting and groaning is all you had to get by. Get it. Got it. Good. No pomp and circumstance for you two. No pyro, no fancy-bally-hoo, the thoughts and opinions of your fellow man don’t matter. You’ve even accused us of sheer, unbridled arrogance on our behalf. We couldn’t care any less if you guys are telling the truth or you’re full of it, but after being forced to stomach that last display of noise pollution, we figured out one thing.
MACK BRODY: Backed-up toilets!
RYAN GALLWAY: Translation, Earthers: You’re both full of ****! SUCK MY INTERGALACTIC NINES *****ES!
(High-fiving one another like children, Mack and Ryan chuckle to themselves. Frank just continues to watch the camera.)
FRANK PIERCE: You think we live on a cloud, flying alongside our own delusions of grandeur. While you don’t match the style, the youth, or the bank accounts we do, you both have the delusions as well. They just manifest themselves in different ways. Just like the cocky-ass attitudes you sport and this completely groundless certainty you have that you’ve automatically won because of what you’ve done to Anthology. Well, Anthology isn’t here, ****s-for-brains, we are, so you’ll have to forgive us if we’re taking everything you’ve had to say thus far with a big grain of salt.
MACK BRODY: TROOF!
(Proudly, Mack and Ryan take up the rear, nodding in agreement with everything that Frank has had to say thus far.)
FRANK PIERCE: Edmonds and Copycat have no bearing on what’s here before you, Anthology’s time is done and over with as far as you’re concerned. What lies before you now is a group of people ready to make our presence felt in EPW. I could see how “Heirs of Wrestling” could be construed as nothing more than a self-fellating prophecy to the untrained and ‘roid-addled mind, Winters. But for us, it’s truth, friends. While you’ve both wrestled for a long time, wrestling was in our blood even before that.
So go ahead. Continue to harp on the Grand Canyon-esque difference between our experience level in EPW. Continue to look right past us and assume that you’ve already won based on these facts. Anarky, keep dropping laundry lists of guys who aren’t have zero bearing in this match. Winters, leep going on long tangents about how you got from where you were to where you are now. And while we’ve fallen asleep from all that, just keep on assuming you’re going to come in and spill buckets of blood like John Rambo on crack-cocaine. Cause when you keep making idiotic assumptions… guys like the Fallen and guys like Copycat and Jared Wells... ****, EPW as a whole will get to learn exactly what we’re all about.
And they’ll have Anarky and Layne Winters to thank.
MACK BRODY: Ryan, would you kindly take us out?
RYAN GALLWAY: Certainly.
(Humming another ditty on the harmonica, Ryan makes sure that his voice is in perfect pitch.)
RYAN GALLWAY: FAGS!
(FADE-OUT.)
RYAN GALLWAY: Laaaaaaaaaa….
(The pint-sized member of the Heirs takes a moment to clear his throat.)
RYAN GALLWAY: HEY…
WINTERS!
ANARKY!
DO…
WE…
NEED…
TO…
SPEAK…
UP?!?!
(Both Mack and Frank are taken aback by the noise that their friend makes. To their and the viewer’s chagrin, he continues.)
RYAN GALLWAY: CAN…
YOU…
HEAR…
US…
NOW?!?!
(Ryan looks ready to cut another note, but Frank runs a hand across his throat, politely telling him to cut it the **** out. Mack pats Ryan on the back while Frank Pierce moves this right along, all three members of the Heirs looking like the very embodiment of cockiness… and douchyness… which is next to Godliness. In their eyes, anyhow.)
FRANK PIERCE: Hopefully, that got your attention, guys. I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to get through the **** that you two have caked right between your ears… not to mention, trying to get through the 245,262 attempts to scare us in your failed abortion called “Your last dialogue.”
But I’m going to hope and pray for the best that our message is not lost upon you. Now, from what I’ve understood, Anarky’s had a real big problem with the kinds of messages we convey. He doesn’t like us cutting our promos in flashy places like the Las Vegas strip and he doesn’t like the way we say things inside a Podunk wrestling ring that Layne Winters has had the displeasure of competing in, as he’s regaled us AND the entirety of EPW ad nauseum. So in the interest of keeping things to the archaic method of wrestling’s earlier times, we’ve gotten only ourselves and the backdrop for this one so that way you two can hopefully follow along this time.
(Pierce pauses, waving a hand in front of him to show off the pretty little backdrop before he delves further.)
FRANK PIERCE: Now, in our very short with Empire Pro Wrestling, we’ve had the dubious distinction of having to piece together the very things that Anarky has had to say. From what we’ve gathered and from tapes that have been studied arduously, we’ve arrived at several conclusions. Take it away, boys.
MACK BRODY: Number One… Anarky is a very violent individual who has made a living doing this somewhere in the vicinity of thirteen or so years, maybe more.
Cracking skulls, punching people’s lights out and all that jazz.
RYAN GALLWAY: Number B… He’s a fine connoisseur of weird-sounding booze. Now while I like to partake in the delight of a good Chultzian Gin and Tonic on Planet Arzubar, Dogfish ain’t bad.
FRANK PIERCE: And to our winning conclusion… for a guy that’s quick to chastise us for being unoriginal guys who think they’ve (obnoxious air quote) reinvented the ****ing wheel (obnoxious air unquote), about the ONLY thing you’ve done is repeat everything and tack on how much you’re going to hurt us. At least for Layne Winters, he has the upshot of being able to properly articulate his whiny, angsty ****. All you’ve done since we’ve got here is further prove our point by devolving into nothing more than a grunting Neanderthal. It’s pretty much like talking to Lucy the gorilla that does sign language, but if Lucy only knew how to sign one specific thing.
(Moving slowly, Frank moves from a more relaxed position against the backdrop and now stands upright, almost like he’s trying to burn a hole through the camera lens. Ryan is LITERALLY trying to burn a hole in the lens. If George Clooney can do his interpretation of killing goats, why can’t he burn **** with his mind, eh?)
FRANK PIERCE: Now, boys, you guys like to talk lots about being men who simply just don’t give two squirts of piss about the current era of our sport. Fists are all you need, grunting and groaning is all you had to get by. Get it. Got it. Good. No pomp and circumstance for you two. No pyro, no fancy-bally-hoo, the thoughts and opinions of your fellow man don’t matter. You’ve even accused us of sheer, unbridled arrogance on our behalf. We couldn’t care any less if you guys are telling the truth or you’re full of it, but after being forced to stomach that last display of noise pollution, we figured out one thing.
MACK BRODY: Backed-up toilets!
RYAN GALLWAY: Translation, Earthers: You’re both full of ****! SUCK MY INTERGALACTIC NINES *****ES!
(High-fiving one another like children, Mack and Ryan chuckle to themselves. Frank just continues to watch the camera.)
FRANK PIERCE: You think we live on a cloud, flying alongside our own delusions of grandeur. While you don’t match the style, the youth, or the bank accounts we do, you both have the delusions as well. They just manifest themselves in different ways. Just like the cocky-ass attitudes you sport and this completely groundless certainty you have that you’ve automatically won because of what you’ve done to Anthology. Well, Anthology isn’t here, ****s-for-brains, we are, so you’ll have to forgive us if we’re taking everything you’ve had to say thus far with a big grain of salt.
MACK BRODY: TROOF!
(Proudly, Mack and Ryan take up the rear, nodding in agreement with everything that Frank has had to say thus far.)
FRANK PIERCE: Edmonds and Copycat have no bearing on what’s here before you, Anthology’s time is done and over with as far as you’re concerned. What lies before you now is a group of people ready to make our presence felt in EPW. I could see how “Heirs of Wrestling” could be construed as nothing more than a self-fellating prophecy to the untrained and ‘roid-addled mind, Winters. But for us, it’s truth, friends. While you’ve both wrestled for a long time, wrestling was in our blood even before that.
So go ahead. Continue to harp on the Grand Canyon-esque difference between our experience level in EPW. Continue to look right past us and assume that you’ve already won based on these facts. Anarky, keep dropping laundry lists of guys who aren’t have zero bearing in this match. Winters, leep going on long tangents about how you got from where you were to where you are now. And while we’ve fallen asleep from all that, just keep on assuming you’re going to come in and spill buckets of blood like John Rambo on crack-cocaine. Cause when you keep making idiotic assumptions… guys like the Fallen and guys like Copycat and Jared Wells... ****, EPW as a whole will get to learn exactly what we’re all about.
And they’ll have Anarky and Layne Winters to thank.
MACK BRODY: Ryan, would you kindly take us out?
RYAN GALLWAY: Certainly.
(Humming another ditty on the harmonica, Ryan makes sure that his voice is in perfect pitch.)
RYAN GALLWAY: FAGS!
(FADE-OUT.)
Last edited:
JLevinson
Diva Tree
- Joined
- Jan 1, 2000
- Messages
- 707
- Points
- 0
- Age
- 43
(FADEIN to an enormous, empty movie theater with stadium seating and minimalist modern design. Anarky sits in a chair in the center of the bleachers, his feet up on the chair in front of him. Rather than his usual outfit, he seems to be wearing a tweed jacket with elbow patches, and his hair is pulled into a very short ponytail. He’s wearing hipster glasses and seems to have a cigarette holder in his mouth as he sketches on a notepad in front of him.
On the screen in front of him, the Heirs of Wrestling’s last promo is shown. As it finishes up, he nods knowingly and writes down a few more notes. When he speaks again, it’s in a snide, condescending tone.)
ANARKY: “Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Anarkypiece Theater. Tonight we’re here with another clip from the Heirs of Wrestling. As you know, we aren’t enormous fans of their earlier work, but we felt it had potential to grow artistically.
“Unfortunately, this piece begins on a bit of a downer, with Ryan Gallway, who plays a disabled child with down syndrome. While his acting is certainly authentic and courageous, we can’t help but ask, why even use precious screen time on such a secondary character that brings so little comic relief?
“Soon, the clip deteriorates into a typical Heirs of Wrestling Genre piece, where the narrator, Frank Pierce, makes wild and unverified allegations. Indeed, he completely ignores any previous attempts at sarcasm and simply regresses into accusations of gruntery and Neanterhalitis.
“Of course, no Heirs of Wrestling promo would be complete without a quick mention of various status symbols, including the typical bravado of royalty through name alone and enormous.. checking accounts. What the film lacks in subtlety it doesn’t make up in taste.
“I give it one star. The cameraman did seem capable of operating and producing actual film, which is an accomplishment in this day and age, and he almost manages to captivate the audience’s attention even with three of the least interesting men ever to happen to walk in front of a live camera.”
(At this he smiles and puts down the notebook. He takes off the clearly fake glasses and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a deep drag. He sighs with relief as he exhales.)
ANARKY: “Y’know, boys… a guy goes out of his way to explain to you the very dire situation in which you find yourself, and still you spurn his help. What have I done? Did I kick your puppy? Steal your girlfriend?
“I thought maybe we could be friends. After all, here you are, on the upper card, having accomplished absolutely nothing of note. A little thank you letter might’ve been nice. A little, ‘oh, Hey, Anarky, I appreciate you making us relevant!’ No problem, guys. Really.
“I mean, it’s totally my pleasure to take a break from my busy schedule of wiping the floor with our esteemed World Champion, Sean Stevens, and his butler who was forced into early retirement, Larry Tact, to explain to you how things work here in Empire Pro .
“I go out of my way to welcome you here, to give you a little history, and like most children these days, you are incapable of even a shred of respect for your elders. I’m not here bragging. I’m merely showing you the light. I’m like a beacon… of HOPE.
“No matter, friends. Win or lose, our time is coming to an end. And it’s been such fun, has it not? I think we’ve all learned a lot.
“What can I say, guys. It’s not personal. But hey…
“… everyone’s a critic.”
(He smirks as we FADEOUT.)
On the screen in front of him, the Heirs of Wrestling’s last promo is shown. As it finishes up, he nods knowingly and writes down a few more notes. When he speaks again, it’s in a snide, condescending tone.)
ANARKY: “Hello, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Anarkypiece Theater. Tonight we’re here with another clip from the Heirs of Wrestling. As you know, we aren’t enormous fans of their earlier work, but we felt it had potential to grow artistically.
“Unfortunately, this piece begins on a bit of a downer, with Ryan Gallway, who plays a disabled child with down syndrome. While his acting is certainly authentic and courageous, we can’t help but ask, why even use precious screen time on such a secondary character that brings so little comic relief?
“Soon, the clip deteriorates into a typical Heirs of Wrestling Genre piece, where the narrator, Frank Pierce, makes wild and unverified allegations. Indeed, he completely ignores any previous attempts at sarcasm and simply regresses into accusations of gruntery and Neanterhalitis.
“Of course, no Heirs of Wrestling promo would be complete without a quick mention of various status symbols, including the typical bravado of royalty through name alone and enormous.. checking accounts. What the film lacks in subtlety it doesn’t make up in taste.
“I give it one star. The cameraman did seem capable of operating and producing actual film, which is an accomplishment in this day and age, and he almost manages to captivate the audience’s attention even with three of the least interesting men ever to happen to walk in front of a live camera.”
(At this he smiles and puts down the notebook. He takes off the clearly fake glasses and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it and taking a deep drag. He sighs with relief as he exhales.)
ANARKY: “Y’know, boys… a guy goes out of his way to explain to you the very dire situation in which you find yourself, and still you spurn his help. What have I done? Did I kick your puppy? Steal your girlfriend?
“I thought maybe we could be friends. After all, here you are, on the upper card, having accomplished absolutely nothing of note. A little thank you letter might’ve been nice. A little, ‘oh, Hey, Anarky, I appreciate you making us relevant!’ No problem, guys. Really.
“I mean, it’s totally my pleasure to take a break from my busy schedule of wiping the floor with our esteemed World Champion, Sean Stevens, and his butler who was forced into early retirement, Larry Tact, to explain to you how things work here in Empire Pro .
“I go out of my way to welcome you here, to give you a little history, and like most children these days, you are incapable of even a shred of respect for your elders. I’m not here bragging. I’m merely showing you the light. I’m like a beacon… of HOPE.
“No matter, friends. Win or lose, our time is coming to an end. And it’s been such fun, has it not? I think we’ve all learned a lot.
“What can I say, guys. It’s not personal. But hey…
“… everyone’s a critic.”
(He smirks as we FADEOUT.)
Last edited:
- Joined
- Feb 4, 2005
- Messages
- 1,143
- Points
- 38
(FADE-IN: An empty movie theatre hall, location unknown. Plastering the walls are all kinds of amazing artworks, clips from some great films. Old movie posters like Gone With The Wind and Casablanca to more recent crazy, big-budget masterpieces like Titanic and Avatar. Somehow, a picture of one of NFW star and insane director Castor Strife’s earlier film “My Left Nut… For Breakfast” is on the wall, but we’re not going to ask questions. …F*cking snuff weirdoes…
The camera catches a glimpse of silhouettes walking down the hallways, their footsteps echoing behind them and each men walking with purpose. Slowly rolling into view are none other than the Heirs of Wrestling, looking a little more… shall we say, regal? The Heirs all dress for the occasion in a pair of gaudy, feathery, crazy f*cking robs that would make Ric Flair do a double… nay, triple spit take.
Frank Pierce walks into the frame first, wearing a sanguine robe, decked out in all kinds of crazy LED lights. Behind him, Ryan Gallway wears a blue robe with similar bright white lights that actually make his robe look like somebody’s gazing at the night sky. And bringing up the rear is none other than the Heirs’ self-centered muscle, Mack Brody in a beautiful golden robe. As the camera catches a glimpse of his back, a scrolling text can be seen on the robe.)
“F*ck HOPE… and b*tches. But mainly, b*tches.”
FRANK PIERCE: Cinema. It’s truly a beautiful thing when you get to take part in its splendor, no? Endless resources are channeled into these things. Time, manpower, and most importantly, that sweet, sweet cash to make all of it possible and see the production through. We’re a country that, quite frankly, has seen much better days, financially speaking. As a country, we’re billions of dollars in the hole in terms of national debt, but we’re still more than willing to shill out one hundred and fifty million of those dollars to make a big f*cking boat move. But that’s a debate for another day. But one of the more important parts of the cinema is knowing roles and how to play them.
MACK BRODY: Samuel L. Jackson starts screamin’ hilarious sh*t at the top of his lungs while finding a way to be a badass motherf*cker, Steve Buscemi is gonna be that creepy little bug-eyed, sleepless dude that’ll still outsmart anybody near him. Jim Carrey cashes in on making sarcastic comments and crazy facial contortions. Really powerful stuff.
FRANK PIERCE: Thanks, Mack. And to our point… Layne Winters and Anarky have been typecast into the role of the opposition, a team based out of nothing more than personal necessity. The guys that have worked hard to achieve what they’ve got, that is most certainly not being refuted. Now, recently, Anarky took it upon himself to try out a new role, going for something a little bit out of his element, rolling the dice and trying to come up with something catchy and snazzy that would probably fool the audience into thinking that he’s a certifiable jack-of-all-trades like recent Golden Globe winner John Lithgow. That he could both be grimly sarcastic, volatile, and be a funny guy… really, he’s more like… uh…
RYAN GALLWAY: Pfft. Ben Stiller.
FRANK PIERCE: Sounds about right. It was like watching Ben Stiller step out of his tired “crazy, neurotic douchebag” act in favor of running around, gunning down people, and quoting scripture in a desert. Oh, how he did try, he really did. He wanted us to believe that he was putting the fear of God into us by telling us he’s the grizzled vet, calling us out for things we’ve said and done. Then after that, he turns around and offers up… Hey, Ryan, could you show the folks at home just what those reviewers thought of his comedy film debut?
RYAN GALLWAY: Yeah.
(Pulling out what appears to be a garage door opener, Ryan hits a button, sending a large series of words across your set. Enjoy.)
RYAN GALLWAY: Our good friends, Jamie Roe and Michael Wade had this to say…
“A TOTAL FAILED ABORTION!” - Roe and Wade
MACK BRODY: (taking the switch) We also showed this piece to a study group at a local film school here in Los Angeles, California. Big wrestling fans, they are. They had the following to tell us about this piece.
“DUDE, WHY DID ULTIMATE WARRIOR LET HIMSELF GO?!” – Stoned film school dropout
FRANK PIERCE: And yes, we even found a way to broadcast this piece to the afterlife. Yes, we are that amazing, you guys.
“THE SPALDING GRAY OF SUCK!” - Gene Siskel’s corpse
(All three members of the Heirs glance at one another and shrug.)
RYAN GALLWAY: Dude, even form the afterlife, Gene Siskel is a stupid douche, man!
FRANK PIERCE: Indeed. But there’s truly a point to all this. It’s that unlike Anarky and Layne Winters who run around and try to pretend to be these great saviors for all of Empire Pro Wrestling, we’re not putting up a bullsh*t front. The First blatantly spelt out the terms of HOPE’s entire existence. Layne Winters is merely kissing his ass to get a title shot and Anarky is merely repaying a debt because he could’ve just as easily been holding a sign in some shopping mall parking lot somewhere with a sign reading “WILL JOB FOR FOOD.” And yet, the entire time we’ve been in this verbal tête-à-tête, these two have been playing the part of the saviors that are going to instill some good ol’ EPW family values into us… that we’re here because “we’re in a match with you.” And if you can truly believe the bullsh*t that spews forth from your mouth, than I should give you both a little more credit… you ARE good actors, believing everything you’ve told yourselves.
(The leader of the Heirs waves a hand out to his teammates as if showing off prized first place studs.)
FRANK PIERCE: What's here before you guys is a group of young guys trying to kick down the f*cking door to get the opportunities we deserve. No bullsh*t, no smoke and mirrors, and most certainly, nobody getting this job for us and nobody promising us title shots for sucking them off backstage. In Sin City, the only parts that you’ll play will be that of “our b*tches.” Go ahead. Keep trying to convinced EPW’s unwashed masses of your idiotic message that has more holes than an M. Night Shamylan script. Keep doling out incredibly horrid HOPE puns about springing eternal and how you HOPE we die or whatever and keep underestimating us. Just know that under the bright lights of EPW’s next feature presentation, we’re taking center stage, we’re showing up and WE’RE saving this production from being tanked by you two morons.
MACK BRODY: …Sh*t, just get these two the hook, already.
(All three of the Heirs smirk at the camera like a bunch of dickhead children.)
FADE OUT.
The camera catches a glimpse of silhouettes walking down the hallways, their footsteps echoing behind them and each men walking with purpose. Slowly rolling into view are none other than the Heirs of Wrestling, looking a little more… shall we say, regal? The Heirs all dress for the occasion in a pair of gaudy, feathery, crazy f*cking robs that would make Ric Flair do a double… nay, triple spit take.
Frank Pierce walks into the frame first, wearing a sanguine robe, decked out in all kinds of crazy LED lights. Behind him, Ryan Gallway wears a blue robe with similar bright white lights that actually make his robe look like somebody’s gazing at the night sky. And bringing up the rear is none other than the Heirs’ self-centered muscle, Mack Brody in a beautiful golden robe. As the camera catches a glimpse of his back, a scrolling text can be seen on the robe.)
“F*ck HOPE… and b*tches. But mainly, b*tches.”
FRANK PIERCE: Cinema. It’s truly a beautiful thing when you get to take part in its splendor, no? Endless resources are channeled into these things. Time, manpower, and most importantly, that sweet, sweet cash to make all of it possible and see the production through. We’re a country that, quite frankly, has seen much better days, financially speaking. As a country, we’re billions of dollars in the hole in terms of national debt, but we’re still more than willing to shill out one hundred and fifty million of those dollars to make a big f*cking boat move. But that’s a debate for another day. But one of the more important parts of the cinema is knowing roles and how to play them.
MACK BRODY: Samuel L. Jackson starts screamin’ hilarious sh*t at the top of his lungs while finding a way to be a badass motherf*cker, Steve Buscemi is gonna be that creepy little bug-eyed, sleepless dude that’ll still outsmart anybody near him. Jim Carrey cashes in on making sarcastic comments and crazy facial contortions. Really powerful stuff.
FRANK PIERCE: Thanks, Mack. And to our point… Layne Winters and Anarky have been typecast into the role of the opposition, a team based out of nothing more than personal necessity. The guys that have worked hard to achieve what they’ve got, that is most certainly not being refuted. Now, recently, Anarky took it upon himself to try out a new role, going for something a little bit out of his element, rolling the dice and trying to come up with something catchy and snazzy that would probably fool the audience into thinking that he’s a certifiable jack-of-all-trades like recent Golden Globe winner John Lithgow. That he could both be grimly sarcastic, volatile, and be a funny guy… really, he’s more like… uh…
RYAN GALLWAY: Pfft. Ben Stiller.
FRANK PIERCE: Sounds about right. It was like watching Ben Stiller step out of his tired “crazy, neurotic douchebag” act in favor of running around, gunning down people, and quoting scripture in a desert. Oh, how he did try, he really did. He wanted us to believe that he was putting the fear of God into us by telling us he’s the grizzled vet, calling us out for things we’ve said and done. Then after that, he turns around and offers up… Hey, Ryan, could you show the folks at home just what those reviewers thought of his comedy film debut?
RYAN GALLWAY: Yeah.
(Pulling out what appears to be a garage door opener, Ryan hits a button, sending a large series of words across your set. Enjoy.)
RYAN GALLWAY: Our good friends, Jamie Roe and Michael Wade had this to say…
“A TOTAL FAILED ABORTION!” - Roe and Wade
MACK BRODY: (taking the switch) We also showed this piece to a study group at a local film school here in Los Angeles, California. Big wrestling fans, they are. They had the following to tell us about this piece.
“DUDE, WHY DID ULTIMATE WARRIOR LET HIMSELF GO?!” – Stoned film school dropout
FRANK PIERCE: And yes, we even found a way to broadcast this piece to the afterlife. Yes, we are that amazing, you guys.
“THE SPALDING GRAY OF SUCK!” - Gene Siskel’s corpse
(All three members of the Heirs glance at one another and shrug.)
RYAN GALLWAY: Dude, even form the afterlife, Gene Siskel is a stupid douche, man!
FRANK PIERCE: Indeed. But there’s truly a point to all this. It’s that unlike Anarky and Layne Winters who run around and try to pretend to be these great saviors for all of Empire Pro Wrestling, we’re not putting up a bullsh*t front. The First blatantly spelt out the terms of HOPE’s entire existence. Layne Winters is merely kissing his ass to get a title shot and Anarky is merely repaying a debt because he could’ve just as easily been holding a sign in some shopping mall parking lot somewhere with a sign reading “WILL JOB FOR FOOD.” And yet, the entire time we’ve been in this verbal tête-à-tête, these two have been playing the part of the saviors that are going to instill some good ol’ EPW family values into us… that we’re here because “we’re in a match with you.” And if you can truly believe the bullsh*t that spews forth from your mouth, than I should give you both a little more credit… you ARE good actors, believing everything you’ve told yourselves.
(The leader of the Heirs waves a hand out to his teammates as if showing off prized first place studs.)
FRANK PIERCE: What's here before you guys is a group of young guys trying to kick down the f*cking door to get the opportunities we deserve. No bullsh*t, no smoke and mirrors, and most certainly, nobody getting this job for us and nobody promising us title shots for sucking them off backstage. In Sin City, the only parts that you’ll play will be that of “our b*tches.” Go ahead. Keep trying to convinced EPW’s unwashed masses of your idiotic message that has more holes than an M. Night Shamylan script. Keep doling out incredibly horrid HOPE puns about springing eternal and how you HOPE we die or whatever and keep underestimating us. Just know that under the bright lights of EPW’s next feature presentation, we’re taking center stage, we’re showing up and WE’RE saving this production from being tanked by you two morons.
MACK BRODY: …Sh*t, just get these two the hook, already.
(All three of the Heirs smirk at the camera like a bunch of dickhead children.)
FADE OUT.
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- 38
“Alex, I’m telling you, this’ll go over like gangbusters! I bet my global nines on it!”
"Okay, so I told Mack and Frank that we weren’t going to be filming another promo for another twenty minutes or so, which should hopefully buy us some time. He gets that from Sonny, he likes to talk and talk and talk...”
"Yup, Frank, control freak, I get it. Let’s do this!”
(FADE IN: A shaky amateur camera view is present until that of The Heirs of Wrestling’s smallest member, Ryan Gallway, can be seen. Decked out in a rather nice Armani Exchange suit with a matching brown European scarf tied around his neck, Ryan sits in front of an old oak desk with an “AGGRESSION 50” banner high above his head. The other Heirs are nowhere to be seen, which for some is a very considerable blessing.)
RYAN GALLWAY: Greetings one and all, ladies, gentlemen, Earthers, pricks, and she-males. Whilst my compatriots are off preparing themselves in other tasks and the lovely fine-ass Alexandria Malone is handling that camera… hey, Alexandria, wanna handle my…?
ALEXANDRIA MALONE: (off-camera from here on out) Goodbye…
(The camera catches the high-heeled feet of Alexandria walking out the door, but not before Ryan Gallway’s Gucci-covered feet come into view.)
RYAN GALLWAY: OKAY, OKAY, OKAY, OKAY, OKAY, OKAY… Okay. I’ll behave… ish.
ALEXANDRIA MALONE: Look, just hurry this stupid thing up. You said you wanted your say in this whole thing and against my better judgment… ALL my better judgment… I’m helping you out.
(The clacking of footsteps can be heard heading back to the desk, then that of a body hitting the seat follows. We head back in full view to Ryan Gallway, sitting and smirking in his desk, resuming the completely fake-ass smile on his face.)
RYAN GALLWAY: I’d like to welcome you folks to The Real Me, starring William Ryan O’Gallway, aka Ryan Gallway aka The Prince of Precision aka YOUR INTERGALACTIC LORD AND ****ING SAVIOR! So far, Layne Winters and Anarky have gotten to know the bouncing man-titties of my large compatriot, Mack Brody, the enraged control issues of Frank Pierce and I do believe Alexandria Malone had something to say once or twice. Right?
ALEXANDRIA MALONE: I did one promo, then Frank kicked me out of the studio before your film promo because I wouldn’t wear the Princess Leia slave costume.
RYAN GALLWAY: What? It’s not like it was a bad thing, lots of hot chicks wore it…
ALEXANDRIA MALONE: HE CUT OUT THE NIPPLES!
RYAN GALLWAY: (Looking around suspiciously) Yes… Frank did… all Frank... (coughs) Well, anyway… guys, aside from screaming at you like the idiots you are and cutting promos while I’m drugged out, I've not had a grand opportunity to really put myself out there for you. Here’s some fun little tidbits about me.
I’ve wrestled in at least ten countries ranging from the US, Mexico, Honduras, Japo-land, The Gookish, Francophoneistan, Honawawa-ah-ah Island, and Overseas Jersey Shore just to name a few of your precious Earth locales.
I hate radishes… ****ing inhuman things.
I quite fancy things like marbles, a challenging game of Sudoku and a good tongue-bathing on my balls from any number of women I meet.
And… oh, yes… I’ve more talent in my left nut alone than do in your whole bodies!
(Gallway leans towards the table with both hands balled up, shaking his head with a sad frown.)
RYAN GALLWAY: Yes, ‘tis true, friends. It’s talent straight on loan from our nearest and dearest Andromeda Galaxy! While our fair Anarky has gotten both his wrestling skills and his dialogue straight off snuff websites and Layne Winters honed his abilities on a soiled mattress in his backyard, I hail from a place beyond the light and the stars! I bring to you skills that are still light years away from this dirtball you are so proud to call home!
You know, outside of my usual little bits, I’ve kept mostly quiet while Frank had his say, but he didn’t touch on a couple subjects. You Turian sloths have done everything possible in vain attempts to scare some sense into us. Much talk about dreams getting buried, calling us kids with Down Syndrome, how you say it and how it shalt be done because you wrestled BLAHBLAHBLAH in BLAHBLAHBLAH OF THE CENTURY in a BLAHBLAHBLAH match. Now this is coming from the guy who is a space traveler from the year 3233… you’re both off your f*cking rockers.
(Ryan throws his arms out and shrugs, rolling an eyebrow.)
RYAN GALLWAY: I’m a little more up on my EPW-nese than my cohorts, actually. I know Layne Winters sacrificed a lot of commodities to get here… doesn’t get to see kids or whatever … kinda his fault. Maybe if he just concentrated on hitting just his opponents instead of hitting Pamela and playing the hit game show "Needle or No Needle," he wouldn’t be in that situation. Yeah, I'm not questioning what he's done so far, but when you think about it, all he’s really done his entire tenure is throw one big roided-out crybaby b*tchfit! You haven't gone nearly undefeated because you're a great wrestler, you've gone undefeated because of years of shooting up drugs. Unlike you, our talent comes all-natural... aside from an occasional acid trip... maybe some E here and there... nothing TOO crazy that gives me an athletic advantage... though that would be really cool...
ALEXANDRIA MALONE: RYAN!
RYAN GALLWAY: SORRY! ...yes... And Layne? News flash: we’re not girls you’re stepping into the ring with that you can beat on. We’re not going to be f*cking you, we’re gonna be f*cking you up.
And Anarky? How the mighty have fallen! You were raising hell with Jonathan Marx a few years ago, winning titles here, there and everywhere. Where does that leave you now? You’re taking orders from Jeff Hardy’s second cousin twice removed. Man, maybe I should use my interstellar abilities, go back in time and retro-active abort that piece of ****!
(The World Warrior reaches out from under the table and wields what appears to be a nicely-polished, brand-spanking-new 9 Iron.)
RYAN GALLWAY: Sure, at Onslaught, Anarky and Fusenhoff got the victory, but that was small marbles and, like, three people saw that. Aggression 50 is where it counts. And as sure as the sun in the Hades Gamma Cluster burns white hot, we get to have some fun of our own. You want to crush dreams? We get to shine brighter than you two ever do. You both had to claw and scratch and whine and ***** and pop needles to get as high on the card as you are at Aggression 50… and LOOK AT THAT! First official match with the company and we’re already here! We get to show you how we got here.
(As Ryan sits up from his seat, he starts walking towards the camera. Stalking menacingly, Alexandria starts muttering.)
ALEXANDRIA MALONE: Ryan, what are you doing?
RYAN GALLWAY: (entranced) Well… Layne and Anarky think they’re gonna snuff us out before we even begin? That we're gonna burn out just as quickly as we got here? Pfft. Our stars are destined to shine brighter than you ever thought possible. While you're already both getting a few years past your shelf life, We've got Frank and I who are twenty years old and have already been decorated with various tag team titles. And with Mack as one of the most powerful stars in this little universe we call EPW... believe me when I say we're looking forward to this... (approaching the camera) Oh, and another thing... you guys get to find out something about the quiet ones… THEY’RE USUALLY THE CRAZY ONES! YOU WANNA BURY US?! BURY THIS, ASSHOLES!
(A swing of the 9 iron sends the camera crashing to the ground! Alexandria Malone can be heard, raising her voice from the other side of the room.)
ALEXANDRIA MALONE: Ryan, hey, hey! That was a Christmas gift!
(But as always… the young Ryan Gallway is in his own little world. Another couple of whacks hit the camera before he peeks into what is now a cracked lens.)
RYAN GALLWAY: FOR GENE RODDENBERRY AND CARL SAGAN, B*TCHES!
(A final swing of the club hits the lens…)
STATIC.
"Okay, so I told Mack and Frank that we weren’t going to be filming another promo for another twenty minutes or so, which should hopefully buy us some time. He gets that from Sonny, he likes to talk and talk and talk...”
"Yup, Frank, control freak, I get it. Let’s do this!”
(FADE IN: A shaky amateur camera view is present until that of The Heirs of Wrestling’s smallest member, Ryan Gallway, can be seen. Decked out in a rather nice Armani Exchange suit with a matching brown European scarf tied around his neck, Ryan sits in front of an old oak desk with an “AGGRESSION 50” banner high above his head. The other Heirs are nowhere to be seen, which for some is a very considerable blessing.)
RYAN GALLWAY: Greetings one and all, ladies, gentlemen, Earthers, pricks, and she-males. Whilst my compatriots are off preparing themselves in other tasks and the lovely fine-ass Alexandria Malone is handling that camera… hey, Alexandria, wanna handle my…?
ALEXANDRIA MALONE: (off-camera from here on out) Goodbye…
(The camera catches the high-heeled feet of Alexandria walking out the door, but not before Ryan Gallway’s Gucci-covered feet come into view.)
RYAN GALLWAY: OKAY, OKAY, OKAY, OKAY, OKAY, OKAY… Okay. I’ll behave… ish.
ALEXANDRIA MALONE: Look, just hurry this stupid thing up. You said you wanted your say in this whole thing and against my better judgment… ALL my better judgment… I’m helping you out.
(The clacking of footsteps can be heard heading back to the desk, then that of a body hitting the seat follows. We head back in full view to Ryan Gallway, sitting and smirking in his desk, resuming the completely fake-ass smile on his face.)
RYAN GALLWAY: I’d like to welcome you folks to The Real Me, starring William Ryan O’Gallway, aka Ryan Gallway aka The Prince of Precision aka YOUR INTERGALACTIC LORD AND ****ING SAVIOR! So far, Layne Winters and Anarky have gotten to know the bouncing man-titties of my large compatriot, Mack Brody, the enraged control issues of Frank Pierce and I do believe Alexandria Malone had something to say once or twice. Right?
ALEXANDRIA MALONE: I did one promo, then Frank kicked me out of the studio before your film promo because I wouldn’t wear the Princess Leia slave costume.
RYAN GALLWAY: What? It’s not like it was a bad thing, lots of hot chicks wore it…
ALEXANDRIA MALONE: HE CUT OUT THE NIPPLES!
RYAN GALLWAY: (Looking around suspiciously) Yes… Frank did… all Frank... (coughs) Well, anyway… guys, aside from screaming at you like the idiots you are and cutting promos while I’m drugged out, I've not had a grand opportunity to really put myself out there for you. Here’s some fun little tidbits about me.
I’ve wrestled in at least ten countries ranging from the US, Mexico, Honduras, Japo-land, The Gookish, Francophoneistan, Honawawa-ah-ah Island, and Overseas Jersey Shore just to name a few of your precious Earth locales.
I hate radishes… ****ing inhuman things.
I quite fancy things like marbles, a challenging game of Sudoku and a good tongue-bathing on my balls from any number of women I meet.
And… oh, yes… I’ve more talent in my left nut alone than do in your whole bodies!
(Gallway leans towards the table with both hands balled up, shaking his head with a sad frown.)
RYAN GALLWAY: Yes, ‘tis true, friends. It’s talent straight on loan from our nearest and dearest Andromeda Galaxy! While our fair Anarky has gotten both his wrestling skills and his dialogue straight off snuff websites and Layne Winters honed his abilities on a soiled mattress in his backyard, I hail from a place beyond the light and the stars! I bring to you skills that are still light years away from this dirtball you are so proud to call home!
You know, outside of my usual little bits, I’ve kept mostly quiet while Frank had his say, but he didn’t touch on a couple subjects. You Turian sloths have done everything possible in vain attempts to scare some sense into us. Much talk about dreams getting buried, calling us kids with Down Syndrome, how you say it and how it shalt be done because you wrestled BLAHBLAHBLAH in BLAHBLAHBLAH OF THE CENTURY in a BLAHBLAHBLAH match. Now this is coming from the guy who is a space traveler from the year 3233… you’re both off your f*cking rockers.
(Ryan throws his arms out and shrugs, rolling an eyebrow.)
RYAN GALLWAY: I’m a little more up on my EPW-nese than my cohorts, actually. I know Layne Winters sacrificed a lot of commodities to get here… doesn’t get to see kids or whatever … kinda his fault. Maybe if he just concentrated on hitting just his opponents instead of hitting Pamela and playing the hit game show "Needle or No Needle," he wouldn’t be in that situation. Yeah, I'm not questioning what he's done so far, but when you think about it, all he’s really done his entire tenure is throw one big roided-out crybaby b*tchfit! You haven't gone nearly undefeated because you're a great wrestler, you've gone undefeated because of years of shooting up drugs. Unlike you, our talent comes all-natural... aside from an occasional acid trip... maybe some E here and there... nothing TOO crazy that gives me an athletic advantage... though that would be really cool...
ALEXANDRIA MALONE: RYAN!
RYAN GALLWAY: SORRY! ...yes... And Layne? News flash: we’re not girls you’re stepping into the ring with that you can beat on. We’re not going to be f*cking you, we’re gonna be f*cking you up.
And Anarky? How the mighty have fallen! You were raising hell with Jonathan Marx a few years ago, winning titles here, there and everywhere. Where does that leave you now? You’re taking orders from Jeff Hardy’s second cousin twice removed. Man, maybe I should use my interstellar abilities, go back in time and retro-active abort that piece of ****!
(The World Warrior reaches out from under the table and wields what appears to be a nicely-polished, brand-spanking-new 9 Iron.)
RYAN GALLWAY: Sure, at Onslaught, Anarky and Fusenhoff got the victory, but that was small marbles and, like, three people saw that. Aggression 50 is where it counts. And as sure as the sun in the Hades Gamma Cluster burns white hot, we get to have some fun of our own. You want to crush dreams? We get to shine brighter than you two ever do. You both had to claw and scratch and whine and ***** and pop needles to get as high on the card as you are at Aggression 50… and LOOK AT THAT! First official match with the company and we’re already here! We get to show you how we got here.
(As Ryan sits up from his seat, he starts walking towards the camera. Stalking menacingly, Alexandria starts muttering.)
ALEXANDRIA MALONE: Ryan, what are you doing?
RYAN GALLWAY: (entranced) Well… Layne and Anarky think they’re gonna snuff us out before we even begin? That we're gonna burn out just as quickly as we got here? Pfft. Our stars are destined to shine brighter than you ever thought possible. While you're already both getting a few years past your shelf life, We've got Frank and I who are twenty years old and have already been decorated with various tag team titles. And with Mack as one of the most powerful stars in this little universe we call EPW... believe me when I say we're looking forward to this... (approaching the camera) Oh, and another thing... you guys get to find out something about the quiet ones… THEY’RE USUALLY THE CRAZY ONES! YOU WANNA BURY US?! BURY THIS, ASSHOLES!
(A swing of the 9 iron sends the camera crashing to the ground! Alexandria Malone can be heard, raising her voice from the other side of the room.)
ALEXANDRIA MALONE: Ryan, hey, hey! That was a Christmas gift!
(But as always… the young Ryan Gallway is in his own little world. Another couple of whacks hit the camera before he peeks into what is now a cracked lens.)
RYAN GALLWAY: FOR GENE RODDENBERRY AND CARL SAGAN, B*TCHES!
(A final swing of the club hits the lens…)
STATIC.
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