RING! RING! RING! Callin' High Flyer OUT! (Lowel)

[DWoods]

(ABRUPT-OPEN: LOWELL, standing with BEV, dressed in a white tank top and Sean John booty shorts, smoking a cigarette. The scene: a bus shelter at midnight. LOWELL looks especially Leaned, a permanent dopey grimace on his face.)

LOWELL: “Not gonna lie, I dragged Bev here under the premise that we would both jump in front of a bus following that loss to Legion. A Romeo and Juliet double sucizzle, or whatev. Heart’s racing, that Aderall comedown depression setting in.

“Pinned by Legion, the GOD, the greatest wrastler to ever lock horns. Some would consider it an honor, and I do, I guess… but I don’t like to lose. Dead @ that Brainbustaaaaaaaaaaaah nonsense. I should’ve no-sold it and sat up, Taker style, before hitting that screwball with whatever the heck my finish is… but… I didn’t.

“My bad; my blunder.

“So, instead, Bev and I wandered to the mean streets, sippin’ Lean beneath harsh mean street lights, feeling sorry for ourselves, ain’t that right, hun?”

(BEV takes a drag off her smoke, exhaling sharply, nodding.)

BEV: “Yeh… Lowell’s been sad. Kid’s been cuttin’.”

(LOWELL nods.)

LOWELL: “Shno daaaat! I’ve been drowning my sorrows in promethazine, clippin’ pics of my fav celebs, dreamin’ real big! I’ve had these nasty, needling thoughts poking me in the subconscious, or the conscious (the brain?) – like, am I really the most technical wrastler in the biz today?

“Well, OF COURSE I AM!”

(BEV lethargically ‘raises the roof,’ swaying from side to side, before planting her hand against the glass wall of the bus shelter to brace herself.)

LOWELL: “If it weren’t for the fact that I lost to the GOD, I’d be mighty peeved. But I’m not peeved. I’m not even a wee bit miffed. I’m just… pensive?

“Words… heh…

“I don’t blame myself – that’s silly – I blame that snow-selling former Fwoah superstar HIGH FLYER.

“If it had been Legion VEE Lowell – I may have lost, anyway. It’s fifty-fifty. The GOD has skillz, no dowwwwwt! No harm in losing to the best, amirite?

“BUT! If it had been High Flyer VEE Lowell – well… I would’ve run a clinic on that BITCH! Walk-in, sit down, waiting room, littler waiting room, BOOM!, Lowell ass-kicking! Cha-ching! Gimme my $350, son! Doctor money!

“High Flyer, I’m callin’ you out.”

(BEV quits writing her phone number on the bus shelter glass and turns to the camera.)

BEV: “Hear that, Flyer? He’s callin’ you OUT!”

LOWELL: “You take all that IWO and Fwoah stroke you have stowed away for rainy days, and fuck Donnie Daze, you’re about to get told by the Warriot-Poet… or something.

“No, you’re about to get wrestle-fucked by LOWELL. Sweaty and aggravating!

“You can’t beat me mano a mano!

“Haters gon’ hate.” (LOWELL produces his Jesus piece) “Jesus gon’ love.

“Lowell gon’ indifference. That is, look PAST YOU and move on, onnnnn to the championship that’s RIGHTFULLY his…

“Let me know. ”

(ABRUPT-CUTOUT.)

 

[Ford]

(FADEIN: Jack Harmen sitting on a park bench. The moon lit sky and surrounding tree tops are our background. The camera dolly's in and up on Jack Harmen's emotionless face. He shrugs.)

JACK: Sure, whatever. If you think that's necessary. Tell you what. Wake up tomorrow, remember your name, yet alone that you sent that challenge video to NFW, and we'll talk. Maybe you'll sleep off the haze and forget.

(He smiles.)

JACK: If you still want the match when you're hungover, I have a small list, a modest and yet nefarious request to make of you. See, I don't care if we fight. So if we have a match? What's in it for me?

(CUTTO: Medium shot on Jack.)

JACK: I'm thinkin' fear and loathing. So get me to Vegas, know what I mean? Then we're on like Kim Jong playing ping pong eating a ding dong.

(XCU: Jack's eyes.)

JACK: GONG!

(CUT TO BLACK.)

 

[DWoods]

(ABRUPT-CUTTO: LOWELL and his new chickadee, the antithesis of class, BEV, sitting in a hotel lounge. Impromptu promo, waddup!)

LOWELL: “Listen, dickweed, quit implying that I’m some sort of druggie lowlife. I’m drug-free – it’s the way to be, don’tchaknow?

“It’s like if I said, ‘Hey Flyer, wake up tomorrow, try and think of something other than your demolished rectum, and accept my challenge.’ Just because you USED to shack up with the likes of Joey Malone—” (as if on cue, BEV wretches) “—doesn’t mean you’re a flamer anymore!

“Maybe it does, I don’t know! I’m not a mind-reader! And I’m not a homo-hater. I may be xenophobic, hating all those damn Spaniards that get in my way at the grocery store, but I don’t slag on the gays.

“Nevertheless, I’m, like, six months removed of my last hangover, so when I issue a challenge, it isn’t the result of a blinding headache – it’s the blinding contempt that I have for you.

“You never ACKNOWLEDGED my unparrelled charisma and zest for life! You cast me aside, shot me dirty looks, big-leagued me at every turn! Now, that was a hazy time in my life, so there’s a distinct possibility that it was someone else, but I’ve got to direct my vindictive rage somewhere, or else it could build and build and build inside me until, one day, I spontaneously combust. And for the first time in a long time, I’m having the sex on the regular, so I’m justifiably concerned for the well being of my main squeeze here, my babygirl Bev.”

(BEV lights a cigarette, takes a drag, and lazily exhales the smoke.)

BEV: “Yeh… don’t want my Lowell `splodin’ in a ball of fleshly flames while he’s balls dee—”

(LOWELL puts up his hand to silence her.)

LOWELL: “They get the picture, babe… Flyer, you’ll get the picture – you’ll get the poster – one befitting of Times Square. Right in your faw-king face! You won’t be able to ignore the best. technical. wrastler. … in North America.

“I used to say the world, but I don’t watch those Japs with their crickets-chirping crowds and their effeminate male referees, and I’m not the type of person to make a claim I can’t back up! So until I make my way over to the land of the big red dot, I’m going to assume my slanty-eyed doppelganger is over there tearing it up.

“You wanna go to Vegas? I’m down. I’ll put it all on black just to prove I’m not racist. And it’ll be you, Flyer, who will seek the approval of ME – the man who finally put to rest the myth that you’re anything more than average.

“PEE-ESS: Don’t try and rhyme. Ever. It was like some demented, unsolvable riddle to my rapidly cauliflowering ears! I CAN’T GET IT OUTTA MY HEADDD!”

(ABRUPT-CUTOUT)