Undeserving ain't even the word for it...
[
FADEIN: The interior of a subway car. RICH MAHOGANY is is one of several passengers, and the only one wearing a man-thong and nothing else in the dead of winter. Well, unless you count flip-flops.]
[Without hesitation The Ladies Man reaches up and yanks on the emergency brake.
Hard. Also, if subway cars don’t have these kinds of brakes, he’s in a trolley. Whatever, location isn’t important.]
Rich:
STOP THE EFFIN TRAAAAAAAAAAAAIN!
[Metal screaches, people panic, lights flicker.]
[
CUTTO: Ace Reporter RICH MAHOGANY, hard at work at the Newspaper offices. The headlines have been set, the printers are running at full steam, and the PM Edition of The Empire Times is just about to come to life.]
[Yes, there is a pencil behind his ear. Yes, he’s wearing one of those visor deals.]
Rich:
STAWP THE EFFIN PRESSEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!
[Metal grinds, paper flies, confusion runs rampant.]
[
CUTTO: A cubicle. RICH MAHOGANY is behind his makeshift desk, a computer in front of him with pre-written lines. To go with his banana-hammock and neckerchief is an oldschool headset, connected by telephone wire to an oldschool phone. It’s really very clunky looking and not even close to a Blue Tooth.]
Rich:
Mrs. Jiggleytits? Did you know that for just $49.99 per month you can support your local chapter of the Fraternal Order of Gigolos?
[He cocks his head, listening intently.]
Rich:
HOLD THE EFFIN PHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!
[
Fade.]
[If the point isn’t yet across, check
this.]
[
CUTTO: The EPW promotional set, logo backdrop and all. RICH MAHOGANY is STANDING~! On his face is a cocksure grin, a raised eyebrow, and the smug look of a man who knows for certain that he’s already won.]
Rich: [singsong]
Where to start? Wheeeeeere oh where to start? Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere oh wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere to start with this tacky little dweeeeeeeb!
[The Love Machine clears his throat.]
Rich:
Now, where was I?
Oh, yeah, I was just coming back from having my entire wig blown back by the sheer lack of understanding even the most basic of concepts as it correlates to one’s chosen profession that my dearly retarded opponent has demonstrated on a near daily basis.
[Pause.]
Rich:
Too many five dollar words for ya, bucko?
[Nod.]
Rich:
Of course it is. Here, let me try to dumb it down for you:
Adrien Willard has Down Syndrome.
[His face scrunches up.]
Rich:
No, that’d be an insult to Downs patients everywhere.
Adrian Willard is the stupidest person that I’ve ever had the displeasure of being forced to interact with, and that’s saying a lot because I’ve delt with some downright nimrods in my time working in porno and as a male stripper.
Listen up, Kool-Aid Man, I’mma try ta smarten you up just a little bit. One doesn’t “sell seats” to a wrestling show. The seats belong to the venues, and in most cases are bolted to the floor. OF COURSE I’M NOT SELLING THE SEATS YOU MORON!
I’m selling tickets.
Tickets to see the Greatest Show on Earth, the Rich Mahogany Show! Tickets to see the me, Johnny Come Often, run circles around you for four to eight minutes, completely outclassing you at every stop, making you look even more like a drooling idiot than you’ve already done for yourself, and by the time it’s all said and done with...
Wait for it...
Taking your TV Title.
[Wink.]
Rich:
Let me try to break this down for ya one more time, playboy, and I’ll try not to be too confusing in the process. I know your mama dropped you on the head about thirty-eight times when you were an infant, so I’ll try not to use too many big words.
Have you ever taken a look at the actual Win/Loss Record of Professional Wrestling? I’m sure you couldn’t be bothered to even know how to find it, but if you ever do I want you to sit down, take your time, and triple-check every single page in the book. Then, I want you to do whatever it is you have to do to make a few synapses fire in that dried up husk of a brain you call yourself having, and understand that there aren’t any mother-effing ASTERISKS on the whole frickin’ list!
And do you know what else doesn’t have any asterisks?
The Championship Title History.
The only thing the historians care about is the W’s and the L’s. So ask yourself something, what’re you gonna do after I’ve not only beat you for the belt, but I gave you advanced warning of my tactics, and I
still walk out of there with your belt and your pride wrapped around my dong?
Go ahead, think on that, I’ll wait.
[He waits.]
Rich:
Alright. Now that you’ve spent half-an hour trying to figure that out, then taken a nap, and are now fully re-diapered, ass-powdered and ready to rock, let me continue to expose you to the world as the idiot that everybody in the Empire already knows you are.
Yes, if by the grace of God you somehow manage to trap me in the corner and get some kind of token offense in, I will more than gladly jam my thumb so deep in your eye you can read my fingerprints. Then I’ll pull your shorts down, watch you trip and fall on your ass, and then grab a handfull of tights and put my feet on the ropes while I pin you down for the one, two, three.
The referee will raise my hand, give me your title, and announce me as Champion.
All of the crying and offering of oral sex or whatever else it is that you do to keep your job around here isn’t gonna do you a lick of good after it’s over with, either. I’ll tell you what’s in your future, Ade, it’s a hundred more matches with Cameron Cruise because he’s the only other guy in this place on your level.
You guys go out on a date, yer so cute together.
[Thumbs up, Rich winks.]
Rich:
Go ahead, dude, I’m all for Gay Rights, and you are clearly a raging homo.
[Snicker.]
Rich:
And for you to think that
you of all people are gonna be the guy to shut me up, well that’s just downright irritating. Ya see, there’s been bigger, stronger, faster, smarter, better dressed, more manly, better smelling, and far better looking guys than you who’ve tried. And do you know what always happens?
They always lose.
Ask Otaku.
Ask Copycat.
Ask Anarky.
Ask the entire roster of DREAM Wrestling.
The Rich-Man don’t lose matches all that often, nephew, and when he does, he don’t lose ‘em to the likes of you. So you hold that pretty gold belt up and you get a good look at it every chance you get between now and Russian Roulette. Burn that sum-b
itch into your retinas, because that’s the only way yer ever gonna see it again when I’m done with you.
And while yer at it, loosen them screws on that nameplate.
I want your stupid name off’a my belt before I leave Boston.
[Rich smiles for the camera one last time.]
[Fade to Pink.]