RUSSIAN ROULETTE: TV Title Ladder Match - Layne Winters (c) vs. Copycat
- Thread starter DBrunkGXW
- Start date
GARTHIsTheLaw
League Member
<i>(Cueup: "Jacob's Ladder" by Huey Lewis & the News)</i>
<i>(Fade in on the upper part of a ladder in an otherwise uninteresting room. On it sits a gift-wrapped package tied with a festive bow)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> If you knew how terrible I am at wrapping presents, you'd appreciate how much work went into this.
<i>(The camera pans down to show Copycat -- clad in jeans and a black Anthology T-shirt, with his hair tied back -- standing to the left of the ladder)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> I can't remember the last time I was in a ladder match. Honestly, I can't. The last place I competed full-time, I was in all sorts of crazy types of matches -- that was kind of their thing -- but no ladder matches. And it's just as well. I was hovering around 300 back in those days, and although I'm not about to get winded climbing a ladder, let's face it: Gravity was not on my side. You have to chuck a featherweight like the First off a ladder 10 times to do as much damage to him as you do to a guy tipping the scales at three-oh-one in a single push. Now, these days, I'm down about 20 pounds, the happy consequence of a few years of healthier living away from wrestling. So I'm feeling a little better about my chances at Russian Roulette than I might if the match had happened a few years ago. I suppose the question, though, is -- should I?
<i>(He leans against the ladder)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> We all saw Aggression 47. We all saw me smash Layne Winters into a quivering mass of pariah-flavored Jell-O. We all saw me within a hair of yanking the EPW Television Title away from that waste of backstage catering. But when I remolded that Jell-O into a shape that vaguely resembled a pair of shoulders to be pinned to the mat, something happened. A hand that could have gone up and down seven times, thereby garnering me two-and-one-third Television Titles, took so long to count that important "three" that a strong gust of wind was able to blow Layne Winters' foot-shaped Jell-O appendage toward the rope. And then it happened again. And again. And you know the old saying. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times, somebody's leaving the arena in a frickin' Tupperware container."
<i>(Copycat rolls his eyes)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Now, as I allegedly mentioned in the poorly-defined video some overenthusiastic fan uploaded to YouTube, I can't blame the referee for this, because he's just doing his job. And since Lindsay Troy is giving the orders, his priorities, by necessity, must include her priorities -- waste money, crash ratings, destroy Anthology to preserve her more-tenuous-by-the-day grip on EPW authority, that sort of thing. Maybe there were two or three people who still couldn't figure it out after my travesty of a match, but you'd have to have the brainpower of a damned cocktail napkin not to see it after she outright admitted to bringing in two high-cost, high-maintenance and limited-usefulness chumps just to get the EPW Tag Team Titles away from Anthology. The woman is terrified. Not that Anthology poses a dire threat to the well-being of EPW, but that Anthology poses a dire threat to her power as commissioner. With everyone else in EPW out for himself, the Anthology is looking out for the good of this very business -- precisely what Lindsay Troy should be doing. And she knows that when the people who sign her paycheck realize we're doing a better job of it than she is, her days as commissioner are numbered.
<i>(Copycat makes as if to climb the ladder, but he can't even lift his feet off the floor)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> So until that day comes, we're stuck with her working to handicap us day in and day out. Larry and Jared are being forced to compete twice at Russian Roulette, while everyone else gets just one match. Cameron Cruise has to defend his EPW Intercontinental Title against a man who's done nothing to deserve a title shot, seeing as he's lost every match he's had since he chickened out of Anthology. Sean Edmunds is wasting his time jerking the curtain. The main event is Anthology-free, and instead pits two perfect examples of guys who shouldn't even be main-eventing an open mic night against each other. And me?
<i>(The camera pans down to Copycat's feet to show they are shackled to sizable leg irons)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Well, let's just face it -- ladder matches aren't exactly the kind of situation you want to find yourself in when you're the Cat. Add up all the matches the Cat has lost over the course of his career, then subtract all the ones in which he was the victim of outside interference, and you've got a number the Penguin could count on his fingers. A no-disqualification match against a guy guaranteed to be supported by the EPW commissioner who just hired two guys specifically to destroy Anthology. It's pretty obvious what's going to happen here. Once again, the Cat's going to crush Layne Winters like a pair of glasses under a car tire, but as the Cat reaches for that EPW Television Title, that symbol that will reinforce his message that EPW should be represented on TV by someone who has an interest in EPW's TV product not being embarrassingly unwatchable, something will drag him down.
<i>(He once again moves in the direction of the ladder, shackle chains jingling)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Will it be Layne Winters, spurred on by newfound resolve to undo the humiliation he suffered at Aggression 47? Nah. The man swore up and down that he'd teach me a lesson by pinning my shoulders to the mat for the count of three, but when all was said and done, the only way he could pick up the victory was by getting the emo-colored stuffing beaten out of him. But I'm sure the way Lindsay Troy is figuring it, Layne Winters doesn't really need to be better than me at Russian Roulette; he just needs to annoy me temporarily until someone more effective at not getting his tuckus kicked can get involved. So I guess, yeah, I should be worried.
<i>(Copycat once again struggles to lift his legs, but to no avail. He looks up at the ladder)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Thing is, though, Lindsay Troy's only going to be able to get one over on the Cat when he's not ready for it. When you find yourself matching wits with the Smartest Player in the Game, things are going to get a good deal tougher for you. Let's not forget...
<i>(Copycat abruptly shoves at the bottom of the ladder, causing it to tip over in his direction. He blocks the ladder from hitting him with his left hand and catches the gift-wrapped present with his right, then tosses the ladder aside)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> ... The Cat has a plan for every situation. Come Russian Roulette, neither Layne Winters, with his efforts to defeat the Cat by hitting him in the fist with his face, nor Lindsay Troy, with her efforts to defeat the Cat by chucking EPW's money at him, will be able to overcome me, or my and Anthology's mission to fix the many parts of this industry that are broken. And that, my friends...
<i>(Copycat tears open the wrapping on the present)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> ...is just all there is to it.
<i>(Copycat opens the wrapped box and pulls out a yo-yo. He idly toys with it as we fade out)</i>
<i>(Fade in on the upper part of a ladder in an otherwise uninteresting room. On it sits a gift-wrapped package tied with a festive bow)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> If you knew how terrible I am at wrapping presents, you'd appreciate how much work went into this.
<i>(The camera pans down to show Copycat -- clad in jeans and a black Anthology T-shirt, with his hair tied back -- standing to the left of the ladder)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> I can't remember the last time I was in a ladder match. Honestly, I can't. The last place I competed full-time, I was in all sorts of crazy types of matches -- that was kind of their thing -- but no ladder matches. And it's just as well. I was hovering around 300 back in those days, and although I'm not about to get winded climbing a ladder, let's face it: Gravity was not on my side. You have to chuck a featherweight like the First off a ladder 10 times to do as much damage to him as you do to a guy tipping the scales at three-oh-one in a single push. Now, these days, I'm down about 20 pounds, the happy consequence of a few years of healthier living away from wrestling. So I'm feeling a little better about my chances at Russian Roulette than I might if the match had happened a few years ago. I suppose the question, though, is -- should I?
<i>(He leans against the ladder)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> We all saw Aggression 47. We all saw me smash Layne Winters into a quivering mass of pariah-flavored Jell-O. We all saw me within a hair of yanking the EPW Television Title away from that waste of backstage catering. But when I remolded that Jell-O into a shape that vaguely resembled a pair of shoulders to be pinned to the mat, something happened. A hand that could have gone up and down seven times, thereby garnering me two-and-one-third Television Titles, took so long to count that important "three" that a strong gust of wind was able to blow Layne Winters' foot-shaped Jell-O appendage toward the rope. And then it happened again. And again. And you know the old saying. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me three times, somebody's leaving the arena in a frickin' Tupperware container."
<i>(Copycat rolls his eyes)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Now, as I allegedly mentioned in the poorly-defined video some overenthusiastic fan uploaded to YouTube, I can't blame the referee for this, because he's just doing his job. And since Lindsay Troy is giving the orders, his priorities, by necessity, must include her priorities -- waste money, crash ratings, destroy Anthology to preserve her more-tenuous-by-the-day grip on EPW authority, that sort of thing. Maybe there were two or three people who still couldn't figure it out after my travesty of a match, but you'd have to have the brainpower of a damned cocktail napkin not to see it after she outright admitted to bringing in two high-cost, high-maintenance and limited-usefulness chumps just to get the EPW Tag Team Titles away from Anthology. The woman is terrified. Not that Anthology poses a dire threat to the well-being of EPW, but that Anthology poses a dire threat to her power as commissioner. With everyone else in EPW out for himself, the Anthology is looking out for the good of this very business -- precisely what Lindsay Troy should be doing. And she knows that when the people who sign her paycheck realize we're doing a better job of it than she is, her days as commissioner are numbered.
<i>(Copycat makes as if to climb the ladder, but he can't even lift his feet off the floor)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> So until that day comes, we're stuck with her working to handicap us day in and day out. Larry and Jared are being forced to compete twice at Russian Roulette, while everyone else gets just one match. Cameron Cruise has to defend his EPW Intercontinental Title against a man who's done nothing to deserve a title shot, seeing as he's lost every match he's had since he chickened out of Anthology. Sean Edmunds is wasting his time jerking the curtain. The main event is Anthology-free, and instead pits two perfect examples of guys who shouldn't even be main-eventing an open mic night against each other. And me?
<i>(The camera pans down to Copycat's feet to show they are shackled to sizable leg irons)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Well, let's just face it -- ladder matches aren't exactly the kind of situation you want to find yourself in when you're the Cat. Add up all the matches the Cat has lost over the course of his career, then subtract all the ones in which he was the victim of outside interference, and you've got a number the Penguin could count on his fingers. A no-disqualification match against a guy guaranteed to be supported by the EPW commissioner who just hired two guys specifically to destroy Anthology. It's pretty obvious what's going to happen here. Once again, the Cat's going to crush Layne Winters like a pair of glasses under a car tire, but as the Cat reaches for that EPW Television Title, that symbol that will reinforce his message that EPW should be represented on TV by someone who has an interest in EPW's TV product not being embarrassingly unwatchable, something will drag him down.
<i>(He once again moves in the direction of the ladder, shackle chains jingling)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Will it be Layne Winters, spurred on by newfound resolve to undo the humiliation he suffered at Aggression 47? Nah. The man swore up and down that he'd teach me a lesson by pinning my shoulders to the mat for the count of three, but when all was said and done, the only way he could pick up the victory was by getting the emo-colored stuffing beaten out of him. But I'm sure the way Lindsay Troy is figuring it, Layne Winters doesn't really need to be better than me at Russian Roulette; he just needs to annoy me temporarily until someone more effective at not getting his tuckus kicked can get involved. So I guess, yeah, I should be worried.
<i>(Copycat once again struggles to lift his legs, but to no avail. He looks up at the ladder)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Thing is, though, Lindsay Troy's only going to be able to get one over on the Cat when he's not ready for it. When you find yourself matching wits with the Smartest Player in the Game, things are going to get a good deal tougher for you. Let's not forget...
<i>(Copycat abruptly shoves at the bottom of the ladder, causing it to tip over in his direction. He blocks the ladder from hitting him with his left hand and catches the gift-wrapped present with his right, then tosses the ladder aside)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> ... The Cat has a plan for every situation. Come Russian Roulette, neither Layne Winters, with his efforts to defeat the Cat by hitting him in the fist with his face, nor Lindsay Troy, with her efforts to defeat the Cat by chucking EPW's money at him, will be able to overcome me, or my and Anthology's mission to fix the many parts of this industry that are broken. And that, my friends...
<i>(Copycat tears open the wrapping on the present)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> ...is just all there is to it.
<i>(Copycat opens the wrapped box and pulls out a yo-yo. He idly toys with it as we fade out)</i>
LQJT86C
Where's my money, Chad?
(FADEIN: An empty gym. Next to the ring is a heavy bag, creaking as it swings back and forth, almost taunting LAYNE WINTERS as it does so ever slowly. Winters is breathing heavy, unwrapping his hands as he sits with his head down. He catches his breath and looks up at the camera, smiling)
WINTERS: So let me get this straight...Copycat, the mouth of Anthology, a group whose membership is growing faster than the Chinese birthrate...is complaining about THE ODDS in a no-DQ match? Man, look around me, what do you see? Dust, air, bags, an empty ring, and ME. The f[BLEEP]king TV champion, a guy who did it on his own merits, unlike some. You know what I'm bringing to Roulette? A twelve pound belt and a one hundred-fifteen pound brunette in high heels.
For all I know, you've got Cruise, Edmunds, Tact, and Wells lumberjacking the godd[BLEEP] ring when I get there. And that's fine...because I didn't make it this far by complaining. And by that token, I didn't become TV champ by taking no damage in that ring either. I go out there KNOWING I'm gonna take a beating in that ring, EXPECTING a war...hell, I like it...let's me know I'm alive, that I do this for a f[BLEEP]king reason. The guy standing across from me, whether it's you, Fusenshoff, First, whoever...they better damn well be prepared for the same.
See, I'll take them to the brink, to their limit and then some. Every...f[BLEEP]king...time. That's the reason I'm STILL the television champion. Ask Fusenshoff; he gave me all he had, I took his BEST, and when it was time to close the deal he faultered...and I reaped the reward. Ask The First; we killed each other for fifteen minutes, and he couldn't get it done either.
But to hell with asking them...look in the mirror and ask yourself. You walk around at what, three hundred pounds? Maybe more? How could you NOT have handed me a beating? I don't take matches with guys your size thinking I ain't getting hurt. So you went out there and gave me a beating...but you didn't BEAT ME. And you know why?
'CAUSE YOUR HEAD HIT THE F[BLEEP]KIN' CEILING! YEAH, JUST LIKE I SAID IT WOULD!
Your best wasn't good enough, just like I said it wouldn't be! You shoulda listened to me, Cat, 'cause I called that f[BLEEP]kin' match like I was godd[BLEEP] Nostradamus! Except for one detail, of course...me pinning you. Gotta admit, I didn't think the so-called "Smartest Player in the Game" would become utterly frustrated and punk-out of the match by deliberately DQing himself. And I'M the one who was humiliated? Sorry, but I call bullsh[BLEEP] on this one. You threw the kitchen sink at me, and I took it like the champ that I am. You don't have a tool in your shed that can beat me, you knew it, and you PUNKED OUT!
I went to sleep that night with a gold belt in my bag...how 'bout you? And really, what's more humiliating than that? To challenge a champion and come up empty handed?
Now I could have taken my winnings and been on my merry way, but f[BLEEP]k it, I don't like the easy way. (smiles) In fact, I went ahead and did you a FAVOR. I, the CHAMPION, offered the LOSER a rematch! Knowing you couldn't beat me straight up, I went ahead and made a stipulation: ANYTHING GOES as long as you can climb the ladder and take that belt.
Wait, it gets better...
Not like I graduated high school or anything, but I count one, two, three, FOUR MEN who could legally interfere on your behalf...compared to my hundred and fifteen pounds in high heels of a valet.
...
AND YOU'RE STILL B[BLEEP]CHING! Man, and you're calling ME emo?! Get the f[BLEEP]k outta my face with that...learn to grow a pair and man the f[bleep]k up. I just handed you a dream match, and BELIEVE ME...there ain't no aces up my sleeve. What's Lindsay Troy gonna do? Climb the ladder for me? Who's she gonna hire to help me out against your little foursome over there? I've been here what, eight, nine months? You think I make friends that quick? Sh[BLEEP]t, you made more friends in your short EPW stint than I did wrestling SEVEN YEARS in Seattle! Lindsay Troy can suck a dick, 'cause I ain't nobody's horse, you got that?
Nobody owes a guy like me a damn thing. Lindsay's a legend, she MADE her money, she WON her titles...she did what she had to do, and now she owns the number one wrestling promotion in the country. What does she possibly gain by doing favors for a journeyman TV champ? Even if I am the next World Champion...and bet your ass I am...they don't need me to destroy Anthology. Anthology's doing that ALL THEIR OWN.
And that's the reason I don't fear the odds...because you all are too f[BLEEP]king dumb to capitalize anyway. Every decision that comes out of the Anthology camp pretty much defies the f[bleep]king laws of logic, and that's me putting it NICELY. It's like somebody took the five biggest retards from the special ed class and gave them a group name...and I ENJOY putting W's in my win column on acount of you idiots.
Your stupidity and short talent ceiling cost you the first time...so what's it gonna be at Roulette? You gonna complain about slow counts? Man, this is pro-wrestling...referees have glass-jaws, and they count like my grandparents f[bleep]k. In all your years in this sport, Cat, when have you ever known a fast-count ref who you didn't buy off? Watch Aggression on replay and count how many times the announcers sing that two count longer than Pavoratti on a solo. Citing slow counts as the reason for your loss is like the Orlando Magic blaming the NBA Finals on a lack of called fouls. It's silly, it's petty, it happens to EVERYONE including me, and it's a piss-poor excuse.
Hell, you sounded reluctant even taking this match. You sure you want it? Cause frankly, I'm tired of hunting you down with these challenges. People should be seeking ME; I'M the champ! But see, that's just why I'm anathema to everything Anthology stands for, because I don't run from challenges, I PUT my belt on the line...hint-hint Cruise...and I not only welcome but SEEK the biggest challenge available every, F[BLEEP]KING, week!
Talk all you want about ratings, but the fact is, people don't want champs who run. Hell, maybe they don't want champs who spit on ratings either, but at least I give the locker room ample opportunity to take me out. Don't like what I have to say? Then shut me the F[BLEEP]K UP!
But you...you wouldn't know what to do with this belt if you had it, just like your friends. Whining 'cause Wells and Tact actually have to, ya know, DEFEND the f[bleep]king titles! Because Cruise has to face Hart, who for all his flaws, and believe me I HATE the guy...but he did something you apparently couldn't, and that was BEAT ME. It wouldn't happen twice, but it happened once more than you'll ever enjoy...
Anthology's days of pulling three-man run-ins and cutting promos over people's lifeless bodies are over, Cat, didn't you hear? And when the book is written on your pathetic little boy-gang, the final chapter will read "implosion." Because it won't be Layne Winters that killed Anthology, or Shawn Hart, or Sean Stevens, or The First...
It'll be the simple fact that they were forced to survive, forced to put their money where their big f[bleep]king mouths were...
...and couldn't.
Russian Roulette...(laughs)...what a fitting name. We're playing with firepower alright, and I'll even pull the trigger twice each turn...cause I can say with the confidence of a true CHAMPION...that the bullet won't be in a friendly chamber for you...or them.
(FADEOUT)
WINTERS: So let me get this straight...Copycat, the mouth of Anthology, a group whose membership is growing faster than the Chinese birthrate...is complaining about THE ODDS in a no-DQ match? Man, look around me, what do you see? Dust, air, bags, an empty ring, and ME. The f[BLEEP]king TV champion, a guy who did it on his own merits, unlike some. You know what I'm bringing to Roulette? A twelve pound belt and a one hundred-fifteen pound brunette in high heels.
For all I know, you've got Cruise, Edmunds, Tact, and Wells lumberjacking the godd[BLEEP] ring when I get there. And that's fine...because I didn't make it this far by complaining. And by that token, I didn't become TV champ by taking no damage in that ring either. I go out there KNOWING I'm gonna take a beating in that ring, EXPECTING a war...hell, I like it...let's me know I'm alive, that I do this for a f[BLEEP]king reason. The guy standing across from me, whether it's you, Fusenshoff, First, whoever...they better damn well be prepared for the same.
See, I'll take them to the brink, to their limit and then some. Every...f[BLEEP]king...time. That's the reason I'm STILL the television champion. Ask Fusenshoff; he gave me all he had, I took his BEST, and when it was time to close the deal he faultered...and I reaped the reward. Ask The First; we killed each other for fifteen minutes, and he couldn't get it done either.
But to hell with asking them...look in the mirror and ask yourself. You walk around at what, three hundred pounds? Maybe more? How could you NOT have handed me a beating? I don't take matches with guys your size thinking I ain't getting hurt. So you went out there and gave me a beating...but you didn't BEAT ME. And you know why?
'CAUSE YOUR HEAD HIT THE F[BLEEP]KIN' CEILING! YEAH, JUST LIKE I SAID IT WOULD!
Your best wasn't good enough, just like I said it wouldn't be! You shoulda listened to me, Cat, 'cause I called that f[BLEEP]kin' match like I was godd[BLEEP] Nostradamus! Except for one detail, of course...me pinning you. Gotta admit, I didn't think the so-called "Smartest Player in the Game" would become utterly frustrated and punk-out of the match by deliberately DQing himself. And I'M the one who was humiliated? Sorry, but I call bullsh[BLEEP] on this one. You threw the kitchen sink at me, and I took it like the champ that I am. You don't have a tool in your shed that can beat me, you knew it, and you PUNKED OUT!
I went to sleep that night with a gold belt in my bag...how 'bout you? And really, what's more humiliating than that? To challenge a champion and come up empty handed?
Now I could have taken my winnings and been on my merry way, but f[BLEEP]k it, I don't like the easy way. (smiles) In fact, I went ahead and did you a FAVOR. I, the CHAMPION, offered the LOSER a rematch! Knowing you couldn't beat me straight up, I went ahead and made a stipulation: ANYTHING GOES as long as you can climb the ladder and take that belt.
Wait, it gets better...
Not like I graduated high school or anything, but I count one, two, three, FOUR MEN who could legally interfere on your behalf...compared to my hundred and fifteen pounds in high heels of a valet.
...
AND YOU'RE STILL B[BLEEP]CHING! Man, and you're calling ME emo?! Get the f[BLEEP]k outta my face with that...learn to grow a pair and man the f[bleep]k up. I just handed you a dream match, and BELIEVE ME...there ain't no aces up my sleeve. What's Lindsay Troy gonna do? Climb the ladder for me? Who's she gonna hire to help me out against your little foursome over there? I've been here what, eight, nine months? You think I make friends that quick? Sh[BLEEP]t, you made more friends in your short EPW stint than I did wrestling SEVEN YEARS in Seattle! Lindsay Troy can suck a dick, 'cause I ain't nobody's horse, you got that?
Nobody owes a guy like me a damn thing. Lindsay's a legend, she MADE her money, she WON her titles...she did what she had to do, and now she owns the number one wrestling promotion in the country. What does she possibly gain by doing favors for a journeyman TV champ? Even if I am the next World Champion...and bet your ass I am...they don't need me to destroy Anthology. Anthology's doing that ALL THEIR OWN.
And that's the reason I don't fear the odds...because you all are too f[BLEEP]king dumb to capitalize anyway. Every decision that comes out of the Anthology camp pretty much defies the f[bleep]king laws of logic, and that's me putting it NICELY. It's like somebody took the five biggest retards from the special ed class and gave them a group name...and I ENJOY putting W's in my win column on acount of you idiots.
Your stupidity and short talent ceiling cost you the first time...so what's it gonna be at Roulette? You gonna complain about slow counts? Man, this is pro-wrestling...referees have glass-jaws, and they count like my grandparents f[bleep]k. In all your years in this sport, Cat, when have you ever known a fast-count ref who you didn't buy off? Watch Aggression on replay and count how many times the announcers sing that two count longer than Pavoratti on a solo. Citing slow counts as the reason for your loss is like the Orlando Magic blaming the NBA Finals on a lack of called fouls. It's silly, it's petty, it happens to EVERYONE including me, and it's a piss-poor excuse.
Hell, you sounded reluctant even taking this match. You sure you want it? Cause frankly, I'm tired of hunting you down with these challenges. People should be seeking ME; I'M the champ! But see, that's just why I'm anathema to everything Anthology stands for, because I don't run from challenges, I PUT my belt on the line...hint-hint Cruise...and I not only welcome but SEEK the biggest challenge available every, F[BLEEP]KING, week!
Talk all you want about ratings, but the fact is, people don't want champs who run. Hell, maybe they don't want champs who spit on ratings either, but at least I give the locker room ample opportunity to take me out. Don't like what I have to say? Then shut me the F[BLEEP]K UP!
But you...you wouldn't know what to do with this belt if you had it, just like your friends. Whining 'cause Wells and Tact actually have to, ya know, DEFEND the f[bleep]king titles! Because Cruise has to face Hart, who for all his flaws, and believe me I HATE the guy...but he did something you apparently couldn't, and that was BEAT ME. It wouldn't happen twice, but it happened once more than you'll ever enjoy...
Anthology's days of pulling three-man run-ins and cutting promos over people's lifeless bodies are over, Cat, didn't you hear? And when the book is written on your pathetic little boy-gang, the final chapter will read "implosion." Because it won't be Layne Winters that killed Anthology, or Shawn Hart, or Sean Stevens, or The First...
It'll be the simple fact that they were forced to survive, forced to put their money where their big f[bleep]king mouths were...
...and couldn't.
Russian Roulette...(laughs)...what a fitting name. We're playing with firepower alright, and I'll even pull the trigger twice each turn...cause I can say with the confidence of a true CHAMPION...that the bullet won't be in a friendly chamber for you...or them.
(FADEOUT)
Last edited:
GARTHIsTheLaw
League Member
<i>(Cueup: "King Nothing" by Metallica)</i>
<i>(Fade in on an empty -- and all too familiar -- gym, complete with heavy bag that swings but, mysteriously, does not creak. The camera pans over to where Layne Winters should be, but wouldn't you know it, there's a large, Copycat-shaped object obstructing the view of him. The background shot freezes, with only Copycat -- clad in jeans and black Copycat EPW "The Smartest Player in the Game" T-shirt with his hair tied back -- continuing to move, looking toward the background)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And they said I was throwing my money away when I told them I was going to install a green-screen room.
<i>(Copycat looks in the direction of the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> It really was a treat watching Layne Winters' latest promo, in which he complains endlessly about how I complain too much. Honestly, I appreciate those little moments of zen when I can get them, when I'm looking to wind down from a busy day of negotiating movie deals, playing poker with celebrities and doing all of those other enjoyable little things that force Layne Winters to develop an angry twitch whenever I mention them. And I'll say this about Layne: For better or for worse, he's doing a yeoman's job of resisting the message I'm trying to convey to him. A lot of guys will quickly get my point about how utterly worthless they are in the grand scheme of things, and will just go through the motions to pass the time while they wait for me to give them a broken body to match that broken mind and broken spirit on their family room mantle. But not Layne Winters. I can tell the difference between a guy who still believes in himself and a guy who just wants me to think he still believes in himself, and Layne is definitely one of the former. Bully for him.
<i>(Copycat flashes a quick thumbs-up)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> See, if he'd been paying better attention -- and by "paying better attention," I mean "listening to at least two out of every five words I spoke" -- he might have noticed that his name came up a lot less than Commissioner Lindsay Troy's the last time I graced a televised audience with my presence. Oh sure, I know he heard her name once or twice, but it seems like pretty much the only thing he could reason out the entire time was that I was, in some subtle and unnoticeable to the untrained eye way, worried about him. Worried that, gosh, he did such a good job getting chewed up and spit out by me the last time, maybe this time the plucky underdog will actually manage to beat me like he said he would. But really, at this point, I think everyone outside Layne Winters' Magical World of Wondrous Fantasy understands that if he'd spent any more time on his back during our match at Aggression 47, I'd probably owe him 50 bucks and a ride to the next trick. And I'm not about to squander my vast fortune on the likes of him. Not when I can squander it on a green-screen room instead.
<i>(Copycat gingerly leans against the heavy bag, which apparently isn't part of the green-screen background after all. As he leans to the side, various edges of Winters' silhouette can be seen behind him)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Here's the thing. Aggression 47 proved that Layne Winters doesn't have what it takes to hang with the Cat inside those ropes, that much is clear. He might have survived with his title intact because a certain referee didn't feel like crossing a certain commissioner when she ordered him to display obvious bias against a certain group of guys trying to save a certain industry from total annihilation, but he went into Aggression 47 saying over and over and over again that he was going to prove how great he is by pinning my shoulders to the mat for the count of three. And for all that "sacrificing my body for the chance to look like a chump on national TV" preaching, he spent more time on the mat after one LitterBomb than he spent on offense for the entire match. And then he had the gumption to poison the TV ratings with a promo claiming that he totally predicted how the match was going to end. If I were Layne Winters, I probably wouldn't want to go around bragging that I knew all along that I was going to get ripped to shreds and then survive with my championship intact by factors entirely beyond my control. But if I were Layne Winters, I'd probably have made some toast in the bathtub years ago, so what do I know.
<i>(Copycat gives us a facepalm)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And yet, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, Layne Winters wants everyone to believe that things just might turn out differently at Russian Roulette. That he's going to pull out all the stops and succeed by sheer strength of will, because by golly, he believes in himself and he can do anything. Give the guy credit -- he buys it. I doubt anyone else, including that fox of a lady of his, buys it. Everyone else knows that if he had any stops left, he pulled them out just to get up and walk again after the Cat obliterated him. But that's not the real problem here. I guess I don't blame Layne Winters for trying to convince himself he won't get embarrassed again at Russian Roulette. The point at which he officially gives himself too much credit is the point at which he claims he's going to be one of the focal points in this match.
<i>(He shakes his head sadly)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> I thought I made this clear. There are two sides going into Russian Roulette -- there's Anthology, and there's Lindsay Troy and whoever might happen to be loyal to her. Winters, as he made certain to mention with as much profanity as possible, is not part of the latter group. And as long as Anthology continues its policy of not accepting applications from greasy whiners with persecution complexes, he's certainly not getting within shouting distance of the former. Russian Roulette -- for the Cat, for Jared Wells, for Larry Tact, for Sean Edmunds, for Cameron Cruise -- is about Anthology and the increasingly more desperate power plays being utilized by Lindsay Troy in her futile effort to remain viable. This is a two-party system. There is no Ross Perot, no Ralph Nader, no whoever that guy was who Ron Paul endorsed.
<i>(Copycat stops his lean on the heavy bag, standing in position to completely obscure the static Winters in the background)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> That Layne Winters repeatedly insisted I'm at no risk of outside interference is a testament to just how little he understands about what's going on here. He made it a point over and over again to mention that he doesn't have any friends, he just brings to the ring a 115-pound woman who won't trifle with the likes of the Cat if she knows what's good for her. And somehow, in his mind, this is supposed to reassure me that I can't once again be cruelly denied the victory I earn when I gut him like a fish. Layne Winters needs to wake up. He doesn't need to have any friends; the only thing he has going for him heading into this match is the fact that Lindsay Troy has a grudge against Anthology and is trying to destroy us. That is all he needs to know. I'm not worried about him calling his nonexistent buddies down to the ring; I'm worried about Lindsay Troy hiring more drains on the EPW budget to keep me off the top of that ladder. I am, not to put too fine a point on it, not worried about Layne Winters. He is not a factor in this match. He is a distraction. He is something to keep me preoccupied while larger plans are set in motion. For all I, or anyone else who matters, cares, at Russian Roulette ...
<i>(Copycat casually strolls to the other side of the shot. Where Layne Winters was once behind him, there is now nothing, not even a Photoshopped outline, just gym background)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> ... there is. No. Layne. Winters. And that, my friends, is just all there is to it.
<i>(Fade out)</i>
<i>(Fade in on an empty -- and all too familiar -- gym, complete with heavy bag that swings but, mysteriously, does not creak. The camera pans over to where Layne Winters should be, but wouldn't you know it, there's a large, Copycat-shaped object obstructing the view of him. The background shot freezes, with only Copycat -- clad in jeans and black Copycat EPW "The Smartest Player in the Game" T-shirt with his hair tied back -- continuing to move, looking toward the background)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And they said I was throwing my money away when I told them I was going to install a green-screen room.
<i>(Copycat looks in the direction of the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> It really was a treat watching Layne Winters' latest promo, in which he complains endlessly about how I complain too much. Honestly, I appreciate those little moments of zen when I can get them, when I'm looking to wind down from a busy day of negotiating movie deals, playing poker with celebrities and doing all of those other enjoyable little things that force Layne Winters to develop an angry twitch whenever I mention them. And I'll say this about Layne: For better or for worse, he's doing a yeoman's job of resisting the message I'm trying to convey to him. A lot of guys will quickly get my point about how utterly worthless they are in the grand scheme of things, and will just go through the motions to pass the time while they wait for me to give them a broken body to match that broken mind and broken spirit on their family room mantle. But not Layne Winters. I can tell the difference between a guy who still believes in himself and a guy who just wants me to think he still believes in himself, and Layne is definitely one of the former. Bully for him.
<i>(Copycat flashes a quick thumbs-up)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> See, if he'd been paying better attention -- and by "paying better attention," I mean "listening to at least two out of every five words I spoke" -- he might have noticed that his name came up a lot less than Commissioner Lindsay Troy's the last time I graced a televised audience with my presence. Oh sure, I know he heard her name once or twice, but it seems like pretty much the only thing he could reason out the entire time was that I was, in some subtle and unnoticeable to the untrained eye way, worried about him. Worried that, gosh, he did such a good job getting chewed up and spit out by me the last time, maybe this time the plucky underdog will actually manage to beat me like he said he would. But really, at this point, I think everyone outside Layne Winters' Magical World of Wondrous Fantasy understands that if he'd spent any more time on his back during our match at Aggression 47, I'd probably owe him 50 bucks and a ride to the next trick. And I'm not about to squander my vast fortune on the likes of him. Not when I can squander it on a green-screen room instead.
<i>(Copycat gingerly leans against the heavy bag, which apparently isn't part of the green-screen background after all. As he leans to the side, various edges of Winters' silhouette can be seen behind him)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Here's the thing. Aggression 47 proved that Layne Winters doesn't have what it takes to hang with the Cat inside those ropes, that much is clear. He might have survived with his title intact because a certain referee didn't feel like crossing a certain commissioner when she ordered him to display obvious bias against a certain group of guys trying to save a certain industry from total annihilation, but he went into Aggression 47 saying over and over and over again that he was going to prove how great he is by pinning my shoulders to the mat for the count of three. And for all that "sacrificing my body for the chance to look like a chump on national TV" preaching, he spent more time on the mat after one LitterBomb than he spent on offense for the entire match. And then he had the gumption to poison the TV ratings with a promo claiming that he totally predicted how the match was going to end. If I were Layne Winters, I probably wouldn't want to go around bragging that I knew all along that I was going to get ripped to shreds and then survive with my championship intact by factors entirely beyond my control. But if I were Layne Winters, I'd probably have made some toast in the bathtub years ago, so what do I know.
<i>(Copycat gives us a facepalm)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And yet, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, Layne Winters wants everyone to believe that things just might turn out differently at Russian Roulette. That he's going to pull out all the stops and succeed by sheer strength of will, because by golly, he believes in himself and he can do anything. Give the guy credit -- he buys it. I doubt anyone else, including that fox of a lady of his, buys it. Everyone else knows that if he had any stops left, he pulled them out just to get up and walk again after the Cat obliterated him. But that's not the real problem here. I guess I don't blame Layne Winters for trying to convince himself he won't get embarrassed again at Russian Roulette. The point at which he officially gives himself too much credit is the point at which he claims he's going to be one of the focal points in this match.
<i>(He shakes his head sadly)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> I thought I made this clear. There are two sides going into Russian Roulette -- there's Anthology, and there's Lindsay Troy and whoever might happen to be loyal to her. Winters, as he made certain to mention with as much profanity as possible, is not part of the latter group. And as long as Anthology continues its policy of not accepting applications from greasy whiners with persecution complexes, he's certainly not getting within shouting distance of the former. Russian Roulette -- for the Cat, for Jared Wells, for Larry Tact, for Sean Edmunds, for Cameron Cruise -- is about Anthology and the increasingly more desperate power plays being utilized by Lindsay Troy in her futile effort to remain viable. This is a two-party system. There is no Ross Perot, no Ralph Nader, no whoever that guy was who Ron Paul endorsed.
<i>(Copycat stops his lean on the heavy bag, standing in position to completely obscure the static Winters in the background)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> That Layne Winters repeatedly insisted I'm at no risk of outside interference is a testament to just how little he understands about what's going on here. He made it a point over and over again to mention that he doesn't have any friends, he just brings to the ring a 115-pound woman who won't trifle with the likes of the Cat if she knows what's good for her. And somehow, in his mind, this is supposed to reassure me that I can't once again be cruelly denied the victory I earn when I gut him like a fish. Layne Winters needs to wake up. He doesn't need to have any friends; the only thing he has going for him heading into this match is the fact that Lindsay Troy has a grudge against Anthology and is trying to destroy us. That is all he needs to know. I'm not worried about him calling his nonexistent buddies down to the ring; I'm worried about Lindsay Troy hiring more drains on the EPW budget to keep me off the top of that ladder. I am, not to put too fine a point on it, not worried about Layne Winters. He is not a factor in this match. He is a distraction. He is something to keep me preoccupied while larger plans are set in motion. For all I, or anyone else who matters, cares, at Russian Roulette ...
<i>(Copycat casually strolls to the other side of the shot. Where Layne Winters was once behind him, there is now nothing, not even a Photoshopped outline, just gym background)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> ... there is. No. Layne. Winters. And that, my friends, is just all there is to it.
<i>(Fade out)</i>
LQJT86C
Where's my money, Chad?
(FADEIN: LAYNE WINTERS sits on his couch with the EPW TV title draped over his shoulder, wearing a backwards Seahawks hate and a tanktop)
WINTERS: You know, I've experienced some weird sh[bleep]t during my career...but this might be the first time I've ever tried convincing my opponent that he had a shot against me.
So what is it that has you so paranoid these days, Copycat? The fact that Lindsay Troy is actually forcing Anthology to defend it's titles? That maybe, just maybe, your days of cheapshotting your way to the main event are waning? God forbid you idiots had to get by on talent alone. Let's face it: if talent and intelligence were petroleum, the Anthology short bus couldn't power itself outta the godd[bleep] driveway. Somebody defangs Anthology, and it's like rainman living in a world without numbers. You're done, finished, over. No more screwjobs, cheapshots, run-ins; Anthology's been taken down a notch since Wrestleverse, and now you're SCARED.
What, you thought you could play dirty and no one would hit back? It was only a matter of time before somebody decided to retaliate. Surely you anticipated this...right?
I want to believe you're smarter than that, Cat. This has all gotta be some sort of act, this sh[bleep]t about slow counts, and Lindsay Troy having it "out" for you. You're f[bleep]king with us, right? Between turning down world title shots, rejecting challenges from guys a third of your size because it's on "free TV," to having to face the same guy ANYWAY in a tag match, to deliberately DQing yourself out of a match you were winning...it just can't be real, can it? Or are you, Cruise, Tact, Wells, and Edmunds having a contest of who can out-retard the other?
Let's just end this bullsh[bleep] about slow-counts right f[bleep]king now. 'Cause you know, bottom line? They coulda counted to six after I Green River Justice'd Olvir, AND Fusenshoff. Coulda taken a bite out of a ham sandwich in between counts on your friend Tact. Why? (Kicks over the coffee table in front of him) BECAUSE WHEN LAYNE WINTERS PUTS PEOPLE DOWN, HE PUTS THEM THE F[BLEEP]K OUT!
You should have watched the tape on me, you f[bleep]k! It coulda told you something about the man you faced last week...that he can TAKE a beating and move forward...he can GET UP after you hit him with everything you've got! THAT'S what makes me a champion, and brother...if you can't say the same, you ain't winning F[BLEEP]K ALL in EPW!
Or is that the kinda guy you are? Two-hundred and eighty pounds of CHICKEN SH[BLEEP]T. Saying to himself, "Well, I trained so I could get a semi-fast three count on somebody, but DAMN, if they counts are gonna start coming slow, my skillset will be rendered USELESS!" Embarrassing is what that is, Cat, downright EMBARRASSING. For me, there's no shame in going home with this title having taken my lumps like a man, gotten in that ring and defending it like I've trained all my life to do...something so few will ever understand or experience themselves...I DID my part.
What about you? You hit me pretty good, but the Porno Viking hits a lot harder, believe me. Fusenshoff kicked my ass around too. Hell, even The First got his shots in. I don't take minimal damage, man, that's not the kinda guy I am. I go in there to hit and be hit, to outlast the other man, to win by attrition. They realize I keep comin' back after they've killed me dead, and I break their will and WIN. That Litter Bomb you hit me with, that sh[bleep]t f[bleep]ked me up, just like Fusenshoff's Whiskey Bomb did. Yeah, the former champ hit me real good. Big f[bleep]kin' deal; did anyone of us get into this sport not thinkin' he was gonna get hit?
But you wanna know the difference between you and all those others guys who drew Layne Winters' blood, Cat? YOU BIT[BLEEP]ED OUT! YOU GAVE UP! You grasped at the first excuse you could, and DQ'd yourself to save from being yet another victim of my resiliency.
Now, you might think beating me up gets you some sort of consolation prize for a moral victory: it doesn't. There is no second place trophy, no silver medal for failing to beat a champion. You either get the W and title, or you DON'T. I took your best punishment...and you took your ball and went THE F[BLEEP]K home! But it's just like I said, Cat...six-four, two-hundred eighty pounds of CHICKEN...SH[BLEEP]T.
Go on, tell me some more about how this match is in the bag for me, how it's really about Lindsay Troy, and blah blah f[bleep]king slow count blah. Whether you man up for this fight or continuing whining is your own business...'cause it's all ending badly for you. Lindsay ain't steppin' in that ring with you motherf[bleep]ker, I AM! It's no-DQ...no count-out...now pins, slow or otherwise...she can't do SH[BLEEP]T! This is the ONE MATCH where your power in numbers will actually matter AND be legal...but your still not satisfied. Keeping the TV title out of Anthology's hands isn't so important to EPW that they're gonna hire four guys just to keep your friends at bay, and then hire ANOTHER two guys to help me up that ladder.
Drown yourself in conspiracy theory all you want, but there is one absolute truth going into Roulette: you can't quit your way out of this one. You either take that belt from the sky, or watch me do it. I'm willing to take another beating, whether by you, Anthology, or all of the above. The hard way is MY WAY and I ain't changing any time soon. Because after it's over, I have the confidence in KNOWING the victory's mine...can you say the same?
No, you can't.
No, really, you can't. The guy who puts asses in the seats, the star of straight-to-home-video but only in Poland action movies, savior of television ratings and pay-per-view buyrates himself...has been wasting his promos convincing the fans that the match has been rigged against him. Way to peak their interest, man. At least PRETEND like you think you're gonna beat me. I mean if it helps, I could do these promos wearing a Dis bodysuit so you could pretend you're smacktalking Lindsay Troy. Would that do anything for you?
Either way, I'm ready for Roulette. Ready for any and all occurences. If a spaceship crashes through the ceiling and an Alien race from the planet Neptune steps out to kick the ladder from beneath me, I will have expected it. Ask nothing, take everything, expect anything...it's just the way I do business out there, Cat.
You on the other hand, well...I hope you come ready. I hope you're at your best, hope you can come to terms with losing to me TWICE...and hope you realize that sometimes...hope is not enough. Sometimes hope is all you have, and it leaves you on your knees shouting four-letter prayers to the sky, hoping against hope that you had just a little more than.
(FADEOUT)
WINTERS: You know, I've experienced some weird sh[bleep]t during my career...but this might be the first time I've ever tried convincing my opponent that he had a shot against me.
So what is it that has you so paranoid these days, Copycat? The fact that Lindsay Troy is actually forcing Anthology to defend it's titles? That maybe, just maybe, your days of cheapshotting your way to the main event are waning? God forbid you idiots had to get by on talent alone. Let's face it: if talent and intelligence were petroleum, the Anthology short bus couldn't power itself outta the godd[bleep] driveway. Somebody defangs Anthology, and it's like rainman living in a world without numbers. You're done, finished, over. No more screwjobs, cheapshots, run-ins; Anthology's been taken down a notch since Wrestleverse, and now you're SCARED.
What, you thought you could play dirty and no one would hit back? It was only a matter of time before somebody decided to retaliate. Surely you anticipated this...right?
I want to believe you're smarter than that, Cat. This has all gotta be some sort of act, this sh[bleep]t about slow counts, and Lindsay Troy having it "out" for you. You're f[bleep]king with us, right? Between turning down world title shots, rejecting challenges from guys a third of your size because it's on "free TV," to having to face the same guy ANYWAY in a tag match, to deliberately DQing yourself out of a match you were winning...it just can't be real, can it? Or are you, Cruise, Tact, Wells, and Edmunds having a contest of who can out-retard the other?
Let's just end this bullsh[bleep] about slow-counts right f[bleep]king now. 'Cause you know, bottom line? They coulda counted to six after I Green River Justice'd Olvir, AND Fusenshoff. Coulda taken a bite out of a ham sandwich in between counts on your friend Tact. Why? (Kicks over the coffee table in front of him) BECAUSE WHEN LAYNE WINTERS PUTS PEOPLE DOWN, HE PUTS THEM THE F[BLEEP]K OUT!
You should have watched the tape on me, you f[bleep]k! It coulda told you something about the man you faced last week...that he can TAKE a beating and move forward...he can GET UP after you hit him with everything you've got! THAT'S what makes me a champion, and brother...if you can't say the same, you ain't winning F[BLEEP]K ALL in EPW!
Or is that the kinda guy you are? Two-hundred and eighty pounds of CHICKEN SH[BLEEP]T. Saying to himself, "Well, I trained so I could get a semi-fast three count on somebody, but DAMN, if they counts are gonna start coming slow, my skillset will be rendered USELESS!" Embarrassing is what that is, Cat, downright EMBARRASSING. For me, there's no shame in going home with this title having taken my lumps like a man, gotten in that ring and defending it like I've trained all my life to do...something so few will ever understand or experience themselves...I DID my part.
What about you? You hit me pretty good, but the Porno Viking hits a lot harder, believe me. Fusenshoff kicked my ass around too. Hell, even The First got his shots in. I don't take minimal damage, man, that's not the kinda guy I am. I go in there to hit and be hit, to outlast the other man, to win by attrition. They realize I keep comin' back after they've killed me dead, and I break their will and WIN. That Litter Bomb you hit me with, that sh[bleep]t f[bleep]ked me up, just like Fusenshoff's Whiskey Bomb did. Yeah, the former champ hit me real good. Big f[bleep]kin' deal; did anyone of us get into this sport not thinkin' he was gonna get hit?
But you wanna know the difference between you and all those others guys who drew Layne Winters' blood, Cat? YOU BIT[BLEEP]ED OUT! YOU GAVE UP! You grasped at the first excuse you could, and DQ'd yourself to save from being yet another victim of my resiliency.
Now, you might think beating me up gets you some sort of consolation prize for a moral victory: it doesn't. There is no second place trophy, no silver medal for failing to beat a champion. You either get the W and title, or you DON'T. I took your best punishment...and you took your ball and went THE F[BLEEP]K home! But it's just like I said, Cat...six-four, two-hundred eighty pounds of CHICKEN...SH[BLEEP]T.
Go on, tell me some more about how this match is in the bag for me, how it's really about Lindsay Troy, and blah blah f[bleep]king slow count blah. Whether you man up for this fight or continuing whining is your own business...'cause it's all ending badly for you. Lindsay ain't steppin' in that ring with you motherf[bleep]ker, I AM! It's no-DQ...no count-out...now pins, slow or otherwise...she can't do SH[BLEEP]T! This is the ONE MATCH where your power in numbers will actually matter AND be legal...but your still not satisfied. Keeping the TV title out of Anthology's hands isn't so important to EPW that they're gonna hire four guys just to keep your friends at bay, and then hire ANOTHER two guys to help me up that ladder.
Drown yourself in conspiracy theory all you want, but there is one absolute truth going into Roulette: you can't quit your way out of this one. You either take that belt from the sky, or watch me do it. I'm willing to take another beating, whether by you, Anthology, or all of the above. The hard way is MY WAY and I ain't changing any time soon. Because after it's over, I have the confidence in KNOWING the victory's mine...can you say the same?
No, you can't.
No, really, you can't. The guy who puts asses in the seats, the star of straight-to-home-video but only in Poland action movies, savior of television ratings and pay-per-view buyrates himself...has been wasting his promos convincing the fans that the match has been rigged against him. Way to peak their interest, man. At least PRETEND like you think you're gonna beat me. I mean if it helps, I could do these promos wearing a Dis bodysuit so you could pretend you're smacktalking Lindsay Troy. Would that do anything for you?
Either way, I'm ready for Roulette. Ready for any and all occurences. If a spaceship crashes through the ceiling and an Alien race from the planet Neptune steps out to kick the ladder from beneath me, I will have expected it. Ask nothing, take everything, expect anything...it's just the way I do business out there, Cat.
You on the other hand, well...I hope you come ready. I hope you're at your best, hope you can come to terms with losing to me TWICE...and hope you realize that sometimes...hope is not enough. Sometimes hope is all you have, and it leaves you on your knees shouting four-letter prayers to the sky, hoping against hope that you had just a little more than.
(FADEOUT)
LQJT86C
Where's my money, Chad?
(FADEIN: Blockbuster Video in Seattle. LAYNE WINTERS walks through the door and right up to the front desk where a pimple-faced employee greets him)
WINTERS: Hey man, help me out here. I'm looking for movies starring Copycat. You know, the professional wrestler?
EMPLOYEE: Hmm...you could check the foreign language section, otherwise I'd we don't carry any.
WINTERS: Has anyone here actually witnessed a movie being rented out starring Copycat?
EMPLOYEE: Honestly sir? I haven't the foggiest idea who that is.
WINTERS: (Grabs the kid and violently pulls him over the counter by his collar) LOOK PUNK! I KNOW YOU'RE HIDING HIS MOVIES! THEY'RE SOLD OUT, AREN'T THEY!
EMPLOYEE: (Weeping) AHHHH! NO, PLEASE, I SWEAR ON MY LIFE I'VE NEVER HEARD OF THE GUY!
WINTERS: DO YOU WANNA DIE TONIGHT?! WHERE THE F[BLEEP!]K ARE HIS MOVIES?! (The employee lets out a moan and a yellow liquid substance begins to leak all over the counter from his pants) AHHH SH[BLEEP]T! Control yourself, kid!
EMPLOYEE: Sir...I swear...on the Holy Bible itself...on the grave of my cat Emile...I've never...heard...of...Copy...cat....(continues crying)
WINTERS: (Looks at the camera) He hasn't heard of Copycat, he says. Well we'll just see about that! (Shoves the kid back over the counter and leaves)
(CUTTO: The main offices of MGM studios. LAYNE WINTERS walks in and abruptly stops in front of a cross-legged man reading a magazine in the waiting room. It just so happens to be CASTOR V. STRIFE. Layne pauses for a second as Castor looks up from his magazine. They share an uncomfortable silence)
WINTERS: Hi.
CASTOR: ...hello.
WINTERS: Have we...met before?
CASTOR: I don't think so.
(Layne looks unsettled as he turns to walk away. He now approaches the front desk where a female receptionist sits)
WINTERS: First off, hang up the GODD[BLEEP]MN PHONE, and hand over Copycat's film credits!
RECEPTIONIST: Who?
WINTERS: Oh, you think I won't hit a woman? (Takes out his cell phone and dials) Here, talk to my ex-wife, ask her if I don't hit women! ASK HER! Except you can't...she blocked my f[bleep]king number!
RECEPTIONIST: Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave the premises before I call security.
WINTERS: Security? CALL 'EM!
RECEPTIONIST: Wait a minute, you can't go in there! Sir! Sir!
(Layne barges his way into Mr. MGM's offices where he finds the man behind an oak desk with his feet up, smoking a big cigar. The camera angle is seen from Mr. MGM's first-person view; all we can see are his feet on the desk and the cigar in his hand)
MR. MGM: What is the meaning of this?
WINTERS: Look, somebody around this DUMP better clue me in to what movies Copycat has starred in, or else I'm gonna flip sh[bleep]t on you people!
MR. MGM: Copycat? He'll never work in this town again! And neither will YOU! Nyahh!
WINTERS: Yeah? We'll just see about that...
(CUTTO: Layne closes the backdoor of his black HUMMER H2 with the EPW TV Title in hand. The receptionist is chasing after him yelling "Stop!" as he approaches the backlot where the MGM Lion is being handled by it's trainer)
WINTERS: If they won't give me Copycat's film credits, then I'm taking out the f[bleep]kin' lion!
RECEPTIONIST: NOOOO!!!!!!
(The MGM Lion ROARS as Layne charges forward and knocks it senseless with the TV title)
WINTERS: F[BLEEP]K YOU, COPYCAT! I'M GONNA FIGURE OUT WHICH MOVIES YOU STARRED IN, AND THERE'S ONLY ONE OTHER AVENUE I CAN CHECK!
(CUTTO: Layne's in New York City now at 34th and Lexington, speaking with a Chinese woman who is dealing counterfeit DVDs)
CHINESE WOMAN: Ahhh! Cowpeecat? Haha, yes, yes, I have fa you right here! Issa best film I eeeeva seen, an' I have special juuuuuusss fa you!
WINTERS: Just give me the DVD you slant-eyed yellow b[bleep]tch!
(She hands him a DVD with a cover featuring a hog-tied, ball-gagged man who looks to weigh about 280 pounds, laying on the floor while a transvestite Madonna impersonator stands over him crying)
WINTERS: What is THIS?! "Hurt Me Gently," a Castor V. Strife Production? (Breaks the DVD over his knee)
CHINESE WOMAN: HEY! YOU NO PAY!
WINTERS: F[BLEEP]K OFF, CHARLIE! I AIN'T PAYIN' FOR THIS GARBAGE! So this was it, huh Cat? Your big film? Movie star, eh? Well I've got a tip on your next role...it's a BIG ONE! It stars you, and me, a ladder, and forty-thousand slack jawed fans screaming as I put you OUT OF COMMISSION, and grab my TV title from above! I feel a bit typecast, cause I'm always the winner...it's always ME coming out on top! You don't got the stamina OR the will to contend with me, so Roulette...will be your curtain call. (Smiles)
(FADEOUT)
WINTERS: Hey man, help me out here. I'm looking for movies starring Copycat. You know, the professional wrestler?
EMPLOYEE: Hmm...you could check the foreign language section, otherwise I'd we don't carry any.
WINTERS: Has anyone here actually witnessed a movie being rented out starring Copycat?
EMPLOYEE: Honestly sir? I haven't the foggiest idea who that is.
WINTERS: (Grabs the kid and violently pulls him over the counter by his collar) LOOK PUNK! I KNOW YOU'RE HIDING HIS MOVIES! THEY'RE SOLD OUT, AREN'T THEY!
EMPLOYEE: (Weeping) AHHHH! NO, PLEASE, I SWEAR ON MY LIFE I'VE NEVER HEARD OF THE GUY!
WINTERS: DO YOU WANNA DIE TONIGHT?! WHERE THE F[BLEEP!]K ARE HIS MOVIES?! (The employee lets out a moan and a yellow liquid substance begins to leak all over the counter from his pants) AHHH SH[BLEEP]T! Control yourself, kid!
EMPLOYEE: Sir...I swear...on the Holy Bible itself...on the grave of my cat Emile...I've never...heard...of...Copy...cat....(continues crying)
WINTERS: (Looks at the camera) He hasn't heard of Copycat, he says. Well we'll just see about that! (Shoves the kid back over the counter and leaves)
(CUTTO: The main offices of MGM studios. LAYNE WINTERS walks in and abruptly stops in front of a cross-legged man reading a magazine in the waiting room. It just so happens to be CASTOR V. STRIFE. Layne pauses for a second as Castor looks up from his magazine. They share an uncomfortable silence)
WINTERS: Hi.
CASTOR: ...hello.
WINTERS: Have we...met before?
CASTOR: I don't think so.
(Layne looks unsettled as he turns to walk away. He now approaches the front desk where a female receptionist sits)
WINTERS: First off, hang up the GODD[BLEEP]MN PHONE, and hand over Copycat's film credits!
RECEPTIONIST: Who?
WINTERS: Oh, you think I won't hit a woman? (Takes out his cell phone and dials) Here, talk to my ex-wife, ask her if I don't hit women! ASK HER! Except you can't...she blocked my f[bleep]king number!
RECEPTIONIST: Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave the premises before I call security.
WINTERS: Security? CALL 'EM!
RECEPTIONIST: Wait a minute, you can't go in there! Sir! Sir!
(Layne barges his way into Mr. MGM's offices where he finds the man behind an oak desk with his feet up, smoking a big cigar. The camera angle is seen from Mr. MGM's first-person view; all we can see are his feet on the desk and the cigar in his hand)
MR. MGM: What is the meaning of this?
WINTERS: Look, somebody around this DUMP better clue me in to what movies Copycat has starred in, or else I'm gonna flip sh[bleep]t on you people!
MR. MGM: Copycat? He'll never work in this town again! And neither will YOU! Nyahh!
WINTERS: Yeah? We'll just see about that...
(CUTTO: Layne closes the backdoor of his black HUMMER H2 with the EPW TV Title in hand. The receptionist is chasing after him yelling "Stop!" as he approaches the backlot where the MGM Lion is being handled by it's trainer)
WINTERS: If they won't give me Copycat's film credits, then I'm taking out the f[bleep]kin' lion!
RECEPTIONIST: NOOOO!!!!!!
(The MGM Lion ROARS as Layne charges forward and knocks it senseless with the TV title)
WINTERS: F[BLEEP]K YOU, COPYCAT! I'M GONNA FIGURE OUT WHICH MOVIES YOU STARRED IN, AND THERE'S ONLY ONE OTHER AVENUE I CAN CHECK!
(CUTTO: Layne's in New York City now at 34th and Lexington, speaking with a Chinese woman who is dealing counterfeit DVDs)
CHINESE WOMAN: Ahhh! Cowpeecat? Haha, yes, yes, I have fa you right here! Issa best film I eeeeva seen, an' I have special juuuuuusss fa you!
WINTERS: Just give me the DVD you slant-eyed yellow b[bleep]tch!
(She hands him a DVD with a cover featuring a hog-tied, ball-gagged man who looks to weigh about 280 pounds, laying on the floor while a transvestite Madonna impersonator stands over him crying)
WINTERS: What is THIS?! "Hurt Me Gently," a Castor V. Strife Production? (Breaks the DVD over his knee)
CHINESE WOMAN: HEY! YOU NO PAY!
WINTERS: F[BLEEP]K OFF, CHARLIE! I AIN'T PAYIN' FOR THIS GARBAGE! So this was it, huh Cat? Your big film? Movie star, eh? Well I've got a tip on your next role...it's a BIG ONE! It stars you, and me, a ladder, and forty-thousand slack jawed fans screaming as I put you OUT OF COMMISSION, and grab my TV title from above! I feel a bit typecast, cause I'm always the winner...it's always ME coming out on top! You don't got the stamina OR the will to contend with me, so Roulette...will be your curtain call. (Smiles)
(FADEOUT)
GARTHIsTheLaw
League Member
<i>(Cueup: Generic-sounding “TV entertainment news show” type music)</i>
<i>(Fade in on a studio set on a raised stage with a big screen reading “COMING ATTRACTIONS” in the background. In a director’s chair to the right of the screen is Copycat, clad in tan pants and a sweater vest with his hair tied back)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Hello, viewers, and welcome to <i>Coming Attractions</i>, your source for all you need to know about the entertainment industry. I’m your host, James Kattman. Today, we’ll be taking you on a whirlwind tour of <i>Green River Justice</i>, the upcoming production by director (mutters something incomprehensible) on the life and times of professional wrestler Layne Winters.
<i>(A triumphant-looking movie logo containing the words </i>Green River Justice<i> appears on the big screen in the background)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Yes, this unique competitor’s life story of triumph and tragedy is certain to be exciting. And in preparation for the release of this new production, Layne Winters has given a number of interviews on the topic.
<i>(The image on the big screen changes to a still frame of Tom Cruise jumping on the couch in his infamous Oprah appearance)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> We’ll not subject you to watching them, but suffice it to say they consist mainly of him repeating the same points over and over again, making every effort to miss every cogent point thrown at him, and talking himself up like he’s accomplished anything of note recently besides being subject to the pants-crapping impact of a LitterBomb following a total embarrassment of a match against multiple-time world champion, top-billed Hollywood star and all-around paragon of pure, unadulterated awesomeness Copycat.
<i>(The image on the big screen shifts to an image of a triumphant-looking Copycat in wrestling gear standing over the supine body of a midget wearing ring gear similar in appearance to Winters’)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And as a special treat to both of his fans, he’s also recently put together a little production of his own, in which he has hired cut-rate actors who deserve better to portray people who don’t know who Copycat is despite his international acclaim, seeking to insult the intelligence of humanity in general by assuming viewers who’ve seen Copycat’s multiple television and film roles will believe Winters when he tells them those roles never existed. Our understanding is that the short film is titled, “Who Are You Going to Believe, Layne Winters or Your Lying Eyes?”
<i>(The image in the background shifts to a photo of Tom Sizemore shrugging his shoulders, with a photoshopped image of a Copycat poster in the background behind him)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Yes, it’s never a dull moment when Layne Winters is onscreen. Except when it is, which is all the time.
<i>(The image in the background shifts again, this time showing the poster for the movie </i>Contact<i>, but with Layne Winters photoshopping in where Jodie Foster should be)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> That’s why we’re all so lucky that Winters will not be portraying himself in <i>Green River Justice</i>, thus ensuring all other actors will have a fair chance at this year’s Razzie Awards.
<i>(The screen now shows an image of Tom Green accepting one of his Razzies for </i>Freddy Got Fingered<i>)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> So without further ado, we present to you my review of <i>Green River Justice</i>. Enjoy!
<i>(The background screen envelops the entire screen as a fake video-projector sound is played)</i>
<i>(Cueup: “Gonna Fly Now” from </i>Rocky<i>)</i>
<i>(Fade in on an image of a set of steps – maybe 10 of them – leading from the entrance to the main floor of what appears to be a shopping mall. After a moment’s pause, a figure in a gray hooded sweatshirt with writing and a number on the back jogs onscreen and starts climbing the steps at a run. The camera angle shifts to the top of the steps, where the figure pulls back his hood to reveal Copycat, sporting a bad blonde wig. He raises his arms in victory and turns his back to the camera, showing that it has the word “WINTERS” and the numeral “0” on it, sports jersey-style. As another mall patron walks by, Copycat turns his attention to her)</i>
<b>Copylayne:</b> I climbed those stairs, just like I said I would, you hear me? It took me years of blood and sweat and poor shoe traction to get to the top, but I did it! And admit it – that was the best stair-climbing you’ve ever seen!
<i>(The woman slowly backs away)</i>
<b>Copylayne:</b> HEY! Come the f(BLEEP)dge back here! I’m not fl(BLEEP)ping done talking about my g(BLEEP)shdarn accomplishments!
<i>(The image freezes)</i>
<b>Copycat (V/O):</b> This early scene really helps establish the character of Layne Winters and what motivates him. As you can see, he endeavors to take from even the most mundane of actions a sense of personal victory, and then share that victory with as many people as possible. It’s a continuing theme we’ll see throughout the <i>Green River Justice</i>.
<i>(The shot dissolves to another scene, with Copycat-as-Winters standing in a backstage area. Next to him is, thanks to some sort of camera trickery, another version of Copycat, dressed as a backstage interviewer. Copycat-as-Winters sports two black eyes and a bloody nose)</i>
<b>Copyinterviewer:</b> Layne Winters, a particularly tough loss for you out there against Brian “The Ballerina” Barton. What are your thoughts?
<b>Copylayne:</b> Well, Barton may have pinned me in the match, but do you know who the real winner is? Me! Layne Winters! Because I totally predicted ahead of time that I was going to lose, and my prediction was far more important than the humiliating defeat I suffered!
<b>Copyinterviewer:</b> But you still didn’t beat him. I mean, doesn’t that weigh on you at all?
<b>Copylayne:</b> G(BLEEP)LDANGIT I TOLD YOU I’M THE REAL FR(BLEEP)GING WINNER! It took me years of hard work to be able to lose so spectacularly! Take a look at that match and tell me it wasn’t the most jaw-droppingly amazing st(BLEEP)nking loss you’ve ever seen!
<i>(The shot freezes once again)</i>
<b>Copycat V/O:</b> Here, we see another defining action, as Winters makes an excuse for his inability to win a match and tries to play it off as a victory for him. Again, we see his neverending desire to brag about his accomplishments, regardless of the fact that he has no true accomplishments about which to brag. Throughout the wins and losses, mainly losses, seen in <i>Green River Justice</i>, we’ll see Winters run the gamut of emotions, from anger to, um, anger, as his well of excuses for being unable to get the job done runs dryer and dryer.
<i>(We dissolve to a shot of Copycat-as-Winters standing behind the counter of a generic fast food restaurant. On the other side of the counter is another Copycat, wearing a business suit and a fake moustache and holding a burger)</i>
<b>Copycustomer:</b> Excuse me, I asked for this burger with no mustard, but it has mustard on it.
<b>Copylayne:</b> F(BLEEP)RGET YOU! You didn’t say no l(BLEEP)sy mustard!
<b>Copycustomer:</b> Yes I did. Everyone in line heard me.
<b>Copylayne:</b> Well I didn’t! And if I say it didn’t happen, it didn’t happen, you melonf(BLEEP)mer!
<b>Copycustomer:</b> Yeah, well, anyway, the customer is always right, so…
<b>Copylayne:</b> WRONG, YOU SON OF A W(BLEEP)CH! Do you have any idea how r(BLEEP)ly hard I worked on that burger! It took me years to get to the point where I could put mustard on a burger, and now whenever I do it, it’s the most amazing burger you’ve ever eaten!
<i>(Screen freeze)</i>
<b>Copycat V/O:</b> Here, Winters enters a comfortable state of denial, as he ignores all of his adversary’s salient points in favor of his own worldview, from which he cannot be turned no matter the evidence to the contrary. We also get a rare look at some of the things Winters has had to do outside of the ring to get by, unlike certain other, significantly more bankable competitors.
<i>(We dissolve to Copycat-as-Winters taping up his wrists in a backstage area, a generic title belt slung over his shoulder)</i>
<b>Copywinters:</b> All right. All right! This f(BLEEP)rging time, I’m really going to do it! I’m going to show that Copycat guy that if I build up a victory in my head enough, it really will come true, even if it didn’t the last time! You believe in me, right Pamela?
<i>(Copycat-as-Winters looks offscreen expectantly, but gets no response)</i>
<b>Copylayne:</b> Honey? PAY ATTENTION TO ME! I’m trying to psych myself up, for h(BLEEP)k’s sake!
<i>(The camera pans over to show a fake-tattooed, fake-nose-pierced Megan Mullally talking on a cell phone)</i>
<b>Pamullally (to Copycat-as-Winters):</b> Whatever you say, dear! (to the phone) Well, Jared—excuse me, Daddy—I’m wearing side-tie panties, a short skirt…
<i>(The camera pans back over to Copycat-as-Winters)</i>
<b>Copylayne:</b> YEAH! I worked harder than anyone else to get my her to respond to my shouting, and when she does, it’s the most amazing response EVER!
<i>(Screen freeze)</i>
<b>Copycat V/O:</b> In this scene, near the end, we watch as Layne Winters ignores all the evidence that things aren’t going as he expected. And while it was with some trepidation that I decided to show a scene so close to the end of the movie, I don’t think any scene in <i>Green River Justice</i> truly shows how totally out of touch with reality Layne Winters is. For even up until the very last moment before this deciding match, he truly believed that he had a chance, that he would be a relevant factor in a contest in which he was no more than a distraction, that things would end in any way other than another devastating thrashing at the hands of his much more talented – and, if I may say so, much more handsome – opponent.
<i>(The camera goes back to Copycat in the “Coming Attractions” studio, the final frozen screenshot still in the background)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> We’ve learned a lot today about this upcoming production, and in so doing, we’ve learned a lot about Layne Winters, the man. He has no interest in being entertaining. He ignores all the evidence of his irrelevance and inferiority. He repeats the same things over and over again. And perhaps most importantly, he looks at absolutely everything he does as an accomplishment that’s the envy of the world over. Now, <i>Green River Justice</i> may not be the movie for everyone, and in fact, many people may not care for it. But if you do go see it, and you don’t much care for it, just keep one important thing in mind: like Layne Winters’ reign as EPW Television Champion, it may be dull and peppered with failures various and sundry, but you can take comfort in the fact that it won’t last much longer.
<i>(The background screen goes black)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And of course, it wouldn’t be “Coming Attractions” without my own analysis of the film’s merits. And in my humble opinion, much like everything Layne Winters has been involved in over the last seven years besides his most recent match with Copycat…
<i>(He leans forward angrily in the chair and does his best Jon Lovitz)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> IT STINKS!
<i>(Copycat grins at the camera)</i>
<i>(Fade out)</i>
<i>(Fade in on a studio set on a raised stage with a big screen reading “COMING ATTRACTIONS” in the background. In a director’s chair to the right of the screen is Copycat, clad in tan pants and a sweater vest with his hair tied back)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Hello, viewers, and welcome to <i>Coming Attractions</i>, your source for all you need to know about the entertainment industry. I’m your host, James Kattman. Today, we’ll be taking you on a whirlwind tour of <i>Green River Justice</i>, the upcoming production by director (mutters something incomprehensible) on the life and times of professional wrestler Layne Winters.
<i>(A triumphant-looking movie logo containing the words </i>Green River Justice<i> appears on the big screen in the background)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Yes, this unique competitor’s life story of triumph and tragedy is certain to be exciting. And in preparation for the release of this new production, Layne Winters has given a number of interviews on the topic.
<i>(The image on the big screen changes to a still frame of Tom Cruise jumping on the couch in his infamous Oprah appearance)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> We’ll not subject you to watching them, but suffice it to say they consist mainly of him repeating the same points over and over again, making every effort to miss every cogent point thrown at him, and talking himself up like he’s accomplished anything of note recently besides being subject to the pants-crapping impact of a LitterBomb following a total embarrassment of a match against multiple-time world champion, top-billed Hollywood star and all-around paragon of pure, unadulterated awesomeness Copycat.
<i>(The image on the big screen shifts to an image of a triumphant-looking Copycat in wrestling gear standing over the supine body of a midget wearing ring gear similar in appearance to Winters’)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And as a special treat to both of his fans, he’s also recently put together a little production of his own, in which he has hired cut-rate actors who deserve better to portray people who don’t know who Copycat is despite his international acclaim, seeking to insult the intelligence of humanity in general by assuming viewers who’ve seen Copycat’s multiple television and film roles will believe Winters when he tells them those roles never existed. Our understanding is that the short film is titled, “Who Are You Going to Believe, Layne Winters or Your Lying Eyes?”
<i>(The image in the background shifts to a photo of Tom Sizemore shrugging his shoulders, with a photoshopped image of a Copycat poster in the background behind him)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Yes, it’s never a dull moment when Layne Winters is onscreen. Except when it is, which is all the time.
<i>(The image in the background shifts again, this time showing the poster for the movie </i>Contact<i>, but with Layne Winters photoshopping in where Jodie Foster should be)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> That’s why we’re all so lucky that Winters will not be portraying himself in <i>Green River Justice</i>, thus ensuring all other actors will have a fair chance at this year’s Razzie Awards.
<i>(The screen now shows an image of Tom Green accepting one of his Razzies for </i>Freddy Got Fingered<i>)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> So without further ado, we present to you my review of <i>Green River Justice</i>. Enjoy!
<i>(The background screen envelops the entire screen as a fake video-projector sound is played)</i>
<i>(Cueup: “Gonna Fly Now” from </i>Rocky<i>)</i>
<i>(Fade in on an image of a set of steps – maybe 10 of them – leading from the entrance to the main floor of what appears to be a shopping mall. After a moment’s pause, a figure in a gray hooded sweatshirt with writing and a number on the back jogs onscreen and starts climbing the steps at a run. The camera angle shifts to the top of the steps, where the figure pulls back his hood to reveal Copycat, sporting a bad blonde wig. He raises his arms in victory and turns his back to the camera, showing that it has the word “WINTERS” and the numeral “0” on it, sports jersey-style. As another mall patron walks by, Copycat turns his attention to her)</i>
<b>Copylayne:</b> I climbed those stairs, just like I said I would, you hear me? It took me years of blood and sweat and poor shoe traction to get to the top, but I did it! And admit it – that was the best stair-climbing you’ve ever seen!
<i>(The woman slowly backs away)</i>
<b>Copylayne:</b> HEY! Come the f(BLEEP)dge back here! I’m not fl(BLEEP)ping done talking about my g(BLEEP)shdarn accomplishments!
<i>(The image freezes)</i>
<b>Copycat (V/O):</b> This early scene really helps establish the character of Layne Winters and what motivates him. As you can see, he endeavors to take from even the most mundane of actions a sense of personal victory, and then share that victory with as many people as possible. It’s a continuing theme we’ll see throughout the <i>Green River Justice</i>.
<i>(The shot dissolves to another scene, with Copycat-as-Winters standing in a backstage area. Next to him is, thanks to some sort of camera trickery, another version of Copycat, dressed as a backstage interviewer. Copycat-as-Winters sports two black eyes and a bloody nose)</i>
<b>Copyinterviewer:</b> Layne Winters, a particularly tough loss for you out there against Brian “The Ballerina” Barton. What are your thoughts?
<b>Copylayne:</b> Well, Barton may have pinned me in the match, but do you know who the real winner is? Me! Layne Winters! Because I totally predicted ahead of time that I was going to lose, and my prediction was far more important than the humiliating defeat I suffered!
<b>Copyinterviewer:</b> But you still didn’t beat him. I mean, doesn’t that weigh on you at all?
<b>Copylayne:</b> G(BLEEP)LDANGIT I TOLD YOU I’M THE REAL FR(BLEEP)GING WINNER! It took me years of hard work to be able to lose so spectacularly! Take a look at that match and tell me it wasn’t the most jaw-droppingly amazing st(BLEEP)nking loss you’ve ever seen!
<i>(The shot freezes once again)</i>
<b>Copycat V/O:</b> Here, we see another defining action, as Winters makes an excuse for his inability to win a match and tries to play it off as a victory for him. Again, we see his neverending desire to brag about his accomplishments, regardless of the fact that he has no true accomplishments about which to brag. Throughout the wins and losses, mainly losses, seen in <i>Green River Justice</i>, we’ll see Winters run the gamut of emotions, from anger to, um, anger, as his well of excuses for being unable to get the job done runs dryer and dryer.
<i>(We dissolve to a shot of Copycat-as-Winters standing behind the counter of a generic fast food restaurant. On the other side of the counter is another Copycat, wearing a business suit and a fake moustache and holding a burger)</i>
<b>Copycustomer:</b> Excuse me, I asked for this burger with no mustard, but it has mustard on it.
<b>Copylayne:</b> F(BLEEP)RGET YOU! You didn’t say no l(BLEEP)sy mustard!
<b>Copycustomer:</b> Yes I did. Everyone in line heard me.
<b>Copylayne:</b> Well I didn’t! And if I say it didn’t happen, it didn’t happen, you melonf(BLEEP)mer!
<b>Copycustomer:</b> Yeah, well, anyway, the customer is always right, so…
<b>Copylayne:</b> WRONG, YOU SON OF A W(BLEEP)CH! Do you have any idea how r(BLEEP)ly hard I worked on that burger! It took me years to get to the point where I could put mustard on a burger, and now whenever I do it, it’s the most amazing burger you’ve ever eaten!
<i>(Screen freeze)</i>
<b>Copycat V/O:</b> Here, Winters enters a comfortable state of denial, as he ignores all of his adversary’s salient points in favor of his own worldview, from which he cannot be turned no matter the evidence to the contrary. We also get a rare look at some of the things Winters has had to do outside of the ring to get by, unlike certain other, significantly more bankable competitors.
<i>(We dissolve to Copycat-as-Winters taping up his wrists in a backstage area, a generic title belt slung over his shoulder)</i>
<b>Copywinters:</b> All right. All right! This f(BLEEP)rging time, I’m really going to do it! I’m going to show that Copycat guy that if I build up a victory in my head enough, it really will come true, even if it didn’t the last time! You believe in me, right Pamela?
<i>(Copycat-as-Winters looks offscreen expectantly, but gets no response)</i>
<b>Copylayne:</b> Honey? PAY ATTENTION TO ME! I’m trying to psych myself up, for h(BLEEP)k’s sake!
<i>(The camera pans over to show a fake-tattooed, fake-nose-pierced Megan Mullally talking on a cell phone)</i>
<b>Pamullally (to Copycat-as-Winters):</b> Whatever you say, dear! (to the phone) Well, Jared—excuse me, Daddy—I’m wearing side-tie panties, a short skirt…
<i>(The camera pans back over to Copycat-as-Winters)</i>
<b>Copylayne:</b> YEAH! I worked harder than anyone else to get my her to respond to my shouting, and when she does, it’s the most amazing response EVER!
<i>(Screen freeze)</i>
<b>Copycat V/O:</b> In this scene, near the end, we watch as Layne Winters ignores all the evidence that things aren’t going as he expected. And while it was with some trepidation that I decided to show a scene so close to the end of the movie, I don’t think any scene in <i>Green River Justice</i> truly shows how totally out of touch with reality Layne Winters is. For even up until the very last moment before this deciding match, he truly believed that he had a chance, that he would be a relevant factor in a contest in which he was no more than a distraction, that things would end in any way other than another devastating thrashing at the hands of his much more talented – and, if I may say so, much more handsome – opponent.
<i>(The camera goes back to Copycat in the “Coming Attractions” studio, the final frozen screenshot still in the background)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> We’ve learned a lot today about this upcoming production, and in so doing, we’ve learned a lot about Layne Winters, the man. He has no interest in being entertaining. He ignores all the evidence of his irrelevance and inferiority. He repeats the same things over and over again. And perhaps most importantly, he looks at absolutely everything he does as an accomplishment that’s the envy of the world over. Now, <i>Green River Justice</i> may not be the movie for everyone, and in fact, many people may not care for it. But if you do go see it, and you don’t much care for it, just keep one important thing in mind: like Layne Winters’ reign as EPW Television Champion, it may be dull and peppered with failures various and sundry, but you can take comfort in the fact that it won’t last much longer.
<i>(The background screen goes black)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And of course, it wouldn’t be “Coming Attractions” without my own analysis of the film’s merits. And in my humble opinion, much like everything Layne Winters has been involved in over the last seven years besides his most recent match with Copycat…
<i>(He leans forward angrily in the chair and does his best Jon Lovitz)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> IT STINKS!
<i>(Copycat grins at the camera)</i>
<i>(Fade out)</i>
LQJT86C
Where's my money, Chad?
(FADEIN: Sitting on the hood of his black H2 is LAYNE WINTERS, wearing the same backwards Seahaws cap as previously seen)
WINTERS: Call me crazy, but I'm starting to notice a pattern here. 'Cause every f[bleep]kin' time I accuse my opponents of something, they just accuse me right back. Like they didn't sit down to really think it through, they just said it 'cause I said it.
First it was Shawn Hart, then Fusenshoff, and now Copycat...for a SECOND time. I tell him to stop whining about slow counts, he tells me I'm whining about his whining. I say he's not paying attention when I speak, he says I'm not paying attention when HE SPEAKS. I say he's repeating himself, he says I'M repeating MYSELF.
NO MOTHERF[BLEEP]KER, YOU'RE REPEATING ME! It doesn't work like that! 'Cause the difference is that when I say it, it's TRUE.
Wait a second...hold the phone...have I been had? Is THAT why they call you Copycat? Are you, uh...supposed to be mimicing me? Crap, nevermind man, I'm sorry...I'm REAL sorry...please accept my apology...
...my apology which I'm readyin' to shove RIGHT THE F[BLEEP]K UP YOUR ASS AT ROULETTE YOU DUMB SON OF A B[BLEEP]! Don't you EVER repeat my talking points! I will straight slap you in the downsyndrome head you Anthology Short Bus riding retard!
James Kattman, aka Copycat...what, is that supposed to be f[bleep]king clever, or is it just the custom around here? Is Big Dog's name actually Frank Doginsky? Is Ice Tre really Trey Icekowski? Get the F[BLEEP]K out of my face with that sh[bleep]t! Is The First's real name Brian Firstopoulous? NO! IT'S F[BLEEP]KING NADALNY! EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT!
But enough about your name...no, seriously, no-one-gives-uh-F[BLEEP]K! You think the fans that paid, what, forty bucks for Wrestleverse sat there and said, "WOW! Look! It's Copycat! This is the precise moment where the pay-per-view went from being a good value to an EXCEEDINGLY good value!" NO! It was more like, "Who the f[bleep]k is this gargantuan Jerry's Kid and WHY is he interrupting sh[bleep]t?"
You might be an interesting opponent for me, you might even be a decent draw, but the SAVIOUR of EPW's ratings...you are not. Now, this is where I start repeating myself by saying you ain't done jack but lose a couple of tag matches featuring guys who could outdraw you in your own f[bleeping] backyard. It's also where I say, AGAIN, probably for the third or fourth time, that you're the biggest b*tch in company HISTORY for citing slow counts as evidence of some mass conspiracy against you and Anthology.
See, what you need to do is stop with the f[bleep]king Vagina Monologues and get to focusing on the real problem in front of you, namely me. Because I ain't going anywhere, and I AIN'T letting you climb that f[bleep]king ladder, chief. No way, not a chance.
And I don't care if Cameron Cruise and His Merry Band of Cro-Mags DOES show up to the part...you're STILL not getting up that ladder.
Smartest Player in the Game...is that supposed to be funny? You joined Anthology- NUFF SAID. Or as it's explained in Tropic Thunder, you went 'FULL RETARD'. Here, I'll explain it in wrestling terms...
When Sean Stevens teamed with The First, that was OK. First is crazy, but crazy ain't retarded. Westcott teaming with Miles was OK. Miles is sporadic, here today gone tomorrow...not retarded.
But being in cahoots with Cameron Cruise...that's full retard. And it's like the movie says- you NEVER go full retard!
Larry Tact went full retard, now he's Jared Wells' towe boy and is still wondering how he lost to me. Jared Wells went full retard and hasn't won a singles match since. Shawn Hart went full retard; went from wearing the TV belt I now own to wrestling in a dark match at Wrestleverse. My only loss in EPW and most people were on bathroom break when it happened. Sean Edmunds went full retard too, and just what the HELL is he doing these days?
Don't you get it, Cat? You're not here to save ratings, you're here to save Cruise from embarrassment. Mission Impossible if I've ever seen one.
And you know why I'M here? I'm here to win...to wear titles, to climb ladders, to bleed, to end careers. Ratings? (SPITS on floor) If bleeding in that ring ain't good for ratings, then brother I don't WANT 'EM!
After Roulette, you can make any excuse you like. Blame it on a faulty ladder, corrupt officials, Lindsay Troy had her period...whatever helps you sleep at night. Because I'll still be EPW Television champion, and you'll be as irrelevent as you were before you lost TWICE to Layne Winters.
(FADEOUT)
WINTERS: Call me crazy, but I'm starting to notice a pattern here. 'Cause every f[bleep]kin' time I accuse my opponents of something, they just accuse me right back. Like they didn't sit down to really think it through, they just said it 'cause I said it.
First it was Shawn Hart, then Fusenshoff, and now Copycat...for a SECOND time. I tell him to stop whining about slow counts, he tells me I'm whining about his whining. I say he's not paying attention when I speak, he says I'm not paying attention when HE SPEAKS. I say he's repeating himself, he says I'M repeating MYSELF.
NO MOTHERF[BLEEP]KER, YOU'RE REPEATING ME! It doesn't work like that! 'Cause the difference is that when I say it, it's TRUE.
Wait a second...hold the phone...have I been had? Is THAT why they call you Copycat? Are you, uh...supposed to be mimicing me? Crap, nevermind man, I'm sorry...I'm REAL sorry...please accept my apology...
...my apology which I'm readyin' to shove RIGHT THE F[BLEEP]K UP YOUR ASS AT ROULETTE YOU DUMB SON OF A B[BLEEP]! Don't you EVER repeat my talking points! I will straight slap you in the downsyndrome head you Anthology Short Bus riding retard!
James Kattman, aka Copycat...what, is that supposed to be f[bleep]king clever, or is it just the custom around here? Is Big Dog's name actually Frank Doginsky? Is Ice Tre really Trey Icekowski? Get the F[BLEEP]K out of my face with that sh[bleep]t! Is The First's real name Brian Firstopoulous? NO! IT'S F[BLEEP]KING NADALNY! EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT!
But enough about your name...no, seriously, no-one-gives-uh-F[BLEEP]K! You think the fans that paid, what, forty bucks for Wrestleverse sat there and said, "WOW! Look! It's Copycat! This is the precise moment where the pay-per-view went from being a good value to an EXCEEDINGLY good value!" NO! It was more like, "Who the f[bleep]k is this gargantuan Jerry's Kid and WHY is he interrupting sh[bleep]t?"
You might be an interesting opponent for me, you might even be a decent draw, but the SAVIOUR of EPW's ratings...you are not. Now, this is where I start repeating myself by saying you ain't done jack but lose a couple of tag matches featuring guys who could outdraw you in your own f[bleeping] backyard. It's also where I say, AGAIN, probably for the third or fourth time, that you're the biggest b*tch in company HISTORY for citing slow counts as evidence of some mass conspiracy against you and Anthology.
See, what you need to do is stop with the f[bleep]king Vagina Monologues and get to focusing on the real problem in front of you, namely me. Because I ain't going anywhere, and I AIN'T letting you climb that f[bleep]king ladder, chief. No way, not a chance.
And I don't care if Cameron Cruise and His Merry Band of Cro-Mags DOES show up to the part...you're STILL not getting up that ladder.
Smartest Player in the Game...is that supposed to be funny? You joined Anthology- NUFF SAID. Or as it's explained in Tropic Thunder, you went 'FULL RETARD'. Here, I'll explain it in wrestling terms...
When Sean Stevens teamed with The First, that was OK. First is crazy, but crazy ain't retarded. Westcott teaming with Miles was OK. Miles is sporadic, here today gone tomorrow...not retarded.
But being in cahoots with Cameron Cruise...that's full retard. And it's like the movie says- you NEVER go full retard!
Larry Tact went full retard, now he's Jared Wells' towe boy and is still wondering how he lost to me. Jared Wells went full retard and hasn't won a singles match since. Shawn Hart went full retard; went from wearing the TV belt I now own to wrestling in a dark match at Wrestleverse. My only loss in EPW and most people were on bathroom break when it happened. Sean Edmunds went full retard too, and just what the HELL is he doing these days?
Don't you get it, Cat? You're not here to save ratings, you're here to save Cruise from embarrassment. Mission Impossible if I've ever seen one.
And you know why I'M here? I'm here to win...to wear titles, to climb ladders, to bleed, to end careers. Ratings? (SPITS on floor) If bleeding in that ring ain't good for ratings, then brother I don't WANT 'EM!
After Roulette, you can make any excuse you like. Blame it on a faulty ladder, corrupt officials, Lindsay Troy had her period...whatever helps you sleep at night. Because I'll still be EPW Television champion, and you'll be as irrelevent as you were before you lost TWICE to Layne Winters.
(FADEOUT)
GARTHIsTheLaw
League Member
<b>OORP: I spent about seven hours yesterday trying to get the site to work to no avail. If this is too late to count, then so be it, but I figure, I already wrote it, I might as well post it, eh?</b>
<i>(Cueup: "Youth Gone Wild" by Skid Row)</i>
<i>(Fade in on a bland-looking, nondescript gym. In the middle of the shot, in a director's chair, sits Copycat, clad in jeans and a black Anthology T-shirt)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Leave it to me to cheap on the sets at the last second, right?
<i>(Copycat looks up at the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> You know, before I was even a quarter of the way done with the cinematic masterpiece that was my review of <i>Green River Justice</i>, I knew what sort of a response I was going to get on it. After all the hearty laughs and accolades for a job well done, I knew there'd be someone out there who'd point out that, yeah, I was probably exaggerating Layne Winters' behavior just a teeny-tiny bit. And of course, I went into that project fully aware that it was going to be an exercise in exaggeration. Hey, how am I to know how Layne Winters acts from behind the counter at White Castle, or how his lady friend might respond to Jared Wells' advances? All we can do is guess, really.
<i>(He shrugs disingenuously)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Anyone who knows anything about the Cat knows that he enjoys a good parody. But in the midst of my brilliant skewering of the joke that is Layne Winters, I wondered to myself whether a parody would really get my message across to Layne Winters. God knows he's resisted every other attempt I've made to convince him of his utter irrelevance at Russian Roulette, despite an overwhelming tidal wave of evidence backing me up. Oh sure, my parody might have made the millions upon millions of Cat Lovers the world over happy, but would it really teach Layne Winters anything? I mean, I wouldn't want to focus too much on him, lest he get the absurd idea that I consider him some sort of threat, but I wouldn't be making a good-faith effort to improve the business -- my No. 1 goal in joining Anthology and coming to EPW, if you'll remember -- if I didn't at least try to get the message through his thick, delusion-crusted skull, right?
<i>(Copycat leans back in the chair and crosses his legs)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And then I realized what it was that was nagging at me, what gave me that usually bizarre impression that anything I've done might not have been good enough. I realized that with Layne Winters, I didn't need to limit myself to parody. Let's face it: There's no doubt that Layne Winters doesn't bring much to the table in EPW. If I wanted to...
<i>(The camera zooms out to show, off to the side, a weight bench, on which sits, thanks to camera trickery of some sort, a more poorly lit version of Copycat-as-Layne-Winters from Copycat's previous promo. He sits with his head down)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> ...I could be Layne Winters.
<i>(Copycat-as-Winters looks up at the real Copycat)</i>
<b>Copylayne:</b> You think you can f(BLEEP)king be me? Huh?
<i>(Copycat-as-Winters stands up angrily)</i>
<b>Copylayne:</b> You can't be anything but Cameron Cruise's f(BLEEP)king lap dog! You and the rest of Anthology hang around EPW, ducking challenges left and right, while I'm out there defending the Television Title against all comers -- including you, Cat! And when you actually had the f(BLEEP)king guts to step in that ring, what happened after you couldn't put me away? YOU F(BLEEP)KING PUNKED OUT! You knew you couldn't beat me, so you got yourself disqualified, like a GUTLESS F(BLEEP)KING COWARD! And now you go around whining about how Lindsay Troy screwed you? Why don't you stop worrying about her and worry about ME, the man who's going to send you crying back to Cameron Cruise and all the rest of the losers in Anthology after I make you my ***** at Russian Roulette?
<b>Copycat:</b> Well gee, Layne, how are you going to do that?
<b>Copylayne:</b> What do you mean, how am I going to do that? I'm going to do that the way I always f(BLEEP)king do that, by going out there and WRESTLING. You know, wrestling? The thing that you say you're too busy being "entertaining" to do? While you and the rest of your buddies in Anthology are crying on each other's shoulders about how nobody's being fair to you, I'm giving Fusenshoff the match of his life for this Television Title. I'm taking the First to the limit. I'm taking everything you've got, Cat, and surviving -- just like I always do. You're not going to have any f(BLEEP)king excuses left when I survive at Russian Roulette, Cat.
<b>Copycat:</b> Now, I can't bring myself to waste too much time on this impersonation here. Less for my sake than for the sake of anyone watching who might be subjected to the horror of <i>two</i> Layne Winterses. But let's get something clear here.
<i>(The camera pans around to what would be the view of Copycat-as-Winters. Copycat-as-Copycat stares into the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> If I wanted to, Winters, I could be you. Not just talk like you -- be you. I could adopt your attitude, wear your clothes, walk like you, talk like you, gesture like you, smack around that poor girlfriend of yours like you. But I won't. I choose not to be like you -- whereas, for all your claims that you choose not to be like me, you know it could never happen, not in a million years. Make no mistake, Winters. I'm not just acting like you to mock you. I did that already. I'm showing you that I know how your mind works, how you think, how you decide, how you react, how you proceed. That's what the Cat means when he says he's the Smartest Player in the Game. You think you only need to learn how to win, but the Cat knows how to make you lose. Because he knows what makes you tick -- and he knows what will make you crack.
<i>(Copycat stares into the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Maybe you'll be inclined to ask how that will translate to our match at Russian Roulette. Well, let me be as clear as I can be. If the Cat can figure out how you think, the Cat can figure out whatever you're going to do in that ring before you do it. Save the possibility of outside interference, which I'm gone into several times, that inability of yours to hide anything from the Cat means the loss of any hope you might have to win this match on your own merits. You've seen how my getting in your head might make me amusing -- and at Russian Roulette, you're going to find out how it makes me dangerous.
<i>(Copycat grins at the camera as we fade out)</i>
<i>(Cueup: "Youth Gone Wild" by Skid Row)</i>
<i>(Fade in on a bland-looking, nondescript gym. In the middle of the shot, in a director's chair, sits Copycat, clad in jeans and a black Anthology T-shirt)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Leave it to me to cheap on the sets at the last second, right?
<i>(Copycat looks up at the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> You know, before I was even a quarter of the way done with the cinematic masterpiece that was my review of <i>Green River Justice</i>, I knew what sort of a response I was going to get on it. After all the hearty laughs and accolades for a job well done, I knew there'd be someone out there who'd point out that, yeah, I was probably exaggerating Layne Winters' behavior just a teeny-tiny bit. And of course, I went into that project fully aware that it was going to be an exercise in exaggeration. Hey, how am I to know how Layne Winters acts from behind the counter at White Castle, or how his lady friend might respond to Jared Wells' advances? All we can do is guess, really.
<i>(He shrugs disingenuously)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Anyone who knows anything about the Cat knows that he enjoys a good parody. But in the midst of my brilliant skewering of the joke that is Layne Winters, I wondered to myself whether a parody would really get my message across to Layne Winters. God knows he's resisted every other attempt I've made to convince him of his utter irrelevance at Russian Roulette, despite an overwhelming tidal wave of evidence backing me up. Oh sure, my parody might have made the millions upon millions of Cat Lovers the world over happy, but would it really teach Layne Winters anything? I mean, I wouldn't want to focus too much on him, lest he get the absurd idea that I consider him some sort of threat, but I wouldn't be making a good-faith effort to improve the business -- my No. 1 goal in joining Anthology and coming to EPW, if you'll remember -- if I didn't at least try to get the message through his thick, delusion-crusted skull, right?
<i>(Copycat leans back in the chair and crosses his legs)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> And then I realized what it was that was nagging at me, what gave me that usually bizarre impression that anything I've done might not have been good enough. I realized that with Layne Winters, I didn't need to limit myself to parody. Let's face it: There's no doubt that Layne Winters doesn't bring much to the table in EPW. If I wanted to...
<i>(The camera zooms out to show, off to the side, a weight bench, on which sits, thanks to camera trickery of some sort, a more poorly lit version of Copycat-as-Layne-Winters from Copycat's previous promo. He sits with his head down)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> ...I could be Layne Winters.
<i>(Copycat-as-Winters looks up at the real Copycat)</i>
<b>Copylayne:</b> You think you can f(BLEEP)king be me? Huh?
<i>(Copycat-as-Winters stands up angrily)</i>
<b>Copylayne:</b> You can't be anything but Cameron Cruise's f(BLEEP)king lap dog! You and the rest of Anthology hang around EPW, ducking challenges left and right, while I'm out there defending the Television Title against all comers -- including you, Cat! And when you actually had the f(BLEEP)king guts to step in that ring, what happened after you couldn't put me away? YOU F(BLEEP)KING PUNKED OUT! You knew you couldn't beat me, so you got yourself disqualified, like a GUTLESS F(BLEEP)KING COWARD! And now you go around whining about how Lindsay Troy screwed you? Why don't you stop worrying about her and worry about ME, the man who's going to send you crying back to Cameron Cruise and all the rest of the losers in Anthology after I make you my ***** at Russian Roulette?
<b>Copycat:</b> Well gee, Layne, how are you going to do that?
<b>Copylayne:</b> What do you mean, how am I going to do that? I'm going to do that the way I always f(BLEEP)king do that, by going out there and WRESTLING. You know, wrestling? The thing that you say you're too busy being "entertaining" to do? While you and the rest of your buddies in Anthology are crying on each other's shoulders about how nobody's being fair to you, I'm giving Fusenshoff the match of his life for this Television Title. I'm taking the First to the limit. I'm taking everything you've got, Cat, and surviving -- just like I always do. You're not going to have any f(BLEEP)king excuses left when I survive at Russian Roulette, Cat.
<b>Copycat:</b> Now, I can't bring myself to waste too much time on this impersonation here. Less for my sake than for the sake of anyone watching who might be subjected to the horror of <i>two</i> Layne Winterses. But let's get something clear here.
<i>(The camera pans around to what would be the view of Copycat-as-Winters. Copycat-as-Copycat stares into the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> If I wanted to, Winters, I could be you. Not just talk like you -- be you. I could adopt your attitude, wear your clothes, walk like you, talk like you, gesture like you, smack around that poor girlfriend of yours like you. But I won't. I choose not to be like you -- whereas, for all your claims that you choose not to be like me, you know it could never happen, not in a million years. Make no mistake, Winters. I'm not just acting like you to mock you. I did that already. I'm showing you that I know how your mind works, how you think, how you decide, how you react, how you proceed. That's what the Cat means when he says he's the Smartest Player in the Game. You think you only need to learn how to win, but the Cat knows how to make you lose. Because he knows what makes you tick -- and he knows what will make you crack.
<i>(Copycat stares into the camera)</i>
<b>Copycat:</b> Maybe you'll be inclined to ask how that will translate to our match at Russian Roulette. Well, let me be as clear as I can be. If the Cat can figure out how you think, the Cat can figure out whatever you're going to do in that ring before you do it. Save the possibility of outside interference, which I'm gone into several times, that inability of yours to hide anything from the Cat means the loss of any hope you might have to win this match on your own merits. You've seen how my getting in your head might make me amusing -- and at Russian Roulette, you're going to find out how it makes me dangerous.
<i>(Copycat grins at the camera as we fade out)</i>
LQJT86C
Where's my money, Chad?
(FADEIN: Untaping his hand after a training session is LAYNE WINTERS, siting on the ring apron. His hair dangles in front of his beaten face as he cringes from the pain in his hands. He sighs, and unexpectedly begins to laugh)
WINTERS: You and I, Copycat, we finally agree on something. I could NEVER be like you. Couldn't bring myself to join up with Anthology, then dare to call myself the "Smartest Player in the Game." Don't have the nerve to brag about my ratings pull when all I've done is play backdrop to other, better men. No matter how frustrated, I would never sabotage my own match. And godd[BLEEP]mn it, I sure as hell wouldn't blame it on the referee.
Man, you're right. I ain't nothin' like you. So when I'm climbing up the ladder at Roulette, to pull down that EPW TV Title, I want you to remember that you're nothin' like me either. Cause I'm a CHAMPION, I'm a WINNER, I've got the GUTS...and you don't.
Maybe you do understand me- it's not a hard thing to do. I'm the not The First, I'm not a complex piece of humanity. So you can predict what I'm gonna say before I say it? Big deal. I can predict right now I'm gonna kick the sh[BLEEP]t outta you on pay per view, does that make me some sort of messiah? Am I now the smartest player in the game?
(Smiles) Nah, I'm still just Layne Winters, just a man that's been put through the grinder to get where he is now. And maybe you guessed I was gonna say that...maybe you didn't. But if you understand me, and what kind of man I am, then you know to come ready to fight. And BELIEVE ME...I'm ready to take my lumps too. You're gonna hit me all the same, and I THRIVE off it. I like it!
I'm sure this ain't the first time you've met a man like me. Maybe somewhere in years past, some title match in some league, you met a guy who could take inumerable punishment, could take your BEST SHOT...and not fall. Maybe you beat him, maybe he beat you. But you left that ring knowing you never wanted to see that face again.
Except at Roulette, he returns. You couldn't handle it at Aggression. You hit me with your best shot, and I got up. Your best wasn't good enough, and you knew it. I reminded you of that man you never wanted to face again, and it scared you, Cat. So you punked out of the match, and went on your merry way. But I said F[BLEEP]K THAT. I challenged you AGAIN. And it took every fiber in your body not to say NO.
You wanted to say no, didn't you? I heard it in your voice, as you hid behind some bullsh[BLEEP]t conspiracy theory you know neither of us believe. The truth is, you're far more content tagging with Cruise, facing guys that are just here for the paycheck and nothing more.
But you said yes, and that was your first mistake. Cause now there's no way out, 'cept up that ladder. You have no choice but to beat me...or fail. I'm willing to take the risk, are you? I'm not calculated, I don't play conservative, I play the rush, I play to WIN. I'll leave the mind games to you, you leave the victory to me.
I don't pretend to be a movie star. I say I'm the EPW TV champion, and this belt says I'm RIGHT. You're a giant smokescreen, brother.
So maybe you walked out there some years ago, and you faced down that tough sunuvab*tch, and you escaped with the win. Not at Roulette though, not against me. YOU-DON'T-BEAT-ME. YOU-DON'T-GET-THE-TITLE. YOU-LOSE!
Just like everyone else who thinks they know somethin' about Layne Winters...
They get taken down Green River for a helluva ride...and they stay THE F[BLEEP]K down!
(FADEOUT)
WINTERS: You and I, Copycat, we finally agree on something. I could NEVER be like you. Couldn't bring myself to join up with Anthology, then dare to call myself the "Smartest Player in the Game." Don't have the nerve to brag about my ratings pull when all I've done is play backdrop to other, better men. No matter how frustrated, I would never sabotage my own match. And godd[BLEEP]mn it, I sure as hell wouldn't blame it on the referee.
Man, you're right. I ain't nothin' like you. So when I'm climbing up the ladder at Roulette, to pull down that EPW TV Title, I want you to remember that you're nothin' like me either. Cause I'm a CHAMPION, I'm a WINNER, I've got the GUTS...and you don't.
Maybe you do understand me- it's not a hard thing to do. I'm the not The First, I'm not a complex piece of humanity. So you can predict what I'm gonna say before I say it? Big deal. I can predict right now I'm gonna kick the sh[BLEEP]t outta you on pay per view, does that make me some sort of messiah? Am I now the smartest player in the game?
(Smiles) Nah, I'm still just Layne Winters, just a man that's been put through the grinder to get where he is now. And maybe you guessed I was gonna say that...maybe you didn't. But if you understand me, and what kind of man I am, then you know to come ready to fight. And BELIEVE ME...I'm ready to take my lumps too. You're gonna hit me all the same, and I THRIVE off it. I like it!
I'm sure this ain't the first time you've met a man like me. Maybe somewhere in years past, some title match in some league, you met a guy who could take inumerable punishment, could take your BEST SHOT...and not fall. Maybe you beat him, maybe he beat you. But you left that ring knowing you never wanted to see that face again.
Except at Roulette, he returns. You couldn't handle it at Aggression. You hit me with your best shot, and I got up. Your best wasn't good enough, and you knew it. I reminded you of that man you never wanted to face again, and it scared you, Cat. So you punked out of the match, and went on your merry way. But I said F[BLEEP]K THAT. I challenged you AGAIN. And it took every fiber in your body not to say NO.
You wanted to say no, didn't you? I heard it in your voice, as you hid behind some bullsh[BLEEP]t conspiracy theory you know neither of us believe. The truth is, you're far more content tagging with Cruise, facing guys that are just here for the paycheck and nothing more.
But you said yes, and that was your first mistake. Cause now there's no way out, 'cept up that ladder. You have no choice but to beat me...or fail. I'm willing to take the risk, are you? I'm not calculated, I don't play conservative, I play the rush, I play to WIN. I'll leave the mind games to you, you leave the victory to me.
I don't pretend to be a movie star. I say I'm the EPW TV champion, and this belt says I'm RIGHT. You're a giant smokescreen, brother.
So maybe you walked out there some years ago, and you faced down that tough sunuvab*tch, and you escaped with the win. Not at Roulette though, not against me. YOU-DON'T-BEAT-ME. YOU-DON'T-GET-THE-TITLE. YOU-LOSE!
Just like everyone else who thinks they know somethin' about Layne Winters...
They get taken down Green River for a helluva ride...and they stay THE F[BLEEP]K down!
(FADEOUT)