| Welcome to JTF Squaretable. We hope you enjoy your visit. You're currently viewing our forum as a guest. This means you are limited to certain areas of the board and there are some features you can't use. If you join our community, you'll be able to access member-only sections, and use many member-only features such as customizing your profile, sending personal messages, and voting in polls. Registration is simple, fast, and completely free. Join our community! If you're already a member please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
| OLYMPICS DAY 4; But will anyone notice? | |
|---|---|
| Tweet Topic Started: Oct 30 2012, 12:15 PM (429 Views) | |
| MBCKyle | Oct 30 2012, 12:15 PM Post #1 |
|
The Soda Dog Refreshment Squad
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]()
|
[We open to see a mid-sized bus travelling down the highway, somewhere in the US. With the location of this piece so established, we cut to the inside of the bus. It is dimly lit,and there are eight people seated in the bus. None of them are sitting with anyone else, despite the seats being standard school bus-style two-person seats. The eight of them couldn't look any different, and all are in postures that indicate boredom. As each speaks for the first time, we see their name in chryon. The first is the tallest of them, a lanky man with reddish-brown hair in a Caesar style, thin-cut goatee and mustache. He is seated up front on the right, wearing a white button-up shirt, red tie, brown slacks, and glasses.] Matt Ginn: Remind me again whose bright idea this was. [Right behind him is a light-brown-skinned man with a slightly receding black hairstyle (despite his youth). He's wearing a black tank-top that displays an athletic physique.] Mark Hoefner: We're getting shipped out because _somebody_ thought it'd be funny to switch around all the tags on all the rental cars when we were in Tampa. [Everyone in the bus turns to glare at the man in the back seat. Despite his ong black hair (below shoulder length), scruffy mustache and beard, he is very youthful-looking. Wearing an orange "PROFESSIONAL TROLL" T-Shirt and black pants, he grins a nasty grin.] Kyle Houlder: Maybe next time they'll put me on the card, and I wouldn't have to go amuse myself. [This draws an angry response from the young man in the second seat on the left side. A clean-shaven brown-haired man wearing a University Of Maine blue polo shirt and navy pants practically snarles at Houlder.] Chris Choisnet: It was a supercard, Kyle! Of course you weren't on the card; you've never won a match! You never even try to win matches! It's all just a sick game to you. KH: So, I never win matches. Because I don't try. CC: Waste of talent. It makes me sick. KH: And how many matches have you won, while trying? [Uh, oh. Choisnet glaaares. Thankfully, the subject gets changed quickly.] MG: The original inquiry was regarding the concept of the AWA having a team in this imbecilic cometition in the first place. [A man in the third seat back on the left side answers that; he's fairly solidly built and has feathered brown hair. He's wearing a James Harrison Steelers jersey, which of course means that Mike Sonby hates him already.] James Reed: Look, honky, you about pissed yourself when you saw it had World Of Whorecraft as an event! Shut not just one, but both of your ignorant lips and stop beggin'! MG: World Of Warcraft is an acceptable diversion, enjoyed by millions of people worldwide. But hobbies that require one to be able to read are probably beyond you. [Reed bolts up to his feet and steps into the aisle, hands out to his side.] JR: Come speak my language then, chicken-legs! Get your Ivy League ass up and throw like you knew who you was yakkin' at! [A loud voice from the front left seat, just out of clear camera view, speaks up with a single command... in an outrageous accent which, unlike the rest of these people, has been heard on major wrestling broadcasts before.] Sultan Azam Sharif: DOT IS ENOUGH! Mistair Jom Rehd, you gonna sit down or I make you sit down permonuntly! [Reed's eyes narrow at the man we can now see... wearing a white kaffiyeh (headdress), black agal (the band over the forehead that keeps the kaffiyeh on), light bluish-grey suit and tie, Sultan Azam Sharif is now a well-known wrestler in the Dallas-based AWA. An Iranian man, Sharif's face has a weatherbeaten complexion and the scars of battle beyond his years. His neatly groomed small black mustache matches his tidy black hair, very little of which can be seen from under the kaffiyeh. He has not even turned to look at Reed, who slowly goes back to his seat while making pantomimed threats at Ginn (who rolls his eyes). From the third seat on the right side, a large bulky man with short brown hair, a long face, and a somewhat low forebrow speaks up in a slow, dull-sounding tone.] Lee Harrigan: I ain't gonna chickun out of askun'. How'd we get in this, anyway? [The camera zooms in on Sharif's eyes, and he closes them, to remember... ...and the van starts to waver and pixellate as he begins a flashback sequence. Outside of an arena, a shady-looking fellow with slicked-black hair and a grey tweed suit walks up to the Sultan, who is wearin a black sportcoat and pants, his kaffiyeh/agal, and nice dress shoes. The Sultan is loading up his rental with his bags, which includes collapsing a large flagpole into segments and folding up an enormous Iranian flag, so it is time consuming.] Shady Fellow: Mister Sharif. SAS: Aasef, aasef, yajebu an athhaba al aan! Shady: Er, yes, well, I am here on behalf of Mighty Bastard Championship, and... SAS: VAT DIDJOO CALLED ME?! [Uh, oh. The Sultan just went from 'hurriedly trying to pack' to 'I am going to use this flagpole on you in a way that may change your life'. The suited man steps back and holds his hands out in a placating manner.] Shady: I represent MBC! They're the Bastards, not you, sir! I have been sent to you because you were an Olympian. [And just like that, the word 'Olympian' triggers another chane in Sharif. He sets the piece of flagpole aside and nods happily.] SAS: Dot is right! OntollEgunt AmerEcuns know dot Sultan Azam Sharif vas Olympuc shampwon, Atens Greece 2004. Joost like I vas Ashun Game shampwon, 2002. But I hof to go, dank you for dot you say how I vas shampwon, but I hof to drive to Chutonooga Tenusee to wrastail Mistair Scott Mah-hem in AWA Vorld Shampwonship Tournamunt. Shady: Well, we were going to offer you a chance to be an Olympian again... [Magic words! Sharif stops in the middle of shutting the back door of his rental when he hears this and turns around, a look of intent interest on his face.] SAS: How didjoo mean dot you vas gonna make me Olympian again?! Shady: Well, in a couple of months, we'll be holding the third quadrannual Bastard Olympics. [And Shairf erupts in anger again. He's hitting pretty much every emotional response today.] SAS: VAT DIDJOO CALLED DEH OLYMPUC?! Shady: Uh... these are a collection of events that are not in the Olympic Games, but should be! You know... uh, like the demonstration sports! [And that triggers yet another change. Sultan thinks about this.] SAS: So vat you said vas dot you vas gonna hof Olympuc demunstrashun sport in USA, monts aftair London Englund Olympuc, un dey vould be to dacide new Olympuc sport in future? Shady: Yes. There will be medals and everything. All very official. [Sharif thinks, and then decides.] SAS: Seems legit! Shady: Just sign here, please. SAS: To vin Olympuc medal for Iran, I diddnt care vat event it vas! I vill do VATEVAH! You give me papair to sign, un I vill vin medals for IRAN! IRAN NUMBAIR VUN! [Sharif is pumped up as he signs a contract... ...and then we cut to later, in AWA executive Todd Michaelson's office. Sharif seems downcast, his shoulders slumped.] SAS: You mean dot vas phony?! Todd Michaelson: Yes. It's a rival wrestling promotion, Sultan. You just signed to make an appearance for them. The Competition Committee will not be happy. Where was Bathwaite? Don't you have a manager for this very reason? SAS: He vas call avay in meeting by you! Because of how he vant to give AWA Vorld Shampwonship motch to dot phony Mark Longset ven I vin tournamunt! TM: Oh. Well... I guess I'm partly culpable, then. So, we'll make the best of it. As it just so happens, I've been thinking of a way to get some of our younger guys some experience in front of a camera. If one of our competitors wants to do that for us, I won't complain. Besides, they're originally a Texas promotion too. They still have fans in our territory; playing nice with them makes us look good at the homefront, you know what I mean? [The Sultan listens intently... even after Todd finishes. Then he comes to an eventual conclusion.] SAS: No. I diddunt know vatchoo meant. [Todd sighs deeply, then claps a supporting hand on Sharif's shoulder.] TM: Sultan. I am going to give you an Olympic team. I want you to lead them in, and I want you to win those medals for the AWA. And for Iran. [Sharif brightens up immediately.] SAS: I KNEW DOT IT VAS REAL! Mistair Toad Mikelsun, dank you! Jazak Allah! I gonna take dot team to deh Bosturd Olympuc, vin all deh demunstrashun sport, un I gunna do it for IRAN! IRAN! IRAN, NUMBAIR VUN! CAMARAMAN, ZOOM! TM: There's not a camareaman in here. SAS: Vat's dot, den? [Sharif points at the camera. Todd turns to see it, and gets angry.] TM: HOULDER! [The camerman starts running, and then the scene waves out and pixellates as the flashback ends. We cut back to the closed eyes of Sharif in the bus.] MH: Shhhh. He's thinking. JR: He's asleep! Slap him in the back of the head, Shawney! CC: Shaw-NAY! Say it right or don't say it! [Sharif's eyes open slowly, and he stands to his feet. He gets up into the aisle, and turns to address his charges.] SAS: You vant to know vhy AWA sond you to compeht in Bosturd Olympuc? It is because ve hof pride! Pride in our countries! You hof pride in USA; I hof pride in Iran! Un ve gunna made our countries proud! MH: My country is a piece of crap. I served it for four years; I'd know. SAS: Dot is vhy you chould move to Iran! But VATEVAH! Ve hof pride in AWA! Ve gunna show all of dem dot AWA is de best fedurashun! KH: Technically, PVW won all the awards last time. Just sayin'. SAS: Un finally, Mistair Toad Mikelsun tell me dot dis is opportunuty to break Mistair Kyle Hulder's bock un make him humbail! Ven camara is not on him, ve gunna make sure he hod un "accudunt"! [That brought cheers from the guys in the van! Well, most of them.] KH: Can we go home now? SAS: Now I diddunt know vat deh events vas, but I hof imaan! El gawaab beybaan men 'inwaano! MG: I have acquired an event listing from the MBC website. I realize that computers have too many moving parts for most of you, but I converted the output into analouge format so you could digest the pertinent information. JR: Four years in a fancy school and he's proud that he can use a printer. Good job, son. [Ginn hands Sharif a piece of paper. Sharif squints at it, as if squinting will somehow aid his English comprehension. And then he erupts.] SAS: VAAAAAAAT IS DUS BULLSHEET?! [Everyone blinks in surprise, as noone has ever heard Sharif swear. Then the Sultan seems to realize what he said, and holds his hands up in an apologetic manner.] SAS: Aasef! I diddunt mean to say dot! JR: It's about fucking time you grew a sack and joined the real world. SAS: MISTAIR JOM REHD! JR: Go on, son. SAS: Dese events are... dey are dusgraced to deh Olympuc! Mogic? Sorcury is haraam! Midgut toss? Ve don't hof any midgut on our team! LH: Choice-net. CC: SHAW-NAY! And I'm five-ten! LH: Standun' on a stool, maybe. Haw haw! SAS: Un hof of dese event is dranking event! Dot is not Olympuc! Ve vill not be dronk ven rapresentin our country un AWA! [That's when a gruff voice from behind the camera speaks. The eighth man is the one driving the van; he's a bulky man with a tall black mohawk, jagged eyebrows, pale white skin, and a big beer belly gut despite a muscular chest. He's wearing beat-up jeans, brown leather boots, and a leather vest with nothing underneath but his beer gut. He's driving with a mad grin on his face, and a huge can of Schiltz in one hand (and seven or eight empties at his feet).] Madhouse McWesson: I was drunk before we left Dallas! I do all my best work drunk! I even crossed the two left turns we had in the back! I got all them things we gonna do, just like they saw it in Bonesteel! [Everyone stares at Madhouse with that unmistakable expression of those who are sure they're going to die. Hoefner starts pulling open the emergency escape window and climbing through it. The loud buzzer goes off as several of the others try to stop him from leaping to his death (or gruesome injury).] SAS: Mistair Mudhaas Macvestin! You pool ovair right now! MM: That ain't how we do in Bonesteel, bub! KH: MADHOUSE! IT'S THE COPS! CC: What? There aren't any... MM: GET THE PAJAMAS, MAUDE, NOW WE GOT A PARTY! AAAAAAAAAAAHahahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA! [Madhouse swerves to an offramp at about three times the speed that a bus is supposed to go. The cameraman and the Sultan fall over, and we cut to static. We pick up later. It's hard to say what happened, but the bus isn't moving, police lights are flashing through the window, Madhouse and Hoefner are nowhere to be seen, Hoefner's emergency window is open, and someone seems to have brained Houlder in the head with a club.] SAS: So now dot ve colm down, I gunna tell you dot Mistair Toad Mikelsun is counting on us to be team! Ve gunna wear team uniform dot Mistair Mikelsun provide. He say dot he vas inspire to hof us vear it aftair Mistair Kyle Hulder cut hole in his ponts before a Money Pit. Vatevah dot means. JR: It means we're screwed. SAS: So team! Ve gunna go broke Mistair Mudhaas Macvestin out of palice car, pull Mistair Mork Hafner out of ditch he jomp in during palice chase, un go all deh vay to Stux Oluboma, un vin it for IRAN! IRAN! IRAN, NUMBAIR VUN! [The others glare at him.] SAS: Oh, un USA too, numbair tvelve or vatevah. CAMARAMAN, ZOOM! [The cameraman zooms in on Sharif flexing in his suit... all we can see is bluish-grey fabric. And we cut.] ===================================== 2012 BASTARD OLYMPICS ===================================== DAY FOUR - TESTS OF INEBRIATION ===================================== [The logo disappears but does not fade. We’ve done fading to death. It’s just gone, much like Kevin Smith movies from the box office now days. We’ve done the fading to death. It faded like my life force. Thus, it disappears. And then, suddenly appearing is the Olympic Control Center.] Fiend Machine: Welcome back everyone to the fourth day of Olympic coverage. I’m James “Fiend Machine” Tempo. Joining me is the Sheriff of the fine city of Styx, Alabama, Roy Beam. RB: My friends call me.. Pinhead: Yeah, yeah, laser, shmaser. Fiend Machine: I thought you weren’t going to be here today. Pinhead: That’s what I thought. I was dragged here out of bed. [As one can see, Pinhead is wearing his pajamas.] RB: And the other one? Pinhead: Slush got dragged away to do some kind of test. Fiend Machine: Paternity? Pinhead: God, I hope not. His is a seed that needs to die. Fiend Machine: Well glad to have you on this first day of “Test of Inebriation.” Pinhead: So... everybody basically gets plowed for two days? Fiend Machine: And it’s been made an official holiday in Styx. RB: Yes, much like every other ethnic based holiday in the United States, we’ve reduced it down to just another day of drinking. Pinhead: Please tell me you’re being responsible. RB: No one is allowed to drive or operate heavy machinery except for designated operators. Pinhead: I’m impressed. RB: It’s about time we put our children to work. Have them earn their share. Pinhead: [Sigh] So how does this set of events work? Fiend Machine: Whether they know it or not, everybody is entered in all drinking events. Pinhead: Okay... that seems odd. Fiend Machine: People don’t have to participate. But if they do they have to drink. And drink a lot. RB: And a lot more after that. Fiend Machine: The first trick will be to be able to hold enough of their alcohol to actually show up to the events at hand. They can get help if they want to from a friend or designated assistant but they have to drink regardless. There’s a minimum to all events. Pinhead: You have your ninja folks following them to keep track? RB: Ready to administer breathalyzer tests if needed. All certified by the state via the internet. They can also perform baptisms at a moment’s notice. Fiend Machine: Most of the events will be held over the course of two days. However, the “Drinking” event you see listed on your itinerary is actually cumulative. Pinhead: Like a Drunk-a-thalon? RB: Exactly. Fiend Machine: And once the “Drinking” medals are awarded, we shove everybody into a bar for more drinking. RB: And then the Bar Room Brawl Event. Pinhead: Sounds incredibly irresponsible and reckless. RB: Worry not. If somebody litters, the Mounties of Styx will be there. Pinhead: Judge, jury and executioner? RB: I am the law. [The off screen people in production scream in approval.] RB: Somebody get my [MEEP] damn Anthrax theme song! [We cut to the Top Secret AWA Olympic Team Headquarters. We know that's what it is, because the big sign on the door that the cameraman just walked through to get there says so on a dayglo orange sign. It looks like a plain old meeting room, with a drab concrete floor and beige walls. It's a very big room with a couple of foldout plastic tables (generally not the kind you put people through), one of which has a water cooler and cups on it, and another one has a currently unused coffee pot on it. A bunch of folding chairs are set up here (and these are, in fact, the kind you hit people with). A bunch of jackets and gymbags are strewn here and there as the AWA contingent is using it as a staging zone of sorts. A massive Iranian flag has been hung on the far wall. Six of the eight members of Team AWA are here, and most of them are seated in a semicircle facing team captain Sultan Azam Sharif. Sharif, a powerfully-built Iranian with neatly trimmed black hair and a well-groomed mustache providing contrast to his battle-scarred, weatherbeaten visage, is holding court clad in a nice light blue dress suit (jacket and pants) with a white undershirt and sensible navy-blue tie. His white kaffiyeh and black agal (the headpieces worn by many Arabs) is neatly folded on the table right behind him. The former (actual) Olympian casts the strongest presence in the room without being the largest man there. From his left: Chris Choisnet, the good-looking fresh-faced brown-haired grappler, who is wearing a button-up blue shirt with the AWA logo stitched on the right side chest, navy blue slacks, and white tennis shoes. James Reed, the slightly-above-average sized wrestler with a dark brown feather-cut hairstyle, who is wearing black track pants, a Pittsburgh Steelers T-Shirt, old black sneakers, a gold chain necklace, and is working on a Budweiser. Matt Ginn, the very tall lanky man with reddish-brown hair in a Caesar style, thin-cut goatee and mustache, wearing a white MIT polo shirt, black pants, and brown leather shoes. Mark Hoefner, who is a light-brown skinned wrestler with very short black hair that's already receding a bit on him, is wearing an olive-green Left 4 Dead T-Shirt, blue jeans, and black-and-red sneakers. Finally, Lee Harrigan, the huge powerhouse with short curly brown hair and a long face, who wears a grey wifebeater and matching grey sweatpants with ragged black boots. The Sultan is speaking in his outrageously thick Persian accent. His loud voice echoes across the room.] SAS: ...un dot is vhy ve connut let Mistair Tood Mickulsun down vid loosing from now on! Deh first two day, dey vas pathutic! Only Mistair Crus Choonut... CC: CHOISNET. SAS: ..vas abail to medal! CC: Because that Michiko cheated. SAS: NO OXCUSE! Dis is Olympuc! Nobody sheat at Olympuc Game because dot vould admit dot deir country vas veak! [At Sharif's claim that nobody would ever cheat at he Olympics, most of the others in the room either laugh or roll their eyes.] JR: Look. Obviously, they don't give two-thirds of a damn in the MBC about the rules, so as far as I'm concerned, there's no such thing AS cheating to begin with! MG: Clearly there must be some kind of bizarre phenomenon occuring, because I'm agreeing with James Reed. It also would explain how I lost to a group of mental midgets at Monopoly. Somebody snatched almost three thousand Monopoly dollars... two thousand eight hundred and fifty seven, to be precise... out of my back pocket, where I was keeping it all because I didn't trust anyone at the table. MH: Oh, you think that was weird? You know why I didn't show up in the final six of Survivor? One of them slashed the bottom of my boots! I went out for the obstacle course, tried to run over the barbed wire, and the whole sole of both boots came off the second I touched it. The outsides were cut! Dude, I was four years in the Army. I've been running zombie survival workshops for six years. No way I lose a freaking obstacle course. Look at this! [Hoefner holds up a black military-style boot. The bottpm of the boot has been cut clear away, with only a couple rough areas where the last bits holding it on were torn off.] MG: Admittedly, that was clever. MH: The point is, none of those jiggadolts were smart enough to do that! LH: Dude. Skywalker Jones copyrighted that word. MH: I know. I had to pay licensing fees. It came in the package where I get to do one of his aerial moves once. SAS: Dot diddunt mattair! LH: It's 'cause I wasn't in nonea them sissy games. SAS: No more oxcuse! Vere is Mistair Kyul Holdair un Mistair Mudhaus Muckvesson? [A voice speaks up from behind the camera... it's Kyle Holder, who is walking in wearing a long black coat, black T-Shirt underneath that says "I USED TO CARE, BUT NOW I TAKE A PILL FOR THAT", black knee-lengh shorts, and grey sneakers. The youthful-looking man with a dark-brown mullet and scruffy beard and mustache is shouldering a large black backpack.] KH: Sorry I'm late. [*beat*] No, I 'm actually not. But go on, I'll be back here pretending to listen. MH: Kyle, how did they cheat you? KH: Cheat me? I finished right where I wanted to. Fourth place. No medals, no expectations. And I made some people's heads explode. Not literally; I'm still working on that. CC: Are you saying you lost on purpose?! KH: Yeah. I wanted to get at the table with the girl with the Pokemon cards, so we could set up that thing and she could medal and I could leave early. Got her phone number. It was a good day. [It takes a little bit for this to sink in for Sharif, but soon he realizes that one of his core beliefs has been violated and there's nothing for it but a rant.] SAS: ...VAAAAAAT? YOU LOSE ON PAIRPOSE?! KH: Prove it. SAS: YOU JUST SAY DOT! KH: If I'm low enough to throw a match, I'm low enough to lie. SAS: So you diddunt throw deh motch? KH: If I lied, then I didn't throw the match. But if I wasn't low enough to throw the match, then I wasn't low enough to lie. [Sharif attempts to follow Houlder's logic. He tries to puzzle out what actually happened by muttering to himself.] SAS: ...if he diddunt throw motch den he lie, but if he lie he throw motch... [While he's doing this, the others ignore him.] JR: So, I simply do not give one single brown crap about who threw what. The point is, we got all these other events, and everyone else in this thing is a dirty bitch. So we're gonna play that game. CC: There's no need for that! We need to find the cheating and stop it first. MH: Oh, here we go with the boy scout routine again... CC: I don't like it any more than you. But if we go as low as the other teams, then we're no better than they are! MG: A gold medal would be a sufficient display of supereminence even for a simpleton like you, Shownet. CC: CHOISNET! MH: Nobody in the world can pronounce your stupid name! You're not even in any of the rest of the solo events, so get lost. LH: Maybe I'll get some midget toss practice in and throw him out! Haw haw haw! JR: Son, you need to watch that lip, because nobody in this place is gonna start somethin' I ain't gonna finish. Now the first thing we gonna do is plan. We need Madhouse. MG: Madhouse McWesson couldn't plan a trip to the grocery store even if you spotted him the shopping list. JR: Naw, junior, it's because he went to get the booze! Wait, here he comes. [A huge burly form brushes by the camera as Madhouse McWesson arrives, armed with two huge bags filled with bottles and cans. He's a unique figure with a tall black mohawk. He has jagged eyebrows, pale white skin, and a big beer belly gut despite a muscular chest. He wears beat-up jeans, brown leather boots, and a leather vest that lets that big gut hang right out.] MM: Get hold of the milkman and send your momma to the cleaners, fanboys, cause I got the goodies and the moon's about to shine over Topeka! Yaaaaaa! [Madhouse starts setting up beers, whiskeys, and other various alcoholic beverages on the table. Sharif doesn't even notice him because he's still trying to figure out what Houlder said to him.] CC: Ugh. Why poison yourself with this? MH: Hello! The rest of the solo events are done either drunk, or by drinking! We need this stuff to compete, duh! CC: You're not in any more solo events either, Hoefner, so why are you getting some? MH: I have to listen to you whine! And Sharif talk! MG: Did you acquire the VSOP Cognac that I requisitioned? MM: I ain't gone no sissay drank, boy! Drank a man drank! MG: Would someone translate what this Neanderthal is grunting? MM: Here ya go! [McWesson whips a bottle at Ginn's head, and the MIT grad barely manages to catch it before it hits him in the face. He examines the label, which indeed reads Cognac.] MG: Not quite the correct branding, but I shouldn't have expected accuracy from a dimwitted clod. MM: So look out for what the thing was tomorrah! I got Drunk Brawlin, Drunk Bawlin, Drunk Brawlin With Gloves, an' all that other! I can't be tryin' ta stay sober! I need somebody to take in the drankin show! MH: What'd he say? What'd he say? JR: He said he needs someone for the Drinking competition. I gotta be drunk for the Lawn Darts. I might Drunk Box if it's at the same time as one of the other events. I don't think any of these pissants could hold two minutes. MM: Naw, they ain't got no hair on they chest! Couldn't drop two spits of Michelob Light, let alone actual BEER. We need ta do like we do in Bonesteel! Get a man! MH: Please with that "can't hold our liquor" "not a real man" crap. We can.. AAAGH! [Hoefner is drenched as Ginn spits a mouthful of cognac all over him, a horrified look on his face!] MG: Whafffzthus?! MM: That's Bonesteel Braw! We done moon some shine down in tha! I put a sissay label on it so ya could know what a real man drank! Like we do in Bonesteel! MG: I canft fee my mouf! My tug isff burdig! [Ginn runs around looking for water. Houlder sneaks up, pours some of the liquid from the "cognac" bottle into his empty water bottle while Ginn is desperately looking for water, and holds it up to him when he turns back around.] KH: Here! Water! MH: Matt, don't...! MG: GGGWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAA [Too late! He downs three gulps before realizing his error, and collapsing with a spray of spittle and vomit marking his trajectory over the nearest chair.] MH: So, uh, as you were saying about alcohol tolerance. MM: Ah, here's one might got some grit! SULTO! SAS: ...un den he vas nut lying, but he diddunt throw deh motch, so he lie, carry deh six, he throw motch... [ * W H A P * ] [McWesson gives Sharif an ear clap, sending the Sultan stumbling backwards. Immediately, Sharif gets into fighting position, but McWesson holds up Choisnet's silver medal.] CC: Hey! That's my... MM: Lookit this SHINEH~! Now we gotta have you in a event for tomorrow because we a man down, Sulto! SAS: I om already un Sumo Wrastling! But... I connut rafuse to do for Iran! MM: You're in the Drankin' event now, camelboy! SAS: No! Dot is haram! JR: So, you just lost Iran a medal. SAS: I... dot is... aaaah... KH: IRAN! NUMBER LAST! SAS: SHAAADAP YOU FACE! I... *sigh* ...for Iran I do dot. Vun time, astagfirullah! KH: After all, nothing could ever go horribly horribly wrong in giving a man from a restrictive suppressed society a taste of what he's missing. Nothing at all. Especially when he's trained to tear people apart wih his bare hands. SAS: You go too far, Houldair! [Sharif makes a beeline for Houlder, who runs, jumping over a writhing Ginn. As he stumbles a bit over Ginn, a Monopoly $500 bll falls out of his backpack, and a box cutter with some black rubber still stuck to the blade can be seen hanging through the unzipped opening. He quickly shoves this back in, and hustles to the door.] SAS: Dot is enugh! No more losing! Ve gunna made AWA proud, un vin medal for IRAN! IRAN! IRAN NUMBAIR VUN! MH: USA? *hack**phthug* SAS: Huh? MH: I have no idea, dude. It just felt right. [And with that we exit scene.] ------------------------------------------------------------- DRUNKEN LAWN DARTS ------------------------------------------------------------- Fiend Machine: With an on the scene report lets go to Nathan “Doom Broom” Cherry. [From the Control Center we go to the playground area of “Warren G. Hardon Elementary.” Yes, you know and I know that the twenty-ninth President of these United States was Harding but this is Styx. They did “Hardon” on purpose. Can you really expect more from these people? They once named a Middle School Calvin Coolranch Junior High. Standing by the Jungle Gym and sipping on a little gin and juice is Nathan Cherry.] Doom Broom: Sure, the bottle says that if it lasts for four hours, to call a doctor. But I’m sorry. If it’s lasting four hours, I’m calling every escort service in the book. Know what I mean? Fiend Machine: Nathan, you’re on the air. Doom Broom: I am aware. Fiend Machine: Then why... never mind. What do you have for us out there? Doom Broom: Probably the bloodiest event here at the Olympics. Pinhead: I sense a “yet” in there somewhere. [Cut to the footage, oh the wonderful footage. People are drinking. People are having fun. People are vomiting, some even having people to hold their hair back as they hurl. It’s a frat party with sharp instruments but without the hazing.] Doom Broom: Any time you mix alcohol with throwing sharp objects, somebody is going to get hurt. [The first competitor is Twinkletoes Tiwilliger, drunk as a skunk and barely standing up. He tosses several darts with not a single one coming close to a target. However, Elbitz is shown wandering near the target area. Despite warnings to the contrary, he doesn’t move away. One particularly off shot by Twinky hits Elbitz right in the head. Yet... he survives.] Doom Broom: Elbitz was the first to be knocked out by an errant lawn dart. But with some smelling salts, he was revived. [Elbitz gets right to his feet and starts walking around... with one of the lawn darts stuck in his Elvis style pompadour toupee.] Doom Broom: And once one person got it, all bystanders were fair game. [HANA [PGE] drinks like a fish but seems to have no interest in the targets. Instead, she aims to maim, going after anybody near the target area. Her accuracy is so fantastic she stops a teenage couple from making out by pinning his nose ring to post of the gazebo they were snogging in.] Doom Broom: First blood went to Perfect Girl Evolution. And it certainly wasn’t the last. [Hitomi Shimizu has incredible accuracy as well, her skills in wielding sharp implements beyond approach. But the more she drinks the quicker her accuracy fades. This was when the first ambulance was called...] RB: First responders looking good. Pinhead: Huh, interesting. Fiend Machine: What? Pinhead: So I’m looking at the people who showed up for this. One of the ASLL delegates is listed as being there but never actually threw a dart. Doom Broom: You’re speaking of La Cucaracha? Pinhead: According to the notes, the self-proclaimed International Fighting Champion. Fiend Machine: They say that title can be defended anywhere, anytime, anything goes. As long as you have a referee on hand. Doom Broom: Well... [Footage of La Cucaracha lining up a shot is shown. He keeps one eye on the target with one on his back. He takes a good long while to throw but he never gets his chance. Seeing something out of the corner of his eye, he drops the dart and takes off running. Chasing him like a maniac with a steel chair in his hands and a referee trying to keep up behind him is Slush.] Fiend Machine: Doesn’t Slush know that title is fake? Pinhead: Eh, let him have his fun as long as he’s out of my hair. Fiend Machine: So once they cleaned up the blood, they calculated the overall accuracy and awarded medals appropriately. That is, when they could get close enough. Too many people were having too much fun with “target practice.” ------------------------------------------------------------- 2012 Gold: James Reed [AWA] 2012 Silver: Tesla St. James [UWF] 2012 Bronze: Tyler Tucker [International Incident] ------------------------------------------------------------- [The event over, the cameras switch back to the Control Center. Pinhead is intently watching the video feed.] Pinhead: Did Slush ever win that championship? RB: Several Mounties reported that Slush was taken down as he was running through the playground. Pinhead: By your Mounties? RB: By a roaming gang of fifth graders. So brutal, so bloodthirsty… Pinhead: Is that an actual problem in Styx? Rabid fifth graders? RB: Kids are mean. Pinhead: Was there anything left? RB: He was eventually taken away. He had things to do. [The camera opens in one of Styx’s numerous sports facilities, a curvaceous figure saunters her way down a long hallway, drawing stares from men. Was it her nice ass held in the firm embrace of a tight pair of distressed blue jeans? Maybe it was the swell of her breasts beneath the shredded tank and red bikini top combination that was drawing their eyes. Could be the long, athletic legs that sported a pair of lace up motorcycle boots. The jet black hair, the hypnotic eyes that sport a rich tone of russet, and the ruby red painted lips certainly would draw attention. She smirked as young crew man pointed out her most outstanding feature.] Young man: Nice tattoos... do you have them... you know... everywhere? [The smirk turned into a sly smile as she hooks her thumb into the wide, black leather belt around her waist, an ACE Logo etched upon its surface. Locking eyes with the man, the woman approaches with a bit of a strut in her step, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She speaks with a rich, husky voice that carries with it the hint of a southern accent.] Woman: Wouldn't you like to know? I've a better question for you. Where's the locker room? I'm Melinda Rhodes and I'm competing in the MBC Olympics. [The man blinks.] Man: Melinda Rhodes, THE Atlantic City Queen of Heart's Melinda Rhodes? Here, in this building... TONIGHT?! [She shoots him a flat stare.] Melinda: That's right, now tell me where the locker room is so I can stow my gear. [He looks left and right, clearly aware of her psychotic reputation.] Man: I uh... I can't help you... [Turning he quickly shuffles off down the hall. The Rebel frowns with a look of disgust on her face.] Melinda: ...Well [MEEP] you too... [Sighing, she turns down a random hallway and starts heading to where she thinks the locker room is. Sighing softly she finds herself at a dead end and doubles back, only to find the man they call Slush standing at the end of the hallway, wearing a wild tiger striped T-shirt, yellow pants, and black sneakers...] Slush: Hey baby cakes. You look a little lost. [The Rebel's brow furrows at the man.] Melinda: ...My name's not Baby Cakes and I'm sure yours isn't Douche Bag. Now since nobody in this whole [MEE{]ing arena wants to help a bitch out, why don't you tell me where the damn locker room is before things get ugly! [Fists clenched tightly, she quickly strolls up to him. Slush steps back his hands held up in a defensive posture.] Slush: Hey! Hey! Chill lady, I'm Slush. I’m just as lost as you are in this Hellhole. [She quirks a brow at him.] Melinda: I take it you know who I am. [He nods.] Slush: "Knowledge” is a subjective term don’t you think? [She is not amused.] Slush: So, anyways, I was told to show up and talk to you in some meeting room by these damn Styx ninjas. And hey, hanging with you is already better then getting poked in the ass with cattle prods. [With little other choice, The Rebel follows Slush. With several turns made, they eventually find a nice, quiet spot. Slush opens the door and steps aside, a pinkish light shining in through the cracked open doorway.] Slush: After you, Angel face... [Melinda steps through the doorway, the camera cutting from out in the hall to inside the room. We find a rather swank room with pink mood lighting, a leopard print couch, white shag carpet, purple walls, and posters of several half-dressed women decorating the walls. The door slams shut and clicks locked behind her, Slush taking in every inch of her figure as he licks his finger tips and runs them across his eyebrows. The Rebel drops her duffel and spins around, her stare flat and venomous.] Slush: So... they tell me you’ve applied to wrestle in the MBC-Styx territory... [She says nothing, watching as Slush heads for the couch. Turning he falls back on it, arms draped over the back and legs spread out.] Slush: ...it's up to me to decide whether ya' get hired or not. Those ninjas aren’t so bad afterall. [A wry smile crossing his face, followed by the waggle of his eyebrows. Melinda's head tilts slightly to one side, regarding the man for a moment. Suddenly her eyes grow half-lidded as a seductive smile crosses her face. With a swaying of her hips, she saunters over to the man. Slush breaks into a big grin, nodding with approval as the Rebel walks right up to him and drapes herself over his form. His hands wander freely over her back as she pecks a soft kiss on his lips, then chuckles darkly.] Melinda: Meh heh heh heh....This is all you're going to get little man.... [She then stabs her hand right into his groin, squeezing and twisting as hard as she can. Slush lets out a wild howl of pain, tears immediately as the Rebel inflicts pure, agonizing pain on the bastard.] Melinda: Take the key to that door out of your pocket and toss it on the [MEEP]ing floor... NOW! Slush: YES!! YES!!!! OK!!! JUST MAKE IT STA-HA-HAAAOOOOPPP!!!! [Slush slips a hand into his pocket and tosses the keys to the floor. Releasing him, The Rebel rises up and presses her boot right to his chest. Her jaw set and teeth bared with fury, she glares right into his eyes.] Melinda: You think you can get a piece of ass like me just because you're someone important around here, you [MEEP]ing piece of [MEEP]?! [She scoffs, shifting her boot up his chest and placing the heel against his throat, choking him on the spot.] Slush: GAWK!!!! AAAHHHKKK!!! GGGAAAKKK!!! GLLLUUUGGGHHH!!! Melinda: My [MEEP] is reserved parking for real men, not [MEEP] stains like you. But I am going to give you a night you'll remember, so that the next time you decide you want to try something like this again... [Showing great flexibility, Melinda leans in on him, practically doing a standing split with her leg bent and her weight at near crushing leverage on Slush's larynx.] Melinda: ...You'll remember this moment and think twice. [Pushing off of him, she turns and cracks a hard kick across the side of the man's face, sending him spiraling off the couch and on his knees. She rushes in behind with a low kick straight between the legs, nailing him hard in the groin. Slush lets out a croaking cough, both hands going to his groin as he rolls onto his back. The Rebel steps over him and drops down, straddling his torso where she cracks him once across the face...] *WHACK!* [...Slush immediately passes out. Smirking, Melinda rises off of him and as her head lifts, she spots a trash can next to the couch. Grabbing and lifting him up with a bit of a grunt, she locks him in a loose headlock and drags him over to it. Then gritting her teeth, she lifts the man up with a scoop and deposits him head first into the trash can. She leaves him upside down in god knows what, then turns and gathers up her bag and the key to the room. She slides the key in the lock, twists the knob, and steps through, making sure to lock the door back and take the key with her. She turns and stops right in her tracks as a man in a finely tailored suit, stands right across from the door with his back to the wall and arms crossed over his chest. On his face is a big smile.] Man: Ms. Rhodes... [He claps his hands and pushes off the wall.] Thompson Hendrix with Talent Relations. I’m happy to inform you that you passed. We can’t stand the man as far as we can throw him, so you’ll understand that you and we here at MBC-Styx had... similar thoughts on him and people like him. [Melinda arches her brow.] Melinda: You mean there are women dumb enough... [Sighing softly, the man takes Melinda's bag and throws an arm around her shoulder.] Hendrix: Not all of them are knives as sharp as you are, Ms. Rhodes. Anybody dumb enough to fall for his schtick deserves what they get and they certainly do not deserve to be in this territory. [The two start walking down the hallway, their discussion only just beginning...] Pinhead: You know, I was wondering where they had taken Slush. Now I know. RB: A fair test of her character I think. Pinhead: Really? I find it hard to believe that even half a percent of America’s entire population would fall for his bull[MEEP]. JF: The man _did_ manage to reproduce once. RB: Best to cull now than cull later. Pinhead: Sadly, I can’t argue that. ------------------------------------------------------------- DRUNKEN KEG ROLLING ------------------------------------------------------------- Pinhead: This has got to be a knee slapper. Where’s this event being held? Another elementary school? Or a church? RB: Graveyard. Pinhead: A graveyard? Are you insane... never mind... I shouldn’t have asked. I _know_ you people are insane. Fiend Machine: For what it’s worth, its right next to the Hardon Elementary School Pinhead: Doesn’t help. Fiend Machine: It’s a fake cemetery from when the town was a “Walker: Texas Ranger” set Pinhead: You know, most people would lead with that fact. [The footage of the drunken keg roll starts to play. In the background, the Lawn Dart competition can be seen as people are running for their lives. The first to be shown here is ASLL’s El Monito. The more he drinks, the rowdier he gets. He climbs on anything he can, acting like a monkey.] Pinhead: Some would call this amateur hour. Fiend Machine: El Monito rolled the proper amount of kegs but didn’t get very far with them. In fact, he tried to roll one and got caught on it... Pinhead: Oh dear... Fiend Machine: And he rolled down the side of a hill. RB: But he came back though. [Twinkletoes Tiwilliger [Fighting Spirit] tries to line up his shot, a tricky situation to say the least. Already drunk from his attempts at Drunken Lawn Darts, the additional alcohol from this event made things worse. But the drunken rampage of El Monito returns. The mini targets Twinkletoes, first harassing him and then climbing up onto his back. El Monito tries to play Tiwilliger’s head like a set of bongs and as Tiwilliger tries to remove the mini he stumbles over drunk. He calls and crushes Monito beneath him.] Pinhead: Good God! RB: He landed in a flowerbed. Those poor flowers. Fiend Machine: Now much like the Drunken Darts event, HANA of Perfect Girl Evolution drank just about everyone under the table. However, she was more interested in maiming people. [Ever see “Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.” Just think of that but with kegs. And behind it all is HANA with an evil grin and a thirst for blood in her eyes. And drinking. Lots of drinking.] Fiend Machine: Though HANA did not bother with the course, she was awarded points for her accuracy. Pinhead: There was a course? Fiend Machine: Around the gravestones. Pinhead: Great. And why wasn’t she awarded for her blood thirst and accuracy with the lawn darts? RB: Violence is funnier with kegs. [More footage of the participants are shown. Max Weinrib and Sal Mubarak from PVW casually roll some kegs but only while trying to impress the nearby women, both in the competition and out. Ryu Osawa tries to do much the same, kicking off the battle between the guy dressed as a preacher and the guy who looked like a rabbi for who could creep the women out the fastest.] Fiend Machine: To be fair, there were some who were trying really hard to win this competition. [James Masterson [MBC-Lone Star] and Lee Harrigan [AWA] are shown rolling side by side with their kegs, trying to bob and weave between tombstones. They crash into the stones and into each other of course but that’s pretty much expected in this event.] Fiend Machine: In the end the competition came down to those who could drink like a horse and still steer their kegs the fastest and without going off course. Q-Ball from Socktopolis NOW! seemed to be able to drink inhuman amounts of alcohol and would have finished with the gold had he not been so slow. [The camera shows Dr. Socktopolis, the sock puppet that sits on Q-Ball’s hand, verbally berating Q-Ball for being so slow. Meanwhile, Randall Osbourne shows his mastery of drinking from a keg and rolling it at the same time.] RB: These people are simply freaks. ------------------------------------------------------------- 2012 Gold: Randall Osbourne [Insanity Society] 2012 Silver: HANA [PGE] 2012 Bronze: Q-Ball [Socktopolis NOW!] ------------------------------------------------------------- Pinhead: Is it just me or is PGE starting to pull away from the rest of the delegations? RB: You know, I have a lot of respect for any organization that trains its members in the ways of making both love and war. Pinhead: I don’t know if PGE trains its women in love... RB: Oh it’s there. I can see it in their eyes. It’s in how they dance. Pinhead: They dance? RB: You need to pay attention to internet forums my friend. Oh how they gyrate and rub their... Fiend Machine: Say, let’s move on. RB: So smooth. Pinhead: I’ve not met many sheriffs in my time Roy, but by far you are the creepiest. RB: Laser is married to his job. Sadly, it’s not an open marriage. [Laser looks off into the distance, very Christian rock band cover like.] RB: Laser is so, so lonely. Pinhead: I’m going to roll away now... [The scene opens to the tag team of Beauty and The Beast, Georgia Church and Brawn Stevenson, seated at an outdoor table at a restaurant. Brawn is clad in a black T-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. Meanwhile, Georgia wears a cream, off-the-shoulders top and black, mini skirt, completing the look with black Go-Go boots. Georgia’s brown hair falls down her back, bangs above her eyes. Brawn flips through a magazine as Georgia sips gingerly from a martini glass, her eyes anxiously scanning the crowd of Styx natives, walking along the streets.] Brawn: [his eyes never leaving his magazine] Chill out. She’s practically running the place now. We’re bound to run into her before we know it. [Georgia turns to face him.] Georgia: Who? Brawn: Holly. [he finally looks up from his magazine] I know that’s who you’re looking for. [Georgia opens her mouth, seemingly ready to deny his claim, before changing her mind.] Georgia: Okay. I’m guilty. [sighs] So, what are we going to say to her, when we do see her? I mean, this will be our first time, being in the same place, since Holly fired us! How awkward is that gonna be!?! [Brawn shrugs, going back to his magazine.] Brawn: Eh. I’ll admit that I was kinda pissed, when she first gave us the boot. But I’m over it now. Look at us. We’ve got a successful team going, we’re still members of The Hand, and I get to work with my wife. Looks like Holly firing us might have been a blessing. [pauses] Plus, we don’t have to deal with her diva [Meep] anymore. [Georgia pauses for a moment, taking it all in.] Georgia: I guess you’re right. It’s just that the three of us were such a good team for so long. It’s crazy that we’re not a part of her Court anymore. [Just then, the team’s manager and Brawn’s wife, “The Revolution” Josie Saito walks over, clad in a black, halter top, matching slacks, and spike heels, her dark hair parted in the middle and falling down her back.] Josie: Are you two still discussing the woman that so callously tossed you to the wolves? Brawn: Not me, babe. It’s all Georgia. [Josie takes a seat as Georgia’s face flushes slightly, flashing Brawn her best “thanks for throwing me under the bus” look.] Georgia: Brawn! Brawn: [shrugs] Hey, just being honest. Josie: [smiles] There’s no need for shame, Georgia. It’s understandable that Holly would occasionally cross your mind. After all, you wouldn’t be here if it were not for her. [pauses] Then again, she also wouldn’t be where she is now without the two of you either. Brawn: [snorts] Ya got that right! [Josie leans close, locking eyes with Georgia.] Josie: I know that you might feel some old loyalties towards her. But it is important to remember that _she’s_ the one who decided to end your partnership. Holly turned her back on you, not the other way around. Luckily, you have the chance to make her regret it. Every win, victory, and award you two accumulate is another example of how foolish her decision was, including what should be stellar performances from you both today. I guarantee that, after we are all done, she will be practically begging the two of you back. [Georgia smiles, her eyes lighting up at the thought.] Georgia: I like the sound of that! Josie: [smiles] I thought that you would. Just continue to stick with me. I guarantee nothing but unparalleled success. [Brawn looks up from his magazine again and grins.] Brawn: Now, you see why I put a ring on it. [Fade.] Fiend Machine: Somedays I miss how Georgia used to be. Pinhead: A dancer? Fiend Machine: The Armageddon Rooster? RB: Have a thing for chicks in animal suits? Fiend Machine: Yes... I mean no... maybe... [MEEP]. RB: The city has a designated zone for that kind of thing. Freak. Pinhead: There’s a zone for that? What else do you allow here? RB: Nothing you foreigners get the privilege of knowing. ------------------------------------------------------------- DRUNKEN BOXING - WOMEN’S DIVISION ------------------------------------------------------------- Fiend Machine: So.... there was a bit of a complication. Pinhead: What kind of complication? Fiend Machine: The Olympic Committee couldn’t get the Alabama Boxing Commission to sign off on this event. Pinhead: Not surprising. But I _am_ surprised that anyone in this Hell hole would care what the state government would think. RB: You don’t mess with Alabamaians. Ever. Pinhead: So did they actually host the event? Fiend Machine: They did. As was always the plan, it was split by gender. Pinhead: Surprisingly chivalrous of you. Continue. Fiend Machine: Olympic Officials found alternatives for this event for both groups. For the women it was... and I can’t believe I’m saying this... “Mike Tyson’s Punchout.” [True to his word, footage shows a classic 8-bit Nintendo set up on a large hide definition TV. Oh, to have that combo back in the day, I’d be in heaven.] Fiend Machine: Now honestly, most of the men and women walked away because they thought it was idiotic. Still, there were plenty to keep the population of delegates higher than Magic: The Gathering. Pinhead: As in the alcohol? Fiend Machine: Exactly. [Four women are shown, each taking their turn with “Mike Tyson’s Punchout”: Felicity Malone [Bastard Underground], Tesla St. James [UWF], The Goblin Queen [PUNT], and HANA [PGE]. The booze flows as does the frustration with the game. Some are more adept at the classic arcade fighter. Others show their frustration.] Fiend Machine: There was a bit of a break as the Goblin Queen destroyed the first television Officials had set up. Pinhead: Excuse me, are we really going to show highlights to “Mike Tyson’s [MEEP]ing Punchout”? Fiend Machine: No, I suppose not. ------------------------------------------------------------- 2012 Gold: The Goblin Queen [PUNT] 2012 Silver: HANA [PGE] 2012 Bronze: Felicity Malone [Bastard Underground] ------------------------------------------------------------- Fiend Machine: And the men will compete in Drunken Boxing tomorrow. Pinhead: Will they be doing drunken “Mike Tyson’s Punchout” as well? RB: Even better. Pinhead: Better? How can you do better? Fiend Machine: Drunken “Rock em Sock em Robots.” Pinhead: [Sigh] RB: Is it time to show the highlights to the exhibition events? Pinhead: Exhibition events? RB: Events that are trying to join the official roster of Olympic events. Pinhead: Please, let me guess. “Drunken Hungry Hungry Hippos.” RB: Are you looking at my notes? Pinhead: [MEEP] this. [Pinhead stands, takes off his microphone and tosses it aside before walking out.] Fiend Machine: … RB: … Fiend Machine: That means we’re done for the day right? [We fade in on the interior of a living room, where we find a young man of Middle Eastern heritage wearing sunglasses and a silk blue shirt, and black slacks. He has a confused frown on his face as he looks over a piece of paper. The header of the paper clearly reads "WELCOME TO THE MBC BASTARD OLYMPICS 2012!" The young man shakes his head.] Man #1: MAX! [At that, we pan over to another young man, this one Caucasian, more...rounder than his compatriot, bald but sporting a soul patch on his chin and wearing a blue T-shirt and cargo shorts. He hits the pause button on the game of "Arkham Asylum" he was currently playing and rises from his chair.] Max: You bellowed, Sal? Sal: [waving the paper] What. Is. THIS?! Max: Oh yeah! The MBC Bastard Olympics! I thought it'd be kinda cool if we tried it this year, so I signed us up for them. Sal: Are you forgetting that we have tag belts to defend? Does Dex Willingham know about this? And more importantly, where the HELL is "Styx, Alabama" anyway?! Max: [innocently] Alabama maybe? [Tag belts? Dex Willingham? Ah, yes, as of this current taping, these two gentlemen happen to be Phoenix Valley Wrestling's Tag Team Champions Max Weinrib and Salih Mubarak -- better known and loved as Max & Sal.] Max: Look, I figured you might be a bit resistant, so I took the liberty of gathering evidence to support my case. [He grabs a nearby manila folder and pulls out an 8 x 10 photo of Amber Rogers.] This, for example, has the potential of being one of our competitors... Sal: Amber's definitely easy on the eyes. [A beat, then a frown.] Hard on the ears though. Max: And here's another possible competitor... [He pulls out another photo] One Lolita Love. Sal: Oooh... [The look on Sal's face makes it clear he's wavering. A smiling Max goes in for the kill, handing him various pictures of the members of Perfect Girl Evolution.] Max: And let me just leave you with three simple words: Intergender Beach Volleyball. [Sal looks up, big grin on his face. He nods at his partner.] Sal: Your ideas intrigue me and I wish to subscribe to your newsletter... [Fade.] |
|
Everything I learned about soccer, I learned from Dro. You are to refer to Katie as "The Duchess of Der Basterdmusen" as of June 2014. She'll get angry if you don't. You've been warned. | |
![]() |
|
| Overly_Critical_Jue | Oct 31 2012, 10:52 AM Post #2 |
![]()
Amigo, I ain't anybody but Juan Vasquez!
![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]()
|
UPDATED MEDAL COUNT! PGE: 2 Gold, 3 Silver, 1 Bronze Trinity: 3 Silver 1 Bronze Insanity Society: 3 Gold Fighting Spirit: 2 Silver, 1 Bronze AWA: 1 Gold 1 Silver Devils You Know: Bastard Edition: 1 Gold, 1 Bronze Bastard Underground: 2 Bronze CoB: 1 Gold MBC Alamo City: 1 Gold PUNT: 1 Gold UWF: 1 Silver MBC Lone-Star: 1 Bronze Socktopolis NOW: 2 Bronze International Incident: 1 Bronze ![]() |
![]() |
|
|
|
| « Previous Topic · MBC · Next Topic » |





![]](http://z5.ifrm.com/static/1/pip_r.png)






7:19 PM Jul 10