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In Your Gymnasium 1

StylesKurt Angel

[Fade in on Style's smoke-filled basement. Mikey Styles and Kurt Angel are hanging out near a television.]

Styles: Hello Brawlers On a Budget fans, and welcome to Kurt Angel: Total Nonstop Action! I'm Mikey Styles, along with the star of our show, Kurt Angel.

Kurt Angel: Not false! And by the way, thanks for being so broke that you couldn't afford to change the batteries in your smoke detector. You're a real life saver, Styles! There's no way I'm getting through this shoot straight.

Styles: We've been going through the BOB archives, trying to make a quick buck, and the powers that be figured, "Hey, let's start putting out DVDs to make some money!" So here we are, with the first of as many DVDs as we can put out while we try to get back on basic cable. And Kurt, what are we about to see here?

KA: I honestly can't remember. All I know is that we've got a bunch of random video tapes from the defunct Action Wrestling promotion, which I got to after ascending out of BOB. Of course, that whole ascension thing didn't stick, obviously, as I'm back in the hell known as Brawlers On a Budget. So, right now, let's take a look at my epic debut from September 8, 2003. This one stars myself and some guy named Jeremy Bold.


ROLEPLAY!
Or: Recruiting an Angel

Kurt Angel

Sometime ago

Jeremy Bold couldn't believe that somebody had just left it sitting in the Action! Mailroom! On the floor no less. When he saw it, he quickly scooped up the prize, stuck it in his pants and ran back to his office.

He pulled it out of his pants.

The toy, people.

It was a string. Not just ANY string. But a PINK string.

He held the string in his right hand about a foot away from his face, staring at it as intently as boobs. Becoming one with the string.

Reached for it.

Missed. The sort of miss that would make a cop arrest him for being drunk.

That was when something rather odd happened. The electricity went off on his room and bright blue flashes were seen. That and sounds of whooshing and thunder.

And then, things went back to normal.

Aside from the stranger who was sitting on the floor. The stranger was completely dressed in white clothing. White T-shirt. White pants. White shoes. White skin.

"Where the frick am I now?" the stranger wondered. "What the frick is this? Is this Heaven? Where the frick am I now?"

"God? Is that you?" Bold asked.

"God? Oh no. I'm not God. But I've been as high as him a few times," he said pushing himself up and smiling like a goof.

"High, eh?" Bold said, rubbing the palms of his hands together. "As in, stoned high?"

"Yeah. Nothing can top a doobie and a big glass of Hawaiian Punch. Aside from two doobies and two glasses of Hawaiian Punch!"

"Not even, THREE doobies, a bong and two glasses of Hawaiian Punch and a contract with Action! Wrestling?"

"Action! Wrestling? Oh, thank God, I'm not in BOB anymore? The last thing I remember is winning the ONLY WORLD TITLE THAT MATTERS and beginning to ascend to Heaven. The rest is a bit of a blur. But for some reason I'm here."

"You were in a man? Are you gayer than a six-assed Jackson?"

"Whoawhoawhoa. Back the truck up. Who are you?"

"I'm horny. I mean, uh, Jeremy Bold!"

"The name's Angel."

Dramatic pause.

"Kurt, Angel. And let me tell you something Mr. Bold. If you are having a drug contest of some sort, you can count me in. I don't care if I have to go back to hell again, I want a true moment of happiness that only doobies can give me."

"You're so weird!" Bold yelled, beginning to lightly stroke his pink string.

"I was an Olympic champion in Heaven, I'll have you know. That is, before God caught me smoking doobies in the Garden of Eden under the apple tree."

"What?"

"Oh, DON'T start that?"

"What?"

"That!"

"What?"

"Stop it?"

"What?"

"Mr. Bold. You can count me in on that contest. Say, have you ever heard of a man by the name of Vincent. Trey Vincent?"

"Trey Vincent," Bold said, stroking his chin. "Hmmm. Nope."

"I've--"

"Wait! I know a guy named Trey Vincent! Maybe he's related to that fellow you're looking for!"

Angel just stared at Bold in disbelief for several seconds.

"Mr. Bold, you'd be out of your freakin' mind if you didn't let this Heavenly Hero into your little show."

"That's it! You're hired! Kurt Angle in Stoned Enough"

"WHOO!" Angel responded. "Wait. It's ANGEL, not ANGLE!"

"Kurt Angle in MY federation. SCREW YOU VINCE! MWHAHAHAHA."

"Who are you talking to?"

"Them!" Bold said pointing nowhere in particular.

"Sounds like somebody is stoned enough for the both of us," Angel mumbled.


Stranger In A Strange Land

XXXtreme Machine

Sept. 15, 2003

Backstage, a man with blue hair, wearing a wife beater, ripped jeans and boots of some sort stood still. He spun around in a circle, as if he didn't know where in the hell he was. Then he did it again, but this time he tripped over his own feet.

"ow siht"

The stranger pushed himself up, well, tried to at least. Then he spun around, got on his knees and pushed himself up a little easier this way.

"wer teh fuk m i"

He suddenly became startled by approaching voices. He spied a big gray crate and ran for it. After a couple seconds fumbling with the locks, he popped it open and jumped inside, quickly closing himself inside.


StylesKurt Angel

[Back to Styles' basement.]

KA: What the frick is XXXtreme Machine doing in my Best of Kurt Angel DVD?

Styles: Padding. Plus, we didn't know what else to do with the footage. It'll all tie in, I swear.

KA: I can swear, too, Styles. Darn! Frick! Heck!

Styles: My dainty ears. Let's keep the good times rolling with some more stuff!


City Of, Act I

Kurt Angel

Sept. 15, 2003

Images of the Albuquerque nightlife were shown in a quick montage as a narrator began to speak.

"Albuquerque. The city shines like a beer sign in a bar. Tempting you to get drunk and hit on strange, ugly women. It attracts strange things. Not just wrestling shows. Not false. So not false. But there are things that a lot of people never see. And that's where I come in. I think. Me? I'm here because this is where the action is."

Daytime. Just down the block from the stadium where tonight's show will be taking place, was, oddly, a bar. Inside that bar was that glowing sign. Also in that bar was the man who last week attacked Trey Vincent.

That man's name just happens to be Kurt Angel.

"I once had a girl. She was hot too. But I don't remember sleeping with her. Everything is so fuzzy about my past now. But I think she was sexy. Kind of like how sexy you are," Angel told the cash register, not even realizing he was talking to a cash register.

Angel turned around and looked at a young woman with long blonde hair, leaning in for a shot. She wrapped her lips around the shot glass and leaned her head back lightning-quick, swallowing the boozy goodness. Angel smiled at that feat.

"Drinking is fun. Say, why don't we get out of here and I can get my hands in your drawers," Angel told the cash register.

"OK, buddy, you've had enough to drink. Get out of my bar," one of the bartenders told Angel.

Angel turned around and saw the blonde, and a few guys, also leaving.

"You, are a very beautiful man," Angel said. "I'm out of here like I was thrown out!"

"You were!" the bartender said, half-serious, half-jokingly.

Outside, the girl and five guys were walking down an alley, when suddenly, things went wrong for her.

"Hey baby, you're coming with us!"

Three of them grabbed the girl, while the other two grabbed her purse. She tried to scream, but there was a hand on her mouth. And it smelled funny, she noticed. Kind of like how her hand smelled when she woke up in the morning.

"Excuse me, fellas. Have you seen my wings?" Angel said, walking down the alleyway. "It's weird. I had them a while ago, and now I don't. And I sure as heck don't want to earn them again."

"Get lost," one of the men warned Angel.

"Actually, that was my next question. I am lost. Where's the nearest drug dealer? I sure could use some chronic."

"Well, you may just have to settle for some chronic pain. Get him boys."

They tossed the girl into the wall and charged at Angel. Angel kicked one of them in the chest, sending him flying through a plate glass window that was leaning against the wall. Angel ducked down and backdropped the second guy into a Dumpster.

The third guy charged, but Angel grabbed him.

Belly to belly suplex on the concrete!

The fourth guy charged.

Angel tripped him.

ANGEL LOCK! He twisted on the ankle until the man was begging for mercy.

And then there was only the fifth guy. Angel invited him to come and get some.

Instead, he ran away. So Angel picked up a nearby baseball, wound up and sent a fly ball deep...

KONK

Fifth guy down.

The girl struggled to her feet.

"How can I ever repay you?" she asked as her purse tipped over, spilling out prescription pills, needles, packages of cocaine and a plastic bag full of weed.

"Oh, I think I know a way," Angel said with a big goofy smile.

City Of, Act II

Kurt Angel entered a dark, secluded bathroom in the stadium. Then he turned on the lights and it wasn't so dark. He headed for the throne, but suddenly noticed something. A reflection in the mirror. And a body in front of the mirror to match.

"Howdy, partner," Angel greeted. "Nice day for a wrestling event, isn't it?"

"What's up, Angel?"

"Do I know you?"

"You should. Name's Kordell. Kordell Cronin. Remember BOB?"

Angel raised his eyebrows. "Bob who? Say, you're not black, are you?"

"That's a nice thing to ask. I'm half black, half white. My mother was black. But that's not the point. Not a guy named Bob. Brawlers On a Budget. The federation. You were THE ONLY WORLD CHAMPION THAT MATTERS there.

"BOB...BOB...nope, sorry. I really need to poop. Excuse me, huh?"

"Well, let me tell you a little story then. About a guy named Kurt Angel."

"OK." *Pffffffffft* came the noise from inside the stall.

"There once was a guy who lived. He was a badass. He did drugs. Alcohol. Women. Even a bowl of Jell-o once I heard. And he was an amateur wrestling phenom."

*PPPPPPPPFffffffft*

"He roamed the land. And then died under mysterious circumstances. Went to Heaven by some fluke. I guess it was because you were such a nice guy. Or because people who do sports really are better than regular people. But then, you got caught smoking doobies under the apple tree in the Garden of Eden."

"Oh yeah, I remember that," Angel said. "God was mighty pissed over that one."

"So he sent you to BOB. He told you to win the title or spend a year there, which ever came first."

"That wacky God..." Angel mused. *Pffffft* Plop. "Ahhhh."

"So, you did your time there. Won some matches. Met up with Trey Vincent. And beat him for that title. You ascended to what you thought was Heaven. Now, you're in Action."

"So, this isn't Heaven?" Angel asked as he flushed the toilet and walked out of the stall, heading for the sink to wash his hands.

"Um, no. Not quite. But the ratings are much better than BOB."

"What's the point of this story?"

"I was sent here by The Powers To Be."

"Who are they?"

"The Powers To Be? I dunno. I think they're from New York. Kind of obnoxious."

"I see..."

"Anyway, the Powers To Be told me I could find you here. I saw it in a vision. I get high and then the Powers To Be send me visions of people who are in need of help. They had all been me before, since, well, I'd get these brutal headaches and have to get to the hospital. But then, just a week ago, I got a vision of you. The man in white. Action needs a comedy hero. And you answered the call."

"Wow. Great story. What's next?"

"Next, you're going to help somebody. You're gonna pretend to be a wrestler for the next year or so, and if you complete your redemption, you can come back to Heaven." Kordell handed Angel a piece of paper. "That's all I know about tonight's case. Her name is Claire and she works for Action. And she's in trouble of some sort. This is Albuquerque."

"Pretend to be a wrestler? That's one thing I'll never have to pretend. I guess I better get to worky then. Er, work," Angel said, leaving Kordell in the men's room.

City Of, Act III

Kurt Angel was outside. He looked around the outside of the technical area. He looked around and sipped at a cup of Hawaiian punch. He guzzled the goodness down and then tossed the cup away. That was when a woman dressed in blue and gray, including an Action baseball cap, walked by him.

"Tickle your ass with a feather," Angel said.

"What did you say?" the woman asked.

"Particularly nasty weather," Angel said, looking up at the cloudless sky on the warm night.

"Yeah, it's, brutal?" the woman said, sounding confused.

"So, um, are, you, like, you know....a lesbian or anything?"

"Are you trying to hit on me?" she asked. "Because if you are, that's the worst attempt I've seen since...." She stopped and looked hard at him. "OH MY GOD! Kurt? Is that you?"

"Yes. Have we met before?"

"Claire! Claire Voyant! Don't you remember me? You used to ask me out all the time in high school and I'd knock your books on the floor and then put my cigarette out on your head and set your hair on fire when you'd go to pick them up! How are you? I see your hair grew back in, except in that, oh, one spot there..."

"Oh...you...well, nice to see you again. So, you still a bitch?"

"There's not really a cure for that," she said.

"Right. Right. Well, I should go. I have to uh, help somebody who deserves it."

"I'm sure we'll run into each other all the time now! After all, you being the wrestler guy and me being the assistant to the assistant producer for Action. Yep. Everything is going great for me. How about you?"

"Died. Kicked out of Heaven. Went to Hell. Now I'm here. But, hey, I gotta go. Seriously. And very far away."

"OK. See you soon!"


StylesKurt Angel

[Back to the studio.]

KA: Where the frick is Act IV?

Styles: Well, Kurt, Trey Vincent wouldn't allow his likeness to appear here if he wasn't getting paid for it. Not that we'll make any money off this anyway.

KA: Darn Vincent to heck!

Styles: Let's move along.


Lonely Hearts, Act I

Kurt Angel

Sept. 22, 2003

Stardom often changes a person. One week, a man could be a well-spoken half-black, half-white fellow, the son of a black mother and a white father. The next week he could be a poorly-spoken half-black, half-white fellow, with the same parents. Such was the plight of one Kordell Cronin. One week ago, he was white. Pure white.

This week? Well, he's reverted to his half-black roots. Either that or he just has multiple-personality disorder which really would explain a lot.

"Hey bitch," Sleazy-C greeted a woman backstage. She was dressed in a blue on blue police uniform. An average blonde, average body, cute face. He was dressed in baggy jeans, a blue and gray flannel shirt, an LA Dodgers hat and sunglasses.

"Are you talking to me?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"Yeah, bitch, Imma talkin 2 u. Wassup? U wanna drop those panties and get down to bizness?"

"Is that supposed to be some sort of pick-up line?"

"Belee that."

She paused and looked at him. "You packing a gat?" she asked.

"You may regret gettin caught wit it, but itz betta 2 b caught than b caught without 1, u know?"

That's when she pulled out a silver handgun and pointed it at his face. "Funny, I have the same philosophy."

"Awww, phuck. Dont tell me u a cop bitch!"

"What gave it away?"

"Kordell?" a voice called, followed by running feet steps. "What the frick is going on here, miss cop lady?" Kurt Angel asked the officer.

"Imma just tryna make a connection, u know, u know, u know, u knowwwwwwww, u know. Get up in that puss--"

"Hold on there, buster. What have you done with Kordell."

"Kordell? That cracka? Phuck that cracka man, all tha bitches want real niggaz!"

"OK, I have no clue what you just said, Kordell, can you translate that to English, and without the n-word? And could you please put your gun away, ma'am?" Angel asked the woman. "And who are you anyhow?"

"My name is Inutu," said the officer.

"Inutu? You're not from around here, are you? That's an odd name."

"Because Kurt Angel is such a normal name? But yeah. It's Dutch. I'm from Amsterdam."

"Nice. They have legal pot there!" Angel exclaimed.

"I'm the wrestling police officer. You know, like how LLB is the wrestling lawyer."

"That's cool," Inutu said. "I'm a fake cop. Just like you're a fake angel."

"Hey, hold on a second there missy..." Angel started.

"And he's a fake black man."

"Imma tru jobba, muthaphucka! Jobbaz 4 life, biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii *deep inhale* iiiiiiiiiiiiiitch!"

"OK, everyone to my locker room. We're all gonna sit down, smoke a doobie, drink some Hawaiian Punch and then smoke another doobie and drink some more Hawaiian Punch, and then we'll all be cool."

"Will she suck my--"

Sleazy suddenly found the pistol in his mouth.

"Suck on this, bitch," Inutu told him. "What's the matter, can't talk with a gun in your mouth?"

Angel pulled the gun out of his mouth. "Golly, this is going to take three doobies, I think. We'll make a connection, alright. Puff puff give. We'll be one with the earth. C'mon."

Meanwhile, backstage...

After some bright flashing blue lights, a figure stood with his back to the camera.

White hair.

Skinny.

Annoying.

He turned around to reveal cheeks that light up like Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer.

Dear God, the antichrist has arrived!

"At last I have arrived. WHOOOO! Time to go find Angel! WHOOO!"

David BY GOD Flair is in Action?!!!???!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

Lonely Hearts, Act III

At a table in a retro-style bar sat all the new additions to Kurt Angel's team. Except for XXXtreme Machine. They were gonna send him back as soon as they found one of those pesky portals. They were listening to a depressing rendition of "Over the Rainbow" being performed. As if there is any kind of other version of that one.

"Ahh, welcome to the new wacky variety show known as Action," a woman said as she took an empty chair near Kurt Angel.

"Kara. Good to see you. Everyone. This is Kara Yoki. She's Japanese," Angel said, pointing out the obvious to all of them sitting there.

"Damn, what's that loser's damage?" Claire asked, staring at the performer.

"Hello, Angel," a male voice greeted him from behind him. He spun around and looked up.

"Hi there."

"Do you know who I am?"

"The antichrist?"

"No. David Flair. But close enough. I've brought you all together here for a reason. We have a purpose. "

"We established this all last week, David. I'm here to help people while using Action as a cover story. They're all here for comedy relief. So I don't know why you're here. Seeing as how you suck and all," Angel said, getting a laugh out of the entire Team Angel.

"I'm funny. And I can help. I used to be a Commentator, you know."

"Did you? How'd that work out for you? Where is Eliza these days? Jail? And Sarah? In hell? Did The Entertainment fire your ass?"

"No. Well, yes. But."

"Well, let me tell you something, Flair. If I ever need a guy with big red cheeks, I'll give you a call."

"But...WHOOO?" Flair asked.

"Oh go whoo yourself," Claire said.

David turned around and started to leave. "Well, fine. I just figured you might want to start helping, oh, I don't know, your COUSIN!"

"My...WHA????" Angel asked in shock. "Spill it, Flair. And I don't mean your bladder, buster."

"Why, he's right there singing the karaoke song there."

"He has a sad aura," Kara said. "I've sung at enough weddings to recognize a sad aura."

"Well, fine, you're on Team Angel. Simply because I can slap you around a lot when I'm bored," Angel told Flair.

"Say, Flair, do you know anything about portals? This guy really stinks," Wilma asked.

"Portals? I can help with that," Kara said.

"Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiitch!" Sleazy yelled for no apparent reason.

"So, who is he?" Wilma asked either Flair or Angel.

"His name is Kurt. Kurt Kobain."

"Now remember, Kurt, you must help anybody who comes along and beware of the curse."

"Got it...the what?"

"Curse," Flair said. "Oh yeah, if you experience a moment of true anger, you'll become evil. And remember, you only have a year to get on the good side of God again. He'll only give you so many chances."

"Wow, that sucks," Claire said. "What are you gonna do, Angel?"

Angel's reply was simple: "Why do you think I'm doing so many drugs?"


In The Dark, Act I

Kurt Angel Little Good

Oct. 6, 2003

On the mean streets of Anaheim, California, a hero was at it again. A woman was kneeling, in terror, on the street, as a man in a white trenchcoat, white jeans and a white T-shirt battled off two men wearing WWE T-shirts. Angel was put back on Earth to protect the fans of Action, so they might not watch any other federation than Action. To avert an apocalypse of apocalyptic proportions.

Apparently, Action is the choice among the Powers To Be. And this girl was a fan of Action, proudly wearing a Jeff Garvin T-shirt.

With the fight done, the camera zoomed up, moving from an overhead shot to a very high overhead shot. Eventually, the camera paused behind the shoulder of a man on the roof.

From the roof, the camera once again focused on Angel and the lady talking, but you couldn’t hear the voices. So, the man on the roof provided commentary.

“Please help me! I love Jeff Garvin,” the English fellow mocked, pretending to be the girl. “I’m glad to save you, little lady,” he said, mocking Angel.

The camera briefly showed the sneering face of the man with the peroxide blonde hair. This man had never appeared on an Action show before. Then the camera returned to the imaginary conversation the English man was having with the hero and the bird on the street.

“(Woman) How can I repay you? (Angel) No need. Unless you got some heroin I can shoot up. (Woman) A drug addict is a hero? (Man) I’ve got to do drugs because I can’t get angry or I’ll end up back in hell. Otherwise known as Brawlers On a Budget.”

That’s when the camera returned on the English fellow.

“That’s right, Angel. You belong back in BOB. Trey Vincent wants to bring you down. I just may be the man to do it. The Little Good has arrived to do little good for this federation. And for your sorry bleedin’ career. And Angel. You got something of mine. And I ain’t leaving Anaheim without my ring. The Ring Of Jobborah. We’re gonna settle this mate. Tonight.”

On the ground, Angel could swear he heard an English man speaking. That’s when he looked up and saw the blonde guy. “Hey! It’s that British dude I know from somewhere! Why are you in Anaheim?” Angel shouted up at Little Good.

“BLOODY HELL!”

Little Good ran away. Angel gazed up at the roof in wonder.

In The Dark, Act II

Mike MonroeXXXtreme Machine

In the Reed Young Memorial Library at Arrowhead Pond, Angel walked in to see Kordell Cronin (the white half of Sleazy-C) and Claire Voyant sitting and talking.

“Hey, boss,” Kordell greeted.

“Kordell. You’re back,” Angel noticed.

“Only half.”

Pause.

“Oh, you said ‘back.’ I thought you said black. My bad.”

“There was a girl I just saved outside. Some WWE cronies were trying to make her watch Raw.”

“Bastards,” Claire said, shaking her head. “Nobody should be subjected to that rubbish. Especially when Action is on the air.”

“Not false, so not false,” Angel said, picking up a cup of Hawaiian Punch and drinking it down quickly.

“whn r u gonn snd me homo?” XXXtreme Machine asked.

“Golly, are you still here?” Angel said in surprise. “Man, if only somebody from BOB would walk into the room right now.”

Everyone looked toward the entrance.

Nothing.

“Oh well. So, whenever that happens, I guess you’d be free to go. You’re not a prisoner here.”

“y m I drest lyke 1 thn?” he asked, pointing at his orange jumpsuit. And then jingling the handcuffs attached to his wrists.

“I meant you’re not a prisoner in the terms of you’re not in a prison,” Angel said, wiping the red liquid off his lips.

“o sh9t” he said in incoherent disappointment.

That’s when the door opened. In walked (to save time) a man named Mike Monroe. He is an announcer in Brawlers On a Budget, a crappy low budget federation.

“Hello everyone,” Mike greeted.

“Mike,” replied Angel.

David Flair walked into the library next. “Hey, I know you. You’re just a lowly announcer. I’m a Rogue Commentator! WHOO!”

Monroe punched Flair in the face, knocking him to the ground.

“Anyhow. I’m here on business. I have this for you,” Monroe said, walking over to Angel. It was a small jewelry box. Inside was a ring.

“Mike, I appreciate it, but I don’t swing that way,” Angel said, taking a few steps away from Monroe.

“Oh, no, Angel, no. This is a gift from Sarah ‘The Jobber Slayer.’”

“Who?”

“You remember,” Monroe said, confused by Angel’s lack of memory. “Blonde girl. Cute. Talks funny.” He pulled out a VCR tape. “I brought a tape of her so you might remember your past.”

“Well, I have done a lot of drugs.”

“Just, make sure you watch it in the next few days. The tape it’s on is from 1982 and doesn’t have much longer before it disintegrates.”

“Hey, isn’t Kay Fabe’s boyfriend supposed to deliver the tape?” David Flair asked.

Punch

“I was the closest thing that Kay has had to a boyfriend. Since she’s a lesbian.”

“Well. Let me walk you to your inter-dimensional portal.”

“hye” XXXtreme Machine yelled.

“Oh yeah, take the smelly guy with the blue hair with you.”

“Must I?”

“Yes,” everyone in the room shouted.

XXXtreme Machine struggled to his feet and kicked Flair in the nuts for speaking.

Outside, as Angel, Cronin and Flair watched Monroe and XXXtreme Machine go into the portal (which was apparently out of camera range), Little Good attacked from behind, punching Flair in the face, finally knocking him out. Then Little Good kicked Cronin in the chest with a sidekick, sending him flying back into the library.

“Hey mate. Been a while,” Little Good said before punching Angel in the face, knocking him to the ground.

“It has,” Angel said, getting up and punching Little Good in the head. “Hey, you’re from BOB too! What the frick is going on? Why are all you people bothering me?” Angel asked, picking up an aluminum garbage can and hitting Little Good over the head with it.

Little Good fell backward. “I want my bloody ring,” Little Good said, grabbing a 2x4 and hitting Angel in the stomach, then in the head.

“Sorry, I don’t. have any, bloody rings,” Angel said, wheezing. “When will you learn,” Angel said, coughing and gasping for breath. “You’re no, match for me.”

“Oh, I may be a British, but eventually, I figured out the American way,” Little Good said. “Kidnapping and torture.”

“You’ll,” *cough* “never,” *wheezehack* “take me!”

“Right.”


Kurt Angel

[Back to the basement. It's even smokier than before.]

KA: That's why...I say...frick it...


The Building Falls To Pieces, Act I

Kurt Angel

October 13, 2003

After a big giant scary editing flash and pounding noise, Team Angel sat peacefully in the new and improved Reed Young Memorial Action Library. Angel sat peacefully reading the latest issue of the New York Times, while Claire Voyant typed away on a laotop computer. Kordell Cronin, meanwhile, was smoking “something that’s not at all illegal” according to Action attorneys and sipped on a drink in a cup.

This is the WB after all.

“You know, I really don’t get why we’re here,” Claire told her fellow team members. “I mean, we’re making less than anybody else on the roster, and we’re stuck with Angel — no offense — when it’s your job to live out your punishment in curtain jerking land. You’ll never be a true champion if you’re a curtain jerker.”

Without looking away from the newspaper, Angel replied. “It’s not about being a champion. It’s about not being a champion to become a champion.”

“And what’s the dilly with the whole dog thing? He peed all over my new blouse last week.”

Now, Angel put the paper down and left it on his lap.

“It’s not a dog. It’s a puppy. You know how all jobbers, most people look at them like they’re inhuman.”

“Like Sean Cylear?” Claire asked.

“Exactly! You see, jobbers usually are all about collecting a pay check and sucking. But when you have a puppy, it kind of forces you to care about the fans and the other wrestlers. And if you have a puppy, the fans get just sense it in you, and they respond to you. Unlike how guys like Barry Horowitz and Justin Credible didn’t have puppies.”

“That is so stupid.”

“I may not be human. But at least I have a puppy,” Angel said, looking at Claire.

“I don’t WANT a puppy! I want a cat. I like how they curl up in my lap.”

“That’s only because they smell the tuna fish.”

“Kordell” Claire shouted.

“Uh oh.” Cronin stood up and looked around before falling to the floor. Angel and Claire looked at him as he convulsed on the floor.

“You think we should, uh, get some help or something?” Claire asked.

“Oh! I think he’s having a vision! He said he gets visions from the Powers To Be when he’s smoking.”

“Well, I think he got a free concussion on the side.”

“Whooooa homez. That was some crazy stuff.”

“What did you see?” Angel asked.

“I saw something big. And red. And ugly as hell. It had a scar on his, uh, right glass jaw. Or cheek. Do glasses have cheeks? He looked like a jack-o-lantern, if jack-o-lanterns could have lazy eyes.”

“Wait, he had a what on a what? Who are we supposed to help? Who is in trouble?” Angel asked.

“Nobody. We’re the ones in trouble?”

“Are you asking us or telling us we’re in trouble?” Angel asked, sounding a tad confused and frustrated.

“I think so?” Cronin answered. He suddenly stood up straight and cleared his throat. “On a completely unrelated note, I sure am thirsty. Do we have any more Kool-Aid?” Kordell wondered.

That’s when the trouble started. There was a loud rumbling and then all of a sudden the wall exploded. As chunks of dust, sparks, concrete and wood went flying in all directions, the intruder, who could be best described as a giant glass pitcher containing a red liquid and possessing arms and legs, shouted his trademark catchphrase:

OH YEAH!

“Oh, God,” is all Angel could reply.

kØØl-aid man had arrived in Action!

The Building Falls To Pieces Act II

The Action Library, and Team Angel’s home base, was in pieces. It had literally fallen to pieces. There was a gigantic pitcher and leg shaped hole in one side of the structure. Angel stared through it, looking completely stumped. Confused, even.

"How does he do it?" Angel wondered.

"How does he do what?" Claire asked.

"How does he crash through the walls and not spill one drop of Kool-Aid," Angel answered.

"Not to mention how does something made of GLASS destroy a wall without, I don’t know, shattering into bits. It’s like he has some sort of magic force field around himself."

Scene cut. Catering area. Inutu, dressed in a dark blue T-shirt bearing the Action logo and navy blue pants, was eating a powdered doughnut. She slowly paced around the empty room, looking at the other food and the total lack of nothing else of note. When she turned around, Angel was there. She jumped back, a bit startled.

"Angel. I didn’t...hear you. You’ve got the sort of look on your face like you’re either going to ask me out or ask me to be in your next porno flick."

"Actually, I was just wondering what that white stuff on your lips was..."

She quickly wiped the powder off. "It’s not, uh..."

"Cocaine?"

"Or that," she said, a tad relieved. "Um. What’s up?"

"There’s a guy. Well, a big pitcher, actually."

"Baseball? Is it Pedro Martinez?"

"No. I mean, like, a glass pitcher. That holds drinks and stuff. But this pitcher had arms and legs and a really goofy smile. And a scar. And a lazy eye."

"Hmm. That sounds oddly familiar. Except for the being a pitcher part. You’re sure it wasn’t just somebody in a baseball uniform? That would be much easier for me to believe."

"No. Sorry. The truth is out there, Inutu. Better get used to it now."

She walked over to a table with a laptop on it. Lucky that was there, ain’t it?

"I want to find out who he is. And who he’s parodying."

After some typing, Inutu had an answer. Angel looked at the screen.

"This is the most obscure parody ever. It’s supposed to be of erØn."

"Who?" Angel questioned, not knowing the name.

"Washed up guy. Big mouth. Little talent."

Angel shook his head, still not getting it. "Narrow it down a bit for me, will you?"

"I think he’s going to show up in the ring. You better get out there before he does."

"Good idea, Inutu. Say. Do you know where I could find some paper cups? Preferably with lids?"

"Paper cups?"

"To pour out kØØl-aid man and keep him separated. BOB decided to unleash the cancer, not upon Action, but upon me. Because they know this case is so stupid, I’m the only one who would dare be involved with it."

"BOB again?"

"Yep."

"kØØl-aid man is being bankrolled by BigBOSS."

"Why is BigBOSS waging a war with me when he can barely afford to pay his own wrestlers?"

Inutu shrugged. "Maybe we’ll find out in the fourth segment."

"I hope so! OK. I’ve got to go find paper cups. Thanks for your help."

The Building Falls To Pieces Act III

All heads turned toward the entryway as “Bad Blood” by Ministry hit the speakers. The words on the ActionTron hit: “kØØl-aid the Sugarless. Screw proper English I’m a heel, damnit!” Ah yes, it’s time for another parody segment, no doubt featuring this guy and Kurt Angel based on the “starring” line. kØØl-aid strutted down the aisle, carrying a microphone in his right hand. That part went great.

Then he got to the ring. He looked at his big glass belly, which was also his big glass face, and scratched his chin. What to do, what to do. The music cut off, but he still couldn’t get into the ring. So he decided to talk from the floor. He was about to start talking when a loud chorus of boos began playing over the speakers in the arena. kØØl-aid man smiled widely at the reaction.

Of course, he had been smiling widely the entire time.

“BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” came the reaction from the speakers.

“Tonight, I will BLEEPING BLEEP that BLEEPITY BLEEP BLEEP Angel!”

Yes, he was inserting his own bleeps for some reason.

“People have hated me for years. The man who crashes through walls, causing people to hire carpenters to fix their stupid, useless walls that get in my way and mock me! I mock you, walls! You people are stupid, with your stupid walls. It just shows me that you are all stupid, because you have walls and people, your walls are you. Walls that are past their prime. Moldy. I crash through them and unleash asbestos upon you all.

OH YEAH!

“People have called me many things. They ignore the good I do, the pouring of free glasses of Kool-Aid. They just point to my destructive history, the destroyed walls, the broken legs, the dead bodies. And all I can say is. It’s not my fault that your kid was in the line of fire. God was shooting the bullet, I just held the gun! It’s not my fault your pathetic house was built poorly. The architect was obviously a moron who couldn’t measure twice and cut once. If he wasn’t so busy jacking off in the basement and taking out ads about how good he is, maybe his house wouldn’t have crumbled around him when I stopped by.”

OH YEAH!

KØØl-aid man pointed at the ActionTron.

“Kurt Angel has called himself a hero. Well let me tell you what I am.”

The ActionTron then displayed, as kØØl-aid man listed them, the words one after another, on top of each other like a stack of things.

World's Greatest Failure
World's Greatest User
World's Greatest Coatailer
World's Greatest King of Cop Out
World's Greatest Egotist
World's Greatest Reject

OH YEAH!

“It’s true, marks. I am nothing more, nothing less, than words on a screen. Now, if Angel can take a break for smoking doobies, I will once and for all prove why he better start praying to Jebus. Because the evil Satanic scaaaaaary pitcher of red liquid is...”

“Earth Angel” hit the speakers, and the fans responded. A bit. Well, at least looking toward the entrance. Out stepped Kurt Angel to some cheers as he power walked down the aisle. Once near kØØl-aid man, Angel dropped the weights, took off his headband and grabbed a microphone of his own.

“Jimmy-frickin’-Christmas crucified on a bed of barbed wire nails! YOU SUCK!”

The fans popped for that. And then, responded, naturally, with a chant of “You suck” aimed in kØØl’s direction.

“kØØl-aid the sugarless, you are not an Olympic champion. I bet you’ve never even been to Heaven.”

“Heaven?” kØØl-aid interrupted. “If you want to believe in Heaven, good for you. You are a sheep. And if you believe in sheep, than I’m going to do something worse than any sheep beeper could ever do to a goat. And that’s shave your goatee. But I see you don’t have a goatee so I’ll let you grow one, and THEN shave it off. How about that, Angel? Angel. What are you? An angel? You’re a human. Look.”

He pokes Angel with a stick.

“If I stick you, do you not get sticked? If I talk, do I not bore you? If I exist, don’t you wish I wouldn’t? You see, I’ll beat you up. I’ll hurt you. And do really rotten evil stuff to you.”

That’s when a person dressed up as a big carton of egg nog and another guy dressed up as a slice of cheese ran down the aisle. They attacked Angel, knocking him to the floor and awkwardly stomped him. AWKWARD STOMP! AWKWARD STOMP! BY GAWD HELLFIRE AND BRIMSTONE, AWKWARD STOMP!

“You want to be a hero? You’re blood will run like kØØl-aid on the streets. Team Angel is going down,” kØØl-aid man vowed, as the trio of stupid gimmicks walked up the aisle to boos. Angel pulled himself up, grabbing at his aching body.

How was he going to fight the unstoppable glass pitcher and his milk-based henchmen?


[Back to Styles' smoky basement. "Us and Them" by Pink Floyd is blasting at full volume. And there are lasers. LASER FLOYD~!]

"Havent you heard its a battle of words
The poster bearer cried.
Listen son, said the man with the gun
Theres room for you inside.
"


The Bachelor Party, Act I

Nov. 3, 2003

Adam Nowell hated his life at the moment, because he had to endure a conversation with John Rocker.

"Man, fuckin' A. We're gonna go to the fuckin' ring, and we're gonna talk trash about every minority that happens to piss me the fuck off at the moment." Rocker said.

"Why do I allow you to breathe?" Nowell asked.

Oh yes, this was quite the witty conversation going on here.

"And, in fact, where the hell is Gwen O'Reily?” Nowell wondered. “At least she was of average intelligence and could easily help me mock your pathetic existence."

"Hey, fuck Gwen. She's from an alternate dimension. Alternate dimension people are the worst type of fuckin' minority." Rocker said.

That's when Nowell noticed the door to the Reed Young Action Memorial Library open up. Why they were in there? Chalk that up to writer's block. Anyway, in walked a woman so white she would have been the prototype for starting a white Aryan nation. Rocker turned around.

"Hey, you!" Rocker said.

"Hey, John."

Nowell looked between the two.

"Angel, this is, uh, my ex-wife."

"I have a name," she said.

"Right. Mrs. Rocker. This is the fuckin' former Mrs. Rocker."

"You were married? With a real woman?" Nowell said with some degree of shock, "I am awash in a sea of confusion."

"John, listen. I brought the papers with me to finalize everything. It's everything we talked about. I get the house, half your money, the Toyota."

"The Chink-Mobile? Take it, honey. You know I ain't sittin' in anything some dragon-worshiper made."

Rocker took the papers and signed them. The door opened again. This time, in walked Kurt Angel. He walked up beside John Rocker's very-soon-to-be-ex-wife and put his arm around her waist. "Hey Nowell. Rocker. Love bucket."

"Ah, you're so sweet," the white, white woman said to Angel.

"What in the fuckin' hell is this?"

"Oh, golly, you didn't get the chance to tell him yet? I'm marrying your ex-wife," Kurt Angel said.

"You can't marry her. I bet you don't even know her name," Rocker said.

"Of course I do. It's—"

That's when the future Mrs. Angel sneezed. "Excuse me."

"God bless you," Kurt Angel said to his new "love interest."

Nowell was confused, looked at Angel, and then pointed at Nowell while still looking directly at Angel, "Uh, you are aware that THIS IDIOT was HER husband, right? She's probably already tainted."

"I realize that," Kurt said. "But everyone should be given a second chance, Nowell. That's something you should learn to do instead of just hitting everybody and then stabbing them through the heart with a rubber stake."

"No, I just hit everybody." Nowell said.

"But anyway, Mr. Rocker. I realize that you're on the 'heel' side with Mr. Nowell. But, since I'm marrying your ex-wife, I'd like to at least invite you to the bachelor party. Which is, tonight, coincidentally enough. There will be plenty of drugs and alcohol at the party. Plus, it's kind of a family tradition."

"You want to invite me to your fuckin' party?" Rocker said, scratching his chin, then his balls, then his ass. "Well, fine, as long as I can bring him as my date," he said, pointing at Nowell, then scratching his balls again.

Nowell paused, "Wait, hold the HELL on. I'm not your damn date!"

"I guess that's OK with me as long as it's OK with the next Mrs. Angel," Kurt said.

"Sure, whatever," she said.

"Great, then we're agreed. See you guys later," Angel said, leading his new love out of the library.

Nowell turned to Rocker with contempt in his eyes, "I hate you so much right now. I'm not even joking."

"Don't worry, I won't try any faggy shit with you, boss," Rocker said heading toward the exit, leaving Nowell alone to brood.

Nowell looked up seconds later, "Dammit, I'm not brooding!"

The Bachelor Party, Act II

Team Angel sat around the kitchen area of the karaoke club where the bachelor's party for Kurt Angel was about to take place. The crew consisted of Claire Voyant, the bitch; Inutu, the disgruntled security officer; Sleazy-C, the angry half-black/half-white man; David Flair, the anti-Christ; Wilma, the mousy librarian; Kara Yoki, the owner of the club; Kurt Kobain, Angel's broody cousin. Also standing at the doorway was Adam Nowell, a man who is definitely *not* Angel, and definitely not part of this sad-sack crew.

"Planning is hard work," Claire decided. "I mean, other than David's idea for me to strip off all my clothes to distract Nowell when he gets here, we have zilch to stop this guy. We've got to make sure that Rocker gets the unholy crap beaten out of him, and we can't let Nowell stop that."

"Whoo!" David Flair said.

"If you ask me, you should use blow torches on Rocker." Nowell said from the doorway.

"Oh, I like that idea," Wilma said. "I mean, after all, if we really want to cause Rocker a severe amount of pain, why not cause that pain with a severe amount of fire."

"I hope those won't trigger the sprinklers," Kara said to nobody in particular. "Thank God I painted over them with black spray paint."

"Yo, y not jus get a gat n shoot da phuckin cracka ded?" Sleazy-C said.

"Torture is so much more fun," Flair said. "That poor girl was young, she didn't realize Rocker was the Clown Prince of Darkness. Angel is trying to help her, and also weaken Nowell's backup. Whoo!"

"You know, here's one I picked up from Kiefer Sutherland... you could shove a towel down his throat, let his stomach digest it, and then yank the towel out with his stomach lining." Nowell said, idly, as if he didn't really care about the fate of John Rocker in particular.

"How about you let him leave in this depressing spot of hell you people call Earth,” Kurt Kobain said as he stared at the floor, looking like he wanted to beat the fuck out of the floor. “How about you let him live. You let him pay the ultimate price, of living among the very people he most despises. Everyone. To live long being hated and spit on for the simple reason that he was born."

"Depressed much?" Claire asked Kobain. "Wanna do me?"

"Well, us security guards can be really mean,” Inutu said. “Once, we made this guy we brought in watch ‘Halloween III: Season of the Witch.’”

Everyone groaned in disgust.

"That's EVIL!" Flair yelled.

"You could always make him watch ‘Battlefield Earth,’” Nowell suggested with a shudder, then he shuddered even more when he came up with his next suggestion, “Or ‘Glitter.’”

"Nice suggestion, Kurt," Flair said.

"I didn't suggest that you piece of human garbage," Kobain replied.

"You didn't suggest that? Hmm. Sleazy?"

"Do I sound like a muthaphuckin white boy?"

"Completely. Well, if you both didn't suggest it, and I didn't suggest it..." Everyone looked over at Nowell, as if for the first time realizing that Nowell had been in the room with them this entire time.

"I think it's rather obvious who did suggest that idea.” Flair paused and looked at Claire. “Claire."

"What? Hello? Do I sound like a guy? No. You know what I think? I think there is somebody else in here with us."

"You think?" Wilma asked.

"Hmm. Interesting theory. Do you think he heard the whole plan about how we're going to put John Rocker into a room filled with people who took offense at his trashing of their race? Because if he heard that much, well, we might have to attack him, and I really don't want to get knocked out again," Flair said, pouting.

"You can attack me all you want, just let me punch that idiot in the face." Nowell said, pointing at David Flair.

Flair looked around and then darted for the meat locker. He pulled and pulled on the damn thing, but it refused to budge. Frantic, he spun around and stared at Nowell, who really hadn't moved but an inch, and Flair became even more frantic, scratching and clawing at the door. Finally it opened, thanks to Kobain, who easily yanked the big metal door open wide. He then resumed his deadly serious eyeing of the floor.

"If you want me, Nowell, you'll have to come and get me!" Flair shouted, backing up slowly into the meat locker.

Everyone else turned and looked at Nowell, who shrugged, picked up a nearby trash can, and flung it directly at David Flair, making sure to aim it so it didn't touch anyone else except David Flair. So, naturally, David Flair took the trash can right in the face and was thrown right into the very back of the meat locker from the impact.

Nowell smiled, "Okay, Kobain, you can close the door, now."

Kobain did so.

"I suppose you're going to go out there, kick open a door, make a superhero-ish quip, beat up Angel and then save your sidekick, huh?" Wilma asked nervously.

"You're right up until the part where I save John Rocker. I'll even stall for you people to torture the living hell out of him, if you want," Nowell said.

"Wow, what a shady character," Claire said. "And what an awful haircut. Look. I'm cold. I'm going home. Anybody who wants a ride, come with me. I'm sick of getting beat up for Angel."

Everyone got up and filed past Nowell. "Stop mocking me, floor!" Kobain screamed out before he joined the rest of his team. David Flair was safely taken care of in the meat locker. Angel's back-up was gone. Adam Nowell had vanquished Team Angel. Only one last thing left to do...

The Bachelor Party, Act III

Rocker was surprised when he stepped onstage and saw a pretty good amount of people seated in the audience of the karaoke bar — considering what a loser Kurt Angel was. Rocker couldn't see their faces since the lights were focused on him and the house lights were turned down low. Angel had suggested Rocker sing a song to kick off the festivities, to get the party started. Rocker, eager to start drinking heavily, had agreed. And there is your backstory.

"Let's give it up for John Rocker, everyone," Kurt Angel announced from somewhere in the audience.

Rocker decided, for some reason, to start off with a "joke." "Hey, where are all my black friends tonight? Smile."

Dead silence.

"Oh, that's right! You can't fuckin' smile cause you don't have any TEETH!"

The only sound in the audience was the chugging of a failed attempt at starting a chainsaw.

Rocker adjusted the collar of his baseball jersey, "Anyway, I fuckin' suggested this song be played `cause I hate minorities! It happens to be called I'm Afraid Of Minorities, but don't be fuckin' fooled, `cause I'll personally slap the piss out of any chink, nigger, or Chinaman I happen to come the fuck across!"

With that, the song "I'm Afraid of Americans" hit. Rocker was ready to do his own, special rendition of that song, but not even three seconds later, the song was abruptly cut and the house lights came on full force.

"What... the... fuck...?" came Rocker's response, because he was face-to-face with every single minority ever thought possible, all wielding brutal devices of pain in their hands.

Rocker dropped his microphone.

"You know what, Rocker? These 'foreigners,' as you like to call them, and that's one of your nicer words, don't appreciate being degraded every week on Pressure Point by you. Rocker. You're screwed. Not false. SO not false!"

The crowd rose to their feet, ready to start the chopping, bruising, breaking and killing of Rocker. But before they could reach the stage, they paused in their quest at the sound of a shattering door, kicked in by none other than....

Adam Nowell.

"Hey." Nowell said, simply.

"Mr. Nowell. Come to enjoy the show?" Angel asked in typical sarcastic "you've just interrupted me mid-scheme and now you're gonna become part of the show" type of way.

"Hell yeah," Nowell said, pulling up a seat close to front row, before he smiled, propped his feet up on stage, and turned to Kurt Angel, "Got any popcorn or alcoholic beverages? I'm gonna enjoy watching them beat the hell out of Rocker."

Rocker's face dropped, "You fuckin' piece of shit!"

The camera zoomed in on Nowell as the crowd let out a mighty roar. Angel walked over with a bottle of Cristal Champagne to Nowell and handed him a jumbo tub of popcorn. In the background, there were sounds of Rocker swearing, shouting, yelling, roaring, crying and screaming to accompany sounds of jackhammers, drills, hammers, electric saws and other power and basic tools being thrust against Rocker's skull.

"Thank you." Nowell said, before he tossed a few kernels of popcorn up into the air and caught them in his mouth, enjoying the violence that was being executed on John Rocker.

"And critics say violence is a BAD thing." Angel shook his head, smiling like a goof as he watched the foreigners unleash unholy hell upon Rocker.


Kurt Angel

[Styles' basement.]

KA: Here's some more stuff!


Carson Nash v. Adam Nowell

Nov. 10, 2003

UNTOUCHABLE

The word flashed across the ActionTron, and the fans booed for Carson Nash had he brushed through the curtains and raised his arms, all while "Counterfeit God" by the Black Label Society began to play. The man who refered to himself as Untouchable certainly hasn't been able to live up to his name, dropping his debut to Jeff Garvin and a match to Bret Halloway two weeks ago. Neverthless, Nash was intent on garnering his first victory in Action! Wrestling.

The 6'7" Nash entered the ring, and prepared for his match tonight. He wouldn't have to wait long, as the guitar riffs of Seether's "Gasoline" hit. Fans were confused, since nobody used that song, up until a somewhat pleased-looking Adam Nowell strolled out from the back. The former Asylum Team Champion wore a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt that just happened to say "CARSON NASH: LIKE KEVIN, ONLY CRAPPIER." in white lettering.

Nash grunted at Nowell, not exactly thrilled with the comparison. He made a mental note to killify him horribly.

Nowell entered the ring and completely ignored referee Mark Shields as he simply brushed past him, climbed up a turnbuckle, and raised his arms to the crowd, garnering a mixed, slightly negative reaction.

Nowell hopped off of the turnbuckles and prepared for his contest with Carson Nash.

Nash was a large fellow, as previously stated. In fact, he was only second to Bradley Duncan in terms of who was the biggest man in Action! Wrestling. However, Nowell had expierence, a kickboxing background, and an Asylum Team Title reign to his credit. Sure, he gave up thirty or so pounds and seven inches in height, but that surely didn't bother the Lakeside resident.

Shields rang the bell, and the fight was on.

Nash was expecting a collar-and-elbow tieup and whatnot, but the unorthodox Nowell sidestepped him almost immediately, and as he went, he kicked Carson Nash right the stomach with a middle kick. Nash staggered backwards, and ate another middle kick, this time with Nowell's other leg, right in the back.

This brought Nash down to one knee, but he was soon back to his vertical base. Nowell went for another big kick, but Nash caught the foot and simply pushed Nowell onto his back. Nowell, ever the tough one, was right back to his feet, but Nash simply caught him with a hard knee in the stomach to stun Nowell. A second knee strike further stunned Nowell enough for Nash to get in an Irish whip. Nash went right for a big time clothesline, but Nowell wasn't stunned enough to not see it coming, and he quickly ducked it. Nowell bounced off of the opposite ropes and flew towards Nash with a flying forearm.

It connected, knocking down the big man.

Nowell quickly crawled over and made the lateral press.

One.

Two.

KICKOUT WITH AUTHORITY.

Nowell was thrown from Nash upon the kickout. The twenty-eight year old Lakeside resident grumbled at Mark Shields to count faster, before he waited for Nash to get to his feet again. When Carson Nash did, indeed, get to his feet, Nowell went for his Roundhouse Kick a little early. Nash blocked it before the kick could rip his head off.

THUD!

And that's when Nash made Nowell pay with a lariat.

Nash stood up, shaking off the effects of the brief amount of punishment that he had sustained at the hands of Adam Nowell, before he went on the attack with a few stomps to Nowell's ribs before he lifted up the man who was sometimes called the "Jobber With A Puppy" even though he had no puppy and wasn't a jobber, and he grasped his head before he dropped to the canvas with a neckbreaker.

Quickly did Nash make the cover.

One.

Two.

Shoulder.

Nowell remained in the game, but Nash had control. The man known as Untouchable pulled Nowell up to his feet again and landed a hard right hand or two to Nowell's face. However, to Nowell, that was simply an invite to brawl some more, so Nowell popped off a few right hands of his own. The two men ended up engaging in a slugfest before Nash took control again with a knee strike.

Nash then grasped Nowell's arm and applied a Crippler Crossface in the center of the ring. Or, at least, he tried to. But Nowell blocked by landing on all fours and rolling forward. He got up quicker than Nash did and kicked Nash in the gut. He went for the Implant DDT, but the powerful Nash picked Nowell up off of the canvas and charged him straight into the corner, impacting Nowell's back onto the turnbuckles. Then Nash hooked Nowell's head and charged out of the corner.

ACE CRUSHER~!

Nash quickly rolled Nowell over and made the lateral press.

One.

Two.

THRE-SHOULDER!

Irritated that the Ace Crusher did not get the pinfall victory, Nash went right back into the Crippler Crossface, trying to force Nowell to tap out. However, while Nowell was in an intense amount of pain, he wasn't about to tap out for his second match in as few as four days. That's why Nowell fought to get to the ropes, scraping and clawing away at the canvas to move his own weight as well as the weight of Carson Nash towards the ropes.

Finally, however, Nowell grasped the bottom ropes, and Mark Shields immediately yelled at Carson Nash to break the hold. Nash grumbled to himself, citing that Nowell tapped out and that Shields was as blind as a bat.

Shields said no.

Nash grabbed Nowell by his spikey black hair and pulled him to his feet. He applied a double-handed choke and looked for the move that was called the Baldo Bomb or the Derailer, a double-handed chokeslam powerbomb. However, when Nash lifted Nowell up, he didn't count for the unpredicted series of punches to his skull from Nowell. However, Nash's grip still remained despite the fact that Shields was yelling at him to stop the chokehold.

Didn't matter.

THUD~!

BALDO BOMB.

Nash picked up Nowell's legs and held them up for the pin cover.

One.

TWO.

THRE-SHOULDER!

Again, Nowell got the shoulder up, and now Carson Nash was CONVINCED that Mark Shields not only was blind as a bat, but couldn't count to fucking three either. Neverthless, Carson had to keep up his offense. He pulled Nowell up to his feet and decided to go for the Rydeen Bomb.

Nowell blocked with a DDT.

Fans cheered ever-so-slightly, even though they didn't like Nowell too much.

Nowell used the assistance of the ropes to get to his feet, whereas Carson Nash simply got up on his own. He went for a right hand, but Nowell blocked with his left arm and went into an ULTRA COMBO OF TIGER UNLEASHING~!

RIGHT PUNCH!

LEFT PUNCH!

RIGHT BODY BLOW!

LEFT BODY BLOW!

UPPERCUT!

Nash was staggering. Effectively stunned, he didn't sense the following attack until it was too late to do anything about it.

ROUNDHOUSE KICK~!

Nowell wasn't tall enough to connect his Roundhouse Kick to Nash's head, but he caught him soundly in the high upper chest area of Nash, and that knocked Nash down. Quickly did Nowell cover.

One.

TWO.

THRE-SHOULDER!

Sarah "The Jobber Slayer"

At around this time did Sarah 'the Jobber Slayer', looking rather upset with Adam Nowell, stormed out from the back, armed with a banana.

"I'm coming, Ange--" and then she stopped when she saw Adam Nowell ducking Carson Nash's wild right hand and catching him with a released German suplex.

Sarah blinked.

"Where am I? Bizarro world?" Sarah asked herself.

Nowell stood up and shook the cobwebs from his head. He pulled the big man to his feet again and called for the Michinoku Driver. However, Nowell couldn't seem to properly lift Nash, and Nash was able to block long enough to land a double axehandle to the back of Nowell's head. Nowell was suitably stunned by the blow, and Nash pivoted around, hooking Nowell's arms.

VINDICA-- DENIED!

Had Nowell not shook one of his arms loose as Carson lifted him up, he would have been driven to the canvas with Nash's Vertebreaker. Instead, Nowell flipped onto his feet again, landing behind Nash. Nash spun around quickly and threw a big time right hand, but Nowell ducked it and kicked Nash in the gut.

It was time for plan B.

IMPLANT DDT~!

Nash was driven onto his head with Nowell's secondary finishing maneuver, and Nowell quickly rolled over Nash and made the cover.

One.

TWO.

THREE!

And that was that, as far as Adam Nowell was concerned. Rising to his feet, the black-clad Nowell held one arm on his head in pain and held his other arm in the air to celebrate his victory. Nowell rolled out of the ring, avoided Sarah 'the Jobber Slayer' long enough to not get hugged to death by her, and exited the ring, leaving behind a frustrated Carson Nash in his wake.


StylesKurt Angel

[Styles' basement.]

KA: Do you get wet?

Styles: ...


Hero, Act V

Kurt Angel

Nov. 17, 2003

It was difficult for John Rocker to walk right now, much less ramble on and on about certain things that he had been ranting on and on about since these asinine segments started. Rocker was seemingly being led towards the parking lot of the arena.

"I hope I'm not getting the fuckin' hell beaten out of me, again, any time soon." Rocker complained.

"No, no... I'm just taking you out of the building, now. No more beatings for Johnny." Nowell assured him, although the sick, twisted grin on Nowell's face suggested otherwise.

And, in fact, the fact that Gwen O'Reily was approaching them with a lynch mob armed with various heavy objects definitely suggested otherwise.

"What the fuck is this?" Rocker asked, his eyes lightning up.

"Well, John... this is the episode, of course, when one of my crew has to be beaten into a puddle of jello," Nowell explained, "And even though this is going to be Gwen's only show with me, I think we both know that you're the Doyle here."

Rocker backed away slowly, pointing an accusing finger at Nowell and O'Reily.

"You motherfuc--"

And that's when the lynch mob attacked him.

The cameras watched the lynch mob beat the ever bloody crap out of John Rocker, before the cameras panned over to Gwen O'Reily and John Rocker who were watching the beating with great amusement.

Kurt Angel happened to walk onto the frame with popcorn, and all three of them sat on the hood of a nearby car, watching the slaughter while eating the popcorn.

"You know what the best part about this is?" Nowell asked.

"What's that?" Gwen asked.

"I wanted this to happen, and then it did!"

"Golly, we sure are ruthless." Kurt Angel said with a smile.

Gwen and Adam agreed.


Kurt Angel vs. Tanya Isama

Kurt Angel

Nov. 24, 2003

“Severed” by Kittie hit the speakers. Not because it was currently Tanya Isama’s music or anything, simply because somebody forgot to update their bio page and these things must be exploited for fun. Now, I know what you’re thinking.

“If you KNOW the song title is wrong, why make her come out to that song?” Right?

I have a very simple answer to that.

You see...it all started about two minutes ago when the narrator had this funny idea. Then it fizzled. Welcome to now.

And please welcome Tanya Isama, one-half of The Legacy. The young lady (just barely legal in some states) from Bear Forest, Wyoming walked down the aisle, making sure to maintain her sense of balance while constantly moving her feet forward. Gravity can be tricky sometimes. Six-feet tall and 171-pounds. And she’s single fellas. I’m sure she’ll be looking for you.

Her opponent? Well, he would have come out to some song as the bio page dictates, but alas, the great minds behind this federation don’t even consider this man a part of the roster. Not that it was going to give him an angry and make him leave Action and head back to the hell from where he came: BOB. Brawlers On a Budget.

After all, Kurt Angel was stoned out of his mind most of the time and not too much could bother him in that state. Brought in to take part in “Stoned Enough,” he’d simply just stuck around ever since, getting a decent reaction from the crowd. Well, better than Woodchuck Bill anyway.

“I Don’t Like The Drugs (But The Drugs Like Me)” by Marilyn Manson replaced his old “Earth Angel” tune this evening. He stepped out, paused and raised his arms in the air, expecting pyro.

Didn’t get any.

So he headed down the aisle unflapped. He climbed into the ring and stared at his opponent. You could see him actually ask, “I have to make this girl tap out?”

We got a bell. The match was official. Angel chuckled and paused, yucking it up with the crowd as he pointed at this girl. Forget the fact that she beat Adam Nowell, the *other* Angel, last week. Just forget that. Because now, it was all about one of these two advancing into the Players & Pawns tournament.

Buyrates, baby, buyrates! That and title shots and a shiny trophy securing immortality for the winner.

Lockup. Go behind by Angel. Heaven (German) suplex. Tanya was tossed head over heels through the air. Angel got up with a “Whoo!” and a one toed hopping dance, getting the crowd a bit more into this match as he continued to borrow from some other idiot in some other company.

Tanya got up, grabbing at her neck for a moment, but shrugged it off. Angel smiled his goofy smile and readied for the second tie up. To his surprise, he found himself locked in a front facelock. One of those annoying front facelocks that you can’t get out of, even though you KNOW you should be able to.

So Angel scooped her up on his shoulders and quickly took her down with a fireman’s carry, breaking the hold. Angel tried to get up but found his legs swept out from underneath him. Headlock locked in again. Angel pushed himself quickly to his knees and shot Isama into the ropes. A mid-ring collision put Isama flat on her back.

[Insert sexist joke here.]0

Angel ran for the ropes, Isama flipped on her back and let Angel run over her.

Tripping again.

Headlock again.

Angel was getting frustrated. He had to enhance his calm to avoid a very terrible self-inflicted fate of pure angriness. So he began counting backwards from ten. And then rolled his body to the right, sneaking Isama into an old-school pin attempt!

One.

She pushed her way back into control.

Angel pushed his way back into a pin.

One.

She dropped the hold, only to get on his back and lock on a modified version of the camel clutch. And yes, modified = ugly, but painful in this case. Angel banged his fist into the mat once. Wasn’t this supposed to be a “comedy” match or something?

Angel grabbed hold of both of her legs and powered his way to his feet, even with Isama maintaining a weakened version of the sleeper. Then, as quickly and powerfully as he could, Angel ran backwards, squishing her between his own body and the unforgiving turnbuckle. She dropped her grip on Angel and he turned around and began unloading with sidearm style punches.

With some mighty velocity, Angel whipped Isama into the opposite corner and charged in.

SMACK

The sound of boot meeting face echoed through the arena, making some of the fans gasp in surprise. Isama hit a quick follow up spinarama kick to Angel’s nose, taking him down to the mat.

Cover by Isama.

One.

Two.

Nope.

Angel scrambled to his feet, only to be met with a left kick to his right side. Then a right kick to his left side. Back and forth, as rapidly as she could shift, she was tearing into him with the leather. Angel was stunned. Quickly, Isama got behind him and tied up both of his arms.

BUTTERFLY SUPLEX WITH A BRIDGE!

One.

Two.

Thre-NO! Angel just barely kicked his way free.

Angel got to his feet and kicked the bottom rope in frustration.

“You’re just a girl!” Angel protested.

She didn’t even dignify that with a response.

“I’ve had it up to here!” Angel said, stomping both his feet in protest, accidentally almost breaking into a No Doubt riff. “No more Mr. Nice Guy. You see this?” Angel said, pulling the white straps of his singlet down. “No more Mr. Clean!” And with that almost Alice Cooper reference, we’ll move along to the match again.

Angel charged right for her, but she was ready to plant a boot right in his midsection. Unfortunately for Isama, Angel caught that boot. Quickly seeking an escape, she went for an enzugeri.

Missed.

ANGEL LOCK~!

Angel’s version of the ankle lock was cinched in tightly on Isama, who was at center ring. Angel twisted her ankle to the very limits, not really caring now if he put this girl on the shelf for a while. But Isama crawled quickly toward the ropes. Angel pulled her right back to center ring. She pulled at her hair, moaning in pain, as Angel taunted her, yelling at her to “tap out,” but she wasn’t in the tapping mood.

Her escape plan involved curling herself toward Angel and grabbing Angel’s left leg, tripping him up and breaking his grasp on her now quite tender ankle. She tried to hang on and lock in her own version of the ankle lock, but Angel booted her in the booty, sending her flying.

Now a bit hobbled, she got to her feet, obviously favoring her right leg. Angel went right for it, grabbing the leg. But Isama backed up instead of going down and used the ropes to her advantage, to turn Angel’s offense to her advantage and successfully connect with a beautiful tornado DDT with help from the middle rope.

She made a quick cover.

One.

Two!

Thre-shoulder up! The crowd popped a bit as Angel showed some signs of life. Isama pushed herself back up, still not putting too much pressure on her ankle. Standing on one foot, she prepared to use her disadvantage to her advantage, ready for a swan kick.

Angel was up.

SMACK

Angel was stunned. Isama yelped once in pain from putting way too much pressure on her ankle, but she shook it off and moved in for the kill, hooking Angel and quickly jacking him up into suplex position and quickly dropping him straight down on top of his head.

She rolled over, laid flat on her back on top of Angel and lifted up his right leg for the pin attempt.

Game.

Set.

Match.


Somnabulist

Kurt Angel

Nov. 30, 2003

Adam Nowell walked backstage, fresh off of his victory against newcomer Brandon Youngblood, when he happened to run into Kurt Angel. Instantly, Nowell frowned.

Because Kurt Angel was wearing a doo rag and seemed to be wanting to use street lingo on Nowell, "Yo, I know you might not think you're 'down' with bein' a jobbah 'dawg', but 'homeboy', it's who ya are. Y'dig?"

Nowell blinked at Angel.

"What in the absolute bluest of blue hells did you just say to me?" Nowell asked.

Angel smiled at him, then seemed a little uneasy, "I don't actually know, myself."

"You're an idiot."

Nowell paused, then pointed at Angel, "Did you just call me a jobber?"

"Indeed, I did, yo." Angel said.

Nowell paused.

Then he punched Angel right in the face, sending him flying to a wall. Nowell turned to walk away, but Angel called out to him, "Hey! I'm not David Flair!"

Nowell stopped.

Nowell shrugged.

Nowell turned around and looked at David Flair.

"Oh, crap." Flair said, right before Nowell punched him right in the face, sending him through the same wall that Angel had just been punched into.

Then Nowell walked away, leaving Kurt Angel to lament in his general direction, "He's quite anti-social. Golly, he'll need a hobby if he wants to stop being a jobber."

"I heard that!" Nowell called out, off-screen.


Eternity, Act I

Kurt Angel

Dec. 8, 2003

Kurt Angel was just going about his usual business backstage when he noticed David Flair peering under the crack of a door. Angel charged at him, and Flair looked up upon hearing the running footsteps. His rosy red cheeks were lit up bright, perhaps they were a warning system for imminent danger or something. Anyhow, Angel tackled Flair and the door crashed inward. Angel began pummeling Flair in the face with lefts and rights before he looked up and saw that this was the locker room of none other than...

Adam Nowell.

"Hey, cool. Mind if I take a few potshots at him?" Nowell inquired of Kurt Angel.

"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you, Nowell. I just saved your ass. He was looking at your boots. I think he was planning on tying them together when you took your routine main event nap. You owe me. How can you ever repay me?" Angel asked.

Nowell thought about it.

"How about I make you pretty by kicking you in the face?" Nowell suggested.

Angel looked around the room. "You know what would liven up this room, Nowell? You leaving it," Angel said, smiling goofily up at his sort-of enemy.

"Well, fine then. I don't feel like carrying you kicking and screaming through another one of these segments anyway." Nowell said, before he turned and started to leave the room.

"Man. I sure am thirsty after all this pummelling of David Flair. You got anything to drink here?" Angel asked Nowell. "Nobody stays sober forever. Especially me."

Nowell simply pointed a finger behind him, at a convieniently placed liquor rack.

"Care to join me in a drink?" Angel asked Nowell as he pulled out two champagne glasses and then proceeded to fill them with rum. "There isn't anything you can't solve, or destroy, with alcohol, Mr. Nowell."

"Except alcoholism."

"Hmm...I suppose you're right. Hmm. It appears as though my boot has come untied," Angel said bending down to remedy that situation. He put the glasses of rum down on a nearby table. "Man, all I know is Nowell, you better not put any weird drugs in my glass while I'm down here, or I'll be a little ticked off."

Nowell looked down at the huge package that said "IMPURE ANGER DRUGS", which he had just finished pouring into Angel's drink, then looked at Angel again, "Well, damn."

Angel stood up. Looked at Nowell's huge package. Not THAT package, people. Sheesh. Then he looked at the drinks. He shrugged and picked up his rum. "Cheers." Angel quickly downed his drink and then stared at Nowell for a few seconds. That's when he started feeling a little...strange. He put a hand to his head and wiped some sweat from his brow. "Say, you remember a couple of seconds ago when I warned you not to put any weird drugs in my glass while I was tying my boot? You didn't put any weird drugs in my glass while I was tying my boot, right?"

Nowell glanced at the bag he was holding which read "IMPURE ANGER DRUGS", then looked back at Angel, "I might have. Why do you ask?"

"Well, it's just...trust me. You wouldn't like me if I was angry. Not because I'll get all steroidy and green, but..."

Angel dropped his glass, which shattered on the floor, and then Angel fell to the floor, but not-so-much shattering. Just landing. Then, Nowell heard a very low chuckling sound coming from the floor. "Man, I haven't felt like this in a long, long, time." Angel pushed himself up slowly to his feet and stared Nowell directly in the eye. "Thanks, Nowell."

"No problem. Feel free to kick him in the face some more." Nowell said, pointing down at a whimpering David Flair, "It'll amuse us both greatly."

Angel pulled David Flair up to his feet and grabbed him around the collar of his shirt. "You know what, Flair. You're a pretty cool guy! So why don't you go on and get out of here, buddy!" Angel messed up Flair's platinum blond hair playfully and smacked him on the behind. Flair walked away, feeling a tad confused by the sudden turn in attitude of one Kurt Angel. And he was also wondering if that pat on the ass meant he'd just been molested.

Nowell grumbled.

He started to walk away.

Then he walked back.

"Are you conscious?" Nowell asked of Flair.

"Whooo!" replied Flair.

That's when Nowell punched Flair in the face.

Angel watched Flair fall to the ground. He shrugged and walked away, suddenly not at all feeling bothered to help Flair, even if Flair WAS a really, really cool guy. Something was not right with Kurt Angel. "I'm free..." he said cheerily as he headed down the hall away from Nowell and the now unconscious David Flair.

Eternity, Act II

"I Don't Like The Drugs (But The Drugs Like Me)" hit the speakers, and Kurt Angel stepped out in front of the crowd. He paused at the entryway for a moment, quickly raised his arms in the air, as if to coincide with some pyrotechnics. They didn't come though, as usual. Since he was just a jobber. He walked the rest of the way down the aisle, not looking at those few fans who bothered to reach their hands out to him.

How weird. Usually, Kurt would slap the hands of anybody, being a nice guy and all. A hero in white. Except...he had changed his clothes at some point since the last segment (Act I). Now, he was dressed in a black trenchcoat a black singlet and black everything else. Could this be because of the Impure Anger Drugs Nowell had slipped him? Is Angel about to experience a moment of, well, impure anger?

Once in the ring, Angel had a microphone. He paced around the ring with a heelish smile on his face.

"Say hello to the only champion this town will ever see. Not false, SO not false!" The fans watched Angel in confused silence. Not that that was anything new, really. "Spokane, Washington. A place so pathetic that you can't even get one pro sports team to play here. But I guess you've got the next best thing, since you've got the Mariners. That SUCK." Some boos. "The Seahawks, who, SUCK!" The boos were growing. "And the Super Sonics, who are super...at SUCKING!"

Yes, Angel was going heel and classic style here. Insulting the local sports teams! Gotta love cheap heat...or not...

"And let me tell you something. If any of the Seattle teams lowered themselves to moving here, you know what they would do? They would still SUCK! And you know what else sucks in Spokane? Undoubtedly, your HIGH SCHOOL TEAMS! They probably SUCK! And you know what else? You people are all very, very dumb. I know I should talk slower for all your stupid, smelly people who have low-paying jobs...." Angel flashed a smile as a few fans started a weak "YOU SUCK!" chant in Angel's general direction.

"Oh, the not false hurts, doesn't it people? Don't blame me that you earn minimum wage and paid money to come see a wrestling show because you are all repressed homosexuals with fantasies about seeing two guys roll around on the mat together. Not false, SO not false!"

OK, now the fans were just despising Angel for all the wrong reasons. This was just immature crap he was spewing out now.

"But that's not why I'm really out here tonight. Tonight, I'm here to talk about a man who I've had some issues with lately. A man named Adam Nowell. Now, people, I think you should all know about the man you boo. Adam Nowell isn't really a bad guy. In fact, he deserves your cheers. Why, you ask. Well, I'm going to tell you why. Adam Nowell is a nice guy. Not false!

"Why just today, before the show, he was out signing autographs for kids with fatal diseases. And you know what else, people? He contributes money to charities. Why, I witnessed him giving a contribution to one of those Salvation Army bell ringers. You know, those guys you pass by at the supermarkets because you're all cheap, and even if you had money, you wouldn't give it away anyway? Oh yeah, I went there, people!

"And you know what else? He claims that he despises that Sarah girl who was on the show a couple weeks back. But I know for a fact, that he sends her flowers. That he takes her out to eat at restaurants that inbreds like you people couldn't even get jobs at, since they're not minimum wage and all. And that he cuddles with her every night in bed after meaningful conversations!"

"That is ENOUGH, you sorry son of a bitch!" Adam Nowell shouted.

"What's the matter, Nowell? You can't handle the truth?" Angel asked, smirking from the ring.

"No, I can't handle the fact that you piss me off." Nowell said, as he approached the ring. Fans booed thanks to Nowell wearing his "YOU WANT THE TRUTH? SPOKANE IS GAY. I MEAN IT. IT'S THE GAY CITY" T-shirt.

"Screw you, Nowell. If you continue to keep walking towards this ring, I'll keep slowly backing up until I'm out of the ring. And if you keep chasing me, like you're starting to do, I'll run. Not false, SO not false!"

"Start. Running." Nowell said, holding up his fists in that "If these fists touch you, you will die. I am not kidding" sort of way.

Angel dropped the microphone, as if he were some cliched heel and began running. He made a fast break for the aisle, hoping he'd just squeak by Nowell. And if not for that one punch that knocked him out cold and sent him flying all the way into the steel post, it was a rousing success. Now only one question remained: How much would Nowell torture Angel.

Eternity, Act III

When Kurt Angel finally recovered from the mighty Adam Nowell punch that knocked him the fuck out at ringside, he slowly came to realize that something rather strange had happened to him. He was chained to a couch in the Action Reed Young Memorial Library. It was deserted, aside from Adam Nowell. There was also the mighty headache, which Angel couldn't quite figure out if it was from the punch, the rum or the impure anger drugs.

"I had no idea you were so kinky, Nowell," Angel said. "But I don't go that way. Not that there's anything wrong with that...aside from EVERYTHING. But let me out of these chains! My name isn't Alyson!"

"No, I just chained you here so I can horribly torture you." Nowell said.

"This is YOUR fault anyway. I never would have said those things if you hadn't spiked my drink and given me a moment of impure anger. But, as I sit here, I must start to question if this is a test from some mighty force. Perhaps God is telling me, in his own ironic way, that drugs are not the answer. Maybe, I will never truly get back to Heaven if I continue to let myself be chained to an addiction like drugs and alcohol. Maybe this is also sort of symbolic now that I think about it. And maybe, just maybe, we should see who the truest jobber is, Nowell. Heck, I wasn't sent here to be the heel in our relationship. You're already an evildoer. Golly, it's amazing how much you can realize when you've been drugged, beaten unconscious, chained up and about to be tortured. It's almost like an epiphany..."

"Shut up and look at the screen. I've put in ‘Battlefield Earth’ for you." Nowell said.

"NOOOOOOOOOOO!"

"Oh, shut up, you baby. I'm gonna put on ‘Glitter’ after this."

"I think I'm going to be sick. Oh, I'll get you, Nowell. Maybe not next week. Maybe not in two weeks. But most likely at Double Down, live on pay-per-view on Dec. 31, 2003 from Las Vegas!"

"That's it. Now I'm putting ‘Gigli’ on your movie list, too, just for the blatant shilling."

"I think I'm just gonna shut up right now then."

"That would be a smart move." Nowell said.

"Say, you don't have a bedpan I could borrow, do you?"

"No. But I'll give you this vomit bag, because you'll probably need it," Nowell said.


StylesKurt Angel

[Back to Styles' basement.]

Styles: What time is it?

KA: It's 4:20 somewhere. Thanks for buying my DVD. It's really helped fuel my drug habit! Peace out!


©2009 BOB Wrestling/2003 Action! Wrestling!

 

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