Voice-Over: This episode of "BOB CLASSIX" is brought to you by The Fatkins No-Carb, No-Vegetable, Extra-Butter Diet! It's FAT-TASTIC!
[The CLASSIX El-Cheapo Credits appear on-screen. Like anyone's watching at 3.15am. *Yawn* Good God, I can't believe that want me to narrate a show at this ungodly hour. I have to re-negotiate my contract.]
Voice: Duh. We on yet?
2nd. Voice: I don't see the little red light on the camera yet. Want to throw us a bone, D.N?
2nd. Voice: Hey, anyone know what number show this is?
Voice: Duh. Me lose count.
3rd. Voice: It's CLASSIX Number Yellow! Come feel the electric prunes vibrate, William!
2nd. Voice: Thanks, real helpful, guys...
[Aww, crap! I forgot to narrate the set. Fade up, looks like a badly-disguised locker room. Sheet hanging behind an old desk, yadda yadda yadda. Coma, GBH and Seth Harker in shot. *Yawn* I hate this timeslot.]
Seth: Hello. Welcome to "CLASSIX: REHASHED". I'm Seth Harker, your special guest announcer, here to up the coolness factor of the room by about a thousand percent.
[Yeah, right, Goth-boy. I heard the BigBOSS just assigned you this show while your "injured" knee heals. And the fact you're handled by the shows' writer is just a wacky coincidence, huh?]
GBH: Duh. And me... ummm...
GBH: Wait, me got it writted on a piece of paper. Ummm.. Me... HBG!
Seth: Is that the Dsylexic Avengers handwriting?
Coma: And I'm your Special Guest Anchovy, Wayne Newton! And I'm too hip for this squaredance! SWOOSH!
Seth: And we're here to present some of the greatest, though least-seen moments of BOB's past! And this a special show for you... These matches are INCREDIBLE!
[Slow-mo. The camera zooms in, spinning 360 degrees around the desk until Seths face fills the frame, The Flunky visible in his shades, holding a cue-card.]
Seth: And if they aren't, we'll add expensive special effects and pretentious, meaningless pseudo-philosophy... and you'll just THINK they're the greatest matches you've ever seen. Let's rock.
[Green letters fill the screen, marching from top to bottom in neat, orderly rows. We zoom in toward them.]
[Fade to Green.]
SW: Are we on? Testing, testing? Shit! Fawk! Tits!
NH: Could you lower the tone a little more, Scoot?
SW: (Deep voice) Shit. Fawk. Tits! (Normal voie) Bwa-ha-haaaa!
Mr P: Can I just point out that Scotty lowered the "pitch", rather than the "tone" of that last statement?
SW: Hey, who the hell is this guy, Mr. Pedantic?
Mr. P: That's me! Hi folks, Bert "Mr. Pedantic" Henhouse, along with Scotty Whatbody and Nurse Heidi! And welcome to the first televised show of Havoc Hyperkinetic Hardcore Wrestling! Coming to you from the YMCA gym, here in Havoc, West Virginia!
SW: Whoa, hold the phone, Chet! You're telling me we're commentating for the BOB B-roster fed! Who's stupid idea was this?!
NH: I have a better question... since when have we HAD a B-roster fed? I thought ALL our guys were B-level... at best!
Mr. P: Well, I don't know about that, Heidi... because here at Triple H-Dub, you'll see some of the great BOB superstars of the past... AND some great up-and-coming talent looking for their shot at the big league!
SW: The has-beens and the wannabes, huh? This is going to suck worse than a hooker with hiccups!
Mr. P: Let's take you up to our ring announcer, The Flunky!
NH: The Flunky? Is there anything that guy won't do for an extra paycheck?
SW: Well, he won't sneak stolen panties back into your locker room, but that's about it...
NH: Remind me to hurt you later...
TF: Ladies and gentlemen.... this contest is a six-man tag team match, scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, weighing in at Pounds Unknown.... G.I SLOW!
SW: Holy Line-Dancing Jesus! Slow's still on the roster?
Mr. P: Actually, Scotty, G.I Slows' been here in HHH-W for some time now, honing his skills and getting trim and toned!
SW: Oh, right... Like a Fat Camp for bad wrestlers, right?
Mr. P: Pretty much, yeah.
NH: So, did it work?
[Weird Al's "Fat" plays, but there's the still-audible sound of a flatbed truck backing down the aisle.]
NH: I guess not...
SW: Holy shit! Look at the size of that fat fuck! What did he do, eat King Kong Bundy?!! If he takes a crap, this gym will have to be declared a toxic waste dump!
Mr. P: Is he always like this, Heidi?
NH: No, Bert... Scotty's usually a lot more smutty, too. Maybe he's sick?
TF: His partner... from Who Wants To Know, Screw-You -Land...
SW: Whoa, someone's copping attitude today.
TF: I'm just reading the card, Scotty! He is... GOOGOO CACHOOB!
Voice-Over: Record a voice-over? Hey, why don't we record me SHOVING THAT MICROPHONE UP YOUR ASS?!!
NH: Ahh, a light dawns... Googoos never had the sunniest of dispositions.
SW: Hey, he's got a bad pun for a name, no heat and a non-existent gimmick. You blame the guy for hating his job? Hey, Googoo! How's it going?
GC: Aww, blow me, Whatbody!
SW: Plus the fact he's an asshole doesn't help.
TF: And their partner... from Some City, U.S.A, weighing an avarage amount for a wrestler... THE MASKED INDIVIDUAL!
["One Repeated Bass Note and a Single Drumbeat" by The Generic Band plays as The Masked Individual walks down the aisle. Plain grey tights. Light grey shirt. Grey mask. And Googoo thinks he has a bad gimmick.]
Mr. P: And here's one of our up-and-coming young studs!
SW: Who told you, Heidi or Candy?
NH: Ahh, THERE'S the vile, sexist pig I've come to know and loathe.
SW: Oh come one, Heidi! He's wearing a mask, how can you be sure you HAVEN'T boned him?
TF: And their opponents... Introducing first, "AGROPHOBIC" ADAM JONES!
["Stuck In a Closet (With Vanna White)" hits the speakers. Geez, Weird Al Yankovich must be making a small fortune out of this show! Relatively speaking, of course.]
SW: I think I recognize that name... wasn't he "The Phobia", back in '99?
Mr. P: Actually, I'll correct you, Scotty. He was "The PhobIC" and that was in mid 2000.
NH: From what I heard, the BOSS had him re-packaged after his multiple phobias were deemed "confusing and stupid" by our fans.
SW: Well, that's a first.
Mr. P: What, someone being re-packaged?
SW: No that something our fans thought was stupid and confusing didn't end up as the Main Event of a Pay-Per-View!
NH: Are we missing something here?
NH: Agrophobic Adam! Where is he?
MR P: I'm not sure.. oh, wait! There he is, he's found the aisle! Looks like he's facing the wrong way, though, but the fans are trying to get him turned around!
SW: Does that mask he's wearing have eyeholes?
NH: I don't think so. That must be the worst case of acrophobia in history!
SW: Well, look, if he's scared of acrobats, he should just stay away from the circus!
NH: You're an idiot, Scoot.
TF: And his partners... the AMERICAN PATRIOTIST and THE INSURGENT... they... are... ARMED DEMOCRACY!
[Loud John Phillip Sousa music heralds the Star-Spangled Asskickers, who come in to the loudest pop you can get from 42 teenage boys and one popcorn vendor.]
Mr. P: Listen to that crowd! They love these guys, and who wouldn't?
NH: Fundamental Islamics?
NH: The French?
Mr. P: This tag-team represents all that's great about America! Bringing peace and freedom to the oppressed people of the world!
SW: By blowing the fuck out of their relatives with laser-guided weaponry!
NH: I guess I know who Scotty is voting for this year...
SW: Ahh, voting's for losers. I refuse to endorse any candidate until one of them provides subsidies for the beer and prostitution industries.
Mr. P: And it looks like The Masked Individual is going to start this match off against The Patrioitist! The Flunky calls for the bell, we're under way!
NH: He's the referee? Does he clean the arena, as well?
[Sound of a low-powered motor.]
Dustbuster Boy: (Cheerfully) Nope!
Mr. P: The Patriotist is moving into position in the ring... still moving in.. It's a cautious start...
SW: What's he waiting for, a call to Jihad?
The Masked Individual: (Loud whisper) Would you do something! I do NOT improvise!
Mr.P: Still circling... The Insurgent's in the ring! WHAM!
NH: Hey, he hit the Individual from behind! I thought these guys were faces! What's with the cheap shot?
Mr. P: If I can correct you, Heidi, that was a precision, surgical strike! And Armed Democracy are preparing to utilize their famous "Strength in Numbers" maneuver!
The Patriotist: Let's kick the shit out of this bitch, brother!
SW: Now THAT'S telegraphing your strategy, CNN-style!
NH: It appears to be working, though... The Masked Individual is taking a pounding! The Insurgent pulls him back to his feet... the Patriotist takes a run-up... Masked Individual escapes!
MR. P: The Patriotist is still coming!
The Insurgent: BLUE ON BLUE! BLUE ON BLUE! NOOOO...!
SW: Ooh, Friendly Punch!
Mr. P: And the Insurgent is down! The referee is trying to get The American Patriotist out of the ring, even though he's the legal man!
NH: The Insurgent looks hurt! Agrophobic Adam is reaching for the tag! Missed! Missed again! Still can't find him...
SW: G.I Slow's trying to tag The Masked Individual! Reaches down... But he can't bend over far enough... Geez, look at those ropes sag! I hope they can hold his weig...
SW: Aww, gross! FLABALANCH! Somebody pick up Slow before The Masked Individual suffocates!
"Agrophobic" Adam: I'll help!
[Falls off apron.]
Googoo Cachoob: GOD-Dammmit! Two minutes into the match and it's a Grade One fuckup already! I'm outta here!
Mr. P: Ummm.. uhhhh... Commercial! Go to commercial!
Deep, Gravely Voice-Over: Coming Soon! The first film from the hottest young film-makers on the planet! B-Movie Messageboard Films presents the movie that gives you more of what you want to see! Or more precisely, what THEY want to see! Zombies!
[A quick shot of a student draped in unconvincing grey rags and daubed with facepaint.]
D,G V-O: Kung-fu-fighting nuns!
[A shot of a nun kicking the hell (pun intended) out of a zombie.]
D, G V-O: Stop-motion animation!
[A shot of a cheesy animated skeleton fighting an even-cheesier giant ape.]
D,G V-O: Gratuitous male nudity!
[Shot a buff young student standing in front of a shower, his modesty only protected by a well-placed pot plant.]
Student: Hey, who swiped my towel, guys?
D, G V-O: Incomprehensible Japanese animation!
[Ooooo-kay. I may be a near-omnipitent Disembodied Narrator, but even _I_ don't know what the hell I'm looking at now. Umm, let's see. There's some sort of alien creature with tentacles growing out his face... a wierd-looking kid with eyes the size of saucers making faces like she's taking a really painful dump... And some guy who's shooting what I HOPE are laser beams out his wingwang. Japanese people are fucking STRANGE, man...]
D, G V-O: Crispin Glover!
Crispin Glover: Hi!
D, G V-O:And of course... Midget Zombies!
[Short guy in grey facepaint and rags. He runs at the camera.]
Midget Zombie: Little Braaaaiiinnnnns!
[Slam Cut to Grey]
D, G V-O: HEIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD! Death Comes From Below!
You're watching Triple H-Dub! The wrestling federation that jobs to NO-ONE!
This broadcast is brought to you in association with the National Acronym Council! We're B.A.D to the B.O.N.E!
Mr. P: And we're back! It looks like The Flunky has managed to regain some sense of control of this match...
"Agrophobic" Adam: WHOA!
Mr. P: ...Relatively speaking.
SW: Get off our desk! The ring is THAT way! No, over THERE!
NH: Scotty, why are you pointing? That's like George Bush waving at Stevie Wonder!
"Agrophobic" Adam: Where's the ring? Is it over this way, Scotty?
SW: No, that's the fire escape, dude!
Mr. P: Well, we appear to be down to a straight tag-match, folks! G.I Slow has managed to make it to his feet...
SW: Which he probably hasn't seen since 1985!
Mr. P: And The Insurgent is back in the ring!
NH: He brought a chair into the ring with him! He winds up... and hands the chair to Slow?
The Insurgent: He's got a weapon! Quick, Patriotist! Let's get him!
G.I Slow: Hey! You GAVE me the weapon!
The Patriotist: So what? We gave weapons to the a lot of people, doesn't stop us bombing them! Eat THIS!
[The Patriotist fires a punch at G.I Slows belly. We cut to Matrix-like slow-mo as ripples flow out from the point of impact, all the way to Slows' chin. Well, one of them, anyway.]
NH: Oh, that's disgusting!
G.I Slow: No, THIS is disgusting!
NH: Oh for the love of GOD! Put your shirt back on! I'm blind!
SW: Man, get Armed Democracy a dog-collar and they'll be able to shoot "Ahbu Ghraib's Funniest Home Videos II"!
Mr. P: Incredible! The sight of G.I Slows' flopping man-boobs are too much even for Armed Democracy! They're retreating from the ring!
G.I Slow: Get a load of THIS!
SW: Oh, GOD! He's wearing a thong!
G.I Slow: Now watch this fat boy DANCE!
Mr. P: Armed Democracy are on the run! The Flunky starts the ten-count...
TF: ...FivesixseveneightTEN! TEN! Now PLEASE get this man a robe!
Mr. P: And it's over! A count-out victory to G.I Sow and The Masked Individual! What a match!
SW: Sheeah, right! That was the worst BOB match since the BigBOSS stopped writing them!
[Scotty does a double-take to camera and flips rapidly through his script to the back page.]
SW: "Copyright 2004, S. Granger." Awww, crap!
NH: So, another card full of nonsensical screwjobs and no angle development. At least there isn't a Coma match...
[Scotty and Heidi exchange a worried look, then check their scripts.]
SW & NH: AWWW, CRAP!
[Cut back to the CLASSIX desk. Coma is attempting to floss with a copy of the New Jersey phonebook, while GBH is simply staring off into space. As usual. Seth is leafing through a paperback book "101 ways to be Even Cooler Than Keanu". It's authored by Alex Winter though, so I doubt it'll be much help. This is definately a BigBOSS-booked card... I always have to do more scene-setting and point out all the trivial details with that guy. And he can't spell "definitley" the same way twice.. ]
SH: Welcome back. And now, it's time for a commercial. So piss off.
[Heh. I love the iAd.]
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SH: I'm sure Steve Leary couldn't agree more. Except for the bit about brains. And now, back to the HHH-W show.
Mr. P: Okay, time to check in with my broadcast colleague Captain Cliche, who's standing by with some of Triple H-Dubs hottest superstars!
SW: Promo time? Oh yeah, this should be good.
CC: Thank you, Bert! Well, you can cut the tension with a knife and feel the electricity in the air! It's a happening, and history is being made as we speak! And with me IN THIS VERY RING are... DAS POLITE GERMANS! What about it, Hans?
Hans: Guten tag!
Hans: Shutten SIE UPPEN! Mine parter und ein are sehr annoyed mit der Neutral Alliance! Der haben made mit der nasty rumors about miner partner! Lies, ich tellen you!
CC: Luigi, what about it?
Luigi: I AM-A SO-A GERMAN!!
SW: Hey, good catchphrase!
CC: This feud is hotter the hell and it's getting wilder by the minute! Neutral Alliance, what about it?
Mr. Indifference: I think this Sunday... there will be a match. Apart form that, I really don't care, one way or the other.
CC: What about it, Sven?
Sven Lugiesen: What do I care who wins? I'm Swiss, I already have the winners money in my bank account!
CC: SENSATIONAL! This Sunday, a showdown of epic proportions! A clash of the Titans! But there's MORE! Joining me at this time, The Procrastinator!
Off-screen Voice: He didn't show up!
CC: Fantastic! Back to you, Mr Pedantic!
Mr. P: Thank you, Captain Cliche!
NH: So those guys were hoping those interviews would get them into BOB, right?
SW: They better keep hoping...
TF: The following match is the Brutal Brutality Brutal Battle Royale under Triple-H Dub Super-Extreme-Lucha-Core Rules!
12-Year-Old Mark: YAY!
SW: Now THIS sounds like my kind of match!
Mr. P: We thought you'd like it Scotty! This is how we get HARDCORE in Triple-H Dub!
NH: Triple H getting hardcore? Sledgehammers and bladejobs, here we come!
TF: Introducing first, from Tamigotchi, Japan... EXPLODING MOHAWK MASK II!
[A skinny, be-masked Japanese guy runs to the ring as we hear "I'm Turning Japanese" by some 80's band. Was that The Vapours? Yep, I really think so...]
TF: Secondly, from Siesta, Mexico... LOS LOCO DIABLOS!
["The Mexican Hat Dance" plays... of course. I guess Captain Cliche is picking the theme music for HHHW. Two masked lucha-dorks cartwheel down the aisle. I hate cruiserweights. Now if that aisle was all slippery...]
Diablo I: Ay, carumba!
Diablo II: Madre di Dios!
[It's GOOD to be the Narrator!]
SW: Why does everyone wear a mask in this place? Were they on special, or something?
NH: Well, would YOU want people to know you work for BOB's second-tier fed, Scotty? That has to be a crippling blow to your ego...
Mr. P: Hey!
NH: Oops, sorry... forgot you're a full-timer here, Bert.
TF: Introducing... from Dirtlick Creek, Kentucky... RANCID RON!
SW: Oh, not this guy! He worked dark matches for the Whatever Wrestling Federation... and that place televised matches with Stoned Toker and Killer Pooch!
NH: Oh, good Lord! He looks like a caveman who's spent the morning rolling in a dumpster! And I can smell him from here! That's the third-worst thing I've ever smelled!
Mr. P: Third-worst?
NH: Ever seen a Graphic Flatulance match, Bert?
TF: Introducing next... From Stratford-on-Avon, England... THE MINCING BARD!
Voice-Over: I Shall brain thee with extreme pettiness, thou see if I don'tst! TRA-LAAAA!
[Fruity harpsichord music plays out a weedy English guy in a ruff and tights. I am having so much trouble deciding who in this fed I hate the most. Probably still the cruiserweights...]
Diablo II: Ay yi yi!
TF: Introducing from Jabroni City, Saskatcahw... Saskawawa... Quebec, Canada! THE MARK-OUT KID!
[A teen in cheap-looking blue tights runs out, gaining a small pop.]
T M-O Kid: They LIKE me! They really, REALLY like me!
T M-O Kid: Hey, this aisle is kind of slippery...
TF: From the jungles of Cambodia... THE MERCENARY!
["Paint it Black" plays as the Mercenary enters. He's a young Aisan guy in a camouflage jumpsuit. His self-concealing abilities are slightly diminished by a multitude of multi-colored patches stiched onto his clothes. Texaco, Pepsi-Cola, Snap-On Tools, Snickers and a dozen or so more.]
NH: This guy has corporate sponsers?
Mr. P: Sure does, Heidi! He's a mercenary all right... in every way imaginable!
SW: That's the stupidist thing I've seen in... well, minutes, really.
TF: And finally...
SW: Thank God for that, I thouight this match would be nothing but introductions!
TF: TOO LAME!
NH: Hey, I thought we fired Too Lame?
Mr. P: Not all of them...
["2 Lame 2 Quit" by DJ Rawkus hits the speakers as "Slightly Gay" Ray and Wayne dance out from the back. Wait a second, did I say "Wayne"? What up with THAT?]
SW: Oh, that's right! the BigBOSS only fired "Too Fat" Matt after that picture of him, the hooker and the merino ewe was published on the 'Net... I still say Ray was the photographer, though.
NH: But if Wayne is his new partner, where's Pardy Boy Garth these days?
[Diablo II raise a hand sheepishly. HA! SHEEPishly, get it? I'm so funny...]
TF: Okay, this match has NO RULES!
12-Year-Old Mark: YAY!
TF: ...Except it's an Under-the-Bottom-Rope Battle Royal, with a 30-minute time limit, no hair-pulling, weapons optional but no using chairs if something more original is available, and no trying to take off anyone's mask.
Diablo I: Gracias!
NH: A big-ass, confusing-as-hell battle royal. Anyone else need confirmation that this is a BigBOSS-booked show?
TF: LET'S GO TO WORK!
NH: That catchphrase needs an overhaul. But anyhow, right off the bell, everyone dogpiles Rancid Ron! It's an eight on one beating!
SW: This reminds me of that TV pilot Sir Hungalot shot for the Spice Channel... "Eight is NEVER Enough!". Is this some sort of angle we're not aware of, Bert?
Mr. P: No, I just don't think any of the boys like Ron that much. Would YOU like to share a locker room with the guy?
SW: Nope. Although I wouldn't mind sharing Heidis locker room...
NH: You've shared it for the last time, Whatbody, I put a bigger padlock on the closet door.
Mr. P: And look at Rancid Ron fight off the assault! Former Whatever Wrestling Federation "It Doesn't Really Exist" Champion! Former All-Dark Match Wrestling "No-One's Watching This Shit!" Champ! A three-time "Take The Damn Belt and Shut The Fuck Up!" Champ in GGGG!
Mr. P: Georgian Garage and Gymnasium Grapplers.
NH: Quite the stellar career for old Ron...
Mr. P: Rons got a grip on the Diablos! Double head-butt! The cruiserweights go down like nine-pins, although I should point out that the modern game has TEN pins, not nine! Ron shoves the Mincing Bard to the mat and grabs Slightly Gay Ray... Ron raises his left arm and gives Ray THE PIT OF DESPAIR!
SW: The Nasty Boys are going to sue us!
Mr. P: Ray drops to the mat after that severe olfactory abuse! Ron puts a boot in the gut of Wayne and hefts him up... gut-wrench powerbomb!
SW: Yeah, good aim, dude.
NH: Flying Tomahawk Mask... uh, Exploding Samurai mask... The little Japanese guy is perched up on the top turnbuckle. And has been since the start of the match, really. Was he planning on doing something anytime soon?
Mr. P: I'm sure he is, Heidi! And with Exploding Mohawk Mask II, you never know WHAT he's planning to do!
EMM II: BAN-ZAAAAI!
Mr. P: And generally speaking, neither does he!
SW: What the hell was that? The Reverse 540 Suicide Dive?
NH: I hope not, that's Insano Manos' move! The Mercenary is standing right behind Rancid Ron, but he's not attacking! What's his problem?
The Mercenary: I'm not throwing a punch until someone pays me!
SW: Smart guy! The Mark-Out Kid is behind him, though, he'd better watch out! Iron Claw!
The Mercenary: What the hell is THIS meant to achieve?
T M-O Kid: HEY! This is a crippling nerve-hold that removes the power of mobility or speech! Shut up!
The Mercenary: It's not working, then...
T M-O Kid: (Voice cracking) I said SHUT UP!
Mr. P: Los Locos Diablos are back to a vertical base... They charge Rancid Ron... DOUBLE CLOTHESLINE! And Los Diablos are back to a horizontal base!
THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!
SW: Why is Mohawk Mask doing an inverted Worm?
Mr. P: Actually, I think he's trying to kip-up., Scotty.
NH: Well, it isn't working, Bert. Exploding Mohawk Mask...
Mr. P: ...II.
NH: ...Whatever. He inches his way across the mat... and Rancid Ron just kicks him out under the bottom rope. I think that guy needs more training before he makes it to BOB.
Mr. P: That could be difficult, Heidi.
Mr. P: He is our trainer.
NH: Yes, note my look of shock and surprise. The Flunky has managed to find some pocket change... he slips it to The Mercenary, who quickly breaks free of the Iron Claw! Scoop.. and a big shoulderbreaker on The Mark-Out Kid!
T M-O Kid: OW! OW! He broke my shoulder! Seriously! That smarts!
Mr. P: Everyone is pairing off! Wayne hip-tosses Diblo II and dives for the Big Bag O' Hardcore Props! The Mincing Bard has Ray pinned in the corner and is whaling on him!
T MB: Ha! I slapst thee like a bitch, thou vartlet!
Ray: Y'know, I'm slightly gay, but you're kind of weirding me out, dude!
T MB: Tra-LAAA!
NH: Wayne has the first weapon! It's a Polaroid camera! He winds up...
SW: God, those things are so flimsy these days! I don't think Diablo I even noticed that!
Mr. P: If I can correct you, that's Diablo II, Scotty!
SW: You can tell? Rancid Rons' going for a weapon... oh, YEAH! The ECW Cheese-Grater of DEATH! And... a block of cheddar. Th' hell?
NH: A stiff forearm shot knocks down Wayne... and Ron is grating that block of cheese over him! That's the strangest offense I've ever seen. Although we do have a Coma match coming up, so we'll probably see something weirder before the night is over.
SW: Ron better stop doing that, G.I Slow might mistake Wayne for a pizza and eat him!
Mr. P: Speaking of G.I Slow, there he is, coming down the aisle! He must be wanting to get a piece of Rancid Ron... those two have been having a vicious feud for WEEKS now!
NH: Isn't it a bit early for a run-in, though?
Mr. P: Not if you run as fast as G.I Slow does. In fact, I think he's timed it just about right today! Meanwhile, back in the ring, Diablo II... Is just kind of standing there. And so is Diablo I! And... pretty much everybody, really.
NH: Okay, what's going on?
[SLAM CUT to the BigBOSS'es study. The BigB is seated at his desk, staring at an obsolete desktop PC, a Works document open on the screen.]
BB: DAMN YOU, BOOKERS BLOCK! I have no idea what to do next! Damn, damn, DAMN! There's nothing else for it... I'll have to use my Octupal Secret Emergency Booking Booker!
[Cut to the CLASSIX desk. A cell phone beeps the opening bars of the Propellerheads "Spybreak".]
Seth: Coma? It's for you.
Coma: Agent Johnson Johnson, Royal Canadian Insane Logrollers! Can I take your order, please?
Coma: Si, Senor Muffin! Poink!
GBH: Duh. Dis bad idea. Yur.
[SLAM CUT back to the HHH-W arena.]
TF: Ladies and gentlemen... this is our MAIN EVENT!
Wayne: No way! We haven't finished our match yet!
TF: Look, I'm just doing what the Emergency Booker told me!
Far-off Voice: Poink!
GBH: Dis REAL bad idea!
SW: Where did you come from?
GBH: Duh. Mommy wouldn't tell me.
TF: As I was saying... this is our main event! And it will be a Triple Threat Match! Introducing first... HALLUCINATION BOY!
[Hallucination Boy runs out to a mild pop.]
[Told you. He ducks and weaves his way down the aisle, passing G.I Slow, who's doubled over and wheezing six feet from the entrance curtain.]
Hallucination Boy: Why does it always rain fish when I come to Havoc? AHHH! Nearly got me that time!
TF: And his opponent... THE MAN WITH THE GIANT INFLATABLE SQUEAKY RUBBER OCTOPUS!
[I am NOT repeating that guys name for the rest of the morning. From now on, he's called "Eric". Live with it]
TF: And their opponent...
[...For Coma. He peddles out on a unicycle, juggling four...]
[...Three lamps. He ricochets off the ponderous buttocks of G.I Slow and crashes head-first into the ringsteps.]
[Head Trauma POP!]
GBH: Duh. Good entrance.
Mr. P: Coma climbs into the ring... so if I've got the straight, we now have an eight man battle royale/triple threat...
[Big Blue Steel Pop!]
Mr. P: Steel cage match...
Mr. P: ELECTRIFIED Steel cage match, sorry...
Large bearded man: Hey, which way to the ring, eh?
SW: (resigned sigh) Over there...
Mr. P: And the ring is surrounded by lumberjacks. REAL lumberjacks at that! And we're supposed to call this mess?
NH: Welcome to OUR world, Bert!
[The picture suddenly becomes grainy, the colours becoming washed out. Coma turns to face the camera, now sporting a bowl-cut mullet. He smiles]
Coma: (Badly-dubbed) You see, Horihito, I have gathered all my enemies in one place! Now, let The Big Brawl commence!
SW: (Badly-dubbed) It looks like everyone's about to be kung-fu fighting!
NH: (Badly -dubbed) Ai-EEEEE!
[Fists of Fury Pop!]
[Everyone assumes Karate-Kid poses. Except Hallucination Boy, who's seated in an armchair, peering at a turnbuckle.]
Hallucination: And they call this ART? Arthur, "Two Sheds" Jackson, what did you make of this amateur display?
[And about this stage, all hell breaks loose, 70-s kung-fu style. Everyone starts throwing punches that miss by a foot, accompanied by loud "SWOOSH" noises. The noise a punch that actually CONNECTS makes is a deafening "THWACK!!", of course.]
The Mercenary: (Badly Dubbed) Ahh, you bastard!
[He spins around, revealing his face is covered in red paint. (Neon Sunburst shade)]
"Eric": (Badly Dubbed) Ha! Your Disrespectful Crane Style is no match for my Nauseous Panda Strike!
Diablo I: Hi-yaaa!
Diablo II: Hi-yaaa!
[Everyone does so. The camera zooms in on Coma.]
Coma: Coma Time!
[2 Legit 2 Quit Pop!]
[Zoom out! Dance music! Lights, cameras and wrestlers dancing in over-inflated pants. I need a vacation...]
Coma: Can't book this!
Can't book this!
Can't book this!
My, my, my...
Ev'rytime he tries to
Write a show.
And that's no lie.
Tries to write a show
But his brain runs dry!
Like a tit.
Took him three weeks
Just to write this shit!
Even had trouble
Tryin' to finsh this verse!
He was goin'
So give it to me
Let me finish the show!
Wrestlers: Oh-oh-oh, oh, oh, oh-oh-oh oh!
Coma: Can't book this!
Wrestlers: Oh-oh-oh, oh, oh, oh-oh-oh oh!
Coma: He can't book this!
Wrestlers: Oh-oh-oh, oh, oh, oh-oh-oh oh!
Coma: STOP! Narrator Time!
[Get bent, small-head! This Narrator does NOT rap!]
Hallucination Boy: TRAIN!
[Hallucination Boy leaps from the ring. The other wrestlers pursue him in speeded-up footage, with the Benny Hill theme playing in the background.]
G.I Slow: NOOOOO! I just made it to the ring, too! Come back!
The Mincing Bard: Tally-ho!
Diablo I: Like, carumba, dude!
[And so on and so forth. The chase scene leads out into the YMCA carpark, across the road and down a hill. Whereupon we cut to a small beach. In West Virginia? Yeah, surrrrrre! Anyhoo, the wrestlers run back into shot, this time in slow-motion. The music switches instantly to the Chariots of Fire theme. Sadly, the slow-mo allows us to note in great detail the six inches that Rancid Rons nipples are going up and down. He needs to lose weight or start wearing a shirt in the ring, I think.]
SW: Wwwwwhhhoooaaaaa, tttthhhhiiiisss iiiisssss ffffuuuucccckkkeeeddd uuuupppppp! Aaaaannnndd ttttthhheee ssssllllooowww-mmmmmoooo iiiisssnnn'ttttt hhheeellllpppiiiinnngggg.
GBH: Dddduuuuhhhhhhhhhh. Yyyyyyuuuuuurrrrrr.
[The film suddenly reverses.]
[.sesrever ylneddus mlif ehT]
GBH: ruY. hhhhhuuuudddD
SW: (Singing) Moooooon, river! Wider than a mile... I'm crossing you in style, someday...
SW: Shit, backmasking DOES work!
NH: So does re-using jokes and hoping no-one notices.
MR P: Hey, everyone's back in the ring! This is wierd and scary and I don't like it!
T M-O Kid: Me neither! Wrestling supposed to be real! It is! It IS! It...
Mr. P: Double Diablo Dropkick! And The Mark-Out Kid has been eliminated! He tumbles into the lumberjacks...
Lumberjacks: (Singing) Ohhh, I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay!
NH: Ooh, he's taking a pummeling! The Mark-Out Kid manages to make it to the door of the cage...
NH: ...And I think he's regretting it! This Electrified Cage has always been a bad idea.
[Cut to the BigBOSS.]
BB: Yeah, but I paid a fortune for it, so I'm getting as much use out of it as possible!
[Cut to Nome, Alaska.]
Inuit Man Fishing in an Ice Hole: What are you looking at, ice-hole?
[Cut to a Gnome in Atlanta.]
Gnome: Nothing to see here, folks.
[Cut back to the arena.]
Mr P: It is chaos in there, folks! The lumberjacks have started fighting amongst themselves, G.I Slow has finally managed to enter the ring, but is too slow to catch up with Rancid Ron, "Erics" Giant Squeaky Octopus has developed a slow leak... we need to get this under control, and quickly!
[Bextas' "Rising Sun" begins to play, and two figures in black trenchcoats walk out from the backstage area. Despite their expensively stylish sunglasses, their identities are obvious.]
Mr. P: Seth Harker! Kay Fabe! What are they doing here?
SW: And why is Kay hanging out with Seth? If she wanted to switch teams with a cool guy, I was always available!
NH: Scoot, you're the reason many women swear OFF men...
[Slow-mo. Seth leaps forward, up, up and over the cage. Kay cartwheels through the open door, delivering two sytching punches that send lumberjacks flying.]
Mr. P: Oh, how is THIS possible! Are we in the Matrix?
NH: Better, we're in Comas' imagination! The Matrix has limits, after all.
[Seth pirouettes in mid-air, delivering kicks and karate thrusts in all directions. I guess his knee's only injured in the Real World. As the last of the wrestlers hits the canvas, we zoom in on his face.]
Seth: Damn, I'm cool.
Agent Coma: Mr. Harker.... we've been expecting you.
[Coma turns and pokes Hallucination Boy in the chest. SPECTACULAR SPECIAL EFFECTS SEQUENCE!]
BigBOSS'es Voice: Yeah, right!
[Fine. We'll just turn the camera off, then on again. Oh, look, Hallucination Boy is now dressed in the same suit and sunglasses as Coma. Wow. How DID they do that? Cheap-ass.]
Hallucination Coma: Poink, too.
[Zoom out! EVERYONE's turned into Agent Coma. Zoom in to Seth again.]
["Comintagetcha" by the Propellerheads kicks in as a Big-Ass Burly Brawl breaks out. Seth leaps sideways, avoiding a flurry of kicks and punches from the Assorted Agents. Punchkickpunchkick... real Sarah 'The Jobber Slayer" offense. Agent Diablo I sweeps Seths legs out from under him, [SLOW-MO!] Seth executes a compact backward somersault and lands [REAL-TIME!] on his feet! A front thrust-kick sends Agent Diablo I [SLOW-MO!] flying backwards into Agents Ron and Mincing Bard.[REAL-TIME!] Meanwhile...]
[On the floor]
[...Kay Fabe leaps vertically, freezing in mid-air. She pulls a ripe banana from within the depths of her trenchcoat, winks at the camera and slooooooow-ly peels it, dropping the skins to the arena floor. The action un-freezes as the lumberjacks spring for her.]
[Gotta love a banana skin pratfall. Meanwhile...]
[In the ring]
[Seth blocks punch after punch, ducking and weaving amongst the Agents. Agent Ray misses a punch, spinning around with the force of the blow. Seth grabs him in a reverse headlock and leaps toward the ropes, running along them, his body almost horizontal.]
Mat Heath and Bil Withonel From BSCW: BULLET TIME!
[Agent Ray steps forward abruptly. Seths right leg goes above the top rope, his left underneath it. The entire audience cringes in male sympathy.]
Seth: (High-pitched voice) Good counter, Ray!
SW: Hey, Seth crushed the Harker family jewels! I might have a chance with Kay after all!
[Seth suddenly kips up, spins 360 and gives the "Come Get Some" signal.]
SW: Oh, you evil, no-selling son of a bitch! I call shenanagins!
[Every Agent still standing leaps for Seth, who charges the ropes. Leaping high, he snags the top strand with one hand and spins in an Over-the-Top Rope, One-Handed 619, boots flashing out to connect with Agent after Agent!]
Mr. P: Wayne is gone! Both Diablos! The Mincing Bard is out of here! Rancid Ron! Ray is knocked out of the ring! It's TOTAL ELIMINATION!
TF: Here is the winner of the Battle Royal... THE MERCENARY!
The Mercenary: Hooray! I eat tonight! Fans, cheer me! BOSS, pay me!
[Seth Harker spins the Mercenary around and launches an incredibly short, incredibly powerful punch.]
Voice-Over: SONIC BOOOOOOOM!
[And the Mercenary [SLOW-MO!] is blasted out of the ring and half-way up the aisle. [REAL-TIME!] Zoom in on Seth.]
Seth: Out-cool THAT, Trey!
["Rising Sun" plays again, as Seth and Kay leave the arena.]
NH: Okay, fans... I think the insanity is nearly over.
NH: ...Apart from our main event, that is. Coma has "Erics" Squeaky Rubber Octopus down on the mat and is delivering legdrops on it. Hallucination Boy is in the fans with a microphone stand and a roll of duct-tape.
Hallucination Boy: Gosh, tricky lie. It'll be hard to hit the fairway from here! Caddy, could you ask the gallery to move back a bit, please? FORE!
TF: OW! Who's throwing duct tape at me!
Mr. P: "Eric" spins Coma around. Kick to the guts! BRAINBUSTER!
Coma: Yep, like THAT'S going to work! Narf.
[He falls over.]
Mr. P; "Eric" heads topside... SQUEAKY OCTOPI-AIDED SHOOTING STAR PRESS...!!!!
"Eric": OH MY GOD! Trevor, speak to me!
SW: Could we get a puncture repair kit for the octopus?
Mr. P: Coma's up! SPEAR! SPEAR! SPEAR!
TF: Give me that! No spears allowed in the ring!
Mr. P: NUN-CHUKS! NUN-CHUKS! NUN-CHUKS!
TA: Or those!
Mr. P: A SMALL ASSORTMENT OF FRUITS AND VEGETABLES! A SMALL ASSORTMENT OF...
TF: Okay, I'll allow it!
Mr. P: ...OF FRUITS AND VEGETABLES!
NH and SW: WE GOT IT!
MR. P: CUCUMBER to the HEAD! "Eric" is down! Coma to the top rope... He's going for the Lobotmizer!
Mr. P: He MISSED IT!
NH: How could you tell?
Mr. P: And Hallucination Boy is going to the top! He's set for HIS finisher!
[He falls off onto Coma.]
Mr.P: AND HE NAILS IT!
NH: THAT'S his finisher?
Mr. P: Yes, it's called... "Train"! The Flunky slides to make the count...
MR. P: HE GOT HIM!
SW: We hope you've enjoyed your push, Hallucination Boy. Because that was it.
Mr. P: What a night this has been! And don't forget, I'm available for all other wrestling shows in the Havoc area...
[And I'll send you back to the CLASSIX Desk in the middle of Berts desperate self-shill, just to be a prick. Heh.]
SH: Looks like we're done. GBH, any thoughts?
GBH: Duh. Nup.
SH: Didn't think so. Coma, do the wrap up.
Coma: Flambe me a pillowcase, it's washing day in Bethleham! That's all, frogs!
[We now return you to your regular Comedy Central crap. Suckers.]
©2004 BOB Wrestling: Your Number 1 Google-Location for Hot Danish Lesbians Wrestling in Mud!