Post by D! on Nov 12, 2005 12:02:00 GMT -5
(Lights up. We have a medium shot of D!--a little green from last night's drinking binge--strolling down Whyte avenue, dressed casually in a dirty t-shirt, track pants and the NAPW title. Both him and the camera are already in motion.)
D!: Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to another installment of Friday Night Whyte! I am D!, your host, and NAPW champion, which people inform me is a big deal. Tonight, I have a very special guest, one who's dear to our hearts . . .
(The camera pans back to see a tall, powerful man, dressed in a leather overcoat and shades, bringing up the rear and not looking too pleased.)
D!: The Plague! What's gonna happen? Will we talk about the title rematch? Will we say "I respect you" for thirty minutes? Will we find Bad Guitar Guy and jam with him? What's gonna happen?
PLAGUE: How about, "Why the hell did The Plague agree to do this?"
D!: Relax, guy! We're here!
(As they stop walking, the cameraman captures their destination: a brightly-lit, sparsely-furnished, well-attended late-night eatery, above which the huge red sign reads "Marco's Famous")
D!: Hotcha! Now we're talking! Plague, it's time you did your tastebuds a favour!
PLAGUE: What is this place?
D!: Marco's! Best hamburgers in town, man. (He gets the door for Plague.)
PLAGUE: A hamburger joint? You gotta be kidd--The HELL is that smell?
D!: The smell of goodness.
PLAGUE: Aaugh, it smells like someone put out a grease fire with Donair meat!
D!: (Excitedly.) They're still serving Donairs?
PLAGUE: Kid, we're NOT doing this here.
D!: Oh, come on. So they're big, juicy hamburgers. It won't destroy your regimen or anything. Have you read Making the Game?
PLAGUE: I own it.
D!: Then you should know. C'mon! Burgers the size of your head! You know you want it . . . come on.
(Plague mutters to himself, digs his hands into his pockets and heads inside. D! follows and heads to the counter. He sizes Plague up, then turns to order.)
D!: Lemme think . . . two double burger combos, one with fries, one with rings. Make the first one a Gourmet, and the second one a Salisbury with lots of mushrooms. Cokes with both. (Turns to Plague.) Impressive, huh? (Pause.) What'll you have?
(Pause.)
D!: What? I'm trying to bulk up.
PLAGUE: (Sighs.) A double cheeseburger and we're good.
D!: Oh, and can you pick this one up? (Grins.) My wallet's in my other track pants.
(Plague glares at D!, fishes some money out, then slaps it on the counter. Both men sidle down the counter to wait.)
D!: So let's talk, Plague. NAPW fans want to get inside of you . . . what's been going through your head the past few days? You've got a title rematch against one of the best men in the roster . . . yours truly. Care to comment?
PLAGUE: It's like I said earlier, kid. You and I left it in the ring four nights ago. We went twenty-five minutes. Twenty. Five. Minutes. And Match of the Year? You ask me, and you did, we're it, daddy! Because you brought out the very best in The Plague that night. See, there's something about the NAPW Championship that makes great competitors the best there is. (Smirks.) And it makes decent wrestlers into okay wrestlers.
D!: Admit it, you love me. Here's what's on my mind: what's gonna happen after Monday? After I beat--after someone beats somebody for the belt, well, you and I wouldn't mix it up again for at least a month. But where does the title go from there? We kicked so much ass that every one else got a lethal dose of Provincial Title Fever . . .
PLAGUE: Hold on, kid. What about The Immortal?
D!: Oh, him? (Chuckles.) He doesn't count.
PLAGUE: Oh yeah? Why not?
D!: Uh, were you there last night?
PLAGUE: You're not the only wrestling fan, D. Now answer the question.
D!: Uh . . . well, he hasn't had a match yet.
PLAGUE: You mean like you? When you got a shot at my NAPW Title?
D!: I earned my shot by winning a match.
PLAGUE: You. You said it yourself. Dragon, Viking and myself, we all had experience. We'd all earned our spots.
D!: Are we really going to do all this again?
PLAGUE: Hey, when you denied The Immortal a shot, you brought it back to life!
D!: Be serious! When I had my qualifier match, NAPW was still filling up its ranks . . . Hell, we still are! They took a risk on me and it paid off!
PLAGUE: So let me get this straight, "d": It's okay if someone takes a risk and gives you a title shot. Not anybody else, though, huh?
D!: Can we talk about our match? Please?
PLAGUE: Well, I think it's interesting, being as two weeks ago you were talking about your talent outshining your lack of experience and now you're all in favour of a glass ceiling.
D!: Hey, that's not--
PLAGUE: Sure it is. (Grins sickly.) It's amazing what holding the company title can do to your values, ain't it? How quickly you can fold under the pressure?
D!: I know what you're doing and it won't work.
PLAGUE: What am I doing, "Champ"? Quoting you? Using your own words against you?
D!: I--
PLAGUE: Or is that another case of "something only you get to do"?
D!: Give it up.
PLAGUE: Huh? Splicing Viking's promos together so that they're "funny"? Watching my old promos so that you can find one little slip-up to exploit? Coming to meet me in "track pants and a dirty t-shirt" because one time - ONE TIME - I used it as an example?
D!: Touché.
PLAGUE: You really think you're clever, don't you kid?
D!: Funny, I thought we respected each other.
PLAGUE: Like you've been showing me respect tonight? You're just innocently showing me a good time--FRIDAY NIGHT ON WHYTE AVE, BABY--and then I snap and get violent "for no reason"? That the plan?
(D! glares at Plague.)
PLAGUE: Let me put you in your place, D! You're just like The Immortal. You're just like Khaos! The only difference is the hardware--
(Plague jabs his finger onto the NAPW title--almost instantly, D! audibly slaps Plague's finger off of the belt. Both men stare down.)
PLAGUE: (Regaining his composure.) As. I. Was. Saying. Did it ever cross your mind, D!, that maybe all of my experience actually means something? Did you ever stop to think what somebody with more than two weeks' worth of experience is capable of? Or even more than two years? Hell, kid, I'm not even bragging when I tell you that I could fill up two careers with my experience.
What makes you think I can't outthink you? What makes you think that you're throwing me curveballs I've never seen before?
Or better yet: what makes you think I popped out of the woodwork being exactly like me? Don't you think I've been in your shoes before, D? Don't you think I used to be a brash rookie, trying to make a name for myself by spitting in the proverbial dragon's eye? Do you know why I show you an ounce of respect? Do you know why I'm allowing you to walk around, parading MY title?
Because you're doing what I used to do. Before I grew up, got some priorities, and became the world-class ass-kicker I am today.
D!: Are you done?
PLAGUE: Kid, I'm The Plague. I'm never done. I never stop.
D!: Then do me a favour and go into remission or something. Let me set the record straight: you're not "allowing" me to do anything. I shape my own destiny. And I don't give a rat's ass about what when you started out, called yourself "Li'l Streppy" and jobbed to some more blowhards. I'm! Not! You!
PLAGUE: Damn straight, kid, you're the crap I got rid of.
D!: Let me ask you something . . . when you were two weeks into your career, did you win your fed's title?
(Plague loses his smile.)
D!: I thought not. So guess what? I don't have to put up with your sad story or your sad life. I beat you clean before, Plague--
PLAGUE: It's called luck.
D!: --and I can beat you again!
PLAGUE: No. My version goes like this: I take my title back, punt you down the ladder, and then you get to tell The Immortal about how great you used to be.
(D! balls up his fists.)
PLAGUE: C'mon, Champ! Lay me out! Soften me up! Weaken me for Monday! Come on!
(D! holds steady.)
PLAGUE: Hell, I won't even fight back. Come on!
(Plague gets right into D!'s face.)
PLAGUE: That's what I thought. You don't got stones, do you kid? COME ON, YOU SON OF A--
VOICE: Two combos, one cheeseburger!
(The order breaks the two men apart. Only Plague goes for his sandwich; D! keeps his eye on him. Plague cautiously takes a bite from his cheeseburger.)
PLAGUE: I'll be damned. Y'know kid, this place ain't so bad!
(Without warning, Plague mashes his cheeseburger in D!'s face. This gets everybody in the restaurant's attention.)
PLAGUE: I'll see ya Monday...
(He leans right back into D!'s face with a vicious smirk.)
PLAGUE: ...peanut.
(Chuckling vindictively, Plague pushes through the crowd and leaves Marco's. The camera pans back to get a close up of D!, his face dripping with beef, crumbs and grease, so angry he's shaking. Lights down.)
----------
Co-written with The Plague.
D!: Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to another installment of Friday Night Whyte! I am D!, your host, and NAPW champion, which people inform me is a big deal. Tonight, I have a very special guest, one who's dear to our hearts . . .
(The camera pans back to see a tall, powerful man, dressed in a leather overcoat and shades, bringing up the rear and not looking too pleased.)
D!: The Plague! What's gonna happen? Will we talk about the title rematch? Will we say "I respect you" for thirty minutes? Will we find Bad Guitar Guy and jam with him? What's gonna happen?
PLAGUE: How about, "Why the hell did The Plague agree to do this?"
D!: Relax, guy! We're here!
(As they stop walking, the cameraman captures their destination: a brightly-lit, sparsely-furnished, well-attended late-night eatery, above which the huge red sign reads "Marco's Famous")
D!: Hotcha! Now we're talking! Plague, it's time you did your tastebuds a favour!
PLAGUE: What is this place?
D!: Marco's! Best hamburgers in town, man. (He gets the door for Plague.)
PLAGUE: A hamburger joint? You gotta be kidd--The HELL is that smell?
D!: The smell of goodness.
PLAGUE: Aaugh, it smells like someone put out a grease fire with Donair meat!
D!: (Excitedly.) They're still serving Donairs?
PLAGUE: Kid, we're NOT doing this here.
D!: Oh, come on. So they're big, juicy hamburgers. It won't destroy your regimen or anything. Have you read Making the Game?
PLAGUE: I own it.
D!: Then you should know. C'mon! Burgers the size of your head! You know you want it . . . come on.
(Plague mutters to himself, digs his hands into his pockets and heads inside. D! follows and heads to the counter. He sizes Plague up, then turns to order.)
D!: Lemme think . . . two double burger combos, one with fries, one with rings. Make the first one a Gourmet, and the second one a Salisbury with lots of mushrooms. Cokes with both. (Turns to Plague.) Impressive, huh? (Pause.) What'll you have?
(Pause.)
D!: What? I'm trying to bulk up.
PLAGUE: (Sighs.) A double cheeseburger and we're good.
D!: Oh, and can you pick this one up? (Grins.) My wallet's in my other track pants.
(Plague glares at D!, fishes some money out, then slaps it on the counter. Both men sidle down the counter to wait.)
D!: So let's talk, Plague. NAPW fans want to get inside of you . . . what's been going through your head the past few days? You've got a title rematch against one of the best men in the roster . . . yours truly. Care to comment?
PLAGUE: It's like I said earlier, kid. You and I left it in the ring four nights ago. We went twenty-five minutes. Twenty. Five. Minutes. And Match of the Year? You ask me, and you did, we're it, daddy! Because you brought out the very best in The Plague that night. See, there's something about the NAPW Championship that makes great competitors the best there is. (Smirks.) And it makes decent wrestlers into okay wrestlers.
D!: Admit it, you love me. Here's what's on my mind: what's gonna happen after Monday? After I beat--after someone beats somebody for the belt, well, you and I wouldn't mix it up again for at least a month. But where does the title go from there? We kicked so much ass that every one else got a lethal dose of Provincial Title Fever . . .
PLAGUE: Hold on, kid. What about The Immortal?
D!: Oh, him? (Chuckles.) He doesn't count.
PLAGUE: Oh yeah? Why not?
D!: Uh, were you there last night?
PLAGUE: You're not the only wrestling fan, D. Now answer the question.
D!: Uh . . . well, he hasn't had a match yet.
PLAGUE: You mean like you? When you got a shot at my NAPW Title?
D!: I earned my shot by winning a match.
PLAGUE: You. You said it yourself. Dragon, Viking and myself, we all had experience. We'd all earned our spots.
D!: Are we really going to do all this again?
PLAGUE: Hey, when you denied The Immortal a shot, you brought it back to life!
D!: Be serious! When I had my qualifier match, NAPW was still filling up its ranks . . . Hell, we still are! They took a risk on me and it paid off!
PLAGUE: So let me get this straight, "d": It's okay if someone takes a risk and gives you a title shot. Not anybody else, though, huh?
D!: Can we talk about our match? Please?
PLAGUE: Well, I think it's interesting, being as two weeks ago you were talking about your talent outshining your lack of experience and now you're all in favour of a glass ceiling.
D!: Hey, that's not--
PLAGUE: Sure it is. (Grins sickly.) It's amazing what holding the company title can do to your values, ain't it? How quickly you can fold under the pressure?
D!: I know what you're doing and it won't work.
PLAGUE: What am I doing, "Champ"? Quoting you? Using your own words against you?
D!: I--
PLAGUE: Or is that another case of "something only you get to do"?
D!: Give it up.
PLAGUE: Huh? Splicing Viking's promos together so that they're "funny"? Watching my old promos so that you can find one little slip-up to exploit? Coming to meet me in "track pants and a dirty t-shirt" because one time - ONE TIME - I used it as an example?
D!: Touché.
PLAGUE: You really think you're clever, don't you kid?
D!: Funny, I thought we respected each other.
PLAGUE: Like you've been showing me respect tonight? You're just innocently showing me a good time--FRIDAY NIGHT ON WHYTE AVE, BABY--and then I snap and get violent "for no reason"? That the plan?
(D! glares at Plague.)
PLAGUE: Let me put you in your place, D! You're just like The Immortal. You're just like Khaos! The only difference is the hardware--
(Plague jabs his finger onto the NAPW title--almost instantly, D! audibly slaps Plague's finger off of the belt. Both men stare down.)
PLAGUE: (Regaining his composure.) As. I. Was. Saying. Did it ever cross your mind, D!, that maybe all of my experience actually means something? Did you ever stop to think what somebody with more than two weeks' worth of experience is capable of? Or even more than two years? Hell, kid, I'm not even bragging when I tell you that I could fill up two careers with my experience.
What makes you think I can't outthink you? What makes you think that you're throwing me curveballs I've never seen before?
Or better yet: what makes you think I popped out of the woodwork being exactly like me? Don't you think I've been in your shoes before, D? Don't you think I used to be a brash rookie, trying to make a name for myself by spitting in the proverbial dragon's eye? Do you know why I show you an ounce of respect? Do you know why I'm allowing you to walk around, parading MY title?
Because you're doing what I used to do. Before I grew up, got some priorities, and became the world-class ass-kicker I am today.
D!: Are you done?
PLAGUE: Kid, I'm The Plague. I'm never done. I never stop.
D!: Then do me a favour and go into remission or something. Let me set the record straight: you're not "allowing" me to do anything. I shape my own destiny. And I don't give a rat's ass about what when you started out, called yourself "Li'l Streppy" and jobbed to some more blowhards. I'm! Not! You!
PLAGUE: Damn straight, kid, you're the crap I got rid of.
D!: Let me ask you something . . . when you were two weeks into your career, did you win your fed's title?
(Plague loses his smile.)
D!: I thought not. So guess what? I don't have to put up with your sad story or your sad life. I beat you clean before, Plague--
PLAGUE: It's called luck.
D!: --and I can beat you again!
PLAGUE: No. My version goes like this: I take my title back, punt you down the ladder, and then you get to tell The Immortal about how great you used to be.
(D! balls up his fists.)
PLAGUE: C'mon, Champ! Lay me out! Soften me up! Weaken me for Monday! Come on!
(D! holds steady.)
PLAGUE: Hell, I won't even fight back. Come on!
(Plague gets right into D!'s face.)
PLAGUE: That's what I thought. You don't got stones, do you kid? COME ON, YOU SON OF A--
VOICE: Two combos, one cheeseburger!
(The order breaks the two men apart. Only Plague goes for his sandwich; D! keeps his eye on him. Plague cautiously takes a bite from his cheeseburger.)
PLAGUE: I'll be damned. Y'know kid, this place ain't so bad!
(Without warning, Plague mashes his cheeseburger in D!'s face. This gets everybody in the restaurant's attention.)
PLAGUE: I'll see ya Monday...
(He leans right back into D!'s face with a vicious smirk.)
PLAGUE: ...peanut.
(Chuckling vindictively, Plague pushes through the crowd and leaves Marco's. The camera pans back to get a close up of D!, his face dripping with beef, crumbs and grease, so angry he's shaking. Lights down.)
----------
Co-written with The Plague.