Post by D! on Nov 24, 2005 4:44:38 GMT -5
(Lights up. Josh Reynolds is standing in the parking lot outside Thursday Night Action! with a report already in progress.)
REYNOLDS: --haven't heard from is the NAPW Champion himself, One Letter Said Real Loud, D! He has never missed an episode of Action! from his front row seat, and with--
VOICE: (Off.) Hey!
(The camera pans off towards the voice. A large, surly man wearing overalls and a cap is heading towards Reynolds.)
DELIVERY GUY: Hey, are you in charge here?
REYNOLDS: Excuse me?
DELIVERY GUY: (Slower.) Are you in chaaarge . . . here.
REYNOLDS: Uh, I'm NAPW staff . . . I'm not in charge . . .
DELIVERY GUY: Frick, whatever. Can you sign for stuff?
REYNOLDS: Uh, I'm not sure what . . .
DELIVERY GUY: (Slow.) You take a pen . . . and you write your name on paper . . . Frick.
REYNOLDS: I'm sorry, who are you?
DELIVERY GUY: I've got a delivery for a Mister "The Immortal".
REYNOLDS: A delivery?
DELIVERY GUY: (Sizing Reynolds up.) What's your deal? Are ya frickin' retarded?
REYNOLDS: What I mean is, what are you delivering?
DELIVERY GUY: Oh yeah. One giant foam dumpster, one giant foam "Boston Whaler" motorboat, and one giant foam Olmec Big Head. All for a Mister "The Immortal."
REYNOLDS: I know this is going to get me mocked again, but I don't understand.
DELIVERY GUY: (Sighs.) People pay money in exchange for goods and services. Sometimes, these people will also pay extra for what's known as "a delivery", which is a frickin' good and a service.
REYNOLDS: (Fighting to stay composed.) Listen. All I want to know is: why did he order all of these giant foam things?
DELIVERY GUY: Hey, I don't ask those questions. Maybe he's a collector. Maybe he needs the foam. Maybe for him they're a constant reminder of the impermanence of life and the lie that we live by putting our faith in things, not people. Maybe he likes to pretend he can lift impossibly heavy things.
Actually, it's probably the last thing I just said.
REYNOLDS: I--
DELIVERY GUY: --don't understand. Frick. The World Record for bench-press is like, what, a 1005 pounds? But this is by a guy who pretty much does nothing but slurp down steroid smoothies and lack the mobility to wipe his own ass. So anything around that weight would require a level of commitment that guarantees he'd fail at anything else he'd ever try, and anything above that weight is physically frickin' impossible. But hey, what do I know? I'm a frickin' delivery guy.
(Pause.)
REYNOLDS: So what do you do? Do you just deliver giant foam things?
DELIVERY GUY: Oh, frick, yeah. In fact, we've made a lot of deliveries to the NAPW recently. Let's see . . . (Digs through clipboard.) One giant foam combination safe, Mr. Nightmare; one giant foam old Cadillac, Mr. Mirage; one giant foam 650 lb. barbell, Mr. Technique; one giant foam 850 lb. barbell, Mr. Khaos; one giant foam ATV, Mr. Immortal. See? All of this stuff has gotta be way outta their frickin' weight classes.
REYNOLDS: So . . . wait. Where do you even get all of these giant foam objects?
DELIVERY MAN: Buddy, read the overalls!
(The Delivery Man turns around. The camera moves in to shoot the monogrammed logo on the back of his jumpsuit . . . the planet Earth being gently squeezed by a hand, with the words "UNIVERSAL GIANT FOAM OBJECTS LTD." on the top, and "A Division of FOMT" in smaller letters on the bottom.)
DELIVERY MAN: Serving your giant foam object needs since 1975!
ANOTHER VOICE: (off) Hey, get the frickin' invoice signed, ya frick!
DELIVERY MAN: Frick you, ya frick! I'm frickin' talkin' here!
(The camera pans out to show the open back of a semi-trailer. A second delivery man is standing on the tailgate.)
DELIVERY MAN 2: Hey, I've gotta unload this frickin' giant foam hovercraft!
DELIVERY MAN: That order was cancelled, Frick-o! Frickin' shove it to the back next to the giant foam Porsche Spyder!
DELIVERY MAN 2: You were supposed to frickin' tell me what gets cancelled, Frick-Face! This is the giant foam volcanic boulder all over again!
DELIVERY MAN: Frickin' quit whining like your frickin' mom! Toss out the order!
(Delivery Man 2 hurls out a giant foam roller coaster car)
DELIVERY MAN: (Catching the car one-handed.) That's not the frickin' order, gramma fricker!
DELIVERY MAN 2: The frick do you know, it was right by the frickin' giant foam moon lander! Like it was supposed to!
DELIVERY MAN: No, it's between the giant foam blue whale and the giant foam Dusty Rhodes!
DELIVERY MAN 2: That does it! Your frickin' ass is toast!
(Delivery Man 2 picks up a giant foam culvert, picks it up over his head, tosses it to the ground and jumps on it, landing safely. Then he pulls out a foam bo staff that was scrunched up in his overalls. Delivery Man 1 does the same with a scrunched-up pair of foam nunchaku and they go at it, foam weapons bopping harmlessly off each other. As they continue their struggle, the camera pans back to the unperturbed Josh Reynolds, who goes from following the action to looking at the camera again.)
JOSH REYNOLDS: Well . . . it's still better than watching Smackdown.
(Lights down!)
REYNOLDS: --haven't heard from is the NAPW Champion himself, One Letter Said Real Loud, D! He has never missed an episode of Action! from his front row seat, and with--
VOICE: (Off.) Hey!
(The camera pans off towards the voice. A large, surly man wearing overalls and a cap is heading towards Reynolds.)
DELIVERY GUY: Hey, are you in charge here?
REYNOLDS: Excuse me?
DELIVERY GUY: (Slower.) Are you in chaaarge . . . here.
REYNOLDS: Uh, I'm NAPW staff . . . I'm not in charge . . .
DELIVERY GUY: Frick, whatever. Can you sign for stuff?
REYNOLDS: Uh, I'm not sure what . . .
DELIVERY GUY: (Slow.) You take a pen . . . and you write your name on paper . . . Frick.
REYNOLDS: I'm sorry, who are you?
DELIVERY GUY: I've got a delivery for a Mister "The Immortal".
REYNOLDS: A delivery?
DELIVERY GUY: (Sizing Reynolds up.) What's your deal? Are ya frickin' retarded?
REYNOLDS: What I mean is, what are you delivering?
DELIVERY GUY: Oh yeah. One giant foam dumpster, one giant foam "Boston Whaler" motorboat, and one giant foam Olmec Big Head. All for a Mister "The Immortal."
REYNOLDS: I know this is going to get me mocked again, but I don't understand.
DELIVERY GUY: (Sighs.) People pay money in exchange for goods and services. Sometimes, these people will also pay extra for what's known as "a delivery", which is a frickin' good and a service.
REYNOLDS: (Fighting to stay composed.) Listen. All I want to know is: why did he order all of these giant foam things?
DELIVERY GUY: Hey, I don't ask those questions. Maybe he's a collector. Maybe he needs the foam. Maybe for him they're a constant reminder of the impermanence of life and the lie that we live by putting our faith in things, not people. Maybe he likes to pretend he can lift impossibly heavy things.
Actually, it's probably the last thing I just said.
REYNOLDS: I--
DELIVERY GUY: --don't understand. Frick. The World Record for bench-press is like, what, a 1005 pounds? But this is by a guy who pretty much does nothing but slurp down steroid smoothies and lack the mobility to wipe his own ass. So anything around that weight would require a level of commitment that guarantees he'd fail at anything else he'd ever try, and anything above that weight is physically frickin' impossible. But hey, what do I know? I'm a frickin' delivery guy.
(Pause.)
REYNOLDS: So what do you do? Do you just deliver giant foam things?
DELIVERY GUY: Oh, frick, yeah. In fact, we've made a lot of deliveries to the NAPW recently. Let's see . . . (Digs through clipboard.) One giant foam combination safe, Mr. Nightmare; one giant foam old Cadillac, Mr. Mirage; one giant foam 650 lb. barbell, Mr. Technique; one giant foam 850 lb. barbell, Mr. Khaos; one giant foam ATV, Mr. Immortal. See? All of this stuff has gotta be way outta their frickin' weight classes.
REYNOLDS: So . . . wait. Where do you even get all of these giant foam objects?
DELIVERY MAN: Buddy, read the overalls!
(The Delivery Man turns around. The camera moves in to shoot the monogrammed logo on the back of his jumpsuit . . . the planet Earth being gently squeezed by a hand, with the words "UNIVERSAL GIANT FOAM OBJECTS LTD." on the top, and "A Division of FOMT" in smaller letters on the bottom.)
DELIVERY MAN: Serving your giant foam object needs since 1975!
ANOTHER VOICE: (off) Hey, get the frickin' invoice signed, ya frick!
DELIVERY MAN: Frick you, ya frick! I'm frickin' talkin' here!
(The camera pans out to show the open back of a semi-trailer. A second delivery man is standing on the tailgate.)
DELIVERY MAN 2: Hey, I've gotta unload this frickin' giant foam hovercraft!
DELIVERY MAN: That order was cancelled, Frick-o! Frickin' shove it to the back next to the giant foam Porsche Spyder!
DELIVERY MAN 2: You were supposed to frickin' tell me what gets cancelled, Frick-Face! This is the giant foam volcanic boulder all over again!
DELIVERY MAN: Frickin' quit whining like your frickin' mom! Toss out the order!
(Delivery Man 2 hurls out a giant foam roller coaster car)
DELIVERY MAN: (Catching the car one-handed.) That's not the frickin' order, gramma fricker!
DELIVERY MAN 2: The frick do you know, it was right by the frickin' giant foam moon lander! Like it was supposed to!
DELIVERY MAN: No, it's between the giant foam blue whale and the giant foam Dusty Rhodes!
DELIVERY MAN 2: That does it! Your frickin' ass is toast!
(Delivery Man 2 picks up a giant foam culvert, picks it up over his head, tosses it to the ground and jumps on it, landing safely. Then he pulls out a foam bo staff that was scrunched up in his overalls. Delivery Man 1 does the same with a scrunched-up pair of foam nunchaku and they go at it, foam weapons bopping harmlessly off each other. As they continue their struggle, the camera pans back to the unperturbed Josh Reynolds, who goes from following the action to looking at the camera again.)
JOSH REYNOLDS: Well . . . it's still better than watching Smackdown.
(Lights down!)