Post by David Banks on Feb 23, 2007 4:34:00 GMT -5
Bob. No not that Bob. NAPW's little-seen backstage interviewer. Short, pudgy, and with a face that only a mother could love. Bob yawned, as he rolled from under his covers, off the bed and plants his feet into the hard wood floor, of his one bedroom apartment. He looked over to the letter he received yesterday, but never opened... What could be? Maybe money!? After putting on a T-shirt(thank god) Bob moved over to his desk, and opened up his day old mail.
Dear Bob:
You have been reassigned. Your title is now Personal Assistant to David Banks. Report immediately to his apartment in Whyte Ave. Enclosed are directions and $20 cash for travel expenses. Greg the Janitor will be taking over your job as package bitch, I mean backstage interviewer. Don’t worry, you didn’t do anything wrong... we just feel you are the right man for the job. Atleast you'll finally get some TV time. Good luck and godspeed.
Sorry,
Rex Caliber
Bob looked up from the letter and stared. How could this have happend? Was it a mistake? Why me? His heart sank. So he bent over, scooped it up... now it was time to leave.
Hours later... Bob arrived at the door of David Banks. He nervously combed what little hair he had over, parting it to one side. This was it... here goes nothing... no wait...*scrath scrath* Ok he's ready.
Bob adjusted his glasses and took a deep breath.
Ok... there... here we go. Bob rang the doorbell...
TAP-OUT! (that what the doorbell sounds like)
There came a ruckus from inside. Bob could tell there was someone on the other side of the door... probably peering out at his gangly form within... probably judging him... probably making him sick... The door swung open. Bob took a step back, his head turned away and his hands went up to his face to block out the light.
The light... the pure charisma... the AURA... Choirs of angels sang, flowers blossomed, and lovers made... well love... and created life.. and there he was in all his splendor, in all his greatness, in all his glory, in his... underpants?
David Banks stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, shirtless, and wearing his skin tight, black and yellow wrestling trunks. He cocked an eyebrow and leaned forward.
David Banks: Can I help you, sir?
Bob swallowed hard. He had never been more nervous in his life. Unlike the time he lost his viriginty, much like Simply Beautiful. THIS wouldn’t be over in five seconds.
Bob: U-um. I-I'm Bob. fr-from NAPW. I have b-been assigned to be your personal assistant.
David Banks: Personal assistant?
Bob: Uh-huh.
David Banks: So Caliber agreed to it?
Bob: Uhh, yeah..
David Banks: Are you clean?
Bob: What?
David Banks: Do you bathe?
Bob: Um... Yeah.
David Banks: Dude... you got me chocolates?
Bob: Oh, Um, they were infront of your door when I got here.
David Banks: Let me see!
David snatched the box from bob.
David Banks: "To: Mrs. David Banks. From: Simply Beautiful"
David looked quizzical for a second. Why the hell did he have to be the girl?
David Banks: He does shit like this all the time, and people wonder why I wanna twist his freakin head off.
Bob: What?
Davd Banks: (BLEEP) it, get in here and cook me some Gah damn eggs!
David’s muscular arm shot out as fast as lightning and snagged the twiggy forearm of his new assissant. David strode into the house, and yanked Bob right along with him. The door slammed shut. Bob now found himself inside Davids' apartment. Now there was no escape. My God have mercy on his soul.
David Banks: HELLLLOOOOO? EGGS... Chop-chop. you know how I like em.
Bob: Ummm, do I?
David Banks: Rule number one in becoming a future champion! Don’t think... JUST ACT! COOK, EGG WENCH! COOK!”
David slapped the back of Bob’s head. He lurched forward and slunk away submissively into a room he guessed was the kitchen. What do ya know... he was correct.
Bob: Right!
David Banks: And make sure you wash your hands. I don’t want my eggs to taste like a mortal made them.
Bob: ..um...Okay..
A drop of Sweat ran down Bob’s face. This was going to be one helluva ride. he hurried to obey David’s commands.
David Banks: RULE NUMBER TWO! Always address me as Sir, Your Highness and no butt-jokes will ever be tolerated, in fact, nothing will be tolerated, in fact, consider this your warning if you (BLEEP) up again, you’re DEAD! DO YO HEAR ME! DEAD! DON’T DO IT AGAIN!
Bob: DO WHAT!? WHAT DID I DO WRONG!?
David Banks: RULE NUMBER THREE! ALWAYS COMPLY, (BLEEP)!
Bob: ...Yes, Sir..
David Banks: Rule number four! Er wait, back to number two You may also address me as Dr. Banks, as I AM the Ring Doctor. known for the way I dissect my opponents with my superior submission holds like a surgeon on an operating table or you may call me the Charismatic Colossus, but don’t abbreviate it, because CC sounds freakin stupid and I’m way too important and GRAND to be summed up in two letters. It’d take MILLIONS! MILLIONS I SAY! You might also think of other things to address me as.
David grabbed Bob by the collar and with a jerk, drew him close. Eye to eye. Nose to nose.
David Banks: but you better check with me first. And you could really use a breath mint and always keep an eye on the gah damn EGGS!”
David pushed Bob back in front of his pan of half-cooked eggs. Egg shells and yolk were everywhere as Bob rushed to please his new boss.
David Banks: Also, don’t freakin ask about the tights, you say one thing, and I’ll snap your pudgy little leg like a... like a... like something damn snappable dammit! I ALWAYS wear my wrestling tights. This way, I never leave the wrestling ring and the ring, Bob... The ring never leaves me. I don’t take vacations, Mr. I can't get a television spot. I don't take breaks! Being this Gah damn good isn’t a part time job, it’s not even a full time job, bub. IT’S MY LIFE!”
NEXT RULE! You are responsible for informing me of my NAPW dates, where I am wrestling, the weather, the barometric pressure of the city in which I am to wrestle, and if you have time WHOM I am to wrestle, and the next rule is, you ALWAYS have time. So who the HELL do I wrestle this week?
Bob: Geh... er... um... I believe, Dav-I mean, sir... I believe, it's Marcus Chamberlain. But didn't you know that already? I mean, you were interviewed about your match with him.
David Banks: Chamberlain... Chamberlain... Nope, never heard of him. Isn't he a gay clothing designer or something?
Bob: I think that’s Kenneth Dison...sir.
David Banks: Next rule, I’m always right and speaking off, once you’re done with those eggs, gimme some Gah damn bread. Just wait, wait until AFTER our match, after I break his pimply ass and make him sew me some of those Village People pants. THEN we’ll see who’ll be laughing.
Bob: ... Indeed.
David Banks: ME! THAT'S WHO! I’LL BE LAUGHING! BECAUSE I’LL HAVE SOME PANTS AND HE’LL HAVE A FRACTURED FIBULA! NOW! Screw the eggs and go on the inter-web thingy and tell me more about this Kenneth Dison guy.
Bob: You mean Marcus Chambelain?
David Banks: what ever bitch, just do it!
Bob looked down at the cooking eggs, spattering with hot grease, then at David Banks, who was impatiently tapping his toes as he sat at the dinner table. Bob looked back at the stove, shrugged, and moved across the apartment to the computer. David Banks inspected the eggs while Bob browsed the NAPW website. Yeah, it's still plain looking. Guess Rex can't afford a new web design
.
David Banks: Look at these eggs. Looks like a 8 year old retard cooked them... or Dez Carter.
David dumped the pan-full of eggs onto the kitchen floor.
David Banks: When you’re done, there’s a mess in the kitchen to be cleaned up. Did you find anything, (BLEEP)-Bubble?
Bob: What?
David Banks: New rule, bitch. I call you whatever the hell I feel like, Douche-Quaker.
Bob: I don't even know what that means?
David Banks: To bad, Ass-Turnip.
Bob: Huh?
David Banks: Rectal-Smurf
Bob: Hey!
David Banks: Bring on the Dison!
Bob: Okay, okay... says here Marcus is 5'9"/214 lbs.
David Banks: Skip the good stuff.
Bob: Um. Here it says he grew up a poor white kid who ended up in drug rehab at the age of eleven and—
David Banks: HE WAS IN DRUG REHAB AT AGE 11?!? WHO THE (BLEEP) IS THIS GUY!? PILL-POPPER DISON?!
Bob: What sec... I think this is the wrong web-site.
David Banks: Look, if this tit-waffle was going to be in drug rehab at age 11, he’s not all there, luckily, I’m the only REAL wrestling prodigy the world has ever known, and he’ll STILL fall to the might of David Banks, because I’m the shooting star, the technical wizard, the ring doctor, the submission exhibition, the commodore of kick-your-ass, and the GAH DAMN Chrismatic Colossus! If he thinks I’m scared because he was sucking dick for Coke while he was learning fractions, then he’s DEAD wrong. I was putting grizzly bears in hammerlocks WHILE IN THE WOMB! I put scorpions in the scorpion deathlock! I RIPPED A BILL OFF A DUCK, TORE THE TAIL OFF A BEAVER, AND STUCK IT TO A RAT AND CREATED THE GAH DAMN PLATYPUS... BEFORE I WAS CONCEIVED!
I’m not afraid of some diaper wearing, garbage sucking, doo-doo bottomed smooth-assed bitch like Chamberlain. I’m David FRIGGIN’ Banks. And this chump is just the next in line. The unemployment line, because I end careers, bitches! oh yeah. And I’ll put your rainbow parade of a fashion store out of business, too. That shit SUCKS. Looks like something SB wears on the weekends when him and Ravager go club hopping.
Bob: Umm.. right. Wait a sec, this is the wrong website. What the heck is NAP-DUB.com? ...heres the right one, so forget about that rehab thing. Look he released the following.
Bob clicks on a link which brings Marcus Chamberlain latest promo right to Davids living room. Isn’t technology great!? Good thing David invented the internet and technology.
QUOTE
"I’m the man that is going to ignite a new fire in the NAPW ranks."
David Banks: Fine, burn the place to the ground. As long as we don't have to sit through your suicide inducing promos.
QUOTE
"What do you call yourself again?"
David Banks: Here, let me remind you. I’m the shooting star, the technical wizard, the ring doctor, the submission exhibition, the sherpa who carries a heavy backpack up a mountain and inside is YOU tapping the hell out. the Chrismatic Colossus, David Banks!
Are you gonna be a challenge? Or are you going to dizzy me with your talents at making outfits for your transexual friends? Or show me your expertise in picking out panties for you to wear. God I hope so. It’ll be a lot less smelly than you trying to display your DISMAL skills in the ring against a FAR superior opponent such as me. Please... servant-boy... please, stop the video, cut the feed, no more... no more... I can’t take it.
Bob closes the window.
David Banks: Go get the car. I don’t own one, but go buy one, and then drive me to the arena. I need to beat the hell out of something, and that something is Marcus Chamberlain It looks like NAPW has really given me one of their best opponents to try and to finally put an end to my dominance of this federation... or lack there of.. pfft. The man was in drug rehab when he was 11, but no matter, I shall defeat him, for compared to Chamberlain, I am a bullfrog, and he is but a lone fly. I eat him, and then I crap him out, and then my fecal-Chamberlain matter is used as fertilizer and a flower grows there, and the nectar is sweet and attracts more flies... and I eat their stupid asses, too.
Bob: You still have a few more days till the match.
David Banks: Don't think. Just Act! Car now!
Until next time kids!
Dear Bob:
You have been reassigned. Your title is now Personal Assistant to David Banks. Report immediately to his apartment in Whyte Ave. Enclosed are directions and $20 cash for travel expenses. Greg the Janitor will be taking over your job as package bitch, I mean backstage interviewer. Don’t worry, you didn’t do anything wrong... we just feel you are the right man for the job. Atleast you'll finally get some TV time. Good luck and godspeed.
Sorry,
Rex Caliber
Bob looked up from the letter and stared. How could this have happend? Was it a mistake? Why me? His heart sank. So he bent over, scooped it up... now it was time to leave.
Hours later... Bob arrived at the door of David Banks. He nervously combed what little hair he had over, parting it to one side. This was it... here goes nothing... no wait...*scrath scrath* Ok he's ready.
Bob adjusted his glasses and took a deep breath.
Ok... there... here we go. Bob rang the doorbell...
TAP-OUT! (that what the doorbell sounds like)
There came a ruckus from inside. Bob could tell there was someone on the other side of the door... probably peering out at his gangly form within... probably judging him... probably making him sick... The door swung open. Bob took a step back, his head turned away and his hands went up to his face to block out the light.
The light... the pure charisma... the AURA... Choirs of angels sang, flowers blossomed, and lovers made... well love... and created life.. and there he was in all his splendor, in all his greatness, in all his glory, in his... underpants?
David Banks stood in the doorway, hands on his hips, shirtless, and wearing his skin tight, black and yellow wrestling trunks. He cocked an eyebrow and leaned forward.
David Banks: Can I help you, sir?
Bob swallowed hard. He had never been more nervous in his life. Unlike the time he lost his viriginty, much like Simply Beautiful. THIS wouldn’t be over in five seconds.
Bob: U-um. I-I'm Bob. fr-from NAPW. I have b-been assigned to be your personal assistant.
David Banks: Personal assistant?
Bob: Uh-huh.
David Banks: So Caliber agreed to it?
Bob: Uhh, yeah..
David Banks: Are you clean?
Bob: What?
David Banks: Do you bathe?
Bob: Um... Yeah.
David Banks: Dude... you got me chocolates?
Bob: Oh, Um, they were infront of your door when I got here.
David Banks: Let me see!
David snatched the box from bob.
David Banks: "To: Mrs. David Banks. From: Simply Beautiful"
David looked quizzical for a second. Why the hell did he have to be the girl?
David Banks: He does shit like this all the time, and people wonder why I wanna twist his freakin head off.
Bob: What?
Davd Banks: (BLEEP) it, get in here and cook me some Gah damn eggs!
David’s muscular arm shot out as fast as lightning and snagged the twiggy forearm of his new assissant. David strode into the house, and yanked Bob right along with him. The door slammed shut. Bob now found himself inside Davids' apartment. Now there was no escape. My God have mercy on his soul.
David Banks: HELLLLOOOOO? EGGS... Chop-chop. you know how I like em.
Bob: Ummm, do I?
David Banks: Rule number one in becoming a future champion! Don’t think... JUST ACT! COOK, EGG WENCH! COOK!”
David slapped the back of Bob’s head. He lurched forward and slunk away submissively into a room he guessed was the kitchen. What do ya know... he was correct.
Bob: Right!
David Banks: And make sure you wash your hands. I don’t want my eggs to taste like a mortal made them.
Bob: ..um...Okay..
A drop of Sweat ran down Bob’s face. This was going to be one helluva ride. he hurried to obey David’s commands.
David Banks: RULE NUMBER TWO! Always address me as Sir, Your Highness and no butt-jokes will ever be tolerated, in fact, nothing will be tolerated, in fact, consider this your warning if you (BLEEP) up again, you’re DEAD! DO YO HEAR ME! DEAD! DON’T DO IT AGAIN!
Bob: DO WHAT!? WHAT DID I DO WRONG!?
David Banks: RULE NUMBER THREE! ALWAYS COMPLY, (BLEEP)!
Bob: ...Yes, Sir..
David Banks: Rule number four! Er wait, back to number two You may also address me as Dr. Banks, as I AM the Ring Doctor. known for the way I dissect my opponents with my superior submission holds like a surgeon on an operating table or you may call me the Charismatic Colossus, but don’t abbreviate it, because CC sounds freakin stupid and I’m way too important and GRAND to be summed up in two letters. It’d take MILLIONS! MILLIONS I SAY! You might also think of other things to address me as.
David grabbed Bob by the collar and with a jerk, drew him close. Eye to eye. Nose to nose.
David Banks: but you better check with me first. And you could really use a breath mint and always keep an eye on the gah damn EGGS!”
David pushed Bob back in front of his pan of half-cooked eggs. Egg shells and yolk were everywhere as Bob rushed to please his new boss.
David Banks: Also, don’t freakin ask about the tights, you say one thing, and I’ll snap your pudgy little leg like a... like a... like something damn snappable dammit! I ALWAYS wear my wrestling tights. This way, I never leave the wrestling ring and the ring, Bob... The ring never leaves me. I don’t take vacations, Mr. I can't get a television spot. I don't take breaks! Being this Gah damn good isn’t a part time job, it’s not even a full time job, bub. IT’S MY LIFE!”
NEXT RULE! You are responsible for informing me of my NAPW dates, where I am wrestling, the weather, the barometric pressure of the city in which I am to wrestle, and if you have time WHOM I am to wrestle, and the next rule is, you ALWAYS have time. So who the HELL do I wrestle this week?
Bob: Geh... er... um... I believe, Dav-I mean, sir... I believe, it's Marcus Chamberlain. But didn't you know that already? I mean, you were interviewed about your match with him.
David Banks: Chamberlain... Chamberlain... Nope, never heard of him. Isn't he a gay clothing designer or something?
Bob: I think that’s Kenneth Dison...sir.
David Banks: Next rule, I’m always right and speaking off, once you’re done with those eggs, gimme some Gah damn bread. Just wait, wait until AFTER our match, after I break his pimply ass and make him sew me some of those Village People pants. THEN we’ll see who’ll be laughing.
Bob: ... Indeed.
David Banks: ME! THAT'S WHO! I’LL BE LAUGHING! BECAUSE I’LL HAVE SOME PANTS AND HE’LL HAVE A FRACTURED FIBULA! NOW! Screw the eggs and go on the inter-web thingy and tell me more about this Kenneth Dison guy.
Bob: You mean Marcus Chambelain?
David Banks: what ever bitch, just do it!
Bob looked down at the cooking eggs, spattering with hot grease, then at David Banks, who was impatiently tapping his toes as he sat at the dinner table. Bob looked back at the stove, shrugged, and moved across the apartment to the computer. David Banks inspected the eggs while Bob browsed the NAPW website. Yeah, it's still plain looking. Guess Rex can't afford a new web design
.David Banks: Look at these eggs. Looks like a 8 year old retard cooked them... or Dez Carter.
David dumped the pan-full of eggs onto the kitchen floor.
David Banks: When you’re done, there’s a mess in the kitchen to be cleaned up. Did you find anything, (BLEEP)-Bubble?
Bob: What?
David Banks: New rule, bitch. I call you whatever the hell I feel like, Douche-Quaker.
Bob: I don't even know what that means?
David Banks: To bad, Ass-Turnip.
Bob: Huh?
David Banks: Rectal-Smurf
Bob: Hey!
David Banks: Bring on the Dison!
Bob: Okay, okay... says here Marcus is 5'9"/214 lbs.
David Banks: Skip the good stuff.
Bob: Um. Here it says he grew up a poor white kid who ended up in drug rehab at the age of eleven and—
David Banks: HE WAS IN DRUG REHAB AT AGE 11?!? WHO THE (BLEEP) IS THIS GUY!? PILL-POPPER DISON?!
Bob: What sec... I think this is the wrong web-site.
David Banks: Look, if this tit-waffle was going to be in drug rehab at age 11, he’s not all there, luckily, I’m the only REAL wrestling prodigy the world has ever known, and he’ll STILL fall to the might of David Banks, because I’m the shooting star, the technical wizard, the ring doctor, the submission exhibition, the commodore of kick-your-ass, and the GAH DAMN Chrismatic Colossus! If he thinks I’m scared because he was sucking dick for Coke while he was learning fractions, then he’s DEAD wrong. I was putting grizzly bears in hammerlocks WHILE IN THE WOMB! I put scorpions in the scorpion deathlock! I RIPPED A BILL OFF A DUCK, TORE THE TAIL OFF A BEAVER, AND STUCK IT TO A RAT AND CREATED THE GAH DAMN PLATYPUS... BEFORE I WAS CONCEIVED!
I’m not afraid of some diaper wearing, garbage sucking, doo-doo bottomed smooth-assed bitch like Chamberlain. I’m David FRIGGIN’ Banks. And this chump is just the next in line. The unemployment line, because I end careers, bitches! oh yeah. And I’ll put your rainbow parade of a fashion store out of business, too. That shit SUCKS. Looks like something SB wears on the weekends when him and Ravager go club hopping.
Bob: Umm.. right. Wait a sec, this is the wrong website. What the heck is NAP-DUB.com? ...heres the right one, so forget about that rehab thing. Look he released the following.
Bob clicks on a link which brings Marcus Chamberlain latest promo right to Davids living room. Isn’t technology great!? Good thing David invented the internet and technology.
QUOTE
"I’m the man that is going to ignite a new fire in the NAPW ranks."
David Banks: Fine, burn the place to the ground. As long as we don't have to sit through your suicide inducing promos.
QUOTE
"What do you call yourself again?"
David Banks: Here, let me remind you. I’m the shooting star, the technical wizard, the ring doctor, the submission exhibition, the sherpa who carries a heavy backpack up a mountain and inside is YOU tapping the hell out. the Chrismatic Colossus, David Banks!
Are you gonna be a challenge? Or are you going to dizzy me with your talents at making outfits for your transexual friends? Or show me your expertise in picking out panties for you to wear. God I hope so. It’ll be a lot less smelly than you trying to display your DISMAL skills in the ring against a FAR superior opponent such as me. Please... servant-boy... please, stop the video, cut the feed, no more... no more... I can’t take it.
Bob closes the window.
David Banks: Go get the car. I don’t own one, but go buy one, and then drive me to the arena. I need to beat the hell out of something, and that something is Marcus Chamberlain It looks like NAPW has really given me one of their best opponents to try and to finally put an end to my dominance of this federation... or lack there of.. pfft. The man was in drug rehab when he was 11, but no matter, I shall defeat him, for compared to Chamberlain, I am a bullfrog, and he is but a lone fly. I eat him, and then I crap him out, and then my fecal-Chamberlain matter is used as fertilizer and a flower grows there, and the nectar is sweet and attracts more flies... and I eat their stupid asses, too.
Bob: You still have a few more days till the match.
David Banks: Don't think. Just Act! Car now!
Until next time kids!