Post by The Delivery Men on Jan 14, 2006 20:03:21 GMT -5
(Lights up. We're in some kind of a franchised greasy-spoon--most likely a Denny's--where we have a unusual sight: Both Delivery Men sitting across the table from the tag team Storm, Thunder and Tempest.)
THUNDER: Okay, you little snots . . . why are we here?
DELIVERY MAN #1: We're giving you and your frickin' partner a chance . . .
DELIVERY MAN #2: . . . a chance to surrender.
THUNDER: (Guffaws.) What?
DELIVERY MAN #2: You just say the words and we'll spare you the frickin' beating come Monday.
THUNDER: You two have got to be kidding us.
DELIVERY MAN #1: Oh, we're serious, ya big Mary. We don't care about your bad blood with The Decapitators. It has nothing to do with our fight.
DELIVERY MAN #2: Frick all!
DELIVERY MAN #1: And you see, it's because of this that we intend on being merciful to you.
DELIVERY MAN #2: It's not your frickin' faults! You're not even a real tag team!
DELIVERY MAN #1: You'd be little frickin' children. Stepping into a Warehouse of Pain.
THUNDER: Hey!
DELIVERY MAN #1: Our only concern are the Doomriders. Those panty-fricks have a lot to account for, both IN and OUT of that ring.
DELIVERY MAN #2: Frickin' rights!
DELIVERY MAN #1: Kryenik, for messing with my hair--I oughta put him into the frickin' ground, where he can mess with nobody's hair ever again!--and that little puke Deathrow with that vicious assault that injured my partner's spit glands!
DELIVERY MAN #2: (Dribbles.) Deathrow!
DELIVERY MAN #1: But if you want to get in our way, we're more than happy to spread some frickin' punishment around!
(Pause. Thunder and Tempest exchange glances.)
THUNDER: D'you know what? We're fine going into the match on Monday. In fact, now we're feeling better about it than we ever did. (As Storm gets up.) See you losers.
(A waiter shows up, and deposits two large chocolate desserts in front of Storm.)
WAITER: Here are your desserts, ladies.
THUNDER: We're not hungry!
(And Storm exits. After chokeslamming the waiter, breaking every single window in the joint, and powerbombing the hostess through a table.)
DELIVERY MAN #1: (Still at table.) Well, we warned them.
(Cut. We're outside a single-level home somewhere in the city. Delivery Man #1 rings the doorbell, holding a labelled package. The door opens, with Thunder answering in his bathrobe.)
THUNDER: What the Hell? Are you here for a fight!?
DELIVERY MAN #1: Package.
(Pause.)
THUNDER: Oh, uh . . .
DELIVERY MAN #1: (Indicating waybill and producing a pen.) Sign here.
(Thunder cautiously accepts them pen and signs.)
DELIVERY MAN #1: (Handing the package over.) Here you are.
THUNDER: Uh, thanks. See you in the ring?
DELIVERY MAN #1: (Walking away.) You have a great day, sir!
(As a bewildered Thunder shuts the door, a satisfied-looking Delivery Man #1 struts up to his delivery truck, where Delivery Man #2 waits behind the wheel.)
DELIVERY MAN #2: It looks like someone didn't get their frickin' copy of the waybill!
DELIVERY MAN #1: And he won't realize it . . . until it's too frickin' late!
(And laughing, they drive away. Lights down!)
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With permission granted by Storm.
THUNDER: Okay, you little snots . . . why are we here?
DELIVERY MAN #1: We're giving you and your frickin' partner a chance . . .
DELIVERY MAN #2: . . . a chance to surrender.
THUNDER: (Guffaws.) What?
DELIVERY MAN #2: You just say the words and we'll spare you the frickin' beating come Monday.
THUNDER: You two have got to be kidding us.
DELIVERY MAN #1: Oh, we're serious, ya big Mary. We don't care about your bad blood with The Decapitators. It has nothing to do with our fight.
DELIVERY MAN #2: Frick all!
DELIVERY MAN #1: And you see, it's because of this that we intend on being merciful to you.
DELIVERY MAN #2: It's not your frickin' faults! You're not even a real tag team!
DELIVERY MAN #1: You'd be little frickin' children. Stepping into a Warehouse of Pain.
THUNDER: Hey!
DELIVERY MAN #1: Our only concern are the Doomriders. Those panty-fricks have a lot to account for, both IN and OUT of that ring.
DELIVERY MAN #2: Frickin' rights!
DELIVERY MAN #1: Kryenik, for messing with my hair--I oughta put him into the frickin' ground, where he can mess with nobody's hair ever again!--and that little puke Deathrow with that vicious assault that injured my partner's spit glands!
DELIVERY MAN #2: (Dribbles.) Deathrow!
DELIVERY MAN #1: But if you want to get in our way, we're more than happy to spread some frickin' punishment around!
(Pause. Thunder and Tempest exchange glances.)
THUNDER: D'you know what? We're fine going into the match on Monday. In fact, now we're feeling better about it than we ever did. (As Storm gets up.) See you losers.
(A waiter shows up, and deposits two large chocolate desserts in front of Storm.)
WAITER: Here are your desserts, ladies.
THUNDER: We're not hungry!
(And Storm exits. After chokeslamming the waiter, breaking every single window in the joint, and powerbombing the hostess through a table.)
DELIVERY MAN #1: (Still at table.) Well, we warned them.
(Cut. We're outside a single-level home somewhere in the city. Delivery Man #1 rings the doorbell, holding a labelled package. The door opens, with Thunder answering in his bathrobe.)
THUNDER: What the Hell? Are you here for a fight!?
DELIVERY MAN #1: Package.
(Pause.)
THUNDER: Oh, uh . . .
DELIVERY MAN #1: (Indicating waybill and producing a pen.) Sign here.
(Thunder cautiously accepts them pen and signs.)
DELIVERY MAN #1: (Handing the package over.) Here you are.
THUNDER: Uh, thanks. See you in the ring?
DELIVERY MAN #1: (Walking away.) You have a great day, sir!
(As a bewildered Thunder shuts the door, a satisfied-looking Delivery Man #1 struts up to his delivery truck, where Delivery Man #2 waits behind the wheel.)
DELIVERY MAN #2: It looks like someone didn't get their frickin' copy of the waybill!
DELIVERY MAN #1: And he won't realize it . . . until it's too frickin' late!
(And laughing, they drive away. Lights down!)
----------
With permission granted by Storm.