Post by The Delivery Men on Jan 31, 2006 13:46:47 GMT -5
(Lights up. In Delivery Dispatch, the cigar-chomping Dispatcher sticks his head out of the office door and screams.)
DISPATCHER: Numbers One and Two . . . get in here, now!!!
(A commotion in the bull-pen occurs. Cut to the office, where Delivery Man #1, #2 and #6 report.)
DELIVERY MAN #6: You wanted to frickin' see us, Chief?
(The Dispatcher looks at #6 in awkward silence.)
DELIVERY MAN #1: (To #6.) It's okay . . . I think he meant the other frickin' Number Two.
DELIVERY MAN #6: Frick! Sorry, guys.
(#6 walks out. The Dispatcher gives #1 and #2 a confused look.)
DELIVERY MAN #1: Number Six thinks he's Number Two.
DELIVERY MAN #2: We accept this.
DELIVERY MAN #1: And frickin' move on with our lives.
DISPATCHER: Okay, whatever. All right, boys, you've managed to save your jobs when you delivered the experimental anti-venom and saved my life . . .
DELIVERY MAN #1: Boss! We frickin' know this already!
DELIVERY MAN #2: Talking about the frickin' anti-venom is boring!
DELIVERY MAN #1: We're bored with it!
DELIVERY MAN #2: You're boring!
DISPATCHER: (Clears his throat.) Yes. Well. What I wanted to say is that now that all of this "tag team" madness is behind you, I can expect you to maintain proper levels of professionalism.
DELIVERY MAN #2: First of all, we're the best frickin' Delivery Men in the business! So let us decide what's "professional"!
DELIVERY MAN #1: And secondly, we're not quitting tag team fighting! In frickin' fact, we've got a match for the NAPW Tag Team Titles!
DELIVERY MAN #2: Against the New and frickin' Improved D-X!
DELIVERY MAN #1: One of them's a goofy, cocky, immature show-off comedy wrestler!
DELIVERY MAN #2: And the other one's Stylin' Kyle Roberts!
DELIVERY MAN #1: Do you think a match like that will take up any of our time?
DELIVERY MAN #2: We've alread won the frickin' match. It's all over . . . but the pinning.
DELIVERY MAN #1: That's when we frickin' break out our patented Delivery Drop.
DISPATCHER: I don't think--
DELIVERY MAN #1: Do you know what we had to do to earn our title shot?
DELIVERY MAN #2: Draw or lose every match.
DELIVERY MAN #1: And we have finally sunk low enough to be able to challenge for the NAPW Tag Team Titles.
DELIVERY MAN #2: This was our frickin' plan all along.
DELIVERY MAN #1: We were too good to be the Number One Contenders.
DELIVERY MAN #2: We were the Negative Two Contenders.
DELIVERY MAN #1: But now . . . we will claim the belts and set an actual frickin' standard for tag team wrestling in this company.
DELIVERY MAN #2: We're gonna frickin' need Monday night off, boss!
DELIVERY MAN #1: But not that much time.
DELIVERY MAN #2: We will likely just go from our match to delivering.
DELIVERY MAN #1: Which we frickin' love!
DELIVERY MAN #2: I feel like delivering right now . . . how about you, partner?
DELIVERY MAN #1: Frickin' rights! Now let's pretend that those packages are D-X--
DELIVERY MAN #2: --and handle them delicately!
(The Delivery Men high-five and leave, the door shutting behind them. The Dispatcher sighs, opens his desk drawer, and pulls out a bottle of bourbon and a shot glass. He pulls the bottle open, looks at the glass, and drinks straight out of the bottle. Lights down.)
DISPATCHER: Numbers One and Two . . . get in here, now!!!
(A commotion in the bull-pen occurs. Cut to the office, where Delivery Man #1, #2 and #6 report.)
DELIVERY MAN #6: You wanted to frickin' see us, Chief?
(The Dispatcher looks at #6 in awkward silence.)
DELIVERY MAN #1: (To #6.) It's okay . . . I think he meant the other frickin' Number Two.
DELIVERY MAN #6: Frick! Sorry, guys.
(#6 walks out. The Dispatcher gives #1 and #2 a confused look.)
DELIVERY MAN #1: Number Six thinks he's Number Two.
DELIVERY MAN #2: We accept this.
DELIVERY MAN #1: And frickin' move on with our lives.
DISPATCHER: Okay, whatever. All right, boys, you've managed to save your jobs when you delivered the experimental anti-venom and saved my life . . .
DELIVERY MAN #1: Boss! We frickin' know this already!
DELIVERY MAN #2: Talking about the frickin' anti-venom is boring!
DELIVERY MAN #1: We're bored with it!
DELIVERY MAN #2: You're boring!
DISPATCHER: (Clears his throat.) Yes. Well. What I wanted to say is that now that all of this "tag team" madness is behind you, I can expect you to maintain proper levels of professionalism.
DELIVERY MAN #2: First of all, we're the best frickin' Delivery Men in the business! So let us decide what's "professional"!
DELIVERY MAN #1: And secondly, we're not quitting tag team fighting! In frickin' fact, we've got a match for the NAPW Tag Team Titles!
DELIVERY MAN #2: Against the New and frickin' Improved D-X!
DELIVERY MAN #1: One of them's a goofy, cocky, immature show-off comedy wrestler!
DELIVERY MAN #2: And the other one's Stylin' Kyle Roberts!
DELIVERY MAN #1: Do you think a match like that will take up any of our time?
DELIVERY MAN #2: We've alread won the frickin' match. It's all over . . . but the pinning.
DELIVERY MAN #1: That's when we frickin' break out our patented Delivery Drop.
DISPATCHER: I don't think--
DELIVERY MAN #1: Do you know what we had to do to earn our title shot?
DELIVERY MAN #2: Draw or lose every match.
DELIVERY MAN #1: And we have finally sunk low enough to be able to challenge for the NAPW Tag Team Titles.
DELIVERY MAN #2: This was our frickin' plan all along.
DELIVERY MAN #1: We were too good to be the Number One Contenders.
DELIVERY MAN #2: We were the Negative Two Contenders.
DELIVERY MAN #1: But now . . . we will claim the belts and set an actual frickin' standard for tag team wrestling in this company.
DELIVERY MAN #2: We're gonna frickin' need Monday night off, boss!
DELIVERY MAN #1: But not that much time.
DELIVERY MAN #2: We will likely just go from our match to delivering.
DELIVERY MAN #1: Which we frickin' love!
DELIVERY MAN #2: I feel like delivering right now . . . how about you, partner?
DELIVERY MAN #1: Frickin' rights! Now let's pretend that those packages are D-X--
DELIVERY MAN #2: --and handle them delicately!
(The Delivery Men high-five and leave, the door shutting behind them. The Dispatcher sighs, opens his desk drawer, and pulls out a bottle of bourbon and a shot glass. He pulls the bottle open, looks at the glass, and drinks straight out of the bottle. Lights down.)