Hot Butt

[Jimmy The Lock]

Episode 1.02- Hot Butt

It's a little past 6.AM on a brisk fall morning. All is quiet, except the sound of leaves crunching underneath the feet of Jerry Patterson, C.R.A.P's custodian, as he walks around the building's perimeter. While the majority of the employees at the building won't be reporting to work for another hour or so, Jerry is the first to arrive, and has been for the past 2 and a half years. He's very dedicated to his job, and is never a minute late. Right now, he's finishing up the grounds outside the building, removing trash from it's landscape. In an hour it will be time to pressure walk the sidewalk, but right now it's time to go inside the building and wax the floors. He enters the building through the bottom level and heads to the janitor's closet. As he approaches the door, he notices a piece of folded paper taped to the door. He removes the paper and reads it. Scrawled in crude handwriting it says

"SHITTER ON 4TH FLOOR IS CLOGGED. NOT MY FAULT. LOVE, JIMMY."

Jerry shakes his head in disgust.

Jerry: You know what? This really sticks in my craw.

Rewind twenty four hours earlier.........

It's a busy day at C.R.A.P enterprises. Things usually tend to get hectic towards the end of the week, as most employees are scrambling to close deals handle customer orders. The atmosphere is tense. We find James in his office, sporting that lovable thousand yard blank stare he's become so famous for. James stands up, and is pantsless as usual, wearing only boxers, dress socks and Adidas flip flops. Just then, Noah Riboflavin walks into the office. A bit of an awkward experience occurs.

James: What do you want?

Noah: Ah, um...nothing. I don't know why i came in here....

James: You lookin' my shaft, Riboflavin?

Noah: No, i--um...

James: You plottin' on my Johnson? You clockin' my wood? You eyein' my meat? You checkin' for my pecker? You ogling my--

Noah: --No, just um..why aren't you wearing pants?

James: Don't you judge me, emo boy. What are you doing right now?

Noah: Well, i was just coming to tell you, My band Colorblind is performing this weekend, if you want to come out and supp---

James: Can't do it. My father's having surgery this weekend.

Noah: Mr. Chambers, your father had surgery last week.

James: Who signs your paycheck?

James passes Noah on his way out the the door to meet Kenny Morton, his lawyer. Kenny has been in the C.R.A.P family for a little over two years now, handling all the company's legal affairs, as well as managing the company's finances.

James: Ok, Morton, what do you want? I got ribs coming in 20.

Kenny: James, we have a serious problem. We got the creators of Night Rider trying to sue us!

James: What the fuck for?

Kenny: Well, apparently, they're all huffed up over some video you released earlier this week using the name "Crimson Ghost".

James: Yeah, that's Crimson Ghost, not Red Ghost.

Kenny: Well, apparently, the producers thought smart and went ahead and trademarked the rights to Crimson Ghost as well, and they sent me a cease and desist letter to give you, threatening to sue us if we even mention the name.

James: So how am i supposed to refer to this motherfucker?

Kenny: I'm not sure, but i do have a letter here containing all the variations of Red that they own the rights to.

James: Maroon Ghost?

Kenny: Nope, trademarked.

James: Scarlet Ghost?

Kenny: Nope.

James: Auburn Ghost?

Kenny: Auburn's a variation of Red?

Kenny quickly glances at the letter.

Kenny: Oh yeah it is...nope.

James: Rosewood Ghost?

Kenny: Now you're pushing it. What the fuck is Rosewood?

James: Actually, i don't know, i just googled "Shades and or variations of Red".

Kenny: James! We have to stop talking about this or else we're going to get slapped with a copyright infringement lawsuit.

James: Well, we have to figure out a name for this bitch, because i have to give my thoughts on Sunday's match later on.

Just then, the elevator dings. A delivery boy from Bobby's Barbecue enters the floor with a large brown paper bag. He walks up to James.

Delivery Boy: Your order, sir?

James: My order?

Delivery Boy: You ordered ribs?

James: Oh, i see. I ordered ribs right? Because i'm black?

Delivery Boy: No! Sir, i didn't---

James: No, i know what you meant. You think we all just some hapless, chicken and rib eatin niggas up in here, don't you?!

Delivery Boy: Please, i--

James: No, why stop there with the ribs?! Why not get some kool-aid, some cornbread and chit'lins up in this motherfucker! Lets's watch Oprah!

Staff members nearby simultaneously mouth "Oprah?" as the poor delivery boy looks to Noah Riboflavin, the only other white person in the room for help.

James: What the hell are you standing there for? How much is it?

Delivery Boy: Um, $7.47.

James pays the kid, but he still stands there.

Kenny: I think he wants a tip.

James: You want a tip?

Delivery Boy: Please sir.

James: Stay out of dark alleys at night.

Delivery Boy: What?

James: Bitch, move!

The delivery boys shoots off toward the elevators like a scalded dog as Amina Wallace shakes her head.

James: And what's your problem?

Amina: You know you're not supposed to be eating that trash. It doesn't agree with you.

How right Amina was. James loved barbecue, but he suffers from what is known in the black community as the "itis", which is an evil bubbling sensation in the stomach. The "itis" subsequently causes violent, rapid diarrhea, which in layman's terms is known as "Hot Butt".

Kenny: She's right, you know. Last time you had ribs, we had to evacuate the building and a hazardous materials unit was brought in.

James: Who signs your paychecks?

Later that day, we find James in an empty conference room, fully clothed. He has since demolished the ribs he ordered, and has filled the room with some of the nastiest butt-funk released in the past 20 years. He tries to mask the smell in air freshener, but it ultimately ends making the room smell like fruity shit.

If you all will pardon the smell, I'm just going to get right to the point. Fuck all three of youse. All three of you no good, bottom feeding, scum sucking bags of festering horse jizz. I go through all the trouble of enlisting the help of a camera crew to publicly trash you and i don't even get so much as a "fuck you Jimmy, you ain't shit" in return? I mean how fucking hard is it for any of you to pull out your little cheap ass video phones and cut a quick one?

pffft...James lets one go.

If you'll pardon the expression. I mean seriously, how do any of you ever expect to get any kind of move in the company by just siting back in silence? Or was i just that damn harsh and brutal that i just shut all three of you the fuck up? Whatever the case may be, just know nothing will change from the last time that i foolishly took time out of my day to address you losers. I'm going to march into Asylum, smack all three of you girls around the ring, get my hand raised and i will sprint across that finish line as the horns of victory toot in my favor.

pfffft...... another one escapes the treacherous butthole of James Chambers.

Okay, i promise, that's the last one. So, since you people have all given me absolutely nothing to work with, I'm going to try and guess what had happened that kept you all away from the cameras this week.
Okay, first on the docket, Ethan Jones. There are only so many guess with someone who's as "hardcore" as yourself. Well, my first thought was that maybe you were caught in some kind of awkward "To Catch a Predator" situation. But then i realized that you being a loathsome, offensive brute was enough to cause vaginal dryness for any woman of any age.

Truth is Ethan, i don't know where you are or what you're doing, but know this. Sunday is going to be your beginning and ending as a IWC competitor. So you can run and tell that, home boy.

And as for Harry Durden, if i had to guess why you chose not to comment on our match this week, I'd have to say that it has something to do with you being a drunken English bum, a potentially deadbeat father, a rapist, or all of the above, and I'm willing to bet it's the latter. It's shame, Harry, because you appear to be talented even with all your flaws as a human being. Unfortunately, you're a piece of shit, so you wouldn't know opportunity if it snuck up on you kicked you in the asshole.

pfffft...he's lightin' it up now.

It's got to be discouraging to the powers that be to waste precious paper on the contracts they give you people to sign. Time and time again, they take chances on losers like you and your other two friends, and you give them a slap in the face for all their troubles. Well, Reginald, I'm here to tell you that after Asylum on Sunday, you won't have to worry about giving Harry his pink slip, because I'm going to rear back and cock slap that limey fuck back to the gutter from which he crawled out of. So last but not least...um...Period Blood Ghost.

Well, it's pretty obvious what could have happened to you. Just as soon as the producers of Night Rider sent me this cease and desist letter they probably had some of their people come pay you a visit at your cardboard box in the park. You were probably sitting there, listening to your radio having yourself a nice squirrel meat sandwich, with a tall glass of your own urine to wash it down. Next thing you know you got some pencil neck lawyer all in your shit trying to take away the only thing you know. Truth be told, i actually feel bad for you, Candy Apple Ghost. Unlike these two other unoriginal pieces of shit you actually had a decent gimmick going for yourself. You were the dark, mysterious high flyer from parts unknown, and you're just shoe box artie from battery park. So sad.

So, in closing, what you fans are about to see this Sunday is utter decimation of three talentless losers in the IWC ring. For lack of a better word, I'm going to be taking out the trash. One by one I'm going to walk around that ring, pummeling all through of you until the referee pulls me off, and hell, i may still sneak in a kick or two while you're down. You shouldn't have done this to yourselves, gentlemen, because now you've gone and pissed me off, and one thing you'll come to learn, if you learn nothing else in this business, is to never piss James Chambers off. I just hope for all your own sake that you know whose teeth belong to who when i they got knocked the fuck out. There's something foul in the IWC, and it's---

PFFFFFFFT! A loud, bubbly one finds its way out again. This promo is abruptly cut short when James goes running out of the office, clutching the seat of his pants and screaming

"HOTTTT BUTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The scene fades with screams of agony, as we learn the tumultuous effects Hot Butt can have on the human anus.

(NOTE: Hot Butt is a serious disease. If you or a loved one have been victims Hot Butt, please do not hesitate to call our support hotline. 1-800-WILE BOWELS, the call is toll free. Friends don't let friends get Hot Butt)