Post by Jimmy The Lock on Dec 17, 2010 1:17:41 GMT -4
We arrive back at C.R.A.P enterprises, for the first time in about three weeks. All is quiet, and it is business as usual. We view quick shots of Uncle Matthew lathering his lunch of pork chops and rice in hot sauce, Amina Wallace playing solitaire on her computer, Ashley Tumbleston filing her nails, Biff Riboflavin hammering away at the buttons on his PSP, and Noah Riboflavin sobbing in a nearby broom closet. We Jerry Patterson pushing a mop and bucket toward the fourth floor elevators, and security guards Flynt and Walter hanging about in the break room, doing nothing as usual. We see the mailroom crew laughing joyfully over a spirited game of spades.
Finally, we reach office of the man himself, James Chambers. He's seated at his desk, going over a mountain of paperwork. Suddenly, his desk phone chimes. It's his secretary, Amina Wallace.
Amina: Mr. Chambers, there's some guy here to see you.
James: It's not that Neo Nazi barbecue delivery boy, is it?
Amina: No, it's some homeless guy. He claims to have something you want, something very important to you.
James: Send him in. Oh, and one more thing, Amina. What are you wearing?
Amina slams the phone down, and then Approximately five minutes later, a ragged unkempt man with a scraggly, patchy beard enters the office. He wears a worn cashmere pea coat and a dirty wool cap from under which his dirty, matted hair protrudes. He carries a white and red portable cooler.
James: Who are you, and what could you possibly have that I want?
Man: Well, first of all, my name is Nick Nolte.
James looks confused.
James: Nick Nolte? You know you're named after a very famous person, right?
Nick: I'm not named after anyone, dipshit. I AM Nick Nolte.
James's eyes almost bulge out of his head.
James: GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! You're Nick Nolte?! "Affliction" Nick Nolte?!
Nick: Yes.
James: "Blue Chips" Nick Nolte?!, "Prince Of Tides" Nick Nolte?!, "Lorenzo's Oil", "48 Hours", "Another 48 Hours"......
Nick:--- Yes, if you just listen.....
James: "I LOVE TROUBLE" Nick Nolte?!
Nick: Okay,now i am leaving.
James: Wait!
Nick: Don't EVER mention "I Love Trouble" again.....
James: Why are you wearing those rags?
Nick: Isn't it obvious? I'm homeless, you insensitive fuck! I drink my own semen!
It takes everything in Jimmy's power to not hurl all over his desk. He regains his composure eventually.
James: Okay, so what do you have for me?
Nick: Well, you might remember about a week ago, you competed against Dr. Rosen at SWA's Sadistic Rage Show, right? Well, I just so happened to be in the house that night supporting Henry Winkler when Dr. Rosen hacked that ear of yours in half.
The camera zooms in on James's grotesque stump of an ear.
James: Wait, so do you have in that cooler what I think you have in that cooler? The other half of my ear?
Nick: Possibly. For a price.
James: Okay, how much of a price?
Nick: $15,000 dollars.
James: WHAT THE FUCK?!
Nick: Hey, if you want to add "Half Ear Jimmy" to your list of nicknames, be my guest....
Nick grabs the cooler, and begins to get up.
James: Wait, wait...fine. I just don't understand why it's so expensive.
Nick: It's a recession up in this bitch, Jimmy!
James writes the check, and rips it out of the checkbook. Nick lunges at the check, but James pulls his arm back.
James: Whoa, Same time, motherfucker!
A brief Mexican standoff ensues, and one of the most intense staring contests seen in the past 15 years is born. Finally, James relents, and hands over the check. Nick does the same, sliding the cooler towards James. James flips the cooler top up, and he gasps in shock.
James: This isn't my ear!
Nick: What do you mean? Of COURSE it's your ear!
James: It's white!
Nick: Oh well, the ice does that.
James: Fuck that, give me my check back, now!
Nick: All sales are final.
James: Whose fucking ear is this?!
Nick: Okay, okay. It's my ear. The truth is, I did have your ear, I caught it when it flew into the crowd.
James: So what did you do with it?!
Nick: Well, you know it's cold out now, and good food is a bit harder to come by...
James: You ATE my severed ear?!
Nick: Well, yes. But you'll be happy to know that it tasted like a pork rind. But I realize after I ate that it was wrong. That's why this morning, I sawed off half of my ear with my old prison shank. You know what they say, an ear for an ear, a tooth for a tooth.
James: That NOT how the saying goes!
Nick: Well, something to that effect. But anyway, are you going to keep the ear or not? Because I'm getting hungry, and I'll take a mutilated bloody piece of ear over skewered sewer rat any day.
James: Maybe having a half Caucasian ear will be a good thing. Maybe my credit score will instantly get higher. Perhaps I can get a cab in New York now.
Nick: That's the spirit, Chap! Well, I have to be going now.
James: Time out...now that I think about it, I met Nick Nolte in '99. He signed my VHS copy of I Love Trouble! HE LOVES THAT MOVIE!!!!
Nick: Okay, you got me. I'm not Nick Nolte. I'm Christopher Lambert.
James is overcome with excitement, and his eyes bulge once again.
James: I have CHRISTOPHER LAMBERT's ear?! "Highlander" Christopher Lambert?!, "Mortal Kombat" Christopher Lambert?!, I can't fucking believe......
Christopher leaves James ranting on in all his fanboy glory as he leaves the office. About five minutes later, after James has named every movie in Chris Lambert's filmography, we reenter the office to find him looking in the cooler. His eyes light up, and he picks up his phone and dials the front desk.
James: Amina, this is Jimmy. Come in here, and bring that sewing kit of yours.
Three Hours Later...
We find James in C.R.A.P's conference room. His earlobe has been crudely sewn back on, and the stitches loosen more and more with every step James takes. At this point, his ear looks like a piece of jerky hanging from a piece of dental floss. A large projector is set in the center of the table, and a large white projection screen in the front of the room pulled down from the ceiling. James takes the clicker out of his shirt pocket.
I'm not going to waste your time this week with any bullshit excuses. I lost, Cyrus picked up the win, fair and square. So congrats, you live to fight another day. Know one thing, and that is the fact that we will meet again, and when we do, that's your ass. I promise you that with every fiber of my being. But enough about that, at Massacre on 34th Street, not only do i have the chance to redeem myself, but i also have the opportunity to earn my way to a title shot in a winner take all battle royale. So let's take a look at the competition, shall we?
James taps the clicker for the first image.
Damian Dimitri, otherwise known as Trevor Blackwell's slack jawed toadie. Also known as Trevor Blackwell's third testicle. You might be the next big thing to Trevor Blackwell's delusional ass, but to me you're just his he-bitch. You're going to suplex me? Bitch please, just because you and Trevvie Trev foreplay by tossing each other around when playing happy grab ass means nothing. As a matter of fact, before the bell even rings i'm going to walk up and smack that crooked face of yours back into alignment for saying some stupid blasphemous shit like that. I agree with what you said about the battle royal being a waste of time, but not so much about you and I in a solo match. You should be careful what you wish for when you talk out of your ass, because i'm positive you really don't want that. You and i both know i would fuck your shit up entirely, so don't think you were complimenting me by saying that. That's a fact, and you should recognize my skill and potential, so you don't get any credit for that. When your sorry ass gets thrown over the top rope like the pathetic yes man you are, you'll be scampering back to the mold infested dungeon that your master squats in to tell him that he's next.
James taps the clicker to the next slide.
Madok Mortalis. Why do APW Superstars think it's ok to dump off their lesser talented associates in the IWC? Though i must say, it is refreshing to see someone who attempts to talk as much shit as i do.The difference is, i back up every ounce of shit i talk, while you on the other hand are just an egomanical sack of shit who lets the expletives fly when he gets some liquid courage in him. Being Pence's puppy appears to have given you a sense of entitlement, like you're already in line for a shot at the title. Well, i'm here to tell you that couldn't be any further from the truth. Not only are you not going to win the battle royal, but you're going to get dumped on that empty little head of yours so fucking hard that when you wake up, the recession will be over.
He clicks to the next slide.
Harry Durden. Not much to say here, lost two weeks ago, lost last week, and is going to lose this week. Translation? Career Over.
James taps the clicker.
Anthony James. I don't know who or what that is, but I'm going to make a bold promise to IWC fans the world over. This douche will be the first one over the top rope, for the simple fact that he wears pink shorts. Hopefully one of the fans in attendance has the presence of mind to peg this prick in the back of his faggy little head with a bottle of tanning lotion as he scurries up the ramp after getting eliminated. You're probably sitting there wondering, "Why me, Jimmy? I'm just a newbie!" Well, why the fuck not? Sorry Anthony, but i don't like any of these bottom feeding scum-sucking nitro circus rejects in IWC, and i don't like you. Management thinks that if they throw enough bodies in my path that eventually I'm going to slow down. Wrong.
James taps the clicker to the next slide.
"The Amber Alert" Amber Stevens. Give me break. I swear to Christ, some people will make a nickname out of anything. Do you know what Amber Alert means, honestly? It means a fucking child is missing! Everytime i hear your name announced, i look over my shoulder to make sure some creepy, lurching weirdo like Damian Dimitri hasn't run off with someone's kid. We get it! Your name is a double entendre! How clever! And while we're on the subject, what the fuck are you alerting us of, anyway? Oh, alert! Amber's cutting another boring ass promo,alert! Amber's stinking up the arena with her sub par athletic skills. If that's the case, then keep the nickname, because it saves alot of fans money. The only reason fans cheer for you is because whenever they hear "Amber Stevens is about to wrestle" to them it means "If you have to take a piss or do some blow, go now." Sorry for the harsh reality, but it's the truth. You're a chick, but you got balls. I've seen you stand up men much bigger than yourself, and i respect that. But respect can only get you so far. You cross me, and see where it gets you. Let it be known, James Chambers will never hit a woman, but he will beat a bitch unconscious.
He cuts to the final slide.
Isabella Pazzini. Life sucks, the only semi-fuckable broad on the roster who doesn't have c section scars, bullet wounds and isn't on work release and i have to wrestle her. What are the odds? Ms. Pazzini or Panini because it sounds cooler, if you value your future in this business, it would be best for you to stay out of my way. I know you want to make a stand for the women in the company, but at what cost? You've done pretty good for yourself so far in the IWC, so let those be your achievements, and leave this alone. It's not for you. I'm only going to warn you once and then i'm going to lay you the fuck out. What i said to Amber applies to you as well, because just as soon as i'll kick her in the fucking skull i'll do it quicker to you. With that said, i leave you with this: If you want to stay cute, don't try anything cute. Let those words be your personal mantra coming into Massacre on 34th Street.
And for all of youse competing for a slot in the main event. I don't care if it's Bitch Cyrus, Blackwell, Arcadia, The Rambler, Jason Royce, or Delilah. At the conclusion of the super show, there are some thing that won't change. Trevor Blackwell will still be an annoying, condescending painfully mediocre piece of shit, Chris Cyrus will still have no personality, the Gambler will still have osteoporosis, Jason Royce will still be a burned out methhead with a speech impediment, Arcadia will still be more focused on the new Call Of Duty than wrestling, and Delilah will continue her rapid decline into the depths of obscurity. The one thing that will change is the name plate on the IWC Insane Strap, which will read James Chambers.
James grabs the clicker and cuts off the projector. Just then, a fluttering of wings is heard, and a pigeon flies through the open window and swipes James's hanging piece of ear, he yelps in pain, and drops to his knees.
NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Blood spurts out of James's ear as the bird flies out to the window. The camera zooms down into the alley next to C.R.A.P enterprises on the street below. The bird swoops down into the lap of a homeless man, whose gnarled hands begin to gently stroke the head of the bird. We zoom up to see the man's face. It's Christopher Lambert!
Christopher: Good bird...what a dope that James Chambers guy is. i'm not even Christopher Lambert.
The bum rips off his disguise to reveal his true identity.....
.......
John Travolta!
John: Up your nose with a rubber hose, Jimmy!
A limo approaches, and John gets in. He then begins to laugh maniacally as the theme from "Welcome Back Kotter" begins playing out of nowhere and the limo rips down the street as the scene fades to black.
Finally, we reach office of the man himself, James Chambers. He's seated at his desk, going over a mountain of paperwork. Suddenly, his desk phone chimes. It's his secretary, Amina Wallace.
Amina: Mr. Chambers, there's some guy here to see you.
James: It's not that Neo Nazi barbecue delivery boy, is it?
Amina: No, it's some homeless guy. He claims to have something you want, something very important to you.
James: Send him in. Oh, and one more thing, Amina. What are you wearing?
Amina slams the phone down, and then Approximately five minutes later, a ragged unkempt man with a scraggly, patchy beard enters the office. He wears a worn cashmere pea coat and a dirty wool cap from under which his dirty, matted hair protrudes. He carries a white and red portable cooler.
James: Who are you, and what could you possibly have that I want?
Man: Well, first of all, my name is Nick Nolte.
James looks confused.
James: Nick Nolte? You know you're named after a very famous person, right?
Nick: I'm not named after anyone, dipshit. I AM Nick Nolte.
James's eyes almost bulge out of his head.
James: GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE! You're Nick Nolte?! "Affliction" Nick Nolte?!
Nick: Yes.
James: "Blue Chips" Nick Nolte?!, "Prince Of Tides" Nick Nolte?!, "Lorenzo's Oil", "48 Hours", "Another 48 Hours"......
Nick:--- Yes, if you just listen.....
James: "I LOVE TROUBLE" Nick Nolte?!
Nick: Okay,now i am leaving.
James: Wait!
Nick: Don't EVER mention "I Love Trouble" again.....
James: Why are you wearing those rags?
Nick: Isn't it obvious? I'm homeless, you insensitive fuck! I drink my own semen!
It takes everything in Jimmy's power to not hurl all over his desk. He regains his composure eventually.
James: Okay, so what do you have for me?
Nick: Well, you might remember about a week ago, you competed against Dr. Rosen at SWA's Sadistic Rage Show, right? Well, I just so happened to be in the house that night supporting Henry Winkler when Dr. Rosen hacked that ear of yours in half.
The camera zooms in on James's grotesque stump of an ear.
James: Wait, so do you have in that cooler what I think you have in that cooler? The other half of my ear?
Nick: Possibly. For a price.
James: Okay, how much of a price?
Nick: $15,000 dollars.
James: WHAT THE FUCK?!
Nick: Hey, if you want to add "Half Ear Jimmy" to your list of nicknames, be my guest....
Nick grabs the cooler, and begins to get up.
James: Wait, wait...fine. I just don't understand why it's so expensive.
Nick: It's a recession up in this bitch, Jimmy!
James writes the check, and rips it out of the checkbook. Nick lunges at the check, but James pulls his arm back.
James: Whoa, Same time, motherfucker!
A brief Mexican standoff ensues, and one of the most intense staring contests seen in the past 15 years is born. Finally, James relents, and hands over the check. Nick does the same, sliding the cooler towards James. James flips the cooler top up, and he gasps in shock.
James: This isn't my ear!
Nick: What do you mean? Of COURSE it's your ear!
James: It's white!
Nick: Oh well, the ice does that.
James: Fuck that, give me my check back, now!
Nick: All sales are final.
James: Whose fucking ear is this?!
Nick: Okay, okay. It's my ear. The truth is, I did have your ear, I caught it when it flew into the crowd.
James: So what did you do with it?!
Nick: Well, you know it's cold out now, and good food is a bit harder to come by...
James: You ATE my severed ear?!
Nick: Well, yes. But you'll be happy to know that it tasted like a pork rind. But I realize after I ate that it was wrong. That's why this morning, I sawed off half of my ear with my old prison shank. You know what they say, an ear for an ear, a tooth for a tooth.
James: That NOT how the saying goes!
Nick: Well, something to that effect. But anyway, are you going to keep the ear or not? Because I'm getting hungry, and I'll take a mutilated bloody piece of ear over skewered sewer rat any day.
James: Maybe having a half Caucasian ear will be a good thing. Maybe my credit score will instantly get higher. Perhaps I can get a cab in New York now.
Nick: That's the spirit, Chap! Well, I have to be going now.
James: Time out...now that I think about it, I met Nick Nolte in '99. He signed my VHS copy of I Love Trouble! HE LOVES THAT MOVIE!!!!
Nick: Okay, you got me. I'm not Nick Nolte. I'm Christopher Lambert.
James is overcome with excitement, and his eyes bulge once again.
James: I have CHRISTOPHER LAMBERT's ear?! "Highlander" Christopher Lambert?!, "Mortal Kombat" Christopher Lambert?!, I can't fucking believe......
Christopher leaves James ranting on in all his fanboy glory as he leaves the office. About five minutes later, after James has named every movie in Chris Lambert's filmography, we reenter the office to find him looking in the cooler. His eyes light up, and he picks up his phone and dials the front desk.
James: Amina, this is Jimmy. Come in here, and bring that sewing kit of yours.
Three Hours Later...
We find James in C.R.A.P's conference room. His earlobe has been crudely sewn back on, and the stitches loosen more and more with every step James takes. At this point, his ear looks like a piece of jerky hanging from a piece of dental floss. A large projector is set in the center of the table, and a large white projection screen in the front of the room pulled down from the ceiling. James takes the clicker out of his shirt pocket.
I'm not going to waste your time this week with any bullshit excuses. I lost, Cyrus picked up the win, fair and square. So congrats, you live to fight another day. Know one thing, and that is the fact that we will meet again, and when we do, that's your ass. I promise you that with every fiber of my being. But enough about that, at Massacre on 34th Street, not only do i have the chance to redeem myself, but i also have the opportunity to earn my way to a title shot in a winner take all battle royale. So let's take a look at the competition, shall we?
James taps the clicker for the first image.
Damian Dimitri, otherwise known as Trevor Blackwell's slack jawed toadie. Also known as Trevor Blackwell's third testicle. You might be the next big thing to Trevor Blackwell's delusional ass, but to me you're just his he-bitch. You're going to suplex me? Bitch please, just because you and Trevvie Trev foreplay by tossing each other around when playing happy grab ass means nothing. As a matter of fact, before the bell even rings i'm going to walk up and smack that crooked face of yours back into alignment for saying some stupid blasphemous shit like that. I agree with what you said about the battle royal being a waste of time, but not so much about you and I in a solo match. You should be careful what you wish for when you talk out of your ass, because i'm positive you really don't want that. You and i both know i would fuck your shit up entirely, so don't think you were complimenting me by saying that. That's a fact, and you should recognize my skill and potential, so you don't get any credit for that. When your sorry ass gets thrown over the top rope like the pathetic yes man you are, you'll be scampering back to the mold infested dungeon that your master squats in to tell him that he's next.
James taps the clicker to the next slide.
Madok Mortalis. Why do APW Superstars think it's ok to dump off their lesser talented associates in the IWC? Though i must say, it is refreshing to see someone who attempts to talk as much shit as i do.The difference is, i back up every ounce of shit i talk, while you on the other hand are just an egomanical sack of shit who lets the expletives fly when he gets some liquid courage in him. Being Pence's puppy appears to have given you a sense of entitlement, like you're already in line for a shot at the title. Well, i'm here to tell you that couldn't be any further from the truth. Not only are you not going to win the battle royal, but you're going to get dumped on that empty little head of yours so fucking hard that when you wake up, the recession will be over.
He clicks to the next slide.
Harry Durden. Not much to say here, lost two weeks ago, lost last week, and is going to lose this week. Translation? Career Over.
James taps the clicker.
Anthony James. I don't know who or what that is, but I'm going to make a bold promise to IWC fans the world over. This douche will be the first one over the top rope, for the simple fact that he wears pink shorts. Hopefully one of the fans in attendance has the presence of mind to peg this prick in the back of his faggy little head with a bottle of tanning lotion as he scurries up the ramp after getting eliminated. You're probably sitting there wondering, "Why me, Jimmy? I'm just a newbie!" Well, why the fuck not? Sorry Anthony, but i don't like any of these bottom feeding scum-sucking nitro circus rejects in IWC, and i don't like you. Management thinks that if they throw enough bodies in my path that eventually I'm going to slow down. Wrong.
James taps the clicker to the next slide.
"The Amber Alert" Amber Stevens. Give me break. I swear to Christ, some people will make a nickname out of anything. Do you know what Amber Alert means, honestly? It means a fucking child is missing! Everytime i hear your name announced, i look over my shoulder to make sure some creepy, lurching weirdo like Damian Dimitri hasn't run off with someone's kid. We get it! Your name is a double entendre! How clever! And while we're on the subject, what the fuck are you alerting us of, anyway? Oh, alert! Amber's cutting another boring ass promo,alert! Amber's stinking up the arena with her sub par athletic skills. If that's the case, then keep the nickname, because it saves alot of fans money. The only reason fans cheer for you is because whenever they hear "Amber Stevens is about to wrestle" to them it means "If you have to take a piss or do some blow, go now." Sorry for the harsh reality, but it's the truth. You're a chick, but you got balls. I've seen you stand up men much bigger than yourself, and i respect that. But respect can only get you so far. You cross me, and see where it gets you. Let it be known, James Chambers will never hit a woman, but he will beat a bitch unconscious.
He cuts to the final slide.
Isabella Pazzini. Life sucks, the only semi-fuckable broad on the roster who doesn't have c section scars, bullet wounds and isn't on work release and i have to wrestle her. What are the odds? Ms. Pazzini or Panini because it sounds cooler, if you value your future in this business, it would be best for you to stay out of my way. I know you want to make a stand for the women in the company, but at what cost? You've done pretty good for yourself so far in the IWC, so let those be your achievements, and leave this alone. It's not for you. I'm only going to warn you once and then i'm going to lay you the fuck out. What i said to Amber applies to you as well, because just as soon as i'll kick her in the fucking skull i'll do it quicker to you. With that said, i leave you with this: If you want to stay cute, don't try anything cute. Let those words be your personal mantra coming into Massacre on 34th Street.
And for all of youse competing for a slot in the main event. I don't care if it's Bitch Cyrus, Blackwell, Arcadia, The Rambler, Jason Royce, or Delilah. At the conclusion of the super show, there are some thing that won't change. Trevor Blackwell will still be an annoying, condescending painfully mediocre piece of shit, Chris Cyrus will still have no personality, the Gambler will still have osteoporosis, Jason Royce will still be a burned out methhead with a speech impediment, Arcadia will still be more focused on the new Call Of Duty than wrestling, and Delilah will continue her rapid decline into the depths of obscurity. The one thing that will change is the name plate on the IWC Insane Strap, which will read James Chambers.
James grabs the clicker and cuts off the projector. Just then, a fluttering of wings is heard, and a pigeon flies through the open window and swipes James's hanging piece of ear, he yelps in pain, and drops to his knees.
NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Blood spurts out of James's ear as the bird flies out to the window. The camera zooms down into the alley next to C.R.A.P enterprises on the street below. The bird swoops down into the lap of a homeless man, whose gnarled hands begin to gently stroke the head of the bird. We zoom up to see the man's face. It's Christopher Lambert!
Christopher: Good bird...what a dope that James Chambers guy is. i'm not even Christopher Lambert.
The bum rips off his disguise to reveal his true identity.....
.......
John Travolta!
John: Up your nose with a rubber hose, Jimmy!
A limo approaches, and John gets in. He then begins to laugh maniacally as the theme from "Welcome Back Kotter" begins playing out of nowhere and the limo rips down the street as the scene fades to black.
