Post by Jimmy The Lock on Jan 31, 2011 20:22:02 GMT -4
Today is an exciting day at C.R.A.P enterprises. Because today James Chambers will officially be announcing his candidacy for Mayor of the city of Atlanta. After some advising from his political....um..advisory Gladiator, James finally decided to cash in on his political aspirations. His lawyer Kenny Morton will be visiting in just a few minutes to disclose some important news about the campaign. Meanwhile, James is reclined comfortably in his desk chair. His desk phone buzzes.
James: Who that is?!
Amina: You know who it is. Kenny's here to see you.
James: You sho' do got a sexy phone voice. Does the drapes match the carpet?
Amina:...What?!
James: I fucked up, let me try that again....
Amina: I'm sending him in!
Amina then slams down the receiver in frustration as a baffled James tries to rethink what he just said. About five minutes later, James's lawyer Kenny walks in.
James: Hey there, little micro mini pimp!
Kenny: James, we got a problem.
James: We can talk about that later. Right now, we need to get together my list of things I'm going to offer to people to get them to vote for me. First, we're going to enforce free samples at every CostCo in the state. Then, we're going to provide emergency health care for all squirrels hit by motorists. Finally--
Kenny: --James, your candidacy has been denied.
James: Why?!
Kenny: During the background checks, there was an incident that took place in 1993 when you were 18 that came up. You were arrested and charged with simple battery. What happened there?
James sighs, and folds his arms on his desk and drops his head in frustration.
James: I knew this day would come.
February 24th, 1993
Los Angeles, California
It is a bright, sunny day as a heavily afroed James Chambers strolls down the street. James is in town, as he is a finalist in the California Golden Gloves boxing tournament. He wears thick bifocals and loose fitting bell-bottoms. For those of you in the audience hissing at the bell-bottoms, remember, James is awesome, but he's also from Alabama. They're late on EVERYTHING. They didn't start rocking high top fades until the 2000's. James is strolling along happily, listening to his cassette player, when
"Hey, young man! Young man! Over here!"
James turns in the direction of the familiar voice, to discover that it's The one and only Martin Sheen! James is elated, and he happily jogs over to Martin.
James: Mr. Sheen! It's such an honor to meet you!
Martin: Hey kid, wanna earn some money?
James: Whoa, Mr. Sheen. I'm wearing bell bottoms,but it's not that kind of party.
Martin: You see that guy over there?
James looks in the direction that Martin points and sees a young Charlie Sheen engaged in conversation with a fan. James nods his head.
Martin: I need a favor.
James: I'll do anything for the man that created Charlie Sheen. Without Charlie Sheen we wouldn't have Major League. Well..we would have, but they would have had some other crappy actor like Judge Reinhold or Eric Roberts or something like that.
Martin: I need you to go over there and punch that guy in the fucking face as hard as you possibly can. REPEATEDLY.
James: Oh, you mean that jerk fan harassing your son? I'll be happy to.
Martin: No, i mean MY SON.
James: What?!
Martin: You heard me.
James: With all due respect Mr. Sheen, your family dynamic is seriously fucked.
Martin: Are you going to do it or not?
James holds out his hand.
Martin: What are you doing?
James: There's no way my black ass is going to risk an LAPD ass-whupping without a down payment.
Martin: Arghhhh.....
Martin begrudingly slaps a $50 in Jimmy's outstretched hand. With that, James marches in Charlie's direction. He grabs Charlie's shirt collar, cocks back his fist
James: Wild thing, you make my heart sing.
James fires a stiff right into Charlie's nose, dropping Charlie where he stands. Charlie falls out of view and James follows him to the ground as the sound of thudding blows can be heard. Martin Sheen laughs hysterically as we fade back to the present, where we see a shocked Kenny staring in disbelief.
Kenny: Let me get this straight, Martin Sheen offered you money to attack Charlie Sheen? And YOU DID IT?!
James: It was during a dark period in my life. I have so much to atone for.
One hour later...
A crestfallen James is spotted in the building's parking garage headed to his vehicle when a camera crew approaches him to get his thoughts on his upcoming tag match.
You want my thoughts? Fine. I'm not going to waste your time with any trivial bullshit, so let's just dive right into it, shall we? At the upcoming IWC Asylum, the main event is a tag team match between myself and Branden Harvey facing off against Ebitch and Chris Cyrus. I'm not going to lie to you world, I'm not too keen on the idea of a tag team match, but it is what it is, that's not my concern. My concern is the two men, and i use that term very loosely, that will be in the opposite corner. I am supremely confident in the fact that i would destroy both wastes of roster space without breaking a sweat.
I don't expect either person to play fair, but at the same time they're not smart enough to successfully establish a potent numbers game to keep me down. So, I'll make a deal with the both of youse. Cyrus, while I'm beating Ebon within inches of his life, i want you to be a good little bitch and wait patiently in the corner until i allow Ebon's broken carcass to slither over there for the mercy tag. You do this, and maybe, just maybe there will be something left of you to sweep up off the mat for the next super show, because you better believe that i still want my match.
Onto the next order of business, and that is the claim that Ebon, in his miserable lifetime beat me in a wrestling contest. Somebody give me a goddamned phone so i can call bullshit. Ebon, you might have been able to fool Chris Cyrus, but to everyone not living on lobotomy island knows that you're full of shit. We never even crossed paths in EWC. You were on that shitty b-show Rampage, carrying F.O.R.C.E's bags while i sat comfortably atop the throne on Monday Night Brawl. And even if you were unfortunate enough to be placed in a match with me in those days, there is no doubt in my mind that you would have suffered the same fate as every other low rent piss stain that tried to make a run at the belt.
With this so-called victory over me, you claim to have changed me forever, for the worst. My, my, my, Ebon, you have quite some imagination, don't you? Once again, everybody on this side of the universe knows that i left EwC on my own terms. I admit, I lost my title to Stray, a man whose talent is far more superior to yours, but I was far from done. I could have easily taken my title back, but i had nothing else to prove. I had already beaten Stray two times to his one victory over me. And so i decided to bow out gracefully and run my business.
But wait, what the fuck am i explaining myself to you for? Everyone saw me beat the shit out of you on this past Asylum. I embarrassed you! This was supposed to be your "New Dawn" and all you showed in our match that your still the same shitty "athlete" with the mental capacity of a peanut shell. You even had the nerve to bring your boyfriend into my presence thinking that would rattle me, and when that didn't work, you folded. You wilted like a daisy. Typical Ebon, buckling under the pressure like always.
Once i began to dominate you, you faded, and your will to win disappeared. I fucking broke you. I wore you like a backpack in that ring and there's not a damn thing you can say protesting that. It's high time that you realize no matter how many shortcuts you take and no matter how much you and Ms. Cyrus conspire against me and my Championship belt, you'll always come up short.
But enough about Ebon, let's get to the woman of the hour. I've been chomping at the bit to finish what i started at Massacre on 34th Street. I am so sick of him and his monotone voice droning on and on about how he's getting screwed left and right, when he's the one screwing himself. Case in point: You had a good shot at winning that Tapout Belt, but you ruined it by being a cowardly sack of shit and enlisting the services of Ebon to attack me, forcing me to take measures to ensure that you wouldn't leave that ring with said Tap Out Championship. Perhaps if you haven't chosen a hack like Ebon that could have done the job right, you might have that strap around your waist right now. But given your previous reputation of failing miserably at everything, that would have been a slim possibility.
You know you weren't screwed, and you know you lost fair and square, and deep down inside, you know you don't want to risk your physical wellbeing by stepping into the ring with me again. So you can continue stirring the pot, but you know and i know that i fucking OWN YOU. You are my bitch. Fate was on your side and allowed you to pin the Gambler in our first encounter. But now, i have your number. At Massacre on 34th street, i broke you, and coming up on Asylum, i am going to break you some more. And then finally, at the next Super Show when your confidence is at an all time low, and the reality that you'll never beat me begins to set in and you're lying on your back squirming for life like the miserable cockroach you are, i'm going to raise my boot and destroy you, once and for all.
You're the kind of scum that sits around, blaming everyone else for you problems, everyone but the man in the mirror. You could just meet me in the ring and face me like a man, and once and for all end this between us. But what do you do? You bullshit and beat around the bush like you don't have anything to worry about. I'm going to say this once, and it's going to be put into terms so simple that even a pea brained simpleton like you can understand.
I am the IWC Insane Champion, and that means that I make the rules, bitch. I gave you an ultimatum, and i called you out. THAT WAS NOT A FUCKING REQUEST. You don't have time to weigh your options, and your stupid little mind games aren't going to work either. So i advise you to make your mind up fast, or I'm going to make it up for you. And trust me Cyrus, that's the last thing you want.
I think it's real cute that you two have become bffs. Well that's good, because once i beat both of you out of IWC, you'll have plenty of time to wax each others pubes, read to each other, feed each other grapes and red wine by candle light, and ride a tandem bicycle. Let's see how long your alliance lasts when it's comes down to one or the other. By the way Ebon, Cyrus really doesn't give a shit about you. Ask Jason Royce about that.
James begins laughing, as the scene ends with a shot of him entering his car before fading to black.
James: Who that is?!
Amina: You know who it is. Kenny's here to see you.
James: You sho' do got a sexy phone voice. Does the drapes match the carpet?
Amina:...What?!
James: I fucked up, let me try that again....
Amina: I'm sending him in!
Amina then slams down the receiver in frustration as a baffled James tries to rethink what he just said. About five minutes later, James's lawyer Kenny walks in.
James: Hey there, little micro mini pimp!
Kenny: James, we got a problem.
James: We can talk about that later. Right now, we need to get together my list of things I'm going to offer to people to get them to vote for me. First, we're going to enforce free samples at every CostCo in the state. Then, we're going to provide emergency health care for all squirrels hit by motorists. Finally--
Kenny: --James, your candidacy has been denied.
James: Why?!
Kenny: During the background checks, there was an incident that took place in 1993 when you were 18 that came up. You were arrested and charged with simple battery. What happened there?
James sighs, and folds his arms on his desk and drops his head in frustration.
James: I knew this day would come.
February 24th, 1993
Los Angeles, California
It is a bright, sunny day as a heavily afroed James Chambers strolls down the street. James is in town, as he is a finalist in the California Golden Gloves boxing tournament. He wears thick bifocals and loose fitting bell-bottoms. For those of you in the audience hissing at the bell-bottoms, remember, James is awesome, but he's also from Alabama. They're late on EVERYTHING. They didn't start rocking high top fades until the 2000's. James is strolling along happily, listening to his cassette player, when
"Hey, young man! Young man! Over here!"
James turns in the direction of the familiar voice, to discover that it's The one and only Martin Sheen! James is elated, and he happily jogs over to Martin.
James: Mr. Sheen! It's such an honor to meet you!
Martin: Hey kid, wanna earn some money?
James: Whoa, Mr. Sheen. I'm wearing bell bottoms,but it's not that kind of party.
Martin: You see that guy over there?
James looks in the direction that Martin points and sees a young Charlie Sheen engaged in conversation with a fan. James nods his head.
Martin: I need a favor.
James: I'll do anything for the man that created Charlie Sheen. Without Charlie Sheen we wouldn't have Major League. Well..we would have, but they would have had some other crappy actor like Judge Reinhold or Eric Roberts or something like that.
Martin: I need you to go over there and punch that guy in the fucking face as hard as you possibly can. REPEATEDLY.
James: Oh, you mean that jerk fan harassing your son? I'll be happy to.
Martin: No, i mean MY SON.
James: What?!
Martin: You heard me.
James: With all due respect Mr. Sheen, your family dynamic is seriously fucked.
Martin: Are you going to do it or not?
James holds out his hand.
Martin: What are you doing?
James: There's no way my black ass is going to risk an LAPD ass-whupping without a down payment.
Martin: Arghhhh.....
Martin begrudingly slaps a $50 in Jimmy's outstretched hand. With that, James marches in Charlie's direction. He grabs Charlie's shirt collar, cocks back his fist
James: Wild thing, you make my heart sing.
James fires a stiff right into Charlie's nose, dropping Charlie where he stands. Charlie falls out of view and James follows him to the ground as the sound of thudding blows can be heard. Martin Sheen laughs hysterically as we fade back to the present, where we see a shocked Kenny staring in disbelief.
Kenny: Let me get this straight, Martin Sheen offered you money to attack Charlie Sheen? And YOU DID IT?!
James: It was during a dark period in my life. I have so much to atone for.
One hour later...
A crestfallen James is spotted in the building's parking garage headed to his vehicle when a camera crew approaches him to get his thoughts on his upcoming tag match.
You want my thoughts? Fine. I'm not going to waste your time with any trivial bullshit, so let's just dive right into it, shall we? At the upcoming IWC Asylum, the main event is a tag team match between myself and Branden Harvey facing off against Ebitch and Chris Cyrus. I'm not going to lie to you world, I'm not too keen on the idea of a tag team match, but it is what it is, that's not my concern. My concern is the two men, and i use that term very loosely, that will be in the opposite corner. I am supremely confident in the fact that i would destroy both wastes of roster space without breaking a sweat.
I don't expect either person to play fair, but at the same time they're not smart enough to successfully establish a potent numbers game to keep me down. So, I'll make a deal with the both of youse. Cyrus, while I'm beating Ebon within inches of his life, i want you to be a good little bitch and wait patiently in the corner until i allow Ebon's broken carcass to slither over there for the mercy tag. You do this, and maybe, just maybe there will be something left of you to sweep up off the mat for the next super show, because you better believe that i still want my match.
Onto the next order of business, and that is the claim that Ebon, in his miserable lifetime beat me in a wrestling contest. Somebody give me a goddamned phone so i can call bullshit. Ebon, you might have been able to fool Chris Cyrus, but to everyone not living on lobotomy island knows that you're full of shit. We never even crossed paths in EWC. You were on that shitty b-show Rampage, carrying F.O.R.C.E's bags while i sat comfortably atop the throne on Monday Night Brawl. And even if you were unfortunate enough to be placed in a match with me in those days, there is no doubt in my mind that you would have suffered the same fate as every other low rent piss stain that tried to make a run at the belt.
With this so-called victory over me, you claim to have changed me forever, for the worst. My, my, my, Ebon, you have quite some imagination, don't you? Once again, everybody on this side of the universe knows that i left EwC on my own terms. I admit, I lost my title to Stray, a man whose talent is far more superior to yours, but I was far from done. I could have easily taken my title back, but i had nothing else to prove. I had already beaten Stray two times to his one victory over me. And so i decided to bow out gracefully and run my business.
But wait, what the fuck am i explaining myself to you for? Everyone saw me beat the shit out of you on this past Asylum. I embarrassed you! This was supposed to be your "New Dawn" and all you showed in our match that your still the same shitty "athlete" with the mental capacity of a peanut shell. You even had the nerve to bring your boyfriend into my presence thinking that would rattle me, and when that didn't work, you folded. You wilted like a daisy. Typical Ebon, buckling under the pressure like always.
Once i began to dominate you, you faded, and your will to win disappeared. I fucking broke you. I wore you like a backpack in that ring and there's not a damn thing you can say protesting that. It's high time that you realize no matter how many shortcuts you take and no matter how much you and Ms. Cyrus conspire against me and my Championship belt, you'll always come up short.
But enough about Ebon, let's get to the woman of the hour. I've been chomping at the bit to finish what i started at Massacre on 34th Street. I am so sick of him and his monotone voice droning on and on about how he's getting screwed left and right, when he's the one screwing himself. Case in point: You had a good shot at winning that Tapout Belt, but you ruined it by being a cowardly sack of shit and enlisting the services of Ebon to attack me, forcing me to take measures to ensure that you wouldn't leave that ring with said Tap Out Championship. Perhaps if you haven't chosen a hack like Ebon that could have done the job right, you might have that strap around your waist right now. But given your previous reputation of failing miserably at everything, that would have been a slim possibility.
You know you weren't screwed, and you know you lost fair and square, and deep down inside, you know you don't want to risk your physical wellbeing by stepping into the ring with me again. So you can continue stirring the pot, but you know and i know that i fucking OWN YOU. You are my bitch. Fate was on your side and allowed you to pin the Gambler in our first encounter. But now, i have your number. At Massacre on 34th street, i broke you, and coming up on Asylum, i am going to break you some more. And then finally, at the next Super Show when your confidence is at an all time low, and the reality that you'll never beat me begins to set in and you're lying on your back squirming for life like the miserable cockroach you are, i'm going to raise my boot and destroy you, once and for all.
You're the kind of scum that sits around, blaming everyone else for you problems, everyone but the man in the mirror. You could just meet me in the ring and face me like a man, and once and for all end this between us. But what do you do? You bullshit and beat around the bush like you don't have anything to worry about. I'm going to say this once, and it's going to be put into terms so simple that even a pea brained simpleton like you can understand.
I am the IWC Insane Champion, and that means that I make the rules, bitch. I gave you an ultimatum, and i called you out. THAT WAS NOT A FUCKING REQUEST. You don't have time to weigh your options, and your stupid little mind games aren't going to work either. So i advise you to make your mind up fast, or I'm going to make it up for you. And trust me Cyrus, that's the last thing you want.
I think it's real cute that you two have become bffs. Well that's good, because once i beat both of you out of IWC, you'll have plenty of time to wax each others pubes, read to each other, feed each other grapes and red wine by candle light, and ride a tandem bicycle. Let's see how long your alliance lasts when it's comes down to one or the other. By the way Ebon, Cyrus really doesn't give a shit about you. Ask Jason Royce about that.
James begins laughing, as the scene ends with a shot of him entering his car before fading to black.
